The red message

  

   She had been awake for a while; but her eyes refused to open. She enjoyed the light beyond her eyes and the darkness behind them. She was drowsy, and pleasantly disoriented. Like the times when you are not sure which side of the bed your head is on. She could lie there forever. But there was a nasty throbbing somewhere. Her hand... her fingers... yes, her index finger of her right hand.
   She opened her eyes, irritated. There was a deepish cut; now clotted. The pillow had patterns of blood on it. Ugly caked red, but pretty bloody designs. The blood had gotten on her hair. It was matted in places. She'd have to shower & put a tape on her finger. She had no recollection of how and where she had got cut. All she cared about was her hair; and oh, the designs. Like mysterious divinations.
    She dragged herself out of the bed, one leaden step at a time and stood in front of the mirror, groggy yet intensely aware... There were messages she had to hear, to interpret. 'I wish I could cut and frame the blood-stained sheet,' she thought. The thought didn't leave her all day, as she went about her work, carrying her wounded finger like a curious trophy. She got home, carefully cut out the section of the pillow case and got it framed. She hung the frame on the wall opposite her fireplace. She would sit on her rocking chair and look at it. The designs would tell a story some day.

(With inputs from Satish Lakshman @tishman and Nikhil Deshmukh @red_devill22 )

Another time for love

   'It's been a hell of a long while,' he thought, as he lay under the cooling shade of the tree. 'How much longer?' It felt like hours. Maybe it was hours. Maybe minutes. The cool shade didn't feel so cool now. The waiting was burning his insides. Yet he could not leave. She had a promise to keep.
   A promise that she had made back when they had planted this very tree. Not exactly planted it. Spat out the seeds rather. They had been feasting on sweet tangerines that day, under an orange sky. It seemed like yesterday... As a

matter of fact, it WAS yesterday. 'This tree has grown rather fast... in a day. A few more hours for the tree to start bearing fruit,' chugged his train of thought. 

   His reverie broke with a flash of something. WHAT WAS THAT? A torch? A strong, almost cruel white ray shone into his eyes. She was here. Again, after years. Again, after yesterday. Time seemed warped.

   'I hope she's brought sandwiches,' he thought to himself, as she switched off what seemed like fog lights. 'Why would she use them in the day?' he wondered. Actually he didn't. She was never like the other women he knew. "What's life without a little drama?" she'd say. Even now, as she walked toward him with the picnic basket, she seemed to be performing. A surreal stage; her feet one, perhaps two feet above the ground.

   She hadn't aged a day since yesterday, or from a few years ago. With her quick, light steps she walked over to him, and held out the basket. He could see the Chardonnay wrapped in a towel. Wine there had to be. They needed it to lose themselves, to find each other. The real world wasn't for them. He whipped out his Burmese army knife and expertly popped the cork. Some birds took wing, protesting loudly at the sudden sound. She could hear music even in the angry chirping of the birds. His presence made everything beautiful. They raised a toast, drank and nibbled at the sandwiches. It would be a lovely day...

   They sat content for a while, then she leaned over and kissed his cheek. The smell of his sweat mildly intoxicating her. A kiss, a touch, a caress, an embrace. The summer morning would ripen their bodies again with heat and lust. Love would have to wait. A gentle breeze blew, tousling strands of his long, raven black hair across his face. "The markets open in an hour" she said. The urgency hit him in the gut. She had these gentle-cruel reminders of forevers that end.

   They made fast, furious love, squeezing in a million pleasures every moment. Time was little. Tomorrow might come years later. Bodies entwined in a slow serpentine dance under the double suns. Sweat poured as they rolled in the throes of manic ecstasy. Time stood still. Time flew. The clock tower in the market warned them ten times. The lovers would have to go. Wait for interminable centuries... until tomorrow.

   "Reports say Earth will be habitable again in a less than a year," she said, as she slipped into her little, lacy red panties. Then she dissolved into the light, as dramatically as she had arrived. They weren't fog lights. He walked to the market, basket in hand; the leftover Chardonnay still cold. He reached the market, sat in his little curio shop - the quaint little spaceship model always by his side. 'Wonder if she'll bring sandwiches tomorrow,' he thought, as he slipped back into a patient slumber.

(Co-authored with Satish Lakshman - @tishman) 

   

 

   

   

Memories are strange things..

