A drizzling midnight with
Pradeep and Kavi
Sharing the eerie silence of
Kozhikkode beach

Wet cement benches
Big orange street lights
Rain
The odor of the armpits of
Vasco da Gama
Vodka stench
Made cocktail of a midnight

From the unkempt hair of Pradeep
Saline music
Trickled to the silver sand

There was no sky above
For Kavi
To conquer a starry night
Slowly
He retraced his footsteps
To translate the streets beyond

With reverence
Pradeep touched the ocean
Two surfs forming his wings

An alchemist
Spreading the wings
He stood over the ocean
Singing soulfully
‘Pottithakarnna Kinavinte Mayyath
Kettippidichu Karayunna penne…’

Transforming the entire
Salt water
Into a pool of sparkling alcohol

Herald of Absences

Herald of Absences
For Dom Moraes


I saw him sitting on a whale
Herald of absences

Wearing the mask of an old man
The boy
Typed his life with one finger

I met him last on a sea shore
Surrounded by crabs
Writing
The length of his evening

Bombay, a March Vacation

Bombay, a March vacation
Met Sreya Sankar

In a double ducker bus
Shared a seat, few lines of a book and
Taste of some poetry crumbs

She told me of various mangoes
Experiences from her fruit store

Bombay, in March heat
Looked like a hot saucepan of
Bodies and buildings

Bombay, in March heat, we met again
Walked long walks
Shared silly laughs and peanuts
Browsed through
Church Gate second hand book shops
Bought Michal Ondaatje’s
The Cinnamon Peeler, once

Bombay, in March, a bitch in heat
Felt it in my spine

Eyes on her breasts
Hands on her shoulder
Wanted to feel her dark lips

Bombay, in March, my last vacation night
We left Silky Bar, drunk
Carried her through the beer
In a Premier Padmini
To her apartment

You smell like a mango
You smell like a mango
- She, drunk in the car
I was enjoying her breast on my shoulder

She vomited in her bedroom
For me to clean

Bombay, in a March night
I slept alone in her sofa, drunk

Morning, she made coffee
We made love on her hard bed
Done it again and again

Bombay, in a March vacation
Train to Pune was late
Reading Cinnamon Peeler, Sreya
Spiraled down through the lines,


In to the elevation of oblivion

Pune, in a March night
I slept alone, drained.