THE FORBIDDEN PURPLE

I)
The dusty manuscript of my life is full of recurring metaphors,
Borrowed and abused words,
As if it’s the anthology of the same poem (?) in different languages
Lost in a absurd forest of signs, yet lured
(A useless creeper’s boastful journey to the hill-top).

If some day I find the ink to paint the eloquent shaped “You”
I’ll name a garbage dump after me.
In the ecstasy of finding the true color of an autumn
In the amusement of finding music in the husky voice of aged winds
I won’t mind, if no theory of aesthetics supports this blemish of mine
And starts Bargaining over my head, then …!

II)
My heart is the antithesis of an epic, fabricated by the fancy of a fiction-eater
The ethereally innocent words, insanely disloyal thoughts
Contrasted like the teeth and skin of a colored man
But I can spill no more red to make your imaginary characters look prettier
As no sea can nourish itself by its own blue and tides…

My favorite stepmother —– You are the thirst of saltwater,
A lust ruthlessly alive to kiss the forbidden lips that imitate your smile
Like that mythical king who wanted to be fertile forever
In your brush stroked Garden of Eden, it’s the fate of paler snowflakes,
Stupid Creature…Yes! I burn….

III)
I’ve never been a poet to claim your tangy ownership
Smell your ink made organs to soak my tobacco-dried lungs
But as a part of a profane imagination, with your skin
I make my beloved dancing shoe,
I dance and I dance till the last drop of water inside
Hoping my sweat will become tomorrow’s rain,

A rain which may wash away the guilt full legend of a poet
Who committed suicide to become your merchant of flavors for eternity.

IV)
Open the door; open the door, I’m tired of your cruel measures
Of my zero gravity, the arrogant narcissism of magical shapes, signs.
My words are too light to hide in the subterranean dusk of your hair,
Recklessly nomadic to rest upon the ivory whites of your bosom.

The bruises of longing have became purple already, yet there is no trace of that ink.
Now, I only laugh at my seedless obsession,
And go mad about this truth.

Poetry – My bohemian whore,
-Just -don’t –hate- me.

ROMANTIC

I dip my fingers into your rainbow-coated whispers
And try to find the lost city of Kundil like a throbbing hearted
Monk of the dawn,
In your anonymous lake of remembrance.
You know “once upon a time” is my favorite line,
When it’s about the classic stillness of your rhyme and rhythm

You are conceived like a dot
By an imperishable ink, transformed into an universe
A vagary of time mirrored in your eyes
You fall on my face like the rain that brings the hill-fire along
You are the occupant of my corner less home,
Crueler than a decaying smile.

No Konark can chain the proud-heart of the sun,
But I’m a gloomy light.
My heart has been peeled over and over again
By the shadows of your foamless love,
Making it a cattle grazing in the abandoned fields
Or a piece of cloud with no wings
But relentlessly tries to fly
In the museum of its childish vagueness.

Just to reign in the temples of cherry-colored hopes
You are the teller of the unbelievable folk-lore
That has no face (like yours)
About the bitterness of henna-hued darling’s hand,
Water crossing through the soft tissues of stone
To meet an ancient evening city,
The wasted-muslin tales about the carriers of promises,
About the annoyingly-serene ring bells for the senses to burn.

My flesh is as light as cotton, listening to you tirelessly
As if I’m the soldier, Who has seen blood and pride at the same time ,
A young priest rejecting the gospels,
A pen rebelling against ink, paper and the writer’s unjust demand

But for the unreasonable love of your rent less occupancy
I compel my eyes to bear the pride of the chained sun’s shine
I again hum your tune, dipping my fingers into your deformed whispers
And drawn in your lake of anonymous remembrance
Like an eternal carnival.

You are as essential to me as silence was to Bergman
Thank you –BLUE!

IF LOVE IS THE ANSWER

I)
How cruel these seasons in hell
The bastard’s heart is hanging raw
In front of the drunkard’s church
And mine, wet near the whorehouse
Thinking erratically about your river-like skin
As if I have just invented a known puzzle
“If the heart is such a terrible thing
Then how come Don Juan had thousands
Yet none…?”

Things blue by nature is poetically addictive
Like a bleeding snowball, the seductive inferno
And I wonder
In this insanely romantic play
Why we choose to be a hypersensitive anti- hero
To know the cost of an ounce of love

II)
I search something in your body
Hills Rivers greens yellows, paddy field and mustard flowers
( I always use this metaphor for you)
Your body is a tough terrain
With the rocks of imagination
Fresh like a plastic flower
But your empire of sadness
Has been expanded from the tiny
Molecules of fear
From your being to all across the land that is mine.
Colonizing even the air,
Which once I used to breathe.

And like all the barbiturate souls
I’m too conflicted between natural selection
And the dammed hearts yearnings
To forget Camus’s most absurd question
You know this
Don’t you?

III)
If Love is the only answer (Sorry Mr. Allen)
To live and to die
I realize that only the whores know the cost of
An ounce of love, as they sell it for no return
And probably Don Juan was right
The heart is not that terrible as I think
It is just that I only have

Your body…

MONEYPENNY’S PEACE PRICE

Her face was like a naive poet’s dream of writing the finest epic
A blend of Baudelaire’s ink and Verlaine’s sin
, Mosaic of colored bliss and sadness
A sharp nose but smaller eyes, high cheek bones yet fuller lips
(Which she always hated too much)

Surprisingly she didn’t have an artist friend
A bohemian who would immortalize her rhythms
In his drunken monologues,
A Cezanne or Monet to paint slices of her
Wishful woman hood or a poet who could see the ruins
Of an ancient city in her eyes and compare
Her flat bosom to plucked flowers of late spring

She wasn’t dying like the protagonist of
A nineteenth century tragic love-story
And unwilling to utter those painful words
Before the ending , only to manifest
The author’s hopeless romanticism, who fantasized
Death as the finest art,

She tried to dilute her clown like existential crisis with
All those colorless cheap alcohol, and
Wondered how easily she could eat,
Drink, work, love, and possibly die,

She wanted peace but like all other things it had a price,
And in her deepest thoughts
Peace had only one price
And it was her battle inside…

And she knew it all happened
For some reasons which were not reason enough
Like transforming into a blue bird
Without a livable nest in some distant hill ….

THE ISLAND OF INNOCENCE

The island of innocence was drowned
In the yellows
A butterfly’s inch long sigh
Its wings became long iron curtains
And the spring was still far away

Of all the wishes that can be heard
Through the fluttering of it’s wings
All became snow and dust
And it fell on the leaf on which she rested

Certainly she didn’t know the nature’s wish
Nor she has desire of metamorphosis
Who would want losing the wings?
Yet with the vibration of the distant wind
She hoped, may be the day after
The grasses would be green again

Some stories can’t just be told
Nor sung,
But just when the butterfly hopelessly
Tried to sing a long lost tale
She lost her wings
And became

An ill fated moth …

THE EULOGY FOR A RESTLESS ELECTRON

We two are the restless Electrons
Since our sin’s are stubborn
And we share the same gloomy light.
So I love the color of the blood
As for all our sins it is the real essence
Of all the world’s dust, the favorite guest
To a naked flame
The night knows this too.

It is burning in the tune of violin
Sitting on the dewdrops
And its Phenobarbital sleep is floating around
Of Its burnished bed,
Though occasionally it is pleasant,
Like a sapphire dream
Crafted in its eyelashes
But today we two are as sad as some grandmother
For losing the sand trade in the veins of our body.

With all the worth in the world
In form of expensive toilet papers
Long ago I bought a razor sharp blade
For the night, as a token of friendship
And thus we two become a tree that bleeds
To soothe our morphine pain.

Since then we’ve forgotten the taste of bread and wine
As if in this land of gun powder and little love
It is the only relief,
More than the poems of Gita and all the eastern texts
For being the odorless hemoglobin .

If Hollywood knows much more about blood
Then we two are the messiah of bubbles
But it trembles when the dawn is in the way
For their collective love of riding the sun
And tells me since the dawn has the color of blood too
It has no fear of death, neither the fear of redemption
Since the golden flame will descend upon we all

The dawn praises the dead but the we adore our the sinful lives
It whispers this into my year
And laughing like a sadistic clown

The night bids me goodbye.