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the tour is over
and I know
it is over
to gladly be rid of
this night and all nights
We should be sandstone
ruins by now. We should
be overgrown salt flats,
upturned tableland,
brains full of bird-
song, breath
like clouds
We should be watching
little yellow speech bubbles
pop in Bangalore, or maybe
be strolling the boardwalk
in Chennai. I don’t know
the taste of cotton candy.
Maybe you could be
my remedy.
yes i know im a face
passin by a window do
you know im a face
passin by
your window
Lost my train of thought,
there.
What I keep trying to say
before I’m cut off (by me,
ragmagnets, a lady
announcing departures
in Tamil) is: this
should not be how I
spend my night,
imagining the
starscaped
portholes
of my train
home.
Imagining
you.
Some of us are fool enough
to book tickets for a
Feb trip on a train
due March. Some are
naive enough to
allocate their down-
time to bricked
phones and red
dirt. Wilderness.
(those who grace
both categories
get sawdust enough
to stuff their poems)
yes i know we’re all
terrified of love do you
know i’m terrified
of love
See also: and other drugs
See also: far worse to be lover of than lover scorned by
See also: calls you by your name
See also: is noise/is pain/is these blues
that I’m singing again
See also: is a laserquest
See also: song of J. Alfred Prufrock
See also: it when you call
See also: is all we need
See also: and other demons
I mean all I’m trying to do
is make time go a little
faster. The God of these
platforms is a vengeful
master. Ad spots for
insurance and thick
syrupy touristbait
and cutrate horror
flicks, the actors
looking terrified
of the direction
their careers
have taken.
And I walked enough ground
to pad out a binder, found
beauty in places where ‘keeper’
meant ‘finder’, took the lessons
that best fit my limited capability
(eg: oh look a banyan on a gently
curving hill let us lose our
as we sit very still) and you,
you were the surf cresting/
breaking on an omnipresent
shoreline, each gap in the convo
(each trough each decline) each
impromptu closeup of a
perplexed cow (equal parts
why-not and wait-wait-wait-
how) erased, inkblots,
each all-yours,
all the not-mine.
All I know is that
three hours from now
the blacktop over the
platforms will begin to
pale, and I will haul both
old bags and misdirected
ass (finally give the cold
screens a pass), stumble
through predawn Chennai,
set sail. Rolling a quick one
between old and new fort
as stragglers from the
boardwalk make for land. I
will stop at the war-shrine.
You’ll be holding my hand.
And we will walk our way
around as schoolbus drivers
honk hoarse and you will
translate their cuss-grunts,
no matter how coarse.
we will make sure to
read all the names on
the stones the day our
origami swan to unfold—
Like roadkill on the route
between new fort and old, I
I come to alone, my quick one
long rolled, half-smoked, almost
gone. An old lady straddles a big
empty basket, squints from under
a cardboard prawn. Reality unhinges
its jaws, finds my ankles, hangs fast.
Friend-in-dream, I find this malady
absurd. There’s a worm in my head
fucking feeding on feelings and the
damn thing just won’t stop
shitting out words. I would love to
sing to you, but I’m just filibustering
phlegm. These indents ring truer
with no me in them. But enough
of this slow sodding plod
at half-mast. I have read
all the names on the memorial
that my boring, bilingual brain
allows. It is nearly time to revert
to the sloppy adverts at
Chennai Central (names/
places/animals/themes always
screw up rhyme schemes).
Though the thought of
you works wonders
for me, the way
back is a long,
vertiginous
fall.
So finally, in parting—
one day the voidworm
will claim us all.
Heavy stuff, damp
snuff, volleyball,
missed calls, green
smoke, mean jokes,
the sidewalks of CP
and Dariyaganj timings
(see prev parenthesis
re: proper nouns &
rhyming). The love-
songs of cynics arch
suspiciously like fetters
and pigeon poop obscures
the words in their letters
(long story short you can
do much better)
but the worst is
their cribbing once
the D6 is cast.
. . . to gladly be rid of
this night and all nights
if your quips
and that wry smile
I can keep
to the last
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