Unforgettable memories


Oasis in memories

of the desert desert rhythm

the sand is poetry


Man becomes a shadow

under arches of rainbow trees

it’s the mist of the moonlight


My restlessness blooms

not thought but ulcer in the

stomach flow

shadows form loss of

my son in the photo room

I wait interval


You hear pulses

of memory in the cemetery

she moans in her sleep

I look for my voice in

echoes that break silences

of the soul in space


The mirror is so small

I can’t see the ocean

beyond my own gaze


It is your quietus

that she roars

in herself

like a sea

waves upon waves

jumps on itself?


Wake up a rose

searching for seeds through

tangled fingers

in the thorny uterus

they are bleeding hopes


She picks black seeds

of some flowers and says: “Daddy,

these are souls, let’s sow them here

tomorrow they will grow like ghosts. “


While snuggling her

we become a little rainbow

playing earth and sky

in the middle of a woven dream

legends of love in moments

unforgettable years


I leave my memories

in a trance of prayer

float on my body

until you hit your fingers

in my soul it breaks

the silence: “I have come

with my promised dreams

years ago. You do not

once kiss and melt into me?


Blessed is

the bedroom

the bathroom

The kitchen

the living room

the terrace

The grass

and every little bit

place and place

where we pray

or sexed together

we glorify our home

and declared its mysteries


Love is efflux

of his body spreading

all parabolic tone

illuminate the self

my being I merge

in his resplendent presence


The dancing shadows devour

waking up tensions for a moment

closed eyes dissolve

years of clogging

within the four walls

the flame is released

of cloying flirtation

for a moment

everything is calm

In its presence


When i wanted

to change seats

my friend said

she can, only if

the door is closed

lights off

and his mommy in

another city


She closes the door

dust off

or Eau de Toilette spray

in bed strange

I just listen

the kettle sings


While sweating

in mosquito net

waiting for a kiss

she’s going to sleep

loosening her breasts and

removing his feet and eyes

and covers them under the sheet

for custody


If passion begets beads of sweat

in the winter night the plateau is reached

too much love can wear one out


Through the corridors of the night

I see love dying

by a casual vegetation

in sleepless dreams


Between the gray hair

a lonely black

keep your hope alive


Layers of dust thicken

in the mirror water

makes obscenities prominent:

Clean and neat and yet

the stains remain as sin


My wife laughs when I say

man rarely loves beauty:

when he sees a woman

only see their busts and butts

and length of bone in mouth

intellectually updating their bites

yearns to sink into the mud

by the fig leaf shade of the hair


When the oleander got dry

I pissed on its roots

three times a day

she laughed at me

but the bush survived

and all red bloomed

“How beautiful” she said

when i ripped them up to bid

this morning she screamed

“Don’t parade my goddess

these flowers smell like pee “

2. 3

Her naked dance

it’s not a bad art

to awaken passion:

with apple blossoms

they run

to find a match

for erect nipples

under transparent blouse


The charm is the

spirit of beauty




expression of self

Not seen

but i felt


Far from me

I need to breathe a little

with my back straight

for a privacy spell

in my background happier

the womb of december

and hear the first screams

I cried with the sun

in a pure moment


The quietest moment

when one is own

is in the toilet or in the bathroom

reflecting from the inside out

through daily facts

listening to whispers that rip

cosmetic simplicity or

divide the landscape into hands

when the elusive force

explosions in silent search

in the void leaving

a dazed mind in the crypt


The doors that ring

I will not stay with poems

between their jaws

I must stop the winds

to prevent them from being launched

in the empty void


Over time, the sun becomes dull and not refreshing

like my dreams are getting weaker than exhaustion now

in the desert of desires no cactus blooms

not a hand calls me back to a world of hope

here breathing fossils and watching meandering waves

let me take a moment for poetry and live:

I pity the mind that harbors centuries of anguish

and drags the conscience through knots in wrinkles


Poetry is not

simply functional

as a briefcase

is personal

An extension

of my self


I live with

ailments like

restless years

creating gospels that

support the world

and itch my days

with cold fictions


They say jupiter

reveals the inner man

the invisible hidden inside

and my horoscope stands out

the direction of my destiny

the sanskar of my soul

well placed as benefactor

but what is the spiritual progress

with a strong drink in hand

the visible sky in the present

the pitch that runs the races

the battles I fight for existence

in the world of Saturn without

energy, life or joy?


What is this life

like the sun rising and dying

someone starting and someone stopping

without feeling presence

no effect, flashy, final

long waste rituals?

nothing saved except

years wasted in bed

pretending and not pretending

blood flows but does not complain:

time seals the contest

born, married and dead?


Everyone fears

everyone is insecure

here everyone doubts

with clouds in mind

each house is a secret

silent bridges of arrogance

distance between hands

and what they need

they do not speak but seek

your fate in coffee circles

if you are bored with monotony

see terror in your own urine

or dig atoms of betrayal in the walls

that make up the secret

and sleep their nights high

whispering the bank balance

3. 4

His hands are brimstone

with the strength of a butcher

above the well they drift

like shadow against the dying sun

more than themselves

against the dome reflector

they create new ‘glyphs

to feed the night to the sunken world


The withered meat of the morning

and swollen skin of the day

by bloody nullah in smoke

tears shadow tomorrow

like today, every day they cry

but no one hears moans or sees

dark rashes on bare walls

that hide maps of bones

and skeins of dreams piled high

next to the hatred of the broken home

it is a luxury of impotence

they will neither believe nor accept

if there is hell on earth

it’s here, it’s here Is here


Boned shadows

empty lawns

moon through the ribs

from the gazebo and the tumult

of the broken meat

shells of pain:

whose hands are

that weave nightmares

with rose ashes

and a woman’s face?


Old rats

in nature’s gap

design new rooms

negotiate misfortune

and faith beyond choice

with plastic sense

enrich its substance

drinking, voting, smiling


A horse-headed thief

bullied the bearded man

like the mythical demon

that disappeared with the Vedas

but no fish appeared

to rescue him


Every face

it’s a finger


skin like banana

erect or twisted



with head

twisted like a

manager’s queue on the chair

before the boss with




My bones have holes for eyes

I look for my teeth in the mud

leeches have sucked my blood

Where is the jerk who ate my meat?


The beard grows like mist

on her cheeks

in half dead streets

the night slides like a yoke

to free them

in glass chambers

mummies don’t need sun


Sheep grazing the rainy green

after days of sunless day

crouched I move from hibernation

looking for a handful of belonging

in the loneliness of wild growth

bypassing the moss covered door and

wall patterns, sheep and sun.


Suddenly through the spring

the wind blows hot

circulating summer colors

roads and houses in poor condition

dust inside outside

Melt the silence like tar

golden bleach skulls who thought

once now fossil like rocks

in eternal hibernation

my search ends or shakes

lewd rituals trampling

about kinda cool in thongs

I do not know what it is

the cheek of terror or the sweat of the skin

Or does the wind seek breath?

Four. Five

They remove the flower of the day

shell that I retain for tomorrow

no one knows what thieves may be looking for


What I write shows

my past although fragile

like years sheets:

I love the wind yeah

makes the city flutter


Harmony in duality

is the unit of languages

to sculpt new dreams

made of live rock.

we are not different

in our own land:

our poems are woven

of the same skein of language

degraded by time and nature


The lonely bird

like boring tracks it moves

stranger back home


The whispers of the forest

inside of me

will be calm tomorrow

and no tree will be a weapon

nobody knows

How was the weather

in the heart

negotiate ideas and images

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *