Ride

My head is a bus
A dozen-winged octopus
Take a ride if you will, it won't hurt
It brakes like a dream, kicks up no dirt

There is a place I've set aside
At the window to this hazy glide
The seats recline to soak your sins
In this twisted deck, I am your prince

Night and dark, you clutch the heat
Warmth between bodies that never meet
You travel without moving, carried by a whim
By affectionate curse and hateful hymn

Coasting through a simple spell
You cast your net into the well
Bait is tender, the catch too steep
Short triumph peering into rapid-eyed sleep

Hills of reason, towers of hope
An elusive nether where rebels elope
Slave to journey, sworn to cause
My wanderlust, to think is to pause

Write I Must

I want to write but words fail me.

Let's take a moment and consider my options.
Make that a few moments.

I could mull over existence and her many virtues.
Spin a yarn of passionate unromance that would
wind its way into your next conversation with me.

Maybe my last fall from grace would appetise your attention.
The hundreds that preceded would do just as well.

An ode to accomplishment, an elegy to desire,
a sonnet to anarchy or a thesis on the art of shoveling.

I could demystify the irreverence of the irrelevant.
Or the solitude of the destitute.

Dwelling on basic courtesies might easily be
swapped with a lesson in gratitude. Maybe fortitude.

The lusts of a rising phoenix could well be juxtaposed
with the cries of a lost chihuahua mistaken for a wild hare.

The storming of the Bastille or the Earl Grey
that never made it to the tea party.

The roving libido of the French premier could hold its own
to the modest ambitions of second coming
of the father of the world's largest democracy.

Maybe a concoction of lofty language
laced with a symphony of unparliamentary anecdotes.
Some non sequitur. Yes, I fancy the vernacular.

I want to write but words fail me.

Aerodynamics

The ground staff have just made their exit and I’m sure the last thing on your mind

is a whimsical pen at play. Down the aisle I see you, a tail of hair, an odd elbow

if I’m lucky. I remember when I saw you first, moments ago at the door, 

as I streamed in alongside an anxious flurry of veterans and virgins. 

You must have mouthed the customary ‘Good evening.’ 

or ‘Welcome aboard.’ or ‘How are you?’ It doesn’t matter.

I don’t remember. It wasn’t your words that made those split-seconds

worth another visit. Was it the cheeky half-grin accompanying them?

The cabin in-charge for the day, Nancy she calls herself, holds the receiver to her lips

as she rattles off a well-rehearsed safety briefing. I look up. A seat belt has never assumed such inviting proportions. As your hands make their way through oxygen mask and life-jacket, twice over, I wonder why I’d never paid attention

to these things before. We’re about to take off when you prance

around with a bag, frantically seeking a generous overhead bin.

It isn’t until you’ve tried at least seven that you find one offering just enough, above me.

I inhale. Your aroma is as strong as it is invigorating. An inaudible sigh escapes within.

I watch you and turn away, smiling without cause or concern. The flight is sprinkled

with cursory interaction and your unintentional brushing of my arm in your stride. 

The air is made pleasant by good air conditioning working in tandem with your gentle presence. Meanwhile, Nancy unconsciously wages a desperate war to seize

my attention. Another day, and she’d have had more than her share. So I twist,

and stretch, consider sleep, then shut the thought, and all the while your nimble feet

walk past mine at intervals so regular, it makes me think you’ve caught

a whiff of my devotion. I can only wish my words will mean something to you.

I haven’t really done this before. Then again, I haven’t really come across

someone quite as alluring at similar cruising altitudes.

Your charms are immense. You make me delight in a sandwich

I would have never picked off a menu. I observe many a pair of eyes

shadowing your every move, and as we head into another bout of turbulence,

I take my chance with telepathy.

Hello. I assume you must be content having my mind at your disposal since

the time I stepped into your aerial kingdom. It isn’t easy sitting where I sit,

watching you go about your routine while the desire to converse with you

eats me from within. But, I won’t act on this impulse. I won’t badger you

with the likes of ‘A bottle of water, please.’ and ‘Do you have today’s paper?’

