Wolfish

There is hair
Everywhere
Behind my knees
Between that crease,
In my nose
Between my brows

And just yesterday I
Found one on my chin
Perhaps it migrated
From my verdant groin.

There's hair in a line,
Navel to clit.
There's an unruly mop,
All up in that pit.

Some toes like the hobbitses
The sideburns of Wolverine.
Anil Kapoor’s shins,
And an upper lip like Frida,
YAS QUEEN.

You may not see it all,
But I promise you it's there.
A waxed vajayjay coming into bloom
Is really hard to bear.

Spare a thought to those hairy chicks,
Who have everything but a dick.
Buy her an ice cream one sticky Sunday,
And make her stay.

For though her golden downy beard
Might glisten like a thousand splendid suns,
Take her for what she is,
cuz she'll take you for all your toe jam
and your saggy buns.

You

Today I saw
A pearl,
An intelligent coffee machine that sings while it brews,
The universe on its back
With its shell cracked open.
And it made me think of you.

I saw someone shrugging into his pants pockets,
Unclean countertops,
A blender blending soap because that's the easiest way to clean it.
And the back of my throat sipped a shake and a story you told me at 7 am.
I felt my underwire dig into my heart today,
And the shadow of a bruise showed up,
Etched in lace.

And for dessert,
I had a raspberry pi-e,
leaving resistors in my teeth.

My mind crafted the missing day of sticky fingers,
sticky lips, pink tongues,
all in theory,
of cotton candy,
For the sugar spinner didn't work that day,
but don't you know,
we've already shared a pink, melting cloud of fun.

Sometimes my car fills up with the smell of instant noodles,
and at 88 miles per hour we could've gone anywhere.

But I went back, all the way back,
when the impossible waves from exploding stars struck LIGO,
and they struck wonder in my heart,
and I thought they shook your gravity too.

And I keep climbing through time
to that impossible mountain of the perpetual sunset,
and climb back down to new dusk again.
But you're not there.

You’re never there
Because it wasn’t our time,
There never will be a time,

And even though the science isn’t there yet,
But here?
It will always be our time.

Always be in love

Me? I'm always looking for people to fall in love with.
So that I can talk about the curve of their hip, the way they sip
their morning coffee, tousle headed, sighing deeply.
Smiling up at me, sleepily, eyes crinkling at the corners,
like the creases in the sheets, like the knees of their bent out jeans,
like topics you're bursting to discuss, all mushed up together,
waiting to be smoothed out.

I'm always screaming out into the universe,
about this person or that,
someone I'm in love with.
Most of the time, they don't even know it,
but I've had babies with them
and they look just like the reflection of my bare knees
when I admire myself in the mirror as a tease, aiming to please
Wondering 'who wouldn't fall in love
with all of this,' grabbing at my love handles wildly I would say.

Poetry comes naturally to those who love
and those who lose that love
so I've been gazing open mouthed
at some of the sweetest, most intelligent men I have known,
wishing for a wind to have blown,
that ruffled my hair, raise my skirts flirtily,
and made me look like Jennifer Garner did in 13 going on 30,
when she stands in front of that jumbo fan,
and make them look at me,
like Mark Ruffalo looks at her,
and he knows,
and she knows.

But they don't
look at me,
they look at a young girl,
intensely juvenile,

with a naive, open smile,
who has a pretty name,
with a good brain behind her owlish frames,
and a great rack bent into that slouchy posture,
and a smart mouth within those wayward teeth.
and someone who could be,
but isn't.

But I could be, right?

I'll still fall in love with you.
Over and over.

So that I can write about your chin with the butt,
or the mole on your ear,
when I lean in close to whisper,
I'll always be in love with you.

So that I can write about all the glorious things
we wouldn't do.


At least I have words,
and I'll always be in love with them,
because they let me be in love with you.

Yes, still.

The heart has a way of finding you

Of reaching out,

Of catching the hiccough in your step

In others.

Or the way you shrug,

Roundedly,

In coy denial

Of your sheer genius.

It has a way of recognizing

Your eyes,

In that,

You don’t recognize yourself anymore

When you look in the mirror

Every day

The same way I do

And I don’t

See myself either.

The heart has a way of knowing

That you too,

Are wary

And aware

Of me.

But if you aren’t

Then so be it.

More happiness to you for it.

But the heart has a way of knowing.

It knows that,

Someday,

Somewhere,

Some place

In some time.

There will be regret,

Felt anew

Maybe by me,

Maybe by you.

I wish it weren’t true.

But the heart has a way

Of knowing

You.

We were alone and I was singing this song, for you.

You have a song,
each of you
every one of you
and it makes me think of you.
If I miss you too much,
maybe I'll sing it too.

But you all have a song,
except two,
who possibly didn't mean much,
didn't brighten my days blue.

We start with you,
he's who'd stand out on the corner in the pouring rain,
but I didn't have a broken smile,
I, who didn't stay a while.

You will be loved, just not by me.

Then there's you without a song,
probably is, but in Klingon.

Then there's you,
with whom I did click,
you left a song, Sympathique.
It's all French, but it's so happy,
but you were practical, not at all sappy.

Successively came you,
my biggest crush,
the one I didn't touch.
Through the good times and the bad
you were the best I never had.

My other nameless,
faithless.

Then came you,
I convinced myself about you.
You probably did too.
We tried, we sure did,
I would've given
All of my love, all of my love,
all of my love to you.

You probably would too,
just not to me,
it wasn't me.
I pray you will find someone,
your special meant to be.

Then comes you,
the disillusioned one,
you taught me that
if you're in love
you are the lucky one,
cause most of our feelings
they are dead and they are gone.

I wish they weren't though.

But after you, came you,
I don't have a song,
but I have lot's to say,
as did you.
Attaching yourself
in the most unattached way possible.
Maybe something like
the more I see, the less I know,
the more I'd like to let it go.

Finally, there was you,
another of the best I never hads,
but you were something else,
your body was a cage,
that kept you from dancing
with the one you loved.

That wasn't me, but it sure as hell will be someone,
one day,
I hope you set yourself free.


Does anyone know my song?

Storm weather

It starts brewing suddenly

Quietly

Mostly uncertainly

Unpredictably

But you go along with it

Because its

Pleasantly

Surprisingly

Ferociously

Friendly

With gusts

And guffaws

It entices you

And traps you

To laugh

When it laughs

And you spread your arms

Expectantly

While it sweeps you up

Majestically 

Wildly

Fervently

Vehemently

Insistently

And you sway

And enjoy

And bask

And get drenched

In the storm

What do you know.

When the birds fly away

And motes in your eye

Start to play.

What do you know.

For the storm

Is you

For me

Unpredictably

Certainly

Unimaginably

Concretely

Unfortunately

It's oddly

Lovely. 

The storm,

It's fantastically

Phenomenally

Personally

You.

Scraps of Love

Here's a list of things I wrote in my last diary. These are only things I wrote and I found that even I had written them beautifully. I hope they're prophetic.

• We'll travel the world together, stand knee deep in freezing water and be content with the blue lips of the other, even if we kiss and can't feel it. 

(On the back of this, incidentally, it says, 'But it's not big enough.' 'Goodbye.'
I'm sure I was talking about the size of a reason.) :P

• Till then, thank you for making my words move, they've been stuck at the back of my throat for altogether too much time. 

• If he continues his profession, I can never be his, he can never be mine, because I don't want to be loved just half the time. 

(Again, the back says,
'I am NOT second pickings. Fall in love with me absolutely, completely, head over heelsy. So much that you would stop over here before your own home.')


And, here's my

Ugly Poem

I'm scratching the surface
of you.
I'm scratching this skin
of mine.
Maybe, beneath this epidermis,
you will notice
what beats.

If I dig hard enough,
maybe I'll reach a place
that's raw, red and aching.
That'll change the look on your face.

I'll gouge it out, I swear.
Someday you might even believe me.
And I'll show it to you, I swear.
What you should've already seen.

It'll come much later,
once I'm gone,
what I'm looking for.
I'll be lying in a pool of your warm regret.
Fresh from your eyes,
slightly old, from my veins.

Once it does come,
and it'll approach
like the evil evening storm.
that hits you everyday,
bowing you down,
stuffing motes in your eyes
that render you blind,
that you will realise,
you've always been blind.

You'll say things like
'Like a drum baby don't stop beating'
But listen closely,
look at my frayed heart,
and the spatter pattern on the wall.
I've just stopped bleeding.

That's because
your finger blocks
the staccato, now erratic
hum of my heart.

Sit back,
rock me close to your breath
and hope and pray
I stay.