- #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
Tag Archives: Love
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Unfurl me then In the arithmetic of your desire| With eyes That could bleed subterranean rivers dry Eyes that narrate Fables of a breathless haste, a fumbling tizzy of hands| I have found a spot In the bustling side roads … Continue reading
Fish eyes. like a leaf. stillgreen. lithe. imploring. a misty morning caught in a gaze. watching. the secret in their eyes. I’m in the great hall. It’s the sorting . A feather falls from the ceiling and gets submerged in … Continue reading
the hook beside the fan runs incarnadine like your eyes turning red with the green smoke of memories masquerading as dance in our paranoid conversations in our soot black minds our black tongues magnified on walls with kites that hold … Continue reading
I A sack of flesh spilling over a diminutive frame seeking herself out from a thousand faces of insanity stammering through the insidious sentences woven by time’s scribe raving eyes lost in the syntax of pain unrolling its slow tortuous … Continue reading
When I saw you first, I felt like Keats who felt like Cortez* I tossed and turned in the clutches of this wild surmise I ran amok in the forest of this dream Your hands were poetry carved word by … Continue reading
“The postmodern reply to the modern consists of recognizing that the past, since it cannot really be destroyed, because its destruction leads to silence, must be revisited: but with irony, not innocently. I think of the postmodern attitude as that … Continue reading