Subjectless poetry
Is objectionable.

Notes in Repentance

Fourteen lines give me just enough time
To dumb the guttural ring in your ears
Of the slow edge of rage that sliced in the cold
In the hope that it would freeze out my fears.
For our tropical love and monsoon sojourn
Have no time for desert despair
Nor do temperate climes suffer the cold
And the wail of glacier care.
But I stare at the clock, and revise my prelude
Reams may never suffice
For words have a way of blowing hot air
That simply will not melt the ice.
As words, tides and thoughts recede
I promise to make amends in deed.

My Friend(s)

Is a slow evening fire, religious during a dawn crisis
Sharp as half a rock, solid and Strange as a whole one
Is a base for his own unrequited love, and requited lust
Sipping from a cup, and mulling over the chronological order of things
Is a headstrong royal, loving and unrepentant
Steely-eyed, iron-willed
Is the lighter vein, jocular
And the master of the subcultural insider
Is an open ear, and soothing tongue
Though golden, never quite mine enough
Is the one I almost lost,
And through tears and anger, found again
Is the two for one
Spiritual soundingboards and spectators to skepticism
Is the stealer of hearts, for good or bad
And the pulse of pragmatism
Is an anomalous addition, she’ll agree
The guiltless subject, of guilty poetry

A Hasty Apology

Since you, my dear
Are more than a friend
It’s only right
That I make amends.
I forgot to call
There’s no defense.
It’s a day that deserves
Remembrance.
But keep in mind
As the years advance
Like rolling marbles
So does the chance
Of senility,
Greater abdominal girth,
And me forgetting
Your date of birth.
But I beg you ma’am
Hate me not!
How can I be blamed
When Orkut forgot?

A momentary lapse of reason...

That binds a life to a life.

Keeping Score

I'm no Newton.
This is how I count:
Pinky to lifeline
Ring beside
Middle to mole
And index hides
Beneath the cover of my thumb.
That's five.

And as I finger through the pages
Of this rambling log
And I count them just so
One...two..
The tally is honest
And the calculus true
Lately, I've written the most verse
For you.

Healing

There were rumors spreading from the centre of town. Of course, it was from the centre. The origin was of no consequence, but the content boasted great things. Deadly things. Things that deserved respect, fear, loathing. She could, by letting the blood out of greedy monkeys, cure maladies of the liver brought on by too much drink. By sucking at wounds, she could cure the breath of frogs. And most unbelievable of all, with a soft word spoken, she could cure the symptoms of love. But it happened, as people walked through the jungle to meet her, braving flies and dragonflies the size of dogs, that she could not cure maladies of the liver; neither could she cure the breath of frogs. She could only cure the symptoms of love. With dark vials of pungent liquid and incantations of eternity she purged the specters of youth, foolishness, and humanity. But only those who dared come.

“Healing needs faith. God only knows what faith needs, for I know not.”

But those who had faith and heartache came. Those like me, who only had heartache, and who found their faith floundering with each tropical step: we failed.

Picture Painting

If the words of silence I deny
Then a picture will tell me
When to say goodbye.

Bangalore Traffic: An Economic Model

This is an attempt to recast the state of Bangalore’s traffic, oft maligned for its apparent state of anarchy, in the light of a more organized overarching structure guided by empirically observable principles. While the functioning of its various components may seem arbitrary and chaotic, I propose that in fact, Bangalore’s traffic represents the purest capitalistic system in the known world.

Firstly, as in any capitalistic system, the basis of Bangalore’s traffic and its state of obdurate existence in the face of an almost self-destructive façade has to do with the dynamic interaction of a group of properly functioning individual vehicular units. The comparison goes further, in that it is imperative that each of these units function with the purest intention of self-gain. In such a system, not only are the needs of each unit met, but the welfare of each unit also is directly dependant on the selfishness of its comrade-on-wheels. To exemplify, only if my comrade seeks, in dire recklessness, to cut off oncoming traffic am I able to proceed towards my destination through the path he has cleared by his brash egomania. He has no particular affection for me or mine, but his actions reflect unbidden altruism and symbiosis.

Secondly, as in most market economies, any attempt at governmental regulation is often detrimental to the welfare of all parties concerned. Despite their heroism, no Bangalore Traffic Police official has ever done anything more by directing traffic flow than succeed in creating greater chaos than when he or she arrived.

Finally, this traffic system follows a system of social justice that most capitalist economies are unable to create in their hunger for greater profit. This trait does not run counter to the capitalist ideal, but in fact embodies its very nature. In Bangalore’s system, there is a true sense of vehicular equality as each unit is afforded no more power than its comrade. Unlike the imperfect manifestations of the capitalist system we see elsewhere in which units join together in leviathan-like ‘conglomerates’, Bangalore’s units follow Chandy’s Law of Positional Preeminence, which states that

All vehicular units, regardless of spatial influence, must acquiesce and duly react to the choices of the vehicular unit to its anterior.

A less eloquent but equally insightful corollary to the law formulated by AbhiBass Koffee runs

The f***er behind him must sit and be happy that he’s in front of someone else.

Further insights, laws and criticisms are welcome.

Slip Slidin' Away

A friend of mine commented:

"The world is smaller because people move so far away."

The Lotus One

She deserves
At least a line or three.

What's the use, really,
Of continental splotches
That mark her conquest
Of my nape?
They are eloquent
But sorely transient
Testament to her charms,
And my capitulation.
Moreover, they make no mention
Of my willingness in the wake
Of her Yesterday-waft,
Today-talk
And Tomorrow-we'll-see.

What we need are lines to speak
In smooth stone
Of how her generous words
Tread on each others' laces
Like schoolchildreninahurry.
And her giving giggles
Echo in their wake.

But what she needs
Is a quiet moment
To shampoo out her cares
And condition the clutter from her hair.