for Cohen

melancholy is a colour.
it sings through
the cracks opening in the
river of your broken baritone.
like light high on dreams

the cliffs are empty,
the sea froths like an angry dog,
the window is open,
and the lipstick-smeared glass
looks out, under the beret
that I left there
instead of the poem
because words can never
know that perfume you wore

they’ve all gone
the women who loved
and knew love
to sink like a stone
beneath their souls.

gravel-breath. dark vate.
refugee who was stopped at
checkpost of truth, so that
he could linger a bit longer.

chiaroscuro melody
rising to the surface
of technicolour jesuses
wrapped in neon teeth
that explode like the distance
between a sigh and a sleepy kiss

the old man sits in the lamplight
and falls slowly backward into the scene,
his wild, cracked grin
a letter delivered to solitude

take me back.
remind me how the song goes.

let me sing.


About teevramadhyam

'I became insane with long intervals of horrible sanity' -Poe
This entry was posted in Could be verse, It is written, kaha gaye woh din, Music, night, Ustad. Bookmark the permalink.

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