alchemy

If you are not gold, you'll never ever be sold.

Utterlies, flutterbies ...

We live like a thousand butterflies in flight,

The pariah rays of sun glancing, glinting on our wings.

With a flutter, the level breaks into seven thousand unknown

Colours. We live each day like the ministers of delight.

We dance around the near-peripheries of night,

Waiting for the first rays of light to strike our sylvan forms, and diffuse

Into an anarchy of shapes that deceive the eye. Never content

With our written fates, we live to celebrate selfish beauty’s right.

We stay on resilient watch, as your moon draws magnetic silver lines,

Across the face of the sky. We watch as these lines converge,

We watch as these lines become a single white sheet of noise, binding

The sight where land kisses the sky, and day and night entwines.

Yes, we live like butterflies fluttering in eternal delight,

We live to wait the day, like bastard children of the night.

We live like crazy butterflies, our colours hiding our lives of shame,

For a day lived like a butterfly, we all die like Moths in the flame.

25.08.2010

And then, another flutter in the night sky/
Another coy creak, a shamed moon tiptoes by/
Another purple tangent creates impregnable, dreamy geometry in my window pane/
Another second of loneliness salvaged, and this day shall not end with a sigh.

A little star, blinking, battle-weary on the azure threshold/

Another little wish to keep it company, in that lonely cold/

A little droplet of a dream, spinning around it fretful figurines of frigid symmetry/
As this numb mind watches and learns of those stars that destiny once foretold.

It shall be a dark city outside my window before tomorrow’s light/
It is a dark city outside my window, and its darker than tonight/

And as those small balls of fire lacerate into the glassy fabric of the opal sky/
These eyes are not roused to joy, nor excited to fancied, frenzied delight.

And yet black moors in their vigilant quest, cross stretches of burning sands/

And yet hope makes thousand wings cross oceans in search of promised lands/
And yet hope shall guide whisps of faith, lulling the now-sleepless eye/
Saying, maybe there’s love for me yet, and this day shall not end with a sigh.

SUTURE

Resolve. The faster the dreams burn on paper, the faster the paper eats up the dream.

I

Welcome home, my oblivion.

I have been waiting for you, for so long, and now I don’t see time in her eye.

The bouquet you left me bled red and perfume and kindness, and why

Now? Why have you returned to take back the pain that you left me?

The paper that smell of distant ink, of stories only seen by sleepless eyes, as legacy?

My forest of sleeping words that injected mechanical probes into the precoital tension of mind,

Cried “Don’t go off wandering into the woods”. You went back, in black ecstasy

Of forbidden discovery. Forays into an unknown, hostile mind. Be kind. Rewind.

To those days when I knew you were just a shape in shapes of women,

Laughing, smiling, electrifying, pulsating like a magnet in rainclouds

Like other shapes.

What knowledge was that? The knowledge of rain, in vain,

Did I search for the soft sharp twitter-tat of liquid needles on this face, and pain

was my language of malaise then. Can you hear me now, those fleet-footed flight,

Fighting the fear frozen in unrequited love’s noxious delight?

Can you love me now, knowing I have given myself over to that maelstrom of eternal night. Yes?

II

Welcome home, my delirium.

How long has it been since you were here, rustling through white pages, reading

What my mind was too poor to conceive? Or softly humming to the white noise

Of endless streams and strains and faultless disdain,

In notes I touched, and lost again?

Or silently musing the violent refuse of colour, that turgid, growing apathy

To tints and hues that once painted this view of what was beautiful and what was few?

There, the easel. There, the tubes. There, the ghostly rows of white sheets of neverending poverty,

There, the brush. There, my burnt Rome. There, my red-ruby garb of calamity,

Take these memories and keep them forever locked, in one of ‘em library

Of cemetery thoughts.

And while you shall be mesmerized by the amount of meaning that this assortment

Fails to make, I shall quietly tiptoe the highest ledges of the night townscape.

A moment’s fever, feigned to the one shape that truly did hold my hands until

The day my world ends, and we shall then go off searching for private joys to the river bends.

That date is still some time off. In the meantime, try making method of this madness.

III

Welcome home, my sanatorium.

It’s a wonderful sunrise out there, in streaks of erubescent glory, and the liquid sky

Pours down the bronze liniments of last night’s excess into this beautiful feeling of being in love. My journey ends here, in this window. Its beautiful to be happy. Its beautiful to be alive. Its beautiful to be in love with you.