unhook your bra now,
and melt slowly in my arms
lets sleep till winter.
Category Archives: poetry
An Ode to the Bed
possible dreams,
possible nightmares,
the breakfast for the next day,
a compliment,
a death stare,
Beer
More Beer
Rum,
Scotch,
Sleep,
Wars, Ghosts,
The Reaper,
The Good Looking Reaper
black coffee,
dieting,
morning run,
immortality,
the old gods,
the new gods,
no gods,
aliens,
Paris,
Machu Picchu,
Snow In India,
Rain in Columbia,
Drugs
Alchohol,
Sex,
Possible Sex,
Dream Sex,
A lot of Sex,
A lot of disappointment,
A dream of success,
A Whole New Life,
Songs to listen next day,
Poems,
Writing,
People,
A very minute collection of Imaginations and
thoughts over the course when I lie on the bed
until the sleep comes in.
Disciplined, Careless, Inspiring,
Lazy, Poetic, Dramatic, the various
hues and after-effects of this bed.
It conjures a thousand more within me.
So this is an Ode to the Bed.
The warm haven of my creativity and my destruction.
What do you think while in Bed, Let me know too 🙂
Lick
Sometimes you lick my fingers, instead of doing what is to be done.
Sometimes I lick your nipples instead of doing what is to be done.
Sometimes we are not we, when nude.
Sometimes we are but not nude.
I keep remembering everything.
About that warm winter.
Reverse – Collection of Haikus
reverse the time gone,
as the rivers freeze to ice
and snow falls on skies
I am kid again
my dog is a pup today
let us sleep sometime
fires will turn to sparks
dreams shall slumber into sleep
let us fade to black
To.
Dostoevsky
This guy got me thinking,
through delirium and despair
with sprinkles of madness over
a flesh with a weak heart sewed
over layers of hope.
the ones who write about uncertainty,
death and creating hope out of it are the real writers that made me feel something.
Dostoevsky was the zenith of it.
The Rest writers nowadays are selling themselves, mushrooming like burger joints, using layers of cheesy love and regret to get noticed.
Ashes of the Asylum
Even the benevolent breeze
spares the scattered ashes
of what was once an asylum
for flesh and bones trapped
within wandering souls.
They told me in school
that red and green fuses to yellow
but all I can see are the dark ashes,
the remains of the magnificent tree.
The birds cannot rest,
the dogs are dying of heat
and I can’t write my poems,
for I was a patient of that asylum,
it caressed my sanity every evening.
My poems have nowhere to go,
they don’t hide in the branches as they used to,
now they hide within me
and I hide inside them.
Writings to Heaven 