Pulp Romance

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She hesitantly walked towards me
Smiled.
I burped “Hello”

My hair jazzed
My toes curled
My breath uneven choked
A redhead in front of me

Her perfume had struck hard upon my tarred lungs
I could feel her breath on my left hand ring finger
A lucky omen for an old surviving poet

I didn’t notice her hand
Slip into her soft brown handbag
But I sure did, when a .38
Emerge out blatant
Before I could think
She fired…

My eyes and nose resemble Russians
My ears have a Jewish noise
But I don’t look a pilot capable of flying

I wondered many a times
About my final eventuality.
A gunshot?!

I never aspired to be a politician
Assassinated, accused, of flirting with Monroe
During office hours behind the office
Clinton though survived
That’s unusual

I never cared much about men in uniform
Martyr my life, that’s not my kind of shit
Soldiers die in numbers, names don’t matter

The trigger in act and blood spurting out of my belly
I timed : .00002375 seconds
I ALWAYS WEAR A STOP WATCH.

Blame Casio
Blame the Japanese
They stop-watched Pearl Harbor
And later devastated by the mushroom war
They strictly focused on
Small cars and Walkman

I’m dying, right!
Just before I was to drop dead
She punched struck kung fu
Her fingers sneered through my ribs
And pulled my heart out
My small little tender heart
Reminded me of the healthy heart print
On sunflower oil brands
My eyes were in tears
My claims of an innocent, humble, adorable heart
Needed no more better evidence
It had survived all the abuses
The mean world had hurled at me

Oh, my poor heart
Foolishly throbbing on hope
For love
For me
For thee

This is worse than being Othello
I never had met this bitch before
It could’ve been a case of mistaken identity
I ain’t famous nor am I dating a beauty pageant
I never got involved with a lesbian
Make her bitch envy me
I hardly curse unless
I have to call a bitch, a bitch
I never had met this bitch before
Why me?

Alas, there I was, lying in my Budweiser pool
Budweiser did pay me handsome
Endorsed my poems
They send me a day shift maid to get my house cleaned
Poor old lady fainted
She couldn’t deal with my dump collected over a week
Flush didn’t work and my landlady didn’t care
It was my dump and I wasn’t going to disown it
So three cheers to Budweiser
Pool of blood

Right, I am dying
Redhead pressed the knob of her watch
She vanished
Blurred images…
Followed by a star shaped, crimson flash
Black screen.

I faded in gently
lying on a large soft bed
In a palatial room
Head resting on a large black satin pillow
I gasped, sprung up
Facing a mirror, facing me
I looked a model
A handsome young model
Just like the ones in contraceptive commercials

Beethoven’s fifth symphony emerged in surround
I winked in disbelief
Digital bar lines appeared
Dancing in tandem with his composition
I winked again
Redhead star trekked through the bar lines
Her clothes tore in rhythm
With Beethoven’s conducting hands

Naked, she stepped closer to me
I grabbed her
She kissed me
Her tongue snaked wild with mine
I was living a fantasy I had never fantasized before
My fantasies are modest unlike me.
They never dare surpass the road side hookers.

She spread her legs
Inviting me to her world
“I am Eros, the God of Love, the poster boy of the 155th edition of Kama sutra
The contraceptive super model”
I slipped in
Her palms opened wide
Creating a hurricane of rose petals
Rising from the middle of her palm
But then I paused

In shivers
Guilty, I paused
I’m unworthy of love
I’ve killed the most beautiful moment
A moment of love destroyed in a moment
By my sexual act
“I’m a perverse, self-indulgent moron
Hang me for I deserve none but a painful death”
I pleaded.
She smiled, engulfed me in her soft arms
“In resides you an innocent heart. let him free for he deserves no
more pain but love”

My heart sank, speechless
Beethoven paused to silence
I looked up the hollow ceiling
Stars turned off their lights
Candles in million
Lit up in the sky
I surrendered to his voice silent

In symphony
We resumed in orgasmic trance
She moaned, her soft hands pressed my arms white
Blood gushed from my skin pores
It was a sight, a fountain spring red…

I rocked her, I rolled her
My bones cracked open
My fingers dropped off me
And punched the invisible piano
Stroking the notes in madness

She moaned in multiples
She moaned so loud
Disrupting the sync
She had slipped into her own glory
Forgetting she was to nurse my heart
My heart
Puffed out
Youth worn dry
Fuck the sunflower oil brands
Fuck my poems, my drunken nights
Fuck Beethoven and his symphony
I looked up
There were no more candles
Fuck the stars
Clouds hovered in herd
I gave way
to her multiples…

My heart couldn’t bear no more
Ashamed, pained, aghast,
My heart pleaded for death
And there appeared a sharp knife
Floating in the air
I gave way
To my heart, for one more time
The last time

tête-à-tête

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She walks down the street
every evening at 5 sharp
I stood at different spots, rather posed
But her foxy eyes never acknowledged me
That drove me mad, so mad
One day, I blocked her way
and said “Why don’t ya look at me?”
She frowned “silly bear”
And walked away…

Later that night
I remembered
A girl in 4th grade
Called me – silly bear
She asked me to open the cap of her pen
I broke the pen into two and gave it back

Magnolia

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Step by step
I traced backwards
My life in question
What would I like to change?

I hit a firewall right at start
I’m going through a bad patch, you see..

So I let my mind wander
Dig in the past, random
Moments of joy, mind reported
Are bleak and unworthy
But not the times
I sunk low
Apparently morbid, I didn’t deserve it

Can I get a drink please?
Thank you dear

Stuff I wish never happened to me
So many, which one do I pick?
But consider this, if I change any one
Alters following events in my life
There’ll be new memories…

“Stop” screamed my heart
“I’m hurt too much for new hurts…
Give it up
Just let it be
We’ll be fine…have faith
I got you and you got me”

Purple

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In a deli
one cup of coffee
two hours
waited for this day
wasted, I stepped out

it was pouring
no cabs in sight
empty faces on the porch
and the orchestra just won’t stop

“I need a cab”
valet barely smiled
he’s never seen me alone
but this time

he returned in a while
my rescue in sight
took me under his umbrella
“don’t tell him your destination
just step inside
and he can’t refuse”
common sense, now i realize

I got in the cab
my hand reached out to his
from the window glass, half down
two bills
he took one as usual
“get going”
my cry for redemption
is a hoax
“next time”
he said with a broad smile

I rolled the glass
hazel rain drops race
I got home dry, not quite

The Guard

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queen in her isolate room
her waning life, capsuled
been long, she stepped out

pictures of her vernal bliss
framed to calm her fading sight
mirrors condemned
queen scorned
they are mean

Man on the door
trades her world…
his watchful eyes
on the young queen
strolling in the palace gardens
first day of his job
since then…

she knew it all along
but prefers the sanity
of unspoken madness
Her antsy heart, pounds
for a trivial reason
and he awaits
outside her walls, uptight
“when will you call?”

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Posthumous

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“Do what you have to. Conventionally, I’d ask, are your tools sterilized? I won’t. Thing is, I worked hard to get here and it occurred to me, why are birds so conniving and ill-mannered? I like your Balaclava”

Dynamo

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I stay in her house when I visit Ladakh. Her son is my dear friend though he doesn’t approve of my relationship with her. She is fond of me, very much and ditto. As of date, I’ve secured a few mother figures to compensate for one, she’s a special one. There was no water supply for three days and you need the water in the storage tank for cooking and bathing, leaves behind dirty linen unattended and that’s a reason suffice for the wayfarer to set out in the afternoon, hunt a spot by the banks of Indus river, make us wash our clothes on rocks and it was an event.
A picture of her after she wrapped.

Harmless Cruelty

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there are things
you never quite understand
answers you’ll never find

go figure
scratch your head
of course, dumb-head
it’s got to do with either god or women
they are alike
and I am talking about women
god is not my genre types

she knew it all along
like a fool, I’ll stare at her every night
fancy we’ll meet again…
wicked in black and white
call it monochrome?
alright, I’m a poet
please give me some respite

tall, high cheekbones, sharp eyes
she came to me
i was on the other side
“come with me” she said

now don’t ask me why I didn’t ask a thing
and followed her uptight
my brain gave up on
sweated out
i walked half a step behind

“can you drive?”

“yeah”

“you got a cigarette on you?”

“yeah”

“you smell of booze”

“yeah”

i never lie
to God or women
keep my advice

we reached her car
she gave me the keys
asked for a smoke
she lit with her lighter
my match box she didn’t like
she took a drag and said
“i got a busted tyre. replace it with the spare wheel”

Can you believe that?
i was in shock
rage ran through me
“don’t mess with me lady”

no
i didn’t do any of that
not a word I said
did as told

“take a picture of me”

i took a picture of her
then she drove away
and I look at her picture every night…

Darwin Asked for Window Seat

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Tip to street photography

When you look at a bunch, call out “Aye”
You’ve got their attention?
Perhaps not all of them and they’re moving away…
Be quick. Call out again “Aye” and with one hand wave at them, smile and click.
That simple.

Just kidding. 😀

On a serious note, Darwin came to India. Yes, he did. Trust me. We were briefly together. You’ll find out.

Now he was told, when in India, don’t trust the locals. Be very clear and emphatic. He included me too. Everyone loves to hurt a poet, doubt his writings, his intentions. Moreover they say if you’re a street photographer, you’re doomed unless you live in New York, date a curator. Don’t laugh. I’ve seen it in movies. A double jeopardy and I’ve got a beer belly.

Coming back to the story.

“BOOK….Me…A…Window….Seat” Darwin did as told.

The local guy diligently responds “Aye! done, sir”

No flights to the city he wanted to go. Poor Darwin. He should have first asked “Is…There…A…Flight…To…xxxxx”
(Destination details are withheld on request)
He’s on the tractor in the picture below. You won’t spot him. He’s on the other side and he strictly told me “No pictures. My reputation is screwed if the paparazzi finds out”

I told him, trust me, the paparazzi doesn’t care for you. But my drinking habits and love for friends on WP…Noway he was going to believe me. He’s a smart guy, no denying that.

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He survived. Lucky old man. He had to. Look at the picture. One guys slips, takes a few along, chain reaction. So you ain’t just taking support but holding the other guy, making sure he doesn’t fall off.

That night with a broken back, he wrote the obvious.

When he narrated the incident to a techie friend, showed him my pictures, was a Eureka moment. Alright, not Eureka exactly, “Show me the money” moment. The Techie guy had a revolving belly (Running naked was out of the question) and traits of an Indian. (Happens if you’re working in Silicon Valley)

“Hands free” initiated a small but significant advancement in mobile technology.

Now here’s the catch. Darwin became famous for his discovery but discovery is stating the obvious. You surely get credit for the discovery but no money. Why? It was always around. You broke your back on that trip, discovered. laws of nature, physical phenomena and abstract ideas are not considered patentable..No monies, sir!

However, a practical product or process based on the discovery can be patented.

The techie, yes sir..made it big!

Me?! I’m not as dumb as Darwin. I told the techie “I deserve money for the pictures”

He raised his hands “I ain’t buying your pictures. I just had a look at them. No monies for you. Try Etsy”

What has the world come to? No one cares about morality. High time. I request bloggers who write about inspirational stuff to take up the issue of morality. No money, sir but do it.

On a really serious note. Take a breath. Forget everything I’ve said. Look at the pictures again. Look at their smiles, their undying spirit.
I think of the time, I clicked those moment, priceless and every time I look at these pictures, they put a smile on my face, gives me a reason to go out again, call out “Aye”.

This is it. Eventually….
Moment of joy is, when you create art. Before and after is commerce.
I’ve got a camera and a pen and this is my passion and all I know is this.
Not many care for what I do but who do, are a reason enough.