Tag: poem

Miss Marauder

Miss Marauder

For Ilauza,
I listen to
Maroon 5’s daylight
as if it were
my first time.
The dawn
is breaking
with the scent
of petrichor lingering
in this twisted atmosphere
which is exactly like
your capricious fidelity.
Because these days
it rains in the night
when the sun
scorches the day.
Things seem to slip
away from its
usual trajectory.
You absconded
with my heart—
the one thing
I couldn’t keep.
And how the last
time I saw you:
you promised me
the faithfulness
of Altivo to Cortez.
That you would be
my today waiting
for ever for
the morrow ahead.
You build a house
of card with the spoils
of love you pillaged
from me. My soul is a
dilapidated fortress
beleaguers by nostalgic
nightmares & bitter-sour
technicolour memories.
I’m trying hard
to contemplate that
ours had been
a beautiful, splendid sight
like a child looking at
a diffusing contrail
for the first time
in awestruck wonder
even when the plane
has already left
far ahead.
I wonder why
time is always
generous to me.
I wish it stole
all the details
of your memory
for itself.
And time flies;
but never heals.



For Koppy

How I wish I could fly.
Red bull won’t give me wings,
Instead it would make me
burn the midnight oil,
And my mind would wonder wide & wild,
Searching for your fragrance that lingers
lucidly elusive, in my heart.
The saddest thing in this
moody monsoon is the fact that
you are not with me
to tame this hazy madness,
Of longing and loneliness.
But Koppy, I’ve sent my kisses,
I hope the wind, would carry it
to you, where they always belong.

Some Nights

Some nights are always long
& some memories always haunt

Some leaves are always green
Some games are always fun

Some people move on
While others wait & wait

Some things always break
While others merely bend

Some tears are out of joy
While others, like mine,
Are always out of pain

Some people die
We watch them leave
While we are doomed to stay

Here’s life
Sometimes I wish I were
A bird that sings in the rain
Patiently waiting for the

[Some leaves are always green even in autumn.  And no matter how hard I try to forget you, somewhere the memory of you often lingers like an 8-bit game I could never forget–thrilling, fun and always mesmerizing; but long no more to re-live the experience.  I’m convinced everything ends in the long-run, and some things always break while others merely bend.]

I don’t mean what you think I mean

I don’t mean what
you think I mean
when you think
I intentionally mean
what you think
my words would mean.
What are words but
meaningless symbols that
have meanings only
when two souls
agreed to each other.
What is language
but a mere façade
of mankind’s endless
need to complain.

Often, at times,
my stupid mouth
spits out words
that might imply
something derogatory to
the object who suffers
my (tongue’s) action.
But deep down,
if their subtlety
is looked into,
they’re a mere subterfuges
where I try to
conceal the finer nuances,
so that one might
not think that I’m blandishing
with a flattered mockery.

I don’t know what that
freakin’ French philosopher
Derrida tries to prove with
his deconstruction theory.
But something is clear—
he’s trying to tell us
that what we think
is the meaning of meaning
is just a perpetual loop
that ultimately means
meaning of meaning.
Oh! Sometimes I feel like
I get photosynthesised
just because I feel
some words are trying
to be trapped inside
my thoughts, like the
process being involved
in plants trying to make
glucose out of sunlight.
And why glucose!
Can’t we just say sweet?

You haven’t texted
since last . . .  And
our conversation ended
with rage like a
beehive being catapulted.
I kind of reaffirm
myself that somehow
I’ve become a miscreant
in your eyes.  But what
does it matter anyway?
When you think that
I mean something
I’ve never intended to mean.

Twisted is the soul
that can’t be bent.
Foolish is the one
that never compromise.
I’m sick and tired and dying,
can’t you see?
Well, I’m just beating
around the bush,
you won’t believe my
‘says’ anyways.

Wherever you are
& whatever you
might be doing
I hope you are fine
& be able to sleep tight.
Like those times
You told me you were
having an acute insomnia
but always dozed off
at the first hour
while we were chatting
& only a blue tick that
always reminded me:
I too need to hit the hay.


How do they name
a story that ends
before its prologue?
Perhaps if there
ever were, ours
would be one
of those stories—
of ephemeral ecstasies
& unquenched desires.
Sometimes in retrospect,
I regret the chances
I didn’t take.  The
dares I didn’t have
the courage to dare.
That place in Ai at KK,
where once I held
your hands & we
gazed at the stars
that were like the
freckles on your
snow-white face
in vast endless
sky above us.
I wished I would be
entrapped in that
moment for ever.
Now things often
break through
& apart. It rains
here today & the scroll
I see reads ‘who dares wins’
as if to only remind
me I’ve always been
a loser all my life.
Wherever you are
I hope you are happy.
I wish you would
find a way to reduce
the unforgiving masses
that make you
feel self-abased.  But
just remember I
still care less until now.
And you are
the best story
I could never write.
Cos you make me feel like
I could hit a jackpot
with coke’s cap.
I think I’m mad
as I always have been.