Cosmetic Dreams

To Ogden Nash - the master rhymer.


Aisles are decorated with garish creams
that promise to perk up and garnish your dreams.

There is one that lifts age off face -
irons out the wrinkles and has dark spots effaced.

Another guarantees fairness for dusky hue;
bets on life to turn the world on you.

Some concoct an advert for self-tan lotion:
'Get organically tanned by this magical potion'.

Skin rendered rough by too much makeup?!
Allow cold cream and moisturizer to take the task up.

There are creams which facilitate light reflection,
thereby creating an illusion of enlightenment.

Acne can now be dissolved by wonder creams
even in an hour before one's wedding!

With so many creams on the aisle,
I can change myself in a while!

But these creams are for external use only;
cannot be applied on a heart that is dark and gloomy.

I'm yet to decide which is more important to me.
Is it external or is it internal beauty?

Of Father, Son 'n Superman

For my Father - a man of esprit and action.


Father and I
share a warm
filial kinship.
Our orbits cross
at dinners
or lunches;
we exchange
pleasing glances,
he tenders me first bite
from his morsel -
a ritual we've been
practising for ages.
Then we talk about food,
weather, work, music,
state of Indian politics,
recent book I read,
verses I scripted,
and my latest idiosyncrasy.

See, most of it is about me!

Talking with him
is pleasantly cathartic.
One, he is ideologically
pragmatic.
Two, he speaks not
of oranges,
when I am
talking peaches.
Third, his speech
bridges our spirits.

Despite ills,
his benign smile is
fascinatingly
fascinating.
Blues affect me,
but not him;
his demeanor is
perpetually pleasing.
Oft he pats my back
and says he
takes pride in
perfection.
Somehow, I can't
bring myself
to associate
with his wanton
benefaction.
Perhaps, he's just
being kind,
for he's my Father
and I his son.

His humility
is humanely humbling.
He flowers the dead
and salvages the tumbling.
He never fumbles
for dimes and nickels,
ardently believes
they are fickle -
ones to be expended
on poor and piteous.
A mark of a man
humble and righteous.

The buck stops here.
Am I doing enough
to shelter his unbridled love
and care?
I seem too busy
(scratching my head
with rows of books
behind me)
to shoulder his
responsibilities.
But he gifts me infinity
to quench my fervid
intellectual curiosity.
Perhaps, this is what
love is meant to be.

Like a sorcerer,
he ferments my distress
to happiness
(thousand flambeaux
turn all at once)
and protects me from torrential
harmattan.

No wonder my Father is my Superman!

Why I hate cellphones?

This little piece of machinery
works at its own volition.
Enlivens in the middle of night
and demands to be listened.

My heart skips a beat
when it extols an incoming call;
either it's 'You're fired'
or 'Let's breakup for the love of God'.

It dies down almost always on me
in the middle of rejoinders and repartees.
Notwithstanding modest battery life,
it altruistically bridges my boss' cacophony.

Many a time it tricks me -
sensing blues, reshuffles the playlist
and hither flux tritones of
profound jocundity.

It refuses to talk
when I'm running short on cents
no matter how critical or urgent,
it won't spare even a few moments.

It often fixes me in undesirable conversation
with cross talk and induction.
I fail to determine who's whose slave -
it's mine or its I am!

Swan Song. Separation.

For Koyuki Kato - the most beautiful woman I ever saw.


You walk down the aisle
towards the altar;
we exchange vows
and promise togetherness
till death do us part.

In trice I see you depart,
down the driveway
and out of my heart
in a huff.
But, the one who loved you
still does,
whom you loved once
still loves.

Small irritations
you dwell on
are nothing but salt on melon.
Man and woman
do not hear worldly music
in the same key;
as a consequence
dissonance
is imminent.

Does this mean we digress
and seek verdure somewhere else?

Bed is warm
with the perfervid fire
we ignited;
coffee mug deems
red succulence
you rendered it with.
Every corner and nook
carries me to you;
impalpable ash
of an incinerated heart
replays leitmotif:
'I love you, I love you, I love you'.

Alive I am no more
for my spirit's still besotted
with days of yore.
As you walk away O beloved,
this temporal vastness
between us
rips me apart in
rectilinear azimuth.

Keeping up with Miranda

To homemakers.


Miranda is married to a house
painted red with bricks.
It lodges her feminine ego
and cellophane
she arsenals grocery in.

"I {Heart} My Husband"
says the bumper sticker
on her station wagon -
quite spruced up with nouns, pronouns
and possessive adjectives.
It's all Sisyphean labor though,
pushing conjugate verbs
up her fermented kids.

The odiferous dame
(of mint and lemon balm)
adds flavor and sunshine
to gourmet cuisine.
She expects approving glances;
wishes fervently
she's their
very best thing.

Delectable dessert, glottal emissions
and bulbous onions
conceal her sobs and whims.
She is ready to sing lullaby
to the third
while the fourth
continues to chime in.

As seconds trickle onto the mantle
and moon climbs uphill,
Miranda hums to the rattle of utensils
reveling in her discordant thrill.

Gothika

Inspired by 'Love Child' (Song) by R. Dean Taylor, Frank Wilson, Pam Sawyer, Deke Richards.


Haven't seen my Father.
Mother met him once.
Did they meet at a protest march
against homosexuality;
at an AIDS rally;
or in an aisle of a drugstore
rummaging through syringes and
flavored condoms?

Decades of illegitimacy
commenced
when dawn lifted
the veil of pointless happenstance.
My flesh was heir
to lavish prurience -
two bodies sharing passionate liaison.

My ambitions ran amok
in antiquated tenement
like detritus
stunned by marauding cyclone.
Paper planes trailed
sedentary malevolence
and kites plunged in
mock disambiguation.
Combers of promiscuity dissolved
silver soul
in vapid despair
while social firmament
wreaked vernal effervescence
to empty tears.

This bastardy misery
has earned me coarse bread
with a dash of tang
at a lesbian bar;
burgundy pigtails,
pierced tongue,
embellishments of indelible colors
on my arm.
As I run my fingertips
along the shoreline of a brunette's corset
(intertwined hearts beating together),
nocturnal carnation
reminds me
of fragile misery of mother's
sensual climax.

Liquid Soul

In memory of Pablo Neruda.


I am expended and done in consistence;
was subjected to the vicissitudes
of carnal existence,
relented to the servitude
of mortal obligations;
I stand before Thee
drenched
in colors
of Thy macrocosm.
Ethereal music is mute.
Divine utopia, shelled
by precipitated prurience
uncouth,
rests tattered -
her virginity, her youth
stolen
by her detractor.
I loath
another golden cage -
a walk under white sun,
elysian fruits,
leafy glade.
I wish to rest in crimson oceans,
and strike brightness
on unquiet stones.