Author: nisheedhi

You being body’s own folks,
Made me wolf down moons

Far in excess of depression
And now I am to count stars.

How am I to count so many,
On full night that is so dark.

My moon is like corona ball.
Its rabbit- hills are so thorny.

Times are hard & must know
If one needs magnetic touch.

Bell bottoms reach offices earlier,
& we dipped eyes ,like guru hero

Wearing a guru shirt in the ochre
Singing mobike song by rail-track .

All that was like life in the movies.
Ah, real wasn’t there, now or then.

We met first boss in odornil room
He is now not there and odorless.

We met first boss’ old messenger
Who is now not there many years.

We met first crush in cat’s silence.
She is now time’s Schrodinger cat.

Grandmother who had earlier
forgotten a mind
has now forgotten a body.

Soon we will forget her body
in her ashes.
Her ashes are easily forgotten.

But their context is not ashes.
It is river that flows
to give all their own context.

Set this down, you brinkman,
The blue is intense by green

A war that goes red on a boy-
A student of bones and flesh.

A bomb flirts to bring in brink.
A brink is beyond all changes.

Set this down , we say it blue
As the green intensifies blue.

On Shiva night we are sleeping
On the sounds of wakefulness

Dreaming loss of our particular,
In blue throat of abstract time.

Shiva is swallowing our poison
As his throat grows blue, bluer.

They wear no motley fool dress
But only, their perpetual scowls

To scare away kids hurling balls
At old bodies as if window pane.

Old fools are scared of a heaven
Where they meet the airy wives.

We have none in city but
we do have dyings.
The city is saved from a
need to shell out
Compensation for zebra
crossing dyings.

Our dyings are mostly in
the middle of road,
‘tween ‘zagging vehicles ,
over potholes.
No one is responsible for
their road dyings.

Now he is a poet max dead.
A zebra happens a cartoon.

Here it goes, a bare outline.
Since of no flesh and bone,

You put as much as you like.
Zebras are so open-bodied.

(Remembering the high-strung cartoon poet Max Ritvo who had passed a few years ago)

Will a breath of my word
Be brave enough to blow

The fog on mirrors of eyes
Under spell of purple love?

Will petals of eyes unfold
In eye-slits of a darkness?

Can words blow a breath
To clear mist in bud eyes?

Passer-by, where are you now
now?
Forget when you’d last passed
me by.

You did not say bye from teeth
gap
Where you always laughed out
your wind ,