Whiskers furrow through 

Faulty poems

Singing like songs

One two three

And tap dancing like neon lights

Stuck against strings of tangential consequence.

I am a hazy print on 

Water soaked newspapers.

I am a flaw,

A finite lilac of open flames.

I am eternity,

Innovation dressed like pictures on 

Colourful flower beds.

I am a tomorrow

And yet a bustling Tuesday morning

Lining up like kids 

Towards a lost play day.

I am really old

And still a hot blooded 

Favourite of fake Gods

Sitting somewhere on distant throne.

Who am I,

I ask the glass

And the parchment paper stained with ink

I don't speak,

I howl

Like night owls perched on a broken twig.

I am all

And yet so less

Like death on a decorated platter

Waiting to consume the fire and the ice cold cubes in the vodka 

Labelled "life".

She was her

Very own eligibility-

An emotion

A question

A colour

All of love

And flying sorrow.

Sometimes she was happiness-

Concrete,

Solid joy of clouds dancing like 

Birds against infidelity

Of one and all.

She was the red of fury,

Her face burning with the warmth of the scarlett sun at dusk.

She was the pink of subtle blush

Kissing her face 

Before I could.

She was the black of darkness

That her hair melted down to

Every night

When she undressed on my naked body.

She was the white of our pieces of peace

Bound together

With infallible strings.

She was the ink of my loins

And the pulp of my emotions.

I kill

Like cooks cook

And teachers teach

A class full of eager children.

I am the silent kind

Hopping like a nightmare

Swinging like the Death.

I work with knives

Of various makes-

Some so sharp 

Like meat to a butcher

For waiting customers

Some are blunt

So I hit the (wo)man with the 

Hilt of hit

Until (s)he sways like an alarm clock

In a sun soaked morning

When all sleep

But a sane psychopath.

I have done it before,you know,

The killing.

And I loved it.

Sweet dreams lad

For I conceive

Like a pregnant mother

And run away like a kid

Chasing cigarettes and whiskey bottles.

I wait upon the archaic altruism 

Of the sleeping moon;

I hope less

I walk less,

I fly

Unmindfully

Through brick walls and ant hills.

I am silly

Like a maskless moron

In a masquerade

Except

I am fathomless

Like a clan of children

On a toy bed.

I sneak in from the back door

Or the weaved ventilator

And lurk around the fulcrum of rickety beds

Like a forgotten liar.

Good night kid

Sleep tight-

Please don't remember me 

Or,

Forget me not.

The fire of the neighbouring age

A little far away from a tunnel

Escaping a little into one closed bay

All heated

And sweating profusely

As if chasing from a horrible night.

I lived there

Where the girl lived

Just beside the front porch

Under the mistletoe of many trees

Shrinking as one

Yet many.

I killed not one

But all

Who fell inside the hole in me-

The fish,

The creepers under the hardwood tree.

It could'nt survive the winters

Or the scratch of my scribblings on its arm

So I twisted and turned its head

Upside down

Into one neat braid

And killed it.

I am the frozen

Diminished like the monster that feeds off fear

Under your bed-

Dying with the summers of infinty 

Scavenging down the dewy aisle

In a wedding gown

Completely wrecked.