Sweet Sensation 

Your words are like hummingbirds 

hovering across the blushing flowers on the sides of my head, 

the flutter of their wings echoing through my auditory passages;

the sound flows across my nerves 

like honey curling around the thumb of a beekeeper 

as he softly squeezes the hive, and your tongue 

presses against my mind releasing oxytocin like pollen: 

and you vapourise clouds of powdered sugar 

into the air around us with your pirouetting eyes that skirt my gaze, 

and like rivers they feed into my ocean; 

oceans that were sitting on the sills of their windows 

looking out at the setting winter sun, 

but are now falling, 

feet first, eyes looking up, 

down, past earth, 

into wells that ran dry only because they were too deep 

to have a bottom — 

and storms rage in their turbid waters, 

fed by rivers flowing through valleys with hummingbirds and bees.
[PS: Wednesday posts seem to be back for now.]

Masquerading Liberty

Photography by the author.
Let dulcet music ride through the tawny 

bells that cling like indifferent babies to 

the waves of paper that mother it. 

Evade all the feces floating in the canals, 

by wearing masks like the water:

a shade of diluted moss or snowy lapis,

with vibrant flowers of apple and rose 

Or apricot and marigold or banana and corn

floating silently like humble spectacles.

Embellish the superficial reflection of 

a cherry-or-cobalt-lipsticked woman with 

a baroque, gold embossment that steals 

away the light of flickering tongues, rising 

from bronzed mouths with ashen teeth held 

by black-eyed men with quivering shoulders 

but stiff hands, and spits it onto the shadowy 

knolls and valleys of the dynamic acqua.

Follow the masquerade along the 

fondamenta and watch faces drawn by 

gods in candlelight-glow along rugas.

Let the plucked and spruced feathers from 

squawking birds that had their wings clipped-

That proudly adorns your head like the dome of 

St Mark- bring a tailwind under your arms and 

help you grow the wings of pigeons that fell 

on the ancient squares of masegni in the Piazza.
[PS: Wednesday posts might be just replaced with one post within every seven days, with atleast 4 a month]

Jazz Hands

The second in a series titled identity. The first piece was ‘Strut’ (Walks).

This is a stock image.
Usually my wrists hang limp,like my bones are broken–

broken like a twig snapped in half,

the leaves on the other end

being starved of their nutrition;

they are the branches of the weeping willow,

stooping low to bend

in the presence of the almighty Sun.

But take a second to hear the

rhythm of my footsteps, 

feel them tap-tap-tap along.

My world is jiving, honey, 

and so are my hands-

they snap up like whack-a-moles

(Oh! You can try to whack me down)

and flash like neon lights:

come watch me!

They send electric sensations

off the tips of my fingers,

be safe lest you get electrified-

watch these jazz hands, honey,

watch them.


The first in a series titled identity. The second piece is ‘Jazz Hands.’

This is a stock image.
Loose cobblestones rattle under my padded feet:

Cobblestones made of fear, hope and flimsy beliefs.

Eyes drawn to each other are forced apart on empty

Streets- why do we shy away like brides meeting their

Thieves? Ruefully toes curl up in their moist niche,

Lapping up the clouds in their suffocating cotton clothing:

They curl in tandem with my wobbling cherry knees,

Searching their way through other’s sure-footed feet.

Marking lines with my heels, my pivoting rotor hips 

Twinkle and wink at passing trees and ask for things

They know they can’t receive: so they blend into

The billowing wind, billowing cloth, billowing skin-

Hidden under a jumble of garments, and stubbornly

Plant their buttocks into the wind and don’t budge 

From their silent seats, pulled along on whisper-leashes.

For Harnidh Kaur

This is for Harnidh Kaur, a great poet and a generally aware, active person. Here is her blog. Check out her instagram @harnidhk as well.

Have you ever walked the purple brick road?

It’s a long, winding path adventurers take,

Lined and adorned by trinket stores

Holding all the memories left behind 

By the pedestrians of the road.

I took this road once, heart in one hand, 

Brain in the other: balancing them precariously,

I walked on, trudging relentlessly 

to find an end I thought I could see.

Then 14 miles and a little way in

(Young as the journey was),

The wind stopped by, resting on my shoulder

And whispered to me, “where do you go?”

To the end of the purple brick road, I said,

To the end of the purple brick road.

She was silent and betrayed no reactions,

She only jumped off and glided along.

I watched her as she rang the chimes on a windowsill

(It seemed old and made of gold, a story in itself),

As she toppled an empty bottle to look 

At the symbols engraved on the table under it.

She tumbled ahead and paused to sing with the choir on the roof,

And I walked on watching, breathing.

We met again later- she was beside me this time

“Where do you go?” she asked again.

I paused. 

To the end of the purple brick road? I asked.

She pushed my arms, urging me, and with a quizzical expression

I put my heart and mind in its place and moved my hands.

They moved to feel the grooves of those symbols she uncovered.

My mind off the balancing game, 

I looked around and saw the stories and the dreams

Held in those trinket shops, memories left behind-

And she, the restless wind had already gone on,

Playing with the world’s treasures, as she was named.

Requesting collabs

Hey guys, I’ve had a writing slump lately and I thought I could get out if it by working out some collabs. I’m already working on a few with my friends, but I’m also open to collabs with others.

Although I prefer poetry as a medium, I enjoy writing prose as well. So any form of writing collabs are welcome!

It’d also be great if any of you want to collab on photos, sketches, videos, paintings or any sort of visual media to which I can write an accompaniment piece.

The same applies for any sort of musical recordings or audio media. Feel free to approach me with anything you have and we can work out a way for my writing to be used in it.
As for the actual collaboration process itself, there are many methods- alternate lines, first half-second half, completely discussed- and I want to work with as many forms as possible. If you have a certain method, then we’ll use that. We can do two collabs-one for your blog/site and one for Motley Marginalia- or one that we both publish if you want to. 
Please comment below or

e-mail me at arecus2000@gmail.com 

if you’re interested.

On Saying Things

Moist watermelon lips part like friends who

Never enjoyed each other’s company, no

Looking back, no hesitant lingering;

They enunciate with diction clearer dew

Dancing on leaves dressed up as santa’s elves

And structure their sentences like the careful

Planning of a bedroom architect with lego,

Building baroque skyscrapers out of plastic:

They pronounce words, flowing like summer air

On a hilltop sprinkled over with chartreuse sugar

Crystals- words that follow the chirp of crickets:

Stridulating louder and faster, pushed on by the

Amalgamating chirping of other crickets repeating

The same syllables over and over like little,

Oblivious children told to repeat their teachers’

Words; and I foolishly fall into their lure like

Indra and Ahalya, a snake charmed by the 

Movement of its charmer; my dry, brick-lips

Begin rupture like pipes unable to hold their

Water and the blood slides across their surface

To give an even coating like strawberry skin

And so my lips, perfectly glazed over with

Bitter, red caramel follow the others, adding 

Another drop to the never-ending pitter-patter.
[Art: red lips by AnaMaz on deviantart]