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Poem
in this world of the limped nuptial 
i’ve appeared as a power-missile of the lac-dye 
that is used by the hindu women 
to paint the border of their feet 

the tooth-ache of some-one pumpkin 
that grows on the thatched roof of a hut 
has wringed spirally  
my mythological birth with corporate death 

managing and arranging  my thoughts 
on what I was in the past 
what I would be in the future 
or what is my dos at present  
the wonder-paintings of the altamira cave 
unfolds its wings beside my painful in-growing nail 

and in her own sky of miss marry  
my hands become so much condensed in every drops 
as if within that moping smog 
without any speech 
speaks the twinkle twinkle little star…

beside  that labour pain what awakes then
is the patronage of a one-horned idea 
along which while walking  without much preparation
i can enter into any e-mail 

though our love pulls a very long-face about itself 
and in the opinion of the married women 
the sigh of the sin ? of our love wants to cultivate 
mustered-seeds on the soil of the inhabitants 
of this human-life 
with a stick by which the monkeys are driven out 
what more can i say in lieu of 
a piece of red-salute written in green ink

if i say in the dawn of the 52-cards
i touch your face 
by the hands of a school-boy 
your calmness and earthly perfume 
make me stunned 

then in this field of sweat and war 
the explosion of logic and intellect 
of your top-floor 
seems more famous anchor than the milk 
that spilt over on the fire 

and more to say 
when daubing all over the body 
all taste of the path of joy 
enter into then fort of gold you can notice there 
when in some unknown moment 
my pajama dies socially 
by the bite of the snails and oysters 

to keep the heart of the break-kiln always move 
this form-less interactions are so well 
in the harvest-arrangement of the late-autumn
 we are all uttering the name of cherry-flower 
and begging shelter from the mango leaves
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