wishful thinking

you never liked summers,
always drawing the shades.
i did not mind the cool dark shadows
but did you think i could not hear
the crook of the finger
that beckoned you to betray me?

my fair weather friend,
if i had a knife right now
i would stick in it in your foot
right between the third and the fourth
metatarsals, and watch your lung bleed inside
while you writhed in agony outside.
and i would hire sarnath
to use a 2b to sketch the various shades of pain
making their mark on your face.
and then i would pay him some more
to permanent ink you.

maybe i would write a poem
and take it to jeet
who might take it to sridhar
who might sing it in her smoky voice
so i could wet the very dry martini
in the library bar with my tears.

treachery does not have a season,
but i let you laugh for too many,
now that the sakura is in bloom,
i am glad to bury you here
under the hundred thousand petals,
before the heat gets you.

not love

she's gathering flowers from the grass,
picking sorrowful thoughts from dreams,
those are tears not dewdrops on the green.

dawn in the city is dusty,
she cuts her long hair for a broom.
only snatches of tuneless songs left to collect.

anguishes come and go,
she's been watchful, they tend to stay
hidden in some cobwebby corner of the heart.

tell her it's not her you love,
but when she was shaking out the songs and thoughts
from her window, you stood beneath
and looking up fell in love with the illusion of a bird
that wiped all lustful thoughts in your head
with the soundless flap of her white wings.

just tired

six thousand three hundred suns
separate us, and i still hope
that we should meet,
on the jagged rocks
where periwinkle grows,
just like i picture in my head,
dig our toes in the sand and
send the starfish back into the seas,
on unknown dance floors
make love to the speakers,
letting the beat reverb through the lungs.
but as i let the rotting grapes
mingle with the red
coursing through my veins,
i know i am singed by your fire,
but you slowly extricate fingers,
you cannot possibly see
how i battle the coils
dark, slick, tendrils poised to drag me
into the flickering shadows.
any other day i would've fought,
the ginsu sits on my hip,
but not any more, no more,
bone weary, blood tired i am.
i do not wish to find
any way out not today, not today.
on my knees i wait
the shadows will surely call.

at the printer

skin slivered by a poem
written to love,
(is there any other kind?)
another paper cut!
you laugh and turn away,
'it's deeper,' i want to say,
but words are stifled,
when i see you open
yet another chat window.

the words slip in and hurt,
slipstream to the red tide,
pounding through to the heart,
hurting. hurting. hurting.

then you flash me
an absent-minded smile.
i put that cut ring finger
to my mouth.
stick my tongue to the hurt,
and file the poem away.

good idea

that mary shelley
had a good idea, i think:
she went searching for the best.
body parts, that is,
to make up her perfect man.

i look at his smile,
and wish it were on you.
and another's forearms,
to be yours.
so you could hold me tight.

oh, did i forget that chap's legs,
they would be awesome on you.
and that star's sexy dimples,
on your cheeks.

hair, nose, chin, size of hands
from him, him and him,
but i like your width.
it's perfect to rest my head upon.

and your mind.
your demented, deviant mind,
that thinks up crazy ideas,
and wilder stories,
is what i'd like to keep.

hmm.
hmm.
hmm.
that mary shelley
had a great idea.

pulp fiction

if you could read
the blog inside my head
you would run
and never turn back
what deviant notes
about wanting you
in spite of wrinkles
and plain disuse

if you could read
the blog inside my head
i would understand
why you would run
i am terribly articulate
in my fantasies

if you could read
the blog inside my head
you might just stop
and give in to the gleam
i've sometimes seen
in your eyes