Names, Spoken Aloud.

When you turn sixty, a year away
From sixty one. Say my name aloud.

Say my name with all the years of
Love, rolled up, tightly in a ball of
Burnt ash.

Say my name with rage and want
Mixed together.

And gushing like blood in purple
Lid veins, my memory will arrive.
Twenty one was your age when
I deserted you. Or twenty two.

Clench those wrinkled two fists
Scarred by abandonment and age.
And ask yourself.

Your memory will not serve you
And you will sob in silence.
Your bleeding heart will whisper
Forty years I have loved you
Another forty I will.

When you turned twenty two
I said your name aloud.

Hollow's End

Almost a lie, that love of ours,
Deprecating mass of emotion.
Who would've thought, who
Would've decreed, love sets
Your ruin in motion.

I remember your toes, curled
Up like whiskers down there.
Furious seeing them naked.

I am vacant with your love, it
Tears me up, carves me hollow.
The disease you gave me
Farewell present, omnipresent.
Don't follow me to my end.

Bile at the corner of my mouth,
Foaming, moaning, dying to be
Free.

Will replace my heart in x days
The last one belonged to you, why
Shed a lonely tear, your sentiments
Callous few.

Snippet v1.3

I wanted to call you tonight
My head's woozy and my body cold
I wanted to love your toes tonight
But that's not what the doctor told.

The Suffering Of The Sea

The night has set upon dawn
And the dawn has lost its very meaning.
Darkness has and will envelop
All the doors that lead to me.
It is here, only within myself,
That I want to confess my love for life.
A life waiting to slip away, in forgotten
Corridors of time.

I was born in a happy house
With happy people around me.
They are still here
But I have started to fade away.

I thank you, my parents, I thank
My friends. I thank the very God
That gave me life, and now
Tired by my shenanigans, conspires
To take it away.

I will miss the walls of my home,
Childhood, my brother the most.
I have lived as long as I could, I have
Lived more than my time.

Bury me in the Sea.

A Dedication

An (in) verse transgression

Some lost labor of love.

There were few before you

And some above.

My love's a cliche,

You were such a bore;

I am glad it's over

Before we became a family of four.

Our hearts are broken

My hand's sore

I was always fond of sex

But turning you on was such a chore.

Perhaps I shouldn't be funny

For heartbreak's such a bitch.

 But now that I really think about it

You were just an itch.

I have already found someone

And I easily turn her on

She's witty and charming

We even watch porn.

This is a sub standard poem

Meaningful phrases are few

But it doesn't seem odd

For it's dedicated to you!

Hospital Days

My body loves hospital beds,
Loves the white of sheets
A painful row of injured heads
Some ugly swollen feet.

The nurses have seen me naked
The Doctors smile a lot
Bless the water, for its sacred
And I lie on a sterilized cot.

My heart refuses to cooperate
And I throw my medicines away
A senior doctor wants to operate
Waking up means vomit and sway.

People visit and bring me gifts
My parents tell them all lies
The world inside me slowly shifts
As parts of me begin to die.

My last wish is to see a mime
I was always denied sanctuary
Tried my best to make it rhyme
This is my funniest obituary.

Secrets Under Wooden Floors

I

Scissored

Bleeds in a corner

My soul, my soul, my soul

And you sip warm tea

On an empty morning.

'Can't find Sahib anywhere, Memsahib'

'Can't find him anywhere....'

I am giving up

You can come out now

I will always lose at Hide and Seek

Always lose.

'Must we call the Police, Ram Singh?'

'Must we?'

I looked at you the first time

Last time I looked at you.

Were you born this pretty?

I have to ask your mother.

'Sahib was a good man'

'Make some tea, will you?'

II

I wanted to cradle you

Before I went away.

I wanted, I wanted and I wanted.

My memory with you.

The man with nobody

Lived with his family

Occasional friends

Spoke occasionally.

'He would never commit suicide, Memsahib.'

'He used to hunt after all.'

Struggle with me a bit

Lie next to me

Live my life for a moment or two

Hold my hand and make me weep.

'Bade Sahib is coming back from London'

'Make arrangements, and make some tea.'

Meet me tomorrow at seven

I have to kiss you

I have to tell you that I, poet extraordinaire, loves you

Loves you, loves you, loves you.

III

'My son, my son, what have ye done?'

Ladies and Gentlemen, a small hiatus for the dead

I bring you, 'Much Madness is divinest Sense' by Emily Dickinson

Much Madness is divinest Sense —

To a discerning Eye —

Much Sense — the starkest Madness —

’Tis the Majority

In this, as All, prevail —

Assent — and you are sane —

Demur — you’re straightway dangerous —

And handled with a Chain — 

'My son, my son, what have ye done?'

'Have some tea, Daddy ji, have it before it turns cold.'

I liked to twirl you hair

When you slept

We even had names

For two Daughters.

IV

I want you to call a Doctor

My memory, my memory, my memory

Betrays me.

And often, just like you.

'The world is not the same without him, Memsahib'

'Your loyalty shall be rewarded, I'm sure he's watching over you.'

I suspect that I love you more

Than you love me.

I don't mind, I honestly don't.

I just like to love you.

Ain't love a bitch?

How often you used to say that,

Especially when we made love quietly.

Not to wake my parents.

'Ram Singh, Ram Singh, where have you disappeared?'

'Where is everybody?'

'Why are all the lights off?'

'Why?'

Whimper, whimper, whimper.