Rapunzel, Rapunzel why are you dead?

Rapunzel leaves home with hair hanging bright from around her throat.

Rapunzel, Rapunzel why are you dead?

She knows she is dead without a fairy tale praising her imprisoned state…
Without the lingering nostalgia of a princely rescue,
Without the savoring unfulfillment of an automated reality,
Arising out of exact measurement of a good cook’s recipe
Who plays chef everywhere…

But Rapunzel must know how to die
She must fall out of the bookish tower of blindfolded wait
Strange elevated beauty that drips from her skin
Which cannot be felt without a mirror…within her blood vessels
Her stomach…when she splits open herself with her hairpin
Her fingers enter her nerves and try to get that beauty out
Nothing. Nothing. She enters her guts. Still no beauty there.
The pain of emptiness. The pain of ugly dripping blood.
She was aghast at her ugliness!

A strange drizzling rain falls from within her dress
Into everywhere, where her hair rests in a bundle on the floor.
She stares at herself inside out…the monotony of a being
Awaiting a common dream that all prisoners of the tower are forced to see…
What delusions of a cramped isolation!
Every arrival of a prince seems the only destination.
What enforced short-sightlessness of Rapunzel
That can make a fairy tale happen!
Delicious failure of a mind’s inability to search for one’s own escape.

Rapunzel laughs out loud.
Her escape waits within herself...

But she must see what enthralls the eyes of the towers
That set her apart from the fascinating ugliness of the masses
Rapunzel must know what beauty keeps her still from
Knowing the beauty that howls of the forest outside
The sodden rain clogged mud of the ground beneath
The moist wind at the top of the tower…
The stunning rage of the sun’s breath down her legs
To soothe the hunger of her hair to become tangled
Impossible to be tamed into a braid.

Yet, Rapunzel, Rapunzel why are you still dead?

Rapunzel must find an answer to the Prince’s sweet delay.
Rescue was inevitable.
From tower to tower she must travel.
Rescue was inevitable.
To be rescued was her fate.

Hark! The prince comes.
The prince calls her to throw down her hair.
Rapunzel must now climb out of the tower
And into the ascertained happiness of the Prince’s hands.
Her fairy tale was coming to an end. Rapunzel laughs again!
The book was left with a few more words? Pages, maybe?
Rapunzel couldn’t let this happen.

With the final toss of her hair, she throws herself out of the window,
Her red hair screaming behind her to rescue her before it is too late
To wrap itself around her throat in a fantastic embrace of togetherness -
Rapunzel escapes before it is too late
Rapunzel becomes Porphyria’s death story.

She crawls out of the old page of my diary
Where prince charming keeps calling her name
From out of that turreted forest
Towers chasing her to employ her in their silence
Rapunzel must keep her feet moving
Even when plunging in her own blood
Even when her hair strangles
All the more, to remind herself of her escape
Before she hits the ground forever…and flies away.

Rapunzel, Rapunzel are you still dead?
No. She has rescued herself out of another fairy tale.

Oprah-Flavored Ice-Cream

Who are these people, that come and haunt you
The happy father, the phallic tongue of
Your mother
My Mother
All our children.

Happiness is an Osho temple
Sorry, a boutique island
A real estate agent
A Travel and Living catch phrase
About travel and indulgence
Or royalty
Or a perfect smoked salmon fish
Challenge.

Sadness is nothing more than a bad fit
A bad choice with your hat
Watching the Oscars
Longing for some of the fame.
A bad trip and a job gone awry
Sadness is a mild dream of yester years.

Humble spirits raise you to hear
The true color of life
Between the trawled sea and gashed ozone layer
So much metaphysical speculation
About the stars that lit up our
Domestic chores
Market and bazaar fare
A normal day of unfaithfulness.

Day care centre breeding your kids,
The pet dog accompanying you to the Austria trip
Maids with fallible human strength refuse
Another day of maddening labour
Super-mom sweeps the sky
Replacing the witches of Salem
I stand alone beneath the stars
Inspecting my washed clothes
Cleared dishes
And evaporating enchantment with
A supposedly greater order
Called life.

Cable guy is always the Jim Carrey show
Oprah reminds you of orphans and idiots
Living under the same roofs
Katrina sweeps the Earth,
An ineffectual West Wind.
So much for a good bungle
And the riot victims get their
Fifteen minutes of fame.
Allah, Almighty, Amen.
All is the same and again.

On the bank of Allegory

It was unnecessary.
To have failed once more

I know how to kill a curiosity
And a cat.

My allowance is a maidenhood
Of soliloquy
And arbitrary endings
That nurses poems
Of high school feelings
And hopes
Of nursery softness.


Later today
I am supposed to find
An allegory
To my answer,
Do I or don’t I deserve
Hopelessness
Of the right shade
Grey or a blinding dazzle -
Incompletion.
Debacle.
Abortive correspondence
With prominence.
Fatigued fulsomeness,
Gaunt dreams,
Weary with chase and rotting,
With mass verisimilitude.
Custom made fantasy frolics
Fallible scholarship of a three hour
Canvass.
Bridge courses meandering between
Degree calibre
And unacknowledged help
Of non-improvisations.


On the bank of allegory
And by the edge of pungent satire
I stand precariously
With failure at one hand
And the recognition
Of a handicap in me.

Farther down the road….


There is little beauty in the mind.
It is a warehouse of orphan thoughts,
Run by a hefty matron brewing leathery
One time rotten meals.


One-track mind of a calendar year…
My mind is a dejavu of fixed income
Sincere meanings and added values
I am a warehouse of broken panes
I have been thrown stones at
And compensated with disabled
Bank statements, junkets and happy
Jars of certificate of merits
Made of tree cut papers and your delusions
And my laughter or fatigued farewells


Nothing matters inside your mind
Anybody and flesh, any body
Any any one, any somebody, anything
Any me, and you
Any any any
All all all…


Another me will come along
And make me give up my mind
For it.


And still I will remain
In solitude
And a prisoner of my minds
Helplessness without me…

Newer Niceties

I am dissatisfied
Being a woman everyday
I am false.
My friends know who is inside me
There is strange warmth
In losing
Outwitting the ardour of impatience
Knowing not why I laugh
At you all so much
Strange theft
Monotonous escape from people’s lives
Marked with knowledgeable
Bubbles
Fears of the neon self
I too am like that!!
I write poems from Robert Frost
I am false.


I am not a prized story
I am only a surface
Curves
Tortuous
Senses
Children
Tears
Madness
Reading Plath.


Nothing makes it special.
To be married before 30
Or god won’t give me
Another chance.
Except for that
Laughter of the bitter blood.
Clotted
Silent and sterile
Stench of the past.


Who wrote this before me?
I am false.
This is a stubborn hell
A feast where I must sell
Gain
Bargain
Chaos
Laughter
Sex.


Tricks of the trade.
Belittled by foolish women
My confused race
My confused men say.
Belittled by foolish men bred by them
And our fathers
I am false
For some who must not know
How much must go into a day
Of gathering sanity
Farces
Vodka and slime
Empty womb
Fun.


Liberty is another name
Of discounted men
Who came your way
And make you a wife
Out of lashed love
And funny eyes
That strays between you
And the sky of hopelessness.

I have not known the streets as yet…….

I have not known the streets as yet…….

I must go now. I must pass between the streets boxed within the grey skies, full of memories of the rains. Did you know that they remain the same within my heart, full of memories of the rains too? It must be getting dark soon and the chill will come to settle between my fingers holding a darkly lit roll of cigarette. The smoke merges with my breath, and I play with it till the dragon in me feels quite regular. I ask myself in a voice, that feels so much like a practiced huskiness, “Am I regular?” Standing alone I let some ash fall on the street and instantly get punctured by the moist floor. I say again “The streets are always wet, my ashes can hardly fly and make a nuisance of my dark overcoat”. But it is a matter of no importance, I decide then and there. The wet floor becomes puddles at places, and I try to skip them by and nibble at the only question that nags my mind “Am I really regular?” I try to dally with the answer for bedtime soporific musings. Then I think, If I must go home now, there will be so much to do with the rest of the day. For instance, I will have to avoid being alone amidst the whole of the neighborhood, praying before dinner, holding hands across fences or already making love in their kitchen. In the street I only need fear the rain and the sky that is chequered with the fate of the stars. It is never regular and yet always the forgotten limit. The street is now a little darker; every window looks warm and lost in velvety warmth that has withstood the daylights assault. There! that’s my home, my house, and my shelter. I will have the darkness to stir from the porch to the bed till I leave a wake of flooded ennui. I am lost within my own rhythm of chores. A sensitized journey along the streets to the unique shelter that I call my home is undergone and a homeostasis is reached for the day, until the day begins again and I start from the same point. I was supposed to know you by name, but I shall call you ‘My synthetic journey’. This is a strange place I must visit, everyday between the sheets of happy colored mazes that make the lusts of my vision quite happy. I crawl with my mind to the sunny garden at the back of my house just from where all the streets begin all over again and I must not complain but they make me feel so less interesting! They are the distance between you and me and I wonder how to walk between them, so that, for once I may lose my way. But they always take me beneath the skies of endless rainbow and a constellation of fate that remain cradled in the basket of puddles, everytime I jump over them and ask “Am I only very regular?” I have known so many darknesses, and yet all think that it is a monolithic smear that either stays or goes away. Have you ever known a darkness that pours like liquid over you when you walk all the way home? Or what about the thick darkness that hangs between you and the people around you, waving and smiling? The darkness that follows me like an endless temptation and licks my feet when I sit on my bed and sigh ‘amen’ for the day. The darkness that I cradle in my arms as I pass along lighted shops with manikin make-up people, choosing what ought not to be regular for them, I clutch it close to my heart and kiss the soft touch of its abysses. I finally enter my house and feel for the switches…

fairy doodle

I am a fairy doodle
The biggest ass bird that flies with Icarus
I am a accoutrement of flat discoveries
With a Once Upon a Time love...!!!

I make no sense with poetry and never with my words
I make sense with the buttons of your memories
and when the rain drops down in my pillow
and fly away leaving me chained to laughters
I am a fairy doodle
I am a Fairy doodle

I have no dreams coz I only have maintenance bills to pay for them
yesterdays a filthy flat dumpster and today's a dustbin
Inside my heart
I am a fairy doodle
I only hate superstars with extra cheese
I hate the world's justice with a silly saucepan man
I love nothing but my mom's scorn
For having caviare with boxer shots

I do not know who made the Wall
I am the fairy doodle woman
I am alone in this celophane town
asking for some lighthouse isolation
amidst dissolving eyes that seperate me and you

You the fairy doodle do not forget
you who made the stars throb
you who you who who who who
you you you

I am the fairy doodle still.....
la la la la doom doom dum doom
o am just marooned here
maa aa roo roo ned...da da doom
da doom dum doom doom damn
damn damn am just nobody to me
to you you you who who who damn doom
damn damndamn damn

I am a marooned fairy doodle
from my own damn dreams

Why should women think beyond the present

As a woman what I missed most was an epic heroine who would make me travel my own dreams in my own terms. I miss that still. There was no world for me beyond being a secondary mate on the back of a horse riding along with the prince or the villain or the story. I was never deemed the centre of my own story except for in Romances where there was no flavour beyond what the man-writer thought I was all about. My voice was never there. I was never me. I was living in someone else's dream. I wanted my own story where I am something beyond a final prejudice and an approximation of something multiple, higher and extensive. I wanted to be so special with all the effort a man-writer or a woman-writer would invest in me and make me not so much of a woman but a free spirit. Idiosyncratic, human, a social construct and yet tearing away from it all the time.

The present is full of such monotony and without any understanding of where to start defining a woman. I think a woman is not a definable object. She is a summation of her own quests and achievements. That's where we talk about histories and women. A woman is an epic of experiences and her present is a matter of subjective documentation. Discourse is the very field of wrestling and women should try to derive their own sense of history and thereby create it for our pasts and our futures. A woman or a generation without a voice in the histories is again a story without any place for her. She is a shadow of error.

Woman and her politics is never resolved until she herself write her agenda beyond the present.....