I saw you playing the saxophone that night.
What tune was that you played? Something similar I remember from Black Swan
The moment that white-faced-black-dressed-swan-lady dies, was it that?
My memories are distorted.


That day I had seen Thorn Birds, a book I wanted to read, five years have
Passed since then, no good has been done.
I liked to run then. I have scratch-marks on my elbow, the others on the knee.
I have tasted mud, tendrils and the smell of fresh-uprooted grass.
Mother calls them dubba, but I’ve heard of them only during religious occasions, they
are used to sprinkle water on heads. It’s been long time since I ran last.
To run is to feel air flow, time flow, the passage of seconds, the passage of
people cheering for you but moving away, you remain stationary, though.
They later said it’s relative velocity, the far away clouds; the distant trees will remain with you
longer. They don’t move away that easily, they have a life, but no mind.
No mind, no intention, no pretension, plain living; living to die, but to let live.


Insomnia isn’t fashionable honey, it is a disease, it might kill you, don’t brag.
My school teacher, wrote on my copy “see me”, I should have seen her.
 Then I was only sleep-deprived, now I’m also sex-deprived. She went away after that.
I don’t like dropping people to railway stations. Goodbyes are false.


I learnt to make smoke-rings few years ago, also I learnt swimming. Freestyle, underwater.
The feeling of getting drowned, knowing that life won’t end here, but struggle on water,
Arms being thrown about; throwing arms on roads, terraces.


He told me about the Banana tree; it can absorb lightening you know. Bananas are strangely
Associated to monkeys, why? Monkeys also love mangoes and rose buds.
Camera, the lens are wonderful, we pose before them. Human perception has it all.
Long beard, thick glasses, thinking. Clean shaven, normal. Being gay is being different,
da Vinci was gay, by that way. I watched a documentary on him, yes, he was a fine man.


I won’t tell it to you, unless you tell it to me, we’ll suffer. It’s nice for a good journey.
Come, let’s play together. You stole my toys when we were young. Now it’s time; return it to me
With your hands; the toys have grown up and so have we.
You still carry a black mark on the arches? Hush, I was silly, a little romantic may be.
I have garbage all around me, let’s clean it up together, our shovels are rusted,
Let’s paint them red; that will mislead the colony creatures.
In a colony, only one person should be bothered about, the postman. Letters are important.
I waited for one, on my armchair for an entire summer, the curtains emitting dust.
My letter arrived last night, it said it wasn’t well that summer. It is well now. Well-off, plump.


Ah, I’ve a headache tonight; I need good music to calm down.
Will you play the saxophone, please?
Same tune, again, again, and then play the mind. My father’s old tape-recorder doesn’t work
anymore, it’s through tapes that I know horror.
Chuckles, period. Keep playing the saxophone, please.

Next Poem: ........................................................................................................................Back to Poetry Index