how can I evaporate
the pearl of clitoris
these hands that are fat
clusters of touch
and render shine
like a drop of moon
my crash that rubs against torment
strung and the column’s
fresh pound
strikes upon the amalgam
of velvet
I have forgotten where
this clump of noises
originates
the moan scrapes morning
and the last mammal joy
escapes from
this splatter of skin.
I would call it rain,
but it’s just a drop,
that slithers through
the contours of the
heartbeat.
I suddenly
become still,
like a branch
suddenly strapped
to a shaft of sunlight.
If I could peek
inside
to witness
a constellation of twigs,
flickering and shudders,
after each clinch,
as the hungry drop
tunnels through
the expanse of feeling.
At that moment,
language tangles up
into a yarn of illusion.
It falls still wet with joy.
I am planet
eroded by pleasure,
a hard knot of memory.
But everything is quiet,
only for a chime
every time
the drop clinks
against an organ
or a thought.
It was in 2013
when I started
dancing –
in the moral sense
of the word.
It was this
year when in
my hole, still
timeworn with despair
that I laughed –
in the philosophical
sense of the word.
It was under
a pale circle
in the sky
that I shouted:
‘more, more!’ –
in the maternal
sense of the word.
It was in
momentary empty
flight when I shot
over the aching nothing
to touch the inchoate
rim of creation –
in the real
sense of the word.
That once I found mirrors
sprawled on the floor, and I
looked for the mountains
of my eyes.
There were many
but lightly had I
taken flecks of skin
to cover the mirrors;
that I wanted to see
no more my reflection
but only feel the caress
of silence,
it was about blood
that trickles like a mute river
around the architecture of bones.
An aura,
myriad of angles,
a hollow breeze trapped
but circulating from one
morsel to the next,
the opulent scattering
of cavities and memories.
I would never comprehend
the purpose but once
inside I could walk
counting the domes
of each mystery
like beads in a rosary.
I could even step upon
the slabs of shadow
for I was only
an invisible thought
measuring the joy
of the black earth.
If the end
at a glance
a whole gamut streaked
about to be found
last feeble fleeting
piece of a second.
Someday come.
When all the pages
are stained with words,
but for a white slice of purity
gliding over the dark fallacies
of thoughts.
The mesh, and the ink
has followed the trail
of remembrance.
but this life
being an anthology of instants
has a silent museum
of shadows and vivid
lights.
When all meaning
at last
is a shapeless mass
if in the end
at a glance
something is found;
a piece of motionless
bellsound nestled
by chance
in the straw
of the verb.
One drop
of
commonplace,
one drop
but completely
silent
within
empty engrossment.
A sole drip
of the mundane,
a trickle,
tingling
through
the minute
sense of being.
One gentle
course of earthliness,
a splash of it,
but soundless
echoing like
wings,
as a
boundless alleluia.
A speck
of prosaic,
a solitary
wandering
mote
concisely panoramic,
wordlessly grasped.
I – waiting
in an unknown corner –
will have a shepherd’s role.
Heartlessly shall I pick up
an empty bucket and bang
it with drops of dew.
Flocks of words that have
broken skin will gather
around me like tiny shadows
of morning or soul.
If a window opens then
temples grateful with dust
from beginning to despair.
I will love the gaps in sound
when every word, world
after world, tightens into
a raceme and leaves its scent
plummet as – tar of transcendence,
foam of formlessness, empire of
impermanence, depth of delusion –
to the ground.
I intend, through endless pages
of misery and category,
to leave a trail for posterity
to meander through the truth
of resemblance in a metaphor.
and this that I
see is not a symbol
but the meaning itself
I see
the world
bloated like a vein,
pushing, thrusting
its contents forward,
violently,
towards a new woven
germination.
It does not stall
nor does it rest
at every corner or turn,
it continues like a flood,
as the blood of phenomena
surges through every vessel
of this quivering world.
There is no pause,
no break in its
wild mutations.
I cannot say that I understand
this upheaval, these eruptions
as the muscle of matter convulses
as the nerve of energy pulsates.
But I see a clump of red push,
the flare spreading from night
towards some illusive perpetuity,
the multitudes of twilights
flickering like feathers and swords
in this horrible clash of sensations.
This I see, not a representation
but bulges of smoke billowing
at the end of a sprouting disaster,
whiteness overflowing with obscurity
darkness softening into a monsoon
that shall cast billions of pearls of light.
It was today
that I decided
to scratch the sky,
to turn the leaves
of the clouds,
to learn the language
of the tiny suns;
yes today I deposit
diamonds of silent voice
inside the cups of galaxies;
I want to pinch
the catastrophe of the heavens
and have all the nights
dance around my sudden life
like fierce nebulae of
nothings and everythings.
The covers of privacy are ripped off; the pages of the book of life shiver in the warm wind. One does not find chapters or divisions in this book. All is intermingled in one long narrative. The truth is exposed in the streets. It wears no make-up, it does not disguise its raw semblance. People wear their hearts as an unpolished jewel over their chests. There in the streets you read the secret print of every soul. There – out there: misery, happiness, poverty, tradition, greed, compassion, goats, cows, ox, worship, tears, dirt, smoke, smiles, sun, phalli, disease, deformity, piercings, struggle, suffering, patience, motherhood; and above all, silence untouched by the honks, guffaws, the shitting, screaming, the suffering. A mysterious kind of suffering everyone seems to bear peacefully. This is INDIA. Where life is not speculation, postponement, or expectation. It is an open book, where every act or event happens simultaneously, where the cruelty of fate and arbitrariness of poverty is somehow justified in their placid and stoic faces. In this story one must undress from the cryptic paraphernalia of self-hood; one must descend as an open wound into the balsam of reality. – this is INDIA.
Beyond Language 
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