Strange things, memories. She'd forgotten the lovemaking. Only her hair
remembered the hours her lover's fingers had spent undoing knots.

Her feet remembered how they felt tickled when he kissed them, and how he had commented on the colour of the nail polish. "Lime green".

She could still summon the sensations on her midriff, that his linen shirt had first caused; but not the feelings when they first kissed.

She remembered his skin had felt coarse around his chest. She remembered he said he had been burnt as a child. But nothing about the ecstasy.

Here he was, with her, in parts. His love, in fragments. 'Memories are strange things', she concluded.

The Phase - part 2

It has been a while and the parts 2 and 3 of The Phase have been begging to be published. What began as a passing fancy (The Phase) seems to have matured into a definitive hobby, and words of beauty have not left me. All day on Twitter, I've gone from an experimental poet to a rather full-time one. A short, short story writer also seems to have emerged. Small inspirations - words, emotions, mostly words - find me on the timeline and my fingers itch to turn the trigger into a poem. The previous post has my first 60 humble lines, and I had intended to keep adding to it. But the list has grown long, and a visible change, has, perhaps occurred. I have also found love in the eyes of some readers, who suggested I write a book of these. Perhaps not yet, but I am fulfilling my commitment to commit them to someplace safer than Twitter. The next 60 works are these:

61.All that glitters is not gold/ Heck, it may well be fire and brimstone/ But lusty fingers want to touch/ for it may please or it may burn.

62. 'No' was her favourite word/ her aura, a cold stone wall./ One day she took her chance; let him in/ and it all caved in when he gushed.

63. She didn't want it to end. There were still some sweat beads from the lovemaking last night. A lover so ideal, she killed him to keep him

64. Who let you out, O pure one?/ to walk this cruel world, to learn their lies./ Who let you out, knife in hand/ and told you 'twas God's will?

65. Coil up now, cold you are/ a blue heart you have, and a closed mind/ let me take you back, my child/ when you were safe in my womb.

66. Battle scarred and blood stained/ valour badges on my breast/ I carry swords by the day/ but wear my love's arms in the night.

67. She rummaged through chests/ under sheets, in sheets/ between people and lessons/ to find another word for her savings box.

68. She could love at hat drop/ and fawn over sweet nothings/ but in fury, she turned ugly/ and let out gargoyles that kill.

69. Like an unabashed picture of inelegance/ he plodded along the unwarranted road/ foot firmly in his mouth, head high/ said 'this is who I am'

70. She landed there, with no warnings/ perhaps in a dream, all naked/ and hid to protect her modesty/ until she noticed all was shorn of shame.

71. Her white dress hitched a little/ goody two shoes kept aside/ she stepped into the slime/ and said, 'I wanna play too!'

72. It is cold out there/ why stymie your warm love/ share a lingering smile/ that might melt some frozen faiths.

73. He thought they were aimed at him/ benign looks of harmless people/ he let these non-wounds fester/ and gave himself a malignant heart.

74. O' ye poor heroes of the feeble fable, may greatness hunt ye down and find a trophy story.

75. He went to the stores. He bought wood, iron, nails, bolts, glue, tape and black paint. He built a box around him at night. He disappeared.

76.  She didn't want it to end. There were still some sweat beads from the lovemaking last night. A lover so ideal, she killed him to keep him.

77. Hunched up, face down, he dragged his feet like all no men on the street. Only they didn't know he was masquerading to savor his joys alone.

78. "Why are you climbing down again?" he asked. "I'm hoping I'll tire out my vertigo and be able to jump off and fly and die," she said.

79. Wistful I am, but I must let it go/ I know these solid, ethereal feelings/ but let me feel it while it lasts/ this love, my fistful of sand.

80. When the King came marching/ to the dervish's door/ and watched; all glory and troops/ "I have but sung, my lord. What be my fault?"

81. Fumbling hands, trembling hands/ were his hesitant explorers/ "I am you," is all she said/ to make his hands grow up.

82. Life had pushed him to a preacher's dais. He repeated what the good books said. But at nights, in a woman's robes, he cradled little dolls

83. No more birds of a feather/ for you are now a dyed-feather charlatan/ fake colours and falsettos are not for me/ I remain a gray goose.

84. One day he said to God. "Make me naught. I got too many things to drag around." And lo! He was another man's shadow; being dragged around.

