Leonino Monsoon

The quickest Monsoon
An unexpected boon
Came the year I recovered from my leonine fear

Match-boxed in a maze
Opposite a lion in a daze
In Summer, a chronic diesease
With Talk, a poetic lease
We dissected Calcutta, the organ
Using Sex, the paroxysmal gun

What followed was
Of course
The prediction of rain in a Land of Cards
And euphoric killing with colorful darts
Which speed-posted Monsoon
The quickest bullet balloon.

 

Dreaming Of The Gulf

Photography: Rathin Mitra

                                                                                                                    
I

You know a place has touched you when weeks after you have left the same
You feel and talk and dream of a return which is nothing but a waiting game
A game; if it is so, I am willing to play. Only this time without a playmate
without my moonshine, without my brother, playing Pillow Castle love-hate.


II
I know that place has tapped me because often I still smell the Emirates in the air
And feel the cutting sea wind by the Breakwater, a water break-love story so rare
I know that place is young when I see the blue of the sea, the sky and a cocktail
And sleep at the backseat of a Cruiser, with almost the feel of a sea sail.

The Shadow Lovers

Photography: Rathin Mitra

Running through the street
With a storm under her feet
She reaches the old man’s den

The timepiece, oblivious of when

Knowing he would understand
The ruin of her castle of sand
With hope she pushed the door
In need of his unusual lore

In the stead of him she found
The room oddly crowned
With a heap of broken records
Which seemed to play unheard chords

Passing through scattered yellow hardbacks
A smell which every paperback lacks
She sees her old man on his bed
With almost no wrinkle on his bald head

He always looked as young as a lover
Resembling a Marquez story cover
Who only became younger
In the company of her female hunger

This time she came to let him know
Her story of the lowest low
That for long she was ailing
In her last days she was sailing

She tapped him on the shