I remember my mother
cradling me in her crimson wings
which are most vivid today
as she wears a dress
not unlike in colour.
My mother, she is a phoenix
I have always been her child
and she’d bend over me
her tears would heal me
but the back gets broken
the bones crack
the skin falls off
the phoenix, she
crumbles into ashes
and is born once again
And aren’t these ashes I see now?
Waiting for something to grow back.
A hue of crimson burns bright in them.

Pebbles and Shells.

I dabble my feet in the oceans
of science and literature
and I’m climbing up these giant marble statues
to look over their shoulders;
of Newton
of this mind forever voyaging
of this boy playing on the seashore
and looking out to undiscovered oceans.
Of Mary Shelley
of a nineteen year-old genius
who perhaps didn’t know
what she’d written
the legacy of it.
I look out to these pasts
and I struggle to comprehend
the enormity, or tactlessness
of these thoughts.
And ellipsism
a helpless contemplation
of the randomness
and unknowability of history
seizes me.
I’m the boy on the shore.
Did I pick up a pebble?

Of Present: Night Drive.

The night drive, the twelves to fours
these were the times of growth,
of a peculiar negative phototropism
of hearing muffled sounds by the window
of coming to terms with the content of books
that had changed me forever
but then, why now, when I
close my eyes, am I lost?
Why would I crave to disappear
more than anything else
Why would I lust to drown?
I miss you
I don’t think I could live without you,
I think we’re in this for eternity
I miss you, love
But aren’t you right here?
With me?
right across the telephone?
and where am I to disappear?
Where would I be known?
What does it take,
to free yourself from the shackles of being human,
of tired, monochromatic existence
to venture to an ethereal plane?
And what would it be worth?
Isn’t everything in this poem
somehow a lie
a muffled sound you would never know
was a gunshot or laughter?
But then, if what we feel
isn’t the truth
what is?

Of Present: Three

You spend your life trying to adjust,
trying to mold yourself into and against
your maladies;
but one day you realize that
you’re horribly limited
and you’ve ran out of people
to mold yourself into
and you’re lost.

You run your fingers across the seams
of the old kameez you had
and find the stitches coming apart.
You try to remember the colour
it was when you newly bought
years ago, but it’s all bleached
and you can’t remember.

Of Present: Two

And sometimes when I think of Fridays
I don’t think of going out
I don’t look out to a
recuperative weekend; I think
of curling up in my bed
And not coming out ever again
and sink down and down and down
Of sleeping and not having to think
Of not waking up
But it’s all a haze
And it only happens sometimes.
Some days. Some Wednesdays.