85. I reached that 3-pronged road/ that lead me to 3 doors/ one for the yes, and a no and a maybe/ I split my mind in 3 and proceeded into each.

86. He was the last man standing/ in a decaying, lost land/ yet the Christmas spirit lead him/ to fastidiously lay glitter on every grave.

87. Life had pushed him to a preacher's dias. He repeated what the good books said. But at nights, in a woman's robes, he cradled little dolls

88. No more birds of a feather/ for you are now a dyed-feather charlatan/ fake colours and falsettos are not for me/ I remain a gray goose.

89. One day he said to God. "Make me naught. I got too many things to drag around." And lo! He was another man's shadow; being dragged around.

90. A mirror once fell in love with the narcissist. Forgot its true nature, trapped her reflection. Turned to stone with all her ugly realities.

91. One fish by one, caught the old fishing rod. His father's gift when he was little. But he and his hunger grew. "A net!" he cried in despair.

92. Two strangers. A lot of booze. To let themselves loose. A morning after with no face in mind. Just the smell of the other's shampooed hair.

93. You left that day, without a word/ blistering my doors to a new life/ I was sleeping at the time in our bed/ when you set my heart on fire.

94. Admiration, like secret water seeping/ the walls that surround me/ suddenly a rush of warm water/ at my feet and into my heart.

95. He lay in Diana's arms/ longing for his Lucifer/ denying his true calling/ despising all moments in bed.

96. I remain seated/ among a philharmonic audience/ of orchestrated lies/ of a world I made too.

97. Their last day together/ a solstice become/ the shortest day/ and the longest, coldest night.

98. Once home, he cast the semblances to the floor. Honesty, humour, humanity. Naked, in his reality, he began celebrations of the primitive.

99. Held back sometimes/ dammed some, damned some/ but words find cracks/ and flow their course.

100. Mighty statue/ admired by all/ crushed by his need/ to be loved/ by one blind tourist.

101. In a dark room, with acrid fumes/ of hatred and some rot/ he summoned his ghosts and gloom/ and chatted with his ugly conclave.

102. Frisky shadows/ dodge the moon/ make the loon/ run about in circles.

103. Iridescent laughter/ changes colour/ joy sometimes/ oft times, sorrow.

104. New bride, a coy toy/ laden silences, bated breaths/ consumed him, passion danced/ like one volatile volcano.

105. His thoughts were meandering. Hit a stone, then two, then a whole roadblock. Emotions welled and washed all away in an angry flood of words.

106. Mean gladiator arms/ that could rip tigers apart/ could not help but shiver/ when he held his firstborn first.

107. I put on my child eyes/ to find joy in lost years/ only to be disappointed at the definitions/ the adults taught me.

108. She wished upon, what she thought was a shooting star, for a bright last breath. Then the asteroid fell upon her and she died in a flash.

109. Politeness, sometimes/ made her gasp for air/ like a fitted corset/ perhaps two sizes too small.

110. A freshly recruited clown, in zeal, said, "And I will never frown!" And he was doomed to live thus; a smile plastered forever to his face.

111. Choices she made. Smiles she wore. But obligations grew fast and thick on her. Like fungus.

112. Judiciously, in his workshop, he plated things gold. Severed arms, sawed bones, placentas. He liked his trophies shiny. The gory goldsmith.

113. Fur and high-life could not keep her warm. Gold fireplace oozed cold too. She cast furtive glances at the street below. At merry people.

114. And won't you let him out/ unbind your closet poet/ be unashamed of him/ laugh and play with merry words?

115. He wore the head of a lion, the tail of a fox, the wings of a crow, the legs of a dog. "I will lead now," he said. So awed, they followed.

116. Unmindful, she played with the buttons on her breast. Trying, perhaps, to place a finger on an unknown fear. "You popped a button," he said.

117. Many sweet nothings/ trapped in a bottle/ uncorked, sighed/ rushed out the thoughts again.

118. He wanted her sweet love and he wanted it his way. He had heard people say love is in the heart. So he cut hers out and rolled it in sugar.

119. A winter of dread/ not for the cold on the skin/ but the lack of his warmth/ on her body and her heart.

120. Masks green, blue and red/ bodies painted a garish nude/ hiding one bad layer with another/ each outdoing another's fake.