I won’t even give you the opportunity to ask me to set my seat-back upright

or close my tray table. I won’t unbuckle my seat belt, even when the sign is off,

or bother to find out what the rest of your crew looks like. I’ll stay awake

and silence the urge to count sheep, no matter how drowsy the aerated beverage

I bought from you makes me. I won’t mull over my existence

before and after this journey. I won’t stare, I won’t swear. I’ll stay put in my seat,

much to the dismay of the passengers beside me, till I hear the aerobridge

is in place. I’ll smile often, laugh a little and savour the purple sky

illuminated by the cries of two infants, both blissfully unaware of this brief mention.

I’ll return your grin when I disembark. No words will be spoken.

You won’t know of this letter. But, that’s alright.

You’ve had me for over two hours and forty minutes.

Taxi

I can't be certain you'll come by anytime soon.
If you're already here, I'm sure you're pleasantly surprised.

It's been a while, nearly a year, since this place had any visitors.
It isn't that I haven't thought of talking to you here. I guess I just haven't been able
to let the thought carry. So, tonight, a few minutes after getting off the phone with you,
here I am, talking to you once more.

While 'Jiyein Kyun' plays away in the background, my mind travels through the city you're in. Through winding roads and pockets of midnight traffic, it settles down
on a street, around the corner from where you live. I'm there now,
an unassuming silhouette of complexity. A light flashes, a cab's approaching.
I wave, it stops, I settle in. I ask the driver to take me where the night will.
He obliges and turns on the meter.

The yellow of the streets soothes and blinds. I pore into the blur like an infant
on a carousel. The mind wanders. It's funny how you were, a few minutes ago,
where I am. Your scent hasn't escaped into the thick air. I close my eyes
to let it sink in. I place you next to me as the car paces on. You're looking out
the window. Strangely enough, you're on the left tonight. Your eyes soak in the breeze created by the moving car. The light plays with your hair while a few stray locks flutter.
You're lost in a trance only you understand. A passing car brings you back momentarily. You turn to direct the driver. Your lips halt halfway, your eyes fix themselves on me. The awe of it all grips you for three seconds before a faint smile tinkers in. 'What are you doing here?', your eyes murmur. An extended blink is reply enough. You giggle, then return the gesture. I nod, look away, then look back at you.
I close my eyes once more, slowly, while my lips cleave the breadth of my face.
The darkness is an eternity.

The car brakes, my eyes open, you're gone. I blink twice, and a fifth time,
but I can't bring you back. Tucked away in bed, a word that reminds you
of me trickles through your head. I bask in the realization.
The night's still young and the journey's far from over.
I ask the driver if I can smoke. He's feeling generous. I throw my head back
and watch fumes waltz about the tip of my nose. I lean out the window to taste
the humidity, it isn't a night for the sane.

Back in my seat, I close my eyes, hoping to find you asking me for a light
when I open them again.

Hey to Sigh

The life cycle of a relationship in my first one-word-a-line piece.

Hey
Say
Play
Pray

Poke
Joke
Stroke
Evoke

Trick
Click
Stick
Thick

Hold
Bold
Cold
Sold

Dry
Try
Cry
Sigh

Social

Remember our days of young my love

Where the web we knew shot from a red glove

What happened to us would soon become
A joy to many, a bane to some

Who measured you in stars and likes
Who swapped feeds with rides on bikes
If only you could tweet your fears away
Have a widget drive you through your day

Will you walk beside or should I follow
Login to your world of virtual hollow
Surf past comments and personality tests
Wade through oceans of friend requests

Does that post on my wall say you care
Or am I worth the links I share
I've waited long for the phone to ring
Often settling for an abbreviated ping

What brought you close drove us farther still
I'll edit my profile, can't change your will
You might wonder how this came to be
Truth is, a click can never set you free

Smoke

Alone you stood in a shroud of white
Alone you lay with heaven inside
To my aching soul you seemed a pill
You were a fire to my drowning will

I held you up and lit you slow
I kissed you gently my flake of snow
I drew you in and blew you out
Like a wave of silk you waltzed about

I smiled and spun not knowing why
Yours was a lust I couldn't deny
I held you close and harder still
Our breaths collided on that window sill

I smelt you once, inhaled you twice
Every inch of you was sweet surprise
I watched in awe as you smaller grew
I wished you'd stay but there were more of you

My lips stung sore by your dying flame
I stubbed your love without a shadow of shame
And in your pain you smiled, you knew
A part of me just died with you

Njan Aara (Who am I?)

