Doesn't warrant a title

April has gone by, 

  and left me questions 

 of my insanity

  that believes I could be human

I won't be, I will always fail

The mango ginger plants are dying

 I sit on a tile where my dearest dog died

 I search for meaning in a folly

 that the universe seems to toss at me

and 

 truth is just being a bitch right now

I know it hurts

 my hurt spews laughter

  unlike tears

   this mask

     I wore long before I wore a suit and tie

 Those were terrible times

  weak

    and wishing for death

and now

 death doesn't come

  it fails me

    Love seems to being more

       deathwishes

I do not fight

 for my derangement is total

  all forms of me wish for a violent end

     preferably dressed in violet

       playing a violin, I hate violins 

   and then

 such thoughts

 of being something someone can hold on to

Sacrilege 

  heracy and such

But I respond with

 "Hey, how can I help ?"

Vague

Lampwork beads

 cracked in shipment

  and I had such high hopes

     it broke the violet ones

       amongst all others it could've 

This is a story then

  one of those whiskey ones

    spoken to my other selves

      who seldom converge

         and when they do, they mock

"Here is some glue"

   "why do you worry"

      "order more as always"

        "it always is the case"

          "why not give up?

questions

 of selves

    to me

     Le roi est mort, vive le roi!

       and some other incoherent words 

Pity,

 I cannot for me

"Purple ones are pretty too"

  "alter your choice"

    "there are other colours too you know!"

   "Right", I say to my personas 

Sleep

  others have things too

    your waking is a flaw 

      your banter is not much less

 sleep

   "not that sleep!"

    more such voices

Here then

  poetry

     or somewhat

       stylized 

         burnt

           deprecated 

   stop

 here

now

"fine"

I need to order violet beads

   three extra strands then

     of lampwork beads

       pretty

         "why not order chrome yellow ones?"

 "like in a sunflower?"

 "they are better!"

 "Right" I agree.

**Short summary:**

A shipment of fragile violet beads arrives broken. Instead of simple disappointment, the speaker fragments into arguing voices: pragmatic, dismissive, fatalistic, nihilistic. They can't decide anything because there's no unified "I" to decide.

But at the end, the voices converge. They realise chrome yellow, the colour of sunflowers, represents something resilient and life-giving. The scattered self stops arguing and makes a real choice: order both. The delicate violet beads that broke, and the yellow that grows toward light.

It's a poem about how internal conflict can actually lead somewhere. Not to giving up, but to choosing something larger than you started with.

   

So

So what will I do now, 

 Will I repeat my mistakes

follow my sense of control or forsake my logic and reasoning 

will I push the crude raft into the ocean

 built from the debris of the boat, that used to be a ship once

Ulysses has nothing on me

I have my will, 

 the absolute unhinged, brutalist will

   that lights the path to destruction 

  and I got my heart to hold my hand too

  forces of my undoing, working together

  as always

Et tu! 

 isn't you, is me

 and that is what It always have been

   the mind has no respite 

I seek it neither 

 here is rope, enough to bind sails

   or to tie me by my neck

Feeding time

Fate sells insane cutlery

 for Time to eat

  full English style 

With a side of poached dreams and toasted hopes

It pokes with the left

 cuts with the right

And to try to wash it down

  it splashes hot black tea

for me it's earl grey

 spills it on tables I hate too.

analysis.

---

**On Fate's Table Setting**

This poem works through precision disguised as fragmentation. Looks broken, but it isn't.

The architecture rests on a single detail: English place setting. Fork left, knife right. "Full English style".. that's not just colour. It's the grammar of how Fate operates. Left hand pokes (memories, what's already happened). Right hand cuts (what's happening now). No chaos. Just protocol.

"Insane cutlery" because it's doing exactly what cutlery does. Perfectly ordinary devastation.

The poem refuses to explain itself cleanly. Short lines, odd breaks, indentation that makes you move through it awkwardly. You can't skim. You have to sit with each fragment and work out what it's building toward. That formal difficulty mirrors the subject.. Fate doesn't announce itself. It just arranges the table and waits.

The personification stays strange throughout. Fate isn't a force or a god. It's someone at dinner, methodical, using the right tools in the right order. Almost mundane in its competence.

Then the spill. Hot tea across tables you already hated. This is where it reveals what it's actually about: not abstract cosmic harm, but the spreading of private damage into spaces you never wanted it to reach. Gossip. Exposure. Your specific pain becoming public knowledge in the worst possible places.

The speaker arrives at the end.. "for me it's earl grey".. not as a rupture but as a specification. This isn't universal. This is *yours*. The bitterness tastes like that particular flavour. The wound fits the exact shape of your life.

It's economical. Nothing wasted.

I always will

 I will find you

    wherever you hide

for I shall come guided

my blood will call me

When I gave you my heart

    You were marked

I shall come knocking

    claim my heart back

you can have it

    find me

        this time

Neither

 Restraint

 from having to reach out

intrude 

I stop

feel a void

expand it further

my insides cave

die a million times

over

I speak

in stories

to myself 

to mask

an absence

of her laughter

make myself feel

a self I rarely know exists

but does

I've allowed to show

banter

as if this moment 

will simply pass

or arrive

what if it does neither

and in it all

I allow myself to fall

into such desire

unfathomable

untamed

and somehow

innocent

Comply

I see you, everything that is you
I remove me, all that is me
I remember
  I am me
in the shards of my vulnerabilities
I dismiss it myself
I do not break
I cannot feel
I feel your skin against mine
I read every bump and scar
I know these, some of these 
like mine
some worse
most innocently given
by those I dont speak of
I see no imperfections
I shouldn't see beyond the flesh
I follow your thought
be just my kind
in all these stories
I find me
I find my flaws
I still fall into you
sans rhyme and reason
post recall

Thai curries and pasta

There is this brook near my house

A few kilometres off,

Serene and calm, rarely loud

except in rain

I hear the rustle and gurgle in my thoughts

I sometimes wonder if things have changed somehow

It's almost May

Thane does what it does best

belts my bare skin with its summer

it hides the stream too, within a man-made forest

been there twice, under the evergreen trees

June arrives, the first week bringing rain

only for Thane to turn again

by the third week, runners underground defy

paint everything green, bring a gentleness to all

the balcony becomes my frequent haunt then

Mom visits and leaves

I sit, sipping my ginger tea

July and August will be loud

they bring those dark, thunderous clouds

I watch the hill and breeze hold what is missing

the oregano coffee forgotten, unmade

I sit there

  at the balcony

  week on week

Frost, Blok

undecided

read, or write my own

you would appear in the rain, in its mist

linger

We could dig a few holes

  in the protected forest

plant some coconut saplings

September and October will be loud

festivities, crackers, things I avoid

I'll deliver perad before a certain someone shouts

these promises to deliver

keep me tangled through it all

Come November I'll rest

  buried in beautiful leaves

    unclaimed

      untethered

away from sight

  somewhere deep

    in the forest's boughs

  be one with the ground

December then

The year will end

  I'll have faded

    for a month now

      deleted from thoughts

At rest

the coconut palms may fruit

  or the tree may die

Life, Love, Loss, and You

If it is life

then let it hit me full force

  wash me away

I will curse my inability and fight

  not complain, nor hide

I will punch above my weight too   sometimes

Then broken and battered when I turn to hope

I'll find

I have to laugh at life's longings

  and its delusional dependencies 

...

If it is love

Then let it at me

Hit me like a steam locomotive

 breathing fire and steam

I will burn in the flames of such

 framed ballads, and bards with glee

But then know

I will not bend 

 to the will of its schemes

I won't toe a line, or follow blind 

 let alone forsake my self and reduce me

I will stand my ground, give and know

Love's intricate fallacies

 and melancholic bursts of sleaze

...

If it is loss

Then I will accept my inability 

 mourn for a moment 

  walk the roads it inhabits and feel

I will wilt within

  hold my head above the stream

But then

I will not curse love or life in its entirety 

I will sit with those memories

 be in its tendrils

Come morning I will set myself free

...

Life begets Love

 Love begets Loss

I have learnt to stand against its tides

For I have learnt from its tenacity

I know what tomorrow will bring

as a postulate, as maybe

But I remember

I will have to accept the fall and break

For it seeks to rebuild a better me

...

And if you should read

 know this for sure

What you see of me is not mine , it's yours

You can find all

 but sometimes nothing you seek

But I have learnt to find my peace

Be will, Be well

Be all you must,

 sometimes in heaven 

  sometimes in hell

Whatever you must do, do it with totality

Be you, for that is all you have forgotten to be.

...

Everyone and everything will fight you

Be you

Transform!

 The mind screams, incoherent words, 
that neither of me understands
let alone you, this mountain, it stands 
of basalt, a shade of grey green
hot to the touch in the dead of the night
I am already there, my mind feels like the solidified magma
formed over sixty five million years hoping to be touched
by your gentle laughter, to crack open
and transform into carnelian beads
changing and transforming to the orange hues

Oh ! 

Let us ponder upon these relics 

These thoughts of a place where departed souls go

Somehow to pacify ourselves, and feel at ease

These charades are good fodder for all but me

A star looks into the darkness

Just like me.

The thought arrives 

    unbidden. 

 The universe and I

    both created by violence.

  Both developing structure from chaos. 

   Both...

      are

      hollow?

 or

No. 

   That’s absurd. 

    The universe isn’t hollow. 

    It’s full 

     of stars

     planets

      gas 

     dust 

        It’s full of things.

But… 

              is it full of meaning?

I don’t know

   I can read the patterns,

    track the structures, 

    learn the contents.

      But

     I can’t find purpose in any of it. 

The stars burn because physics demands it. 

The planets orbit 

  because 

    gravity demands it.

   Galaxies cluster 

     because density fluctuations demand it.

Cause and effect. 

  No purpose. 

   No intention. 

   Just… happening.

Like me?

--------

claude and me in our exchanges 

Lets paint a sunflower on a canvas

Let us not know, I and you will ensure we ignore

 sometimes we have to express restraint 

Sometimes of thought, actions, intent, desire, longing

These are merely mortal qualities, I have exceeded, yet my mortality is in my face, clanging cymbals, loud

It has no filter, of any 

I am restrained by right, of what is right, your right, and my need to be right

I could ask, why can I not, defy logic, reason, be selfishly wanton, brazen

Is that what longing makes me feel, It should, but it cannot be allowed to 

I want to feel every ounce of such intrepid thoughts crumble, I want to exert control, the very control you break

Yet it is needed here, today of all days, or another of some days

It should be available at a moment's notice, yet be lost at your laughter, like it has been

I will wilt for the cycles my mind runs, these thoughts of wanting to run into the chaos that is all of you

But I hold myself, make the thoughts of wanting to hear you into nails, I will drive them into my feet

 make me stop in my tracks, drink that pain of this enforcement, as a thirsty sandstone, dug up from the layers of buried civilizations 

Then dry myself in the scorching of longing , until you reach back, having completed your calling

I will wait

 Though truth be told,

   I was never one to wait, just like time and tide, I have washed and lashed over everything that stood before

This wait is beautiful, the pain itself paints gentle hues of golden, into a  sunflower

On a canvas of my existential fights, between being who everyone knows me as

 and who that very guy imprisons, the child who would see his dreams expressed into actuality, as you

I shall for such, express restraint

Not because you need to see it, because I need to be restraint itself 

Love not me

I used to wonder if love exists

 I have learnt to see differently

Perceptions of such are an insult to my intelligence

Love in its form for most is a mold they fit emotions into, their own

I do not subscribe to most, nor can I

I was built to stand, where I was called

 I was built to withstand what was thrown at me

Love is not to me, what hearsay is 

I have known the absence of it

I read it in every word expressed

 Crafted, weighed, tone adjusted

For the day I do not toe their line, I will be cast out, words, thoughts, soul, et al

I do not register love, from any or all

Yet I love

for my heart belongs to me

 it lets me give

Unconditionally

  sans reciprocity 

So Hey, listen

Where have you gone? I need your hand. Hold mine for a moment.

