- #poemaday ananth aranya Atyachar beauty Bombay City Could be verse epiphany forest Gothamisation hasi to fasi hmmm hypocrisy I Quote It is written I want to ride my bicycle kaha gaye woh din Lou middle class mithya Music nasha nature night nostalgia One Bad Day poetry Prosepoetry the apocalyptic real traffic Uncategorized vignettes why?
tagsanger aranya auteur beauty birdsong black Bombay bombay streets cars chauvanism circle city cityscream creation crows cycling death detergent development dhrupad Eco ecstasy evening eyes fear fight flight forest forests frustration Ghalib grass guilt insomnia kachra Kanti uncle Krishnaa liberated life lost lou Love madmast marine drive masculinity metaphors minisha lamba mirrors music nasha night nirma nostalgia observer phallic symbol PoMo Rain rant relationships safedi ki jhankaar silence sleep soar solitude space spirit the sea three traffic Ustad voyeur water white wild worm
Category Archives: It is written
the ocean froths In the empty ghada a Shrill whisper rises Like piss in the stream The fawda picks away at the clod Darknesses converge Upon the decaying carcasses The dead stink Louder than blasphemies In the sacred chamber And time, … Continue reading
leaves crackle underfoot. Fumes of wet earth spiral upwards into the translucent moondust; twilight rain’s afterthought. the saxophone breath of the night. soft rustle of foreboding. the forest begins to stir. sleep leaves the eyes of trees in little dew … Continue reading
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 … Continue reading
There’s something about him – the way he conducted himself. No. Conducted is the wrong word. His demeanour is a stage without a curtain. really. There is no membrane. Nothing that complicates his serious play with the system. (haha. system … Continue reading
we are mirrors. water. grass. The tip that grazes an ecstatic breeze is the root. and the fortress lies in its foundations. every speck of the vision is an explosion of our own shadows. we nod cinematically; in hypnotic roam … Continue reading