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Friday 27 September 2013

An Appetite for Love

Lately
I have developed
An appetite for love

In love
I want to turn
The whole valley
Into a paper clip

In love
I want to drink the stars
Eat the moonbeams
And lick the spicy roses

In love
I want to turn this starry night
Into your curled eyelashes
I want to churn all the Chinars
Into a refreshing Kehwah

In love
I want to wriggle your dyed scarf
To doves


In love
I want to sculpt you
Out of dense clouds

In love
I want to turn all truths
Into one simple joke
And give tongue
To all the silences

In love
I want to give memories
A sound mind
So that they don’t fade away

In love
I want to write you
As a Ghazal
Rhyming your breaths to mine

In love
I want to be your loved earrings
Dangling the universe

In love
I want to politicize myself as a rumour

In love
In want to be a character
From One Thousand and One Nights
Accustomed to magic

In love
I want to be a well decorated Tonga
Taking passengers from Dalgate to Nishat
In Old Srinagar

In love
I want to be the sole owner
Of Borges’ Book of Sand

In love
I want to bore you so much
That you fall asleep in my arms

In love
I want to be that rusty dustbin
Often seen
Smelling the garbage
Of torn letters

In love
I want to be a dead mother
Missed deeply by her children

In love
I want to feign sickness
Bedridden
In your castle of care

In love
I want to be a dervish
Lost completely in whirls
Or an Ustad skilled enough
To play with the surs

In love
I realize
Little can be attained through hate
Much lost in anger

In love

I want to pretend you love me

Wednesday 4 September 2013

My Digital Dreams


And thus were
My Digital Dreams
Electrocuted.

Because of the Signal of Trust
Being weak
I lost the sublime connection
To the channel of your Love.

I now miss
Almost
All the Programs of Hope
All the Soaps of Happiness
Every Sitcom of Tears
And yes
All your
Emotional Ads.

I failed
Utterly
As a Consumer of Passions.

My soul
Now
is
An old flickering TV

Beyond repair

Which they keep banging
With their fists of Intellect.

Meanwhile

I keep looking for you
In the white noise map
Of my rectangular being.


Life is a low TRP Serial.