(Many thanks to Avial for asking me a potent question)

A stranger on a street?
A song with one less beat?

A whistle in the dark?
An arrow missing its mark?

A bullet in your brain?
A ghost on a runaway train?

A brother to another born?
A choice forever torn?

A presence you'd remember?
A shiver in warm December?

An echo tripping down the hall?
A lone brick in a broken wall?

An excuse for laughter?
A call made the day after?

A chapter in an open book?
A conversation laid off the hook?

A shadow in the rain?
An escape from pain?

A partner in crime?
A reason for rhyme?

A voice dying slow?
Someone you know?

Disreconcilliation

This one would've been called 'How I Went Back 19 Minutes' if it wasn't for my constant obsession with one at the most, two-word titles. Let's cut to the chase, to one of my usual walks to office. No jumping in the line of a speeding vehicle today thank you, time's uncharacteristically on my side. Halfway through what I'd like to describe as a jaunty stroll, I whip out my phone assuming I have 8 minutes in hand.
It says 9:57, I have 7.

For some strange reason, my clock's been 19 minutes ahead of time
for a while now. I imagine it started with 5, pushed slowly to 7, then 10, to 13, 15, 16,
finally 19. As I stare at the lifeless digits, I realize I'm surrounded by a world of compromise, victim to a very challengeable notion of security. I stop, for over a minute, wondering how the numbers have managed to assume such pitiful proportions. I realize I've set my clock forward to live an illusion, to revel in the comfort that arises from knowing time's on my side. It doesn't make sense because I'm sure anyone who does so intrinsically employs subtraction to get back to the right time, like a reflex.

As I wonder why, I figure I've been further complicating what I'd like to believe was a simple life, ignorant, carefree and unpretentious. Hidden somewhere in those digits
is a desire to cheat reality, a desire that's ended up cheating me into believing
I can make it early to work or anywhere else for that matter, or that I can trick my brain into believing I'm late so I panic when I actually have 15 more minutes to use.
The truth is, no matter how far ahead you set your time,
it's of no use unless you forget you've done so.

So I tell myself, as I sense the need to move, freedom runs on roads less travelled,
far from the bylanes convenience frequents. And it is in staring reality in the face
by choosing to disreconcile with circumstance that life finds honest expression.
 
I resume my walk, the pace is slower, things seemingly clear. I walk into office, head straight for the PC, hit 'time' in Google’s search bar and set my clock to the first result, haven't changed it since.

Irreversible

Random times like these would never bring out the writer in me. I'm stuck at a pub without the finances to take me beyond one mug of the smallest measure of beer they serve. I've been inhaling a sizable volume of smoke (mostly my own) and it's made me realize I could be claustrophobic (just got corrected), I'm letting the apparent suffocation get to me. Maybe the growing hint of a headache has something to do with it. Maybe it's the fact that I've been sitting idle for the past one hour checking out reflections in a mirror to amuse myself, waiting to rush to the comfort of my bed, but held back inadvertently by reasons beyond my control. I look around in desperate hope of finding the smallest conversation piece to cling on to, and end up finding it in a voice I least expected. 

We're talking loneliness, how some of us are intrigued, sometimes mystified by the ability of certain individuals to grace a bar stool in the company of none, or maybe even go the extent of dining alone. All this, while a million eyes across the room strain, question, sometimes pierce. Eyes of pity, some of disdain. After all, it is despicable to make such displays of one's condition, subtle yet bold. When asked how I'd react in the given situation, my exact words are, 'I don't give a fuck!' followed by a slight chuckle. The ease with which I've erased 'conscious' from my list of attributes amazes me. But then, I don't usually say things I don't mean (if an exception flashes, shut it, i said 'usually'). So there I am, talking of how I'd like to travel to a city where the only one I know is the person writing these words, dine by myself at a fine restaurant (complete with a 3-piece suit and shoes to match), just to know how it feels like to spoil oneself. As I mouth these traditionally inconceivable desires, I realize there's a large part of the erstwhile (3 years ago) me that no longer exists, but I'm not complaining. Call it progress taking its toll or the maturing of an ideal, this is an existence I've come to terms with (for a short while), and will live like I wasn't supposed to. It's times like these that bring out the writer in me. The change is irreversible.