. . . . . .

an un-punctuated message
this one's rather
sense-less
as i sit aimlessly trying to get one sentence right...

in the story of me,
sometimes,
i am a dot,
point-less,
direction-less,
side-less,
shape-less
motion-less,
clue-less,
actually even cue-less,

needless sheathless speechless peace-less dream-less beef-less...

i'm just sitting here
dot hopping -
dot dot dot...

Illusive...

...bubbles in the sky
shimmering in the darkness of the night
nestle gently in my empty palm.

In a gentle touch,
they scrub their globe-peripheries
and contract addictive happiness
as they open up to you,
a whole new dreamy world,
transparent, blemishless and pure -

only to pop off as you try holding them to make them yours...

Within u...

is an ingenuous embryo,
hard coded
in the muscles of your head,

waiting to translate,
from brain to pelvis,
the call from the world in the skies above -

the story of conception.

PS - I loved this http://www.ted.com/talks/alexander_tsiaras_conception_to_birth_visualized.html

Splitting...

...like hearts part on the thin line of wagah,
my world-venn
makes the shape of an exploded pie,
splits into two,
and with 'magnetic' repulsion,
one inches away from the other.

now,
there's more than just one world i live in,
and now,
there's more than one end to me!

Of what is...that wont be!

I'd like to tell you a story.

Its about the land in the moon's white nest
where I dont know what happens.

But in there is a dream
that you should dream
with colour
that white can split into
before

-making the black in the night,
-shrinking into that silvery crescent on a non full moon day,
-the hide and seek of birth during dusk,
-shimmering in mirror-like colourlessness above beach waters

just before
disappearing into the ambers of the morning heat.

In starry starry nights -
love it or hate it -
there's the story of a morning that will be
and the story of a night that soon wont...

With Me...

at times, there's a deep, hum,
a buzz,
of continuous silence

that decimates
stealthily,
sounds that reality inflicts upon you;

and with constant hammering like the knocking of an expectant someone,
the inmates of my throbbing ventricles,
surround
contain
cover
me with my droning silence.

Suddenly,
I'm only the sound
of me....

In growing up...

i think i have beaten growing up.

i've traversed the silhouette of age,
that amoebaic figurine,
to come right back
to where I started.

In growing up,
today,
i just heaved a sigh of relief;

i'm more the child i was
than the adult i dread having become! :)

Halved...

A lifetime short of a half
is a half
in thought of the other.

How can I clench my fist hard enough
to alter thought-wise
the half that I want
and the half that I cant...

Of disappearance!

sequins on the palm
fly from the blow of breath
and scream their presence all over the air.

sequins on the floor
leave memories of shimmering gleams -
not only of what was
there
somewhere
here and there -

they represent ghosts
of what couldnt be
there
anywhere!

Whirlpools

...of my imagination,
sometimes start off with ridiculous conversations
when
i sit and yap away about things that are all around.

And then,
suddenly,
these existentials,
rise up from where they are
and whip themselves
in rhythmic concentric circles
with a zoom-zoom noise
and a silent hum.

Whirlpools of my imagination
touch me and absolute nothingness
and
connect the dots in between...