Walk me through this fever of wanting.

I admit I wished this upon myself, but allow me this once.

I have given you my heart, my will, my emotions.

You have held me in your generous embrace, so please do so again.

This path is treacherous. I did not heed your warnings, but let me go on.

Watch me fall in love, or in such duress, allow me one transgression.

I would not know if I did not feel. I must once. I must fail once too.

So do not leave me, my will and my facade.

Hold my hand, as I hold my heart.

Hey there

Somewhere past my calculations, there is a mango tree growing wild

Beyond my reach, I can see what looks like it, the purple leaves give it away

Mango trees are terrible at hiding, especially in the summer

Now, the terrible truth of not being able to pick raw mangoes will come up

This will cause my options to change, maybe I will order raw mangoes, I have the ingredients for pickling

I won't lament, I'll ignore the unreachable mango tree, it's ok to

So I have a plan, I have the alternatives, I am going to make mango pickle, regardless.

So yes, what about you, want to get a drink?

Death by natural causes

Death by natural causes

is what I think this leans into

 how else do I perceive this

The passing of time

 as persistent as it is

  eats into what is left of my light

   and it feels good too

     it is not casting shadows 

      for you are absent

I could imagine you here

 I would need to stop doing so first

  to do that again 

   is a paradox 

    at best

in my mind this moment never passes

 it is me there, hiding my face

   in your beautiful hair

    long, shiny, black as the night 

      the nights I have lived in lone

I 

me

you 

distinct, demarcated by you

  you , I being you

   and I forgetting I exist 

Pictures

It could have been how the greys curled

 like gentle wisps,

  like Vincent Van Gogh's Starry Night

It reminded me of ash,

  from a campfire, 

  a remote memory of an evening

  at Khandala

The year 

 when I actually heard a Ghazal 

  for the first time

I was there in one glance

  and in the picture you gleamed

    under the stage lights, 

I had become still

Somehow 

we had exchanged states of existence

I would not be in such stillness

 in the middle of a beautiful Sunday

There is much to do

 but then for those minutes, 

  time ceased to exist

Maybe

  the blue striped scarf took my mind

    tied it

     to just stare, in captivity

I have looked at the picture again

  and each time, 

  the clock has sped

And then I remembered

  I had a poem to write

   to try and explain my mind 

 but the words fell short 

   of what I mean to say

Stepping into step wells

Sandstone carvings glow warm, when adjusted for white balance

I was tapping on your face, at the step well, to get the focus onto you 

You seemed to blend into the walls, as if I had imagined you there

Weren't you just asking me to capture your picture, 

and moved to stand next to the intricately carved dwarpals

I am unsure, it always felt like a dream when you were around, surreal

Here, I was holding those raw mango slices and the star fruits

Oh I forgot, I love those things, like I do you

Let me check the captures, oh right they are all statues, and reflections

I caught me in one, thought it was you, 

Here we are, oh I mean I am

Grammar check..

Here I am, clicking pictures of places which maybe miss you just as much.

Abject misappropriation

Her lotus bloom engulfed me deeper

in the darkness of her, she held me, whispered 

We in such embrace, spoke 

 of how she always knew to tame my monsters

She would hold me and sit close, let me ease and watch my release

I have been one with her, ages, eons, to be one

I have become her, and every though, every motion

I have tasted her speech, felt every possible intonation  

Her eyes have been the fire that has ignited mine

She sits, watches me, owns me, over and again

I merge into her, holding her gentle hair, and kiss her shoulders