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First Love

(another poem that emerged instantaneously from a chat)

Under a rare full moon a train glides
over glistening tracks carrying a song –
percussions and horn, I threw my face
into the night and it was met by yours
At fifteen we looked for love, but
nothing serious that would last, we assesed
it would be real and fast, fingers
melded into answers, shirts that feathered
the wind and then dismembered, sketches
made using eyes that scarcely opened –
and that pulled pause before which
you drew over me freely, like
a child set free in the woods without company
climbing every tree and reciprocating
the surprise of each bird, even
the fireflies not spared by curiosity;
all along I shivered under you, chilled
by the breeze that found space to flow
between you and the moon’s growing glow,
you fell over me like the sea on a promenade
and I lifted you slowly, discovering
that at times time can be formless
and hair belonging to someone locked around you
could be a cushion for breath, also that
the moment thereafter
is a brittle sculpture, withering away
as life gives you other choices

Old Song Now Outdated

Often that night your smoke, unconfined
spoke lucidly to the walls, spoke as ether
to a window that longed to hold you closer,
the crunch of crisps and weightless foam
of cheap beer, each stroll of our paired eyes
plotting a new poster, finding a new face
to laugh at, laughs reciprocated by a music player
embalming the room, the corridor, 
the neighbour’s
lonely dinner, and later, in the car
it kept persisting side a, side b, free
from a future touchscreen and unchained
by the listener’s choice to change midway, allowing
you to rest over me quoting some Persian
saint’s soft poetry, followed by inconsistent hints
to draw nearer, a scarf of azure blue deepened,
a defocused indigo under the dim influence
of the room’s changing mood, your embrace
was a curtain parted, noiseless, a ball of fragrance –
nicotine, young sweat, loosening cotton,
hidden fruit, yesterday’s perfume; the decade
lingered on as a single scent, recently

Reminded of the smell, tiring eyes
falling prey to the night, got wetter
I understand then, why old people said
music in our time was so much better

Night

chinese lanterns – popcorn – photographs
old records – mozzarella – sweatpants
heat – bollywood clinging – seabreeze
stench of rum on a collar
untimely teardrop of a cloud
a window curtained by
shadows contemplating union

culminating in a linen cove
a script – generous parentheses
suggesting a future lunge
confirmed by fingers hinging
a rain percussions for the ceiling fan
to take bass, while a duet
swells the air, repaints walls,
deafens the city for the time being

Passages

occasional excursions into new beds fizzle, love
instead returns each time
as a dove seeking water, as
a page wanting to be folded before
being felt, an act seeking
a curtain’s gradual closure, while relishing
anonymous applause

another night dissolves into dawn, awakened
by the stale odour of loneliness, the dove
now a hawk, vanishes without farewell, stained
by teacup prints a page yellows,
as you open the curtain, a city appears
a million windows aged, abused
by the sound of life running away

Night

12.11 am. Let it begin. Raincoats soaked,
teapots cloaked
by thick steam, the murmurs of shadows
passing in and out of their faces

Books browse the breeze, their flaps open
pages stroked and shivered
unwritten bits whispered as wants
sitting on moist ears

Like a workshop, the bed, busy and frantic
rises and falls like an ocean, whose waves
travel towards the silent coasts of windows
faraway and sleeping

Montage 2

The air gathers the passing
From where I left the bus behind, it’s red body flashed
By torn adverts tearing into the city
Chapped and aged

The cafe opens – a cup
filled like a proud schoolboy
Carries freshness, the round tip
Meeting and vanishing all together
…a photographer walks by

His love hanging around his neck,
The pictures uncaged freely circle him, continue

To mesmerise the old chap with a splattered sole
Scratching the floor, rowing along
Carrying the falling leaves with him
Into an apartment with a locked cupboard,
Two teacups, a bus ticket
And a box of negatives
Undeveloped
Kept for later, the very end