Monday, July 29, 2013

memory edits time

Its an un-arranged shelf 
we call the self; it dusts 
the splinters of dreams, 
assigns a corner for 
broken words and colours 
which blossom through in 
a tired night. The music 
hangs like an elegy
to a rusted day, the 
dust of a story rubs over 
the shoes and you fall 
in the arms of a stranger. 
The past as alien as an 
absurd work of art floods 
through this foreign country 
reminding you of a face, 
and a day when collapsing
across failed words a pen 
refused to write. Memory 
edits time.

Saturday, July 13, 2013

A morning arrives

On the chiseled streets of morning
an infinite patience wraps its arms
in the flowing breeze, the morning workers
gather whispers for the night, sip their
coffee on tired lanes, the garbage trucks have
long arrived, the guzzling of machines, the dumping
of cans and the idle chatter of the machine men
all merge in the endless suffering of the morning.

Only the sparrow reminds of the lost fantasy of the
night, and the splitting hair, the known nightmare of the
day. The rush of the morning smells from broken houses;
aroma of kneaded bread burning on the ovens, the smell
Of onion, slowly tasting the lost charms of garlic and
a chili descending in the chaos in the kadhai.