metamorphosis

how many roads ?

my space scooter is out of fuel.

stranded close to something like our moon.

lifeless and beautiful.

there also is a benign black hole.

a few million miles away. 

despairingly silent.

wanting to speak.

there is no ground for me to step on.

walk back.

home if there still is.

music but. has come back to me.

i can stay here. wait. 

while turning into a relic.

a star.

Untitled

I’m wandering on a frozen lake. This is all there is. We don’t know of any place else. It’s very cold. There is no way the ice can break. If it does we fall inside. Nobody knows how deep. So we find ways to keep it cold. We refrigerate the winter. Our fear further freezes the ice. Makes it even deeper. Unbreakable. Spring is going far away. Towards warmer shores. Reality fell in a hole last time the ice melted. It must be underneath somewhere. Trying to break the ice. If we help it from up here.

travelling to mars

i am travelling to mars on a space bike. about seventy million 
more miles to go. The dark here, and the light. Are not black 
and white. They are more like friends playing chess. I feel like 
a glass emptying itself. Slowly. Into the void.I am unaware of 
humanity. 
Until you pass by. Singing. In a space tired of expanding. We 
enjoy staring at the sun and talking of childhood. Without being 
able to listen to each other. Music is not even a word in the 
language that stars use. Being hidden in a space suit is relaxing. 
Earth is far out. Looking peaceful from here. The comforts of 
distance. But you and I can't be the only ones here. Let's go some 
place else.

Sunday

on this sunday interlude
i try coming back to poetry
force back my way into it rather.
pour my recent restlessness on paper.
- not to mention the sophistication
i have bought myself into,
and the bounded rationality -
and watch it shape itself
into something that seems exquisite.
i am at a barber while trying to verse
and i am clueless. classically.
as my beard goes, so does my poem.
i have a smart, smart phone.
and lots of friends on the other side of it
trying to fill in for the gaps in the aforementioned rationality.
but what about my poetry?

she was the world

the world was feeling tired that day.
so she got into a car.
and starting riding. to just try and move forward.
wherever that might be.
along with everyone else.
without talking to anyone.
she imagined it to be a fancy mountain.
beautiful and serene.
that would bring her fresh air and warm thoughts.
some friends perhaps. permanent enough.
other than those riding the traffic with her.
in cars close by. just a couple of yards away.
riding to a similar place.
she kept nudging. end of story.

jigsaw

we don't consciously believe it i think.
but since the beginning i guess
we imagine life as a jigsaw.
pieces falling in their places
in time. getting aligned with each other.
a picture. beautiful. unveiling itself.
slowly. something that was always there.
hidden. waiting to be discovered. different for everyone. maybe.
complete.
little or no vestiges of disconnected ideas, people, times.
but is it. that simple?
isn't it more a pile
of those disconnected puzzle pieces.
randomly chosen.
trying to create a thousand incomplete pictures. hardly doing so.
fragments of dreams, memories, fears.
just lying in a stockpile waiting
to be chosen and worked upon.
just that.
without an end in sight.
and why then
shouldn't the stockpile be beautiful, for just being there ?

Cocktail

Moving through a drowsy evening i am a different kind of peaceful. 

A cocktail of a cocktail, 

just enough of a morning with old friends 

on the verge of separating for a long time 

without trying to realize it, 

reluctant heat of an indifferent city and a different set of meaningless memories 

that i do not talk about. Almost unprecedented. 

It is as though whatever is pushing me away and whatever entices me 

have balanced their stakes, shaken hands over diplomacy and declared a ceasefire suddenly forgetting what was at the table. I am unconcerned. 

That which pulls me in a direction is out of sight and i am stranded. 

Today is not the yesterday for tomorrow. 

I am not anyone for anybody. 

There is no home. Nothing is good or bad. I am not what they call me. 

Nor am i what i am not. I am not indifferent. Or peaceful.

Nothing really exists as is. I do not either.  

And what i say is not in the ambit of being true or false.