Rorschach

the lack of a person

pools next to me in bed

in shape shifting puddles of ink.

Again

Again,
An insatiable flood of colour streams
inside
Channeled by twin charcoal paintbrushes,
Murals are painted
inside
And every day
a fresh coat is applied
Again.

Overdue

The smell of you on my fingers

Droplets of your skin in between the grooves

Of my fingertips.

Crop circles traced

on your back.

My eyes caught in yours, whilst
the future presses against my eyeballs.

Oh, if I could store every

Disintegrating moment in

A bell jar.

...

The past cannot be felt

So what is the point of this living?

Harf

My words lie impotent
under the filled glasses
of wine that
were yours', and once
were mine.

...

आवाज़ दे,
कहां है?

Momentum

I have the same realization
Fifty three times a day
Orbiting in an ellipse;
The gravity renders my wrists mute.

On Edward Hopper - written in the Trump Hotel, Las Vegas, May 2015

https://koriental.files.wordpress.com/2012/10/hopper-11-a-m-1926.jpg

girl sitting, naked
save for pair of
dress boots, pink
and tasselled.
boor-zhwa-zee armchair,
sitting
opposite her, window. Bare,
save for a
summer low-cut
curtain, barely modest.

She peeks underneath the hem,
and outside
opposite side of the street,
house.

Unornamented, save for
an unmown moat lawn, and moans
of familial life escaping from within.

Life that means the world to itself.

Across the street, she peeks at this
almost-silent house, and the house winks back
in the receding evening;
waiting.

L’Étranger

Making homes out
of human beings,

we
fall
in
love
with
snapshots.