Saturday, January 14, 2012

Song 3

Do you really think that our songs

Can ever change this world

This world of lies and folded mysteries?

Do you really think that those roses

Can ever free this world

Of the smell of dead skin and endless miseries?

Do you really think that the blue sky

Can ever save this world

From the curse of homelessness and poverty?

Do you really think that the winds

Can ever free this world

Of the stains of hunger which look so dirty?


Cause’ if you really think so

Then please come out and hold my hand

Cause’ I think you’re the only one, (my friend)…who’ll understand

That only love and beauty alone can change the times

And free this world of all the wrongs, murder and crimes

Do you really think that the moon

Can ever free this world

From the darkness of lost humanity?

Do you really think that the sun

Can ever guide this world

To the path of compassion and liberty?

Do you really think that the rains

Can ever free this world

Of the sins of the powerful and the greedy?

Do you really think that the trees

Can ever teach this world

The magic of brotherhood and sympathy?


Thursday, June 2, 2011

Alternate Reality Song 2 - Rulers of Time

Ashes and photographs

In broken hands

Wild opera in the ears

Kisses fracture into sands

Bullets everywhere

Valentines no more

Unfinished cries, curses

Death knocks on the door


Rulers of time

Rulers of change

Spread love, not war

Don’t look estranged

Rulers of dawn

Rulers of dreams

Spread music, not pain

Heal memories and screams

Corpses and roses

Sleep in their arms

Their babies, they die

In the crowd of firearms

Home in the graveyards

Tears in their eyes

They kiss the cold skin

And bury them in the sties



--Needles of reflection

--Chronic vengeance

--Bubbles of murder

--A wounded sentence

--Flesh, blood

--Epitaphs in black

--Letters in red

--Another body in the sack

--Lights, Camera

--Language of lust

--Question and answer

--Hope and trust

--Politics and cinema


--Weak or poor

--Just push and force

--News and papers

--Revolts and songs

--Who are you to decide

--The rights and wrongs?--


Travellers of Time - The Break-Up Song

When the city breathes beneath your palms

on glass doors

When the evening drops its coat

revealing its dark clothes

And you dream in a painter’s cage

with a song in your mind

And you paint in a poet’s diary

with a brush and rewind

When your memories wander on glass

looking for home

When you excrete pain in smoke

walking down the streets alone

And you drink in a madman’s story

with salt water on your face

And you break bottles in a drunkard’s mansion

with fresh blood on your dress

When your finger and cigarettes burn

in smoking rooms

When you smother your life with alcohol

and only death looms

And you make love like a pervert

with money in your pocket

And you write ballads like a madman

looking for your past in her locket.

Curse and Freedom

night after night. a song after another. you knocked on the sylvan corners of the poems of mercy.
winter never forgave you, and never did the hours…
which dropped every minute in a glass of paranoia.
the moon, your third eye.
you plucked it, an august evening, from the corner of the sky.
it bleeds now,
like any other rebel, like any other sacrifice.
remove it. dare. let it heal.

your music grows old every season,
betrays you,
(you dance like a puppet to the tunes of betrayal and apology)
reflections everywhere. and the hangman dreams…here, your destiny

the poet’s prophesy. the poet’s curse.

feel the wicked navel of this city.
run your fingers upon its hungry skin.
every turn here, hides a new memory for you.
every street light, a new story.

time makes love.
you weep on the shoulders of pale, imaginary silences.

awaken this mutant night.
bribe freedom with the perfume of your breathe.
lay your sins on a bed of wine and cards.
Stir. Reveal. Kiss. Feel. Surrender.
And the flickering candlelight records.


wild man in a beret,let your spirit breathe now; upon this time and red soil. there are stains of rebellion still hanging from your beard. jungle scent on your fatigue. liquid history in your eyes. there was a time, when you could paralyse mysteries with your words. there was still a time, when you could speak to wolves and stranger lakes.

your hands, betrayed by the seasons of defeat...they were crafted for blood, which could morph into blades, and hunt for dictators//

language of questions and calculus, you were a gambler from a different age, who chose every war to smoke his cigar.

miracles and violence. sound and silence.

vengeance and freedom. murder and peace.

beneath the burden of music and memories,

I do remember you

as a rebel,

as a hero in another monsoon epic

and maybe, bullets were your only reward...

and death, your only refuge.

Saturday, March 6, 2010


ancient January night. and the cold leopards of winter sleep on your skin. in the silence of your breath; among the thin, blue calls of neon lit raga…they sleep.

your voice casts a shadow in the warlord’s dream, who wakes up to the touch of the nuclear moon. jazz-licked whispers in his ears.

his mistress, a young maiden of twenty. she sleeps in peace tonight. delirious. her face, stained with the language of sex, pearls and emerald.

Enchantress! you are the preserver of the elixir of romance! Vile. Voracious. his spies have followed you for long. their footsteps still echo in the rooms of exorcism in every nightmare..

they have traced you…

from the cloistered streets of perverts

to the coffee beaches of painters

from the naked forests of forgiven hunters

to the deserts of secret refugees.

the one-eyed general, his insidious laughter now spreads like venom and smothers him, the last poet of the earth.

they find you now. hibernating in the ruins of the martyr’s last elegy.

strident sounds of evil in the cavities of your dream.

you awaken , looking for an answer

and you run…

Horror. Prayers.

you run through the fields of sorcery,

you run through the hamlets of fever

you run

until you melt with the stars

seeking refuge in the clandestine visions of a snowchild…

Saturday, January 23, 2010

The Song of Love

dance behind the mirrors

weep in bliss, lady

glide through my dreams

as I offer
my poems at your feet

sing a song

overdose the sitar with your voice

forgive the serpent’s eyes

hide the night
behind your mad smile

flirt with the child in his sleep

I know
you ruled the sandstorms
with your fingertips

steal the tears
of a wounded eagle

reward the earth with your soul

and then
hallucinate with me

in the moonlit canvas
of an ageless February evening.

Friday, January 22, 2010

Few Words Of Love...

revolutions in the liquid sky

is that what it is called?

roses in the garden

a room of music and scent

why does the harmonica always
remind me of you?

songs in the hourglass

poems in the weed

the poet’s
kiss still rots upon your skin

you awaken
like a legend

with a memory
and the last line

snowstorm in your eyes

and my dreams behind them

dreams in the night

and the night sleeps

upon your lips.

Wednesday, January 13, 2010

Dream Woman

intoxicated as usual

wild music
and desires

a V of black swans
in blue

a poem or a song
or maybe,
the bride of the evening jazz

how do you feel
as we watch it together

and they answer
to our secret calls of destiny?

(I imagine bliss)

our thoughts meet
much to the silent agony
of the lemon earth

you chain me
with the final color
of the evening

and I stare at you
in wonder

as the November breeze
gives you an uneasy shiver
in the dark

dream woman,
are there still words stuck
inside your throat?

or why else
do you speak to me
through tears?

I have lost my old style,

my old style of seduction
with masked words
of love in my mouth.

Dreams in Flames

a very urban afternoon

my dreams,
yet again,
go up in flames

and let loose
those ugly earthworms
upon the marble floor

are the heroines
of the midnight drama

they slowly undress
before my eyes

and disappear
in the radioactive touch
of the sun

the superhero is lost

and so is lost
the fictional
lady in red

it is only her voice
that I remember now

the streets are again breathing

with rallies,

murders in the unknown alleys,

fake political promises,

chasing policemen,

busy drug addicts

sweating jobless artists

and hungry beggars
in the footpath

they don’t excite me anymore

so please,
let me be silent now
for a while

as I look up

and think
of a poem

that can earn
this ailing poet

some money
for this month.

my silence speaking of only
romance and crime…

Friday, September 4, 2009

Violet Romance

I flush my dreams here today

blood trickling down the pipelines

as the memories
try to cage my throat

this evening offers me nothing

but only cigarettes
and the very soft perfume of marijuana

I watch the wet photo burning slowly
upon the marble floor

do I need to remember you anymore?

or those days
of masked emotions
and haunting midnight messages
that echoed through my cellphone?

and the many days
that I spent
struggling to write a line for you?

for this hour poisons me
with pain
and a very strange longing
for the sudden strike of death

I look at the ugly mirror
and observe those red eyes,
hiding a tear in every turn

the blind lips
hunt the pretty woman
for a kiss no more

and the fierce sweat
boils on my skin
waiting for the martyr

I let the canvas of
romance and violet rhymes
erode out of this mind

I let the lights
morph into darkness too soon

as the room disillusions
slowly into void

and so do I

the prophets are busy now
framing an obituary

The city is happy again

and so
are the restless poets of the dark…

Saturday, June 13, 2009

Dark Love

The poet steps
into the mansion
of slain dreams

a blank notebook
in his hand

a vagabond

vying for words
and poems…

the goddess of dark love
has invited him
for dinner tonight

his vision travels
through the dead lights

his secrets shaken

and oblivious,
he loses his way

and so , he finds her
hours later

in the arsenal
of miracles and dark magic

tracing the humid song
of the gramophone

as the lotus
through the eddies of darkness

and morphs into
a lady of strange appeal

who sits there
sipping the wine
of black lust and lonely shadows

her lips
smudged with auburn blood

serpents worshipping her eyebrows

her hair
crucified with the skulls
of forgotten lovers

as the solemn candlelight
surrender to those eyes


the wind is soporific

hypnotizing the poet
with its cold whispers

as he stands there


a murdered rose
bleeds on the table

her womb
cursed with

offered by the white rivers
of artists and clowns

she wants to bury them
in the red chest
that lies on her table


before she serves the dinner
for him

with the kiss of death

The Rendezvous

the artist
sits in the quiet corner
of the café

green demons
trickling down his throat

a vortex of bohemian
tunes in his mind

igniting predicaments…

nebulous thoughts crawling in
through the pages

rising through the winds
and morphing into a fireball
of rebel dreams

which collide
with the marble floor
and the walls

echoing through
the empty hole
of his head

he writes
he writes

the letters
dancing to the eerie serenade
of morphined loneliness

figures of stone
all around

his surreptitious eyes
wandering among desecrated

seeking redemption

when his eyes meet
her virgin shadow

there she arrives..

dressed in scarlet

the lucid moon
breathing on her lips

and her beauty
unveiling the atlas
of his lost romance

he captures them
in his memory of fossils
and corpses

as he finds
a cavalcade
of festered imaginations
strolling around

her voice
giving birth to coveted prophets
whispering parables
of love and romance
with every stroke of the finger

and capturing him
in the seductive asylums
of poems and figures

yet again…

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

A Walk Through The War Zone

we walk in slow
through the narrow streets
and the mystic alleys

hand in hand

the women stand,
with burned babies
in their arms

looking out
with electrocuted eyes
from behind the dark panes
hiding a few more scarred lives

the camera flashes
and we watch quietly
as their lips
slowly melt into
blood with crimson desires

peace has not visited this city
for many years now…

we walk
as the street lights


into mommies
of stone


their dark shadow
leaving a mark of the curse

the curse of a war
long won by the devils

on the castrated grass
bearing skeletons of bullets and mines
in their ugly geometry

the coffins
have long been buried

the trees
have long disillusioned
into the dark smoke
that veils the sun
in the sky now,

as the clouds
with only acid rain
to offer

the church lies vacant
with the crucified figure

tears of dust
in His eyes

we walk in slow

a tune
slowly breathes
its presence
on the wind

as the zombies
rise through the naked orifice
of the death lake

sculpting the
prayers of vengeance
on the strings
of a faded guitar

Wednesday, May 6, 2009

You Creep In...

you creep in

through the shallow crevice
in the night sky
disguised as the moon

you creep in

like the sun’s third eye
gliding through the waves
and waters

you creep in

like a young sapling
fracturing the crust
of this wounded motherland

you creep in
you creep in

you creep in

like the forgotten scents
through the reverberations
of malignant winds

you creep in

like these poems
through the dark pipelines
of psychosis

you creep in

like the psychedelic dreams
through the metaphors
of reveries and slumber

you creep in

as these words
through the narrow crevice
on the skin of my loquacious mind

Woof Contest Winners for May 1

Roy – “
I have a hole in my socks....” - Concealing what's inside with smile... like a sock with a hole...
Zorlone - “
The Modern Hercules” - Do you desire the perfect body? Then you have just surrendered to the vanity of the demon within you.
Christable Anon – “
For my Brown Boy..” - Brown surrealism... a collage of thought process..
Sourik Banerjee – “
Somewhere The Artist Still Remembers...” - This poem is a tribute to the enigmatic evening that the poet had spent with his ladylove for the first time...
Dragon Blogger – “
Traffic Jam” - Traffic Jam, a unique poem of love.
About Writing

Alex McGaughan – “
Things Every Poet Should Know #1, “No-Nos”” - This is the first installment of a series offering advice to poets. This one is a discussion of some "crimes" often committed by novice poets.
Izzy Daniels – “
Blogging or Writing…What is More Important?” - Sometimes we tend to walk a fine line between blogging and writing. I do my best to highlight the differences.
Fiction / Monologue / Flash Fiction

Webbielady – “
Confessions of a Devoted Sinner” - How distracted he was and so he decided to take his concerns to the Highest Being...
Jena Isle – “
Mickey” - A story of a young boy who played video games.
Brought to you by PlotDog Press with the
Serial Suspense Screenplay "Intervention"
(WOOF participants should re-post all the links above by next Monday. The following links may be excluded as long as you include all the above links.)
Presenting the finest of the writer’s blogs by the bloggers who write them. Highlighting the top posts as chosen by the May 1, 2009 WOOF Contest participants. Want in to join the next WOOF? The next contest ends May 1. Submit a link to your best writing post of the last 3 weeks using the form on
this page. Participants, repost the winning link list within a week and you’re all set.
Other WOOF Contestants for 05/01/09

Dragon Blogger – “
Future Flash” - A poem about a grim potential future.
Dragon Blogger - “
Mutant Graduation” – Random twitter poem inspired by x-men, even mutants graduate from school.
Dragon Blogger – “
Where Has Love Gone” - Poem about relationship trouble and believing in a better end.
Jennifer M Scott – “
Arson” - A poem not about arson or is it?Jennifer M Scott – “A Summer Night in Spring” - The feeling of summer in a spring night.
Non-Fiction / About Blogging

Jena Isle – “
SEO Sites to Maximize the Exposure of Your Articles” - How to maximize the exposure of your articles in your blogs.
Fiction / Monologue / Flash Fiction

Zorlone – “
Difficult to Please” - A flash fiction about a barber in a new neighborhood who has been having a hard time getting customers.
Find out why...
Jennifer M Scott – “
Red Velvet Box” - An eccentric woman bequeathed her belongings to her niece including one of her special treasures.
Jennifer M Scott – “
Saturday Night Decisions” - A story in exactly 100 words about an alcholic what does he do, make your own ideas.
Jennifer M Scott - “
Dell and Patsy” - A writing prompt about a mother and daughter and the mother's obsession with weight.well... this is a first for me...

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

Somewhere The Artist Still Remembers...

from the dark celluloid of my mind
fell a dream
and slept
on the sinful pages of reality

(the artist watched from a distance)

as the blue skyline
changed before my eyes

and the evening crawled in
through the broken spine
of April

I found you ,

girl of scent , sweat and romance

as answers echoed
through the distant hue

revealing a faint figure…

in a robe of red miracle and prophecies

I recall as I write

when I found…

my poems
dancing on your skin
beneath the spotlight
of a thousand moons and stars

and a folklore
of mystic tales of love and romance
buried in your palms

my strange lust
nibbled on your flesh
like demons in the obscure wind

the sulfur streets
of crystal jazz and neon
sank deeper beneath your tresses

and the corrupted night
into eyes

of your unfolded dreams
hanging from
the hypnotized sky

somewhere in his antique memory
of portraits and time

the artist still remembers
the forged music in your voice

as his tongue
moved like a razorblade

licking your wet body
veiling a fragile universe
of cocoa and heroin

and painting a landscape
of his novels on your breast

he still remembers…

your nails
undressing his wounds

as his kiss went up in flames
on your lips…

tempting the purple bitch
riding a warcraft
of hunger and sorrow
in your veins…

(P.S.: This poem is dedicated to the evening the poet spent with his ladylove for the first time. This poem is a tribute to that enigmatic evening...)

Sunday, March 22, 2009

Mistress of The Sapphire Moon

Mistress of the sapphire moon

the sound of the distant drums
speak in the silence of this evening

when the words sink in my soul
from the pages of this old diary

hailing those paranoid thoughts
stifling the unborn verses growing
in the womb of these poems

tunes from the forgotten times
argue in my mind
and recreates a theatre of songs and roses

the blue world bursts like an atom bomb
on the canvas of a black universe
and I find myself trapped in
an orgy of green demons and pills


does your smile still veil the secrets
and scents of unspoken truths?

do your eyes still hide the mysteries
of the sun and the stars?

I still offer my prayers at your doorstep
with poems inscribed on its skin
when dawn blossoms in the night sky
and robs the costume of slumber
off my shoulders

my dreams have long been lost
beneath the metaphors of your beauty

the prosodies have lost their way
in the hollow tunnels
enchanted by the echoes of your voice

the rainbows have long been frozen
by the winds of time

memories still float like icebergs
on the cold oceans
which devour my tears and pains

when December curls like a dark cobra
beneath the acid viscera of my body.

Friday, February 13, 2009

The Evening

(Part I)

you dissolve the day
in a glass of shale and tar

the white sky paints itself in violet blue

the rays are lost
beneath a landscape of turbulent lust and desires

as the sun melts down like honey
in a wet chamber of cowards and culprits

the moon is slowly raped into darkness
by the violent clouds

her screams murdered by the bellows
of a howling storm

her tears in the grip
of grey cops and lawyers
who fall with the evening rain
with corrupted afterthoughts of money
and deception

the distant stars share the backseats
of a silent audience
their heart and genitals sliding
down their body

indulging themselves in innocent games
of orgasm and voyeurism

(Part II)

In this evening
of rape and suicide

when the impassive times travel
through dusty lanes
tired and a pauper

the veiled captors invade my body
and break open the vaults
usurping the spirit of words and poems
hidden in them

(Part III)

a flicker of the wand
with crucifixions and executions
and the room changes color
when it becomes a garden of feast

an opera falls from the evening sky
music climbs through the hills of emotions
with the dancers carrying tunes in their bellies

the hours summon the night
our minds are laid out
like red meat on the plates of the hungry captors
and the devils
the aroma of poems and sculptures
seducing them…
the earth
a squeezed lemon in the bowl

chanting the name of the lords of evil and lies
remembering the cathedrals of blood and sacrifice
they begin to eat
piercing with knives and forks
slicing the capillaries of dream and inscriptions

blood pours down with songs and angels

another artist has been killed tonight…

Wednesday, January 28, 2009

A Confession

behind the curtains of fallen rays
and coffins of the dead warriors

The cries of vampires and witches
still torture the cold moments of the midnight

crystal tears of regret in the waterfalls
their curses echo from the distant hills

The serpent of black sins
runs through the green courtyards of forsaken memories
and pierces the distant horizon
sealed in with a lead sky

I carry a secret code of fear
in the red wine that climbs through my veins

in the branches of the crippled willow
lurks the prayers of vengeance of the hanged priest now

the spirit of the weeping mother
still hunts for her child’s life
beneath the rusted remains of bullets and daggers

yes, I confess
I hail from the lands of blood and murder
when the bleeding times return
with rotten sweat and regrets

and they escape
when I try to bury them in the dark alleys
of a forgotten poem

And my heart
stripped to a wounded beggar
now begs for mercy
in the graveyards of those burning souls…

Monday, January 19, 2009


I smear the sky of distant rivers in grey
and carve the black boulders of cloud in its womb.

do you see the golden boat still surfing in the west
as darkness befalls?

do you see the necklace I weaved of diamonds
still hanging in its breast?

while you sing the rhapsody of love and sacrifice
I poison the cataleptic poet residing in my soul
with the selfish thoughts

lust and desire ,

and smother it into a silent death…

the forlorn seduction of the
evening jazz ,

the story of the naked whore
writing letters to her midnight lover,

the hunt for the passwords of hidden treasures
beneath the lines of lost highways

doesn’t excite me anymore