The traveler is miles away from reaching the White City of Deliria, as it is called, but the dull thumping of its wooden drums is already ringing gently in his ears, as he once again lays down to rest at one of those innumerable inns with haystacks and maidens. He props his head with his arms and listens to it intently, dazed; sometimes confusing his own heartbeat with the distance reverberation. Later, in his dreams, he is holding a glass of wine and ecstatically admiring the wedding of the youngest princess of the Jungle City, and he wonders why it is called the White City of Deliria: the significance of the latter he has already known, the faint medley of faraway drums had made it clear to him long before his foot set upon the damp grounds of the city; but the White has eluded him, for this is a city of creepers and climbers and bamboo, and oases which sparkle at night, but never ever are white. And he wakes up from the ecstasy in sweat; it had been a summer night and now it is morning. He bids farewell to the innkeeper, and leaves for the city of Deliria, which he will never reach but in his dreams, each time revisiting a different event, a different place in the jungle, a different festivity; with the drums rolling; and he’ll know Deliria, but not the White, as he’d stop by to rest the night at one of those innumerable inns with haystacks and maidens.
I’d be the simplest of all men
waiting and watching the sunset
and would remember the day
when we shared this melancholy of red horizons
on the bench, with a subtle wind
running its fingers through your hair
but then it’d be night and I’d walk away.
In my dreams
I keep roaming these streets
with cobwebs in the windows
and gossamer in the sky.
There is this beetle on the wall
and it’s going to give me a sleepless tonight.
I’m certain it is not a lady
with black polka dots and red
(else I would’ve nothing to fear)
but a corrosive hardened green which creeps me out
and when it creeps on my wrist
I will be washing my hands in the sink
To ward off the fear and stink
And the rest of the night
it’s going to be a Boogeyman under my bed.
I just can’t get out this thought out of my head.
You beetle, who makes me sweat in the damp night
I’ll find you and I’ll step on you
And I’ll be strong again.
Day one, it enthralls.
An artwork is created,
a fulfillment of desire,
a little sepia radiates.
Day two, it burns bright.
The artwork is shaped
to artist’s eyes the fire,
the fine details to admire.
Day three, it glows steadily.
In background it blends
a duller tone subtends,
but keeps the artist warm.
Day four, more hue changes.
All in the eyes,
artist aware and writes,
depth not lost on them.
Day five, sunset.
In a moment of urban loneliness,
I try to fathom what am I doing with my life.
Late at night, staring at the brightly lit screen
emotions swell up in me, to express which these digital emotions don’t suffice.
They just stand there, in their characterizations
plainly and shamelessly inquiring me of their purpose. One of them smirks.
I will trade these endless nights of staring at black screens for one solitary night under the stars.
But we’re urban. We don’t exist anymore. The sky doesn’t exist.
The Milky Way has faded to cede space to spotlights. And headlights.
But we’ll be content with smiling at those dimly lit screens whose batteries die as we behold our faces beholding us right back.
Subversive, yet divine. The ethereal bliss lies in selfies.
PS: When I look at myself in the mirror, The Scream is painted. And Francis Bacon laughs away in darkness.
are ghosts of graveyard
whiling their time away.