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.

sonorous monologues - our epitaph

In memory of Vladimir Mayakovsky and Lilya Brik.


sweetheart,
this watery grave in Venetian Lagoon
has dissolved our love,
our soul.
we are lost in grey;
still somewhere,
rays of sun
are as white
as snow.
we painted our lives
in colors you chose.
alas,
vivid rainbow of love
has diffused
into sonorous monologues.
comeuppance
of love
has given us afflictions -
how keen;
but death is sweet -
good riddance
from poignant grief,
anxiety and spleen.

An Occasional Poet that I am

To Heinrich Karl Bukowski - a master poet that he was!


Huh...what an occasional poet
I am!

With sherry to complement
my waywardness
and a few drops of ink
to supplement my
quasi-heuristic inklings,
I venture into a world
fraught with shooting hyperboles
and quintessential imagery.
An outline of a distant dream
encased in a cloud
that I try hard to rupture
against some auburn sun
and expect a rainbow in return -
this is me and my poetry.

Huh...what an occasional poet
I am!

The One

Feathers
gather

dust.
Rust

leaves.
Tit weaves

nest;
sunset

uncanny -
progeny

supine,
bovine

dead.
Shreds

griffon.
Lives none;

but one -
blue scion.


Note: "Tit" refers to The Blue Tit passerine bird prevalent in Europe and western Asia.

Perambulations with my Grandfather

To my Grampa on his fifth death anniversary.

Like ye, I can never aspire to be!


He grabs walking stick and tiny arm at the stroke of four. I yawn but slog along. We walk towards west. The fading sun tarnishes his specs in shades of yellow, ochre, blue, purple - autumnal colors through his eyes I see. He hospitably waves at an airplane; asks me to wave and repeat 'Bon voyage!'. Sometimes his words baffle me; belong to a language I speak not. I tire running along; keeping up with his pace. My interest begins to wane. I become cranky. He hoists me onto his shoulder; wonders aloud how perky sparrows can be at this hour. We arrive at the confluence just in time. The sun declines. We recline; he on tree and I on his veined legs. Both shut eyes; I sleep, he ponders. While worlds evanesce, we coalesce - share delight of our company and sight.

Pour ma fille - Bertille

Bertille,
tu es belle
ma fille.
Les mots ne peuvent
décrire votre
beauté.

The Billboard Girl

Somewhere along 101
this beautiful girl
smiles benignly upon me.
Her trailing textured
chestnut-brown hair,
enhanced nail lacquer
have a resounding effect
on my otherwise antagonized
psyche.
Exotic lip gloss
and diagonally cut
black lace-effect catsuit
entices me
to dance a tango criollo
with her.
In no time
crème de la crème
whizzes past.
But I plan to revisit her
in the evening and again,
until she is replaced
by another
femme fatale.

My Guitar RIP: Hotel California

My dear friend,

Thank you for stopping by. This is the first creation in a series of five songs I wish to play on my guitar under the album titled "My Guitar RIP" before retiring it for life; as last week it endured irreparable damages at the hands of a heavily built five year old and can hardly play all notes correctly.

The audio you are about to listen to is my rendition of Hotel California played on Cort Six String Steel Acoustic Guitar and accompanied on Tabla (Teentaal theka at 5 beats/second) by 2 GHz DELL computer running on Intel Pentium M.

Notwithstanding multiple constraints, I fervently hope you'll enjoy it.

Download

Thanks and regards,
Ratan

Getting Dressed Up for Work

I stare at the closet,
          'Another day!' - let out a dramatic sigh.
Onerously, I open its left panel
          and then right.
'This is all I've got...?!',
          I dolefully commiserate.

Carefully, I select a least wrinkled shirt,
          'Unironed!', I gasp.
No wife to blame either;
          trouser's rumpled as well.
'Tie, kerchief, wallet,
          belt, cufflinks, shoes, socks...

...wherever thou art,
          it's time to start', I plead.

The last thing I do
          is perfume myself.
Tiny globules of fragrance
          halo me, but fail to defeat
malodorous me.

          Everything's done.

I steal a quick glance at the mirror.
          It doesn't lie, they say. And it didn't!
With hair unkempt
          I still look handsome.

Splintered Dreams

I stole a quick glance at a battered 1960 Oldsmobile parked by the curb outside Benny's down the Hawthorne Boulevard. The car was bathed in mud, one of its headlights smashed, grille's ribs all messed up, front bumpers missing; a careless scrub on the windscreen which may have provided just enough visibility to the driver, was the only silver lining around this otherwise dilapidated beauty.

'What a mess!', I thought as I hurried in for breakfast.

Benny's usually overcrowded on Sundays. But as my good fortune would have it, regular buzz was missing that day. Pam cheerfully greeted and guided me to my favorite table by the window.

Pam was a war widow of charming disposition and mild manners in her late fifties. She wore her chestnut brown hair in a bun at the back of her head. Thin-rimmed reading glasses precariously perched at the tip of her rotund nose always reminded me of teachers who did not believe in sparing the rod. I often joked with her about her reading glasses, to which she cheerfully responded in her thick British accent, 'Don't kid with Mama, son.' She was the only one I liked to be served by at the restaurant. Many a times, I had walked out just because Pam was too busy to cater my service request. When Mr Bummer, the manager, learnt about this, he promised me Pam's service whenever I visited, except, obviously, on her day's off. (more...)

Moments before my death

I was sitting under beach umbrella;
sharing  soul kiss and Merlot with Rita
when a deafening noise in the vicinity
followed by an agonizing pain
at the back of my head stunned me
and a pod of seabirds.
Bordeaux glass fell from my grasp
and rolled over, spilling every bit
of that divine liquid on sand.
Darkness fell, a giggle escaped,
a handsome pat landed on my back.
Then my limp frame toppled over
amidst the rush of waves and flutter
of escaping petrels.

flash flood

at 10:55
in the night...
depressing sight -
torrential rains,
trees insane,
muddy pool,
blood and drool,
houses shatter,
lives scatter.

at 06:30
in the morn...
nation mourns,
news flash,
egos clash -
titans tongue,
mortals harangue.
figures rise,
aides arrive.

at 07:00
in the even...
access toll,
dead, injured
put on roll.
still no food,
no money,
little Emily
sits by her
dead family.

Confessions

I prefer to scribe
my confessions with
graphite.
For if it
leaves a scar
on my conscience,
I can efface it.
Whereas, ink,
though ingenious
in scripting requiem,
may leave the sobriquet
smudged.

Donna

Her tender lips
kiss
Jack Daniels
on the rocks;
reward succulence in red
to Glencairn Glass.
Djarum Black
escapes
from her plump pucker;
lends
sensuality to morning air.
My woman,
Donna,
is dead
to the world.
Moon
bathes her in silver
as the morning sun
frolics
to catch her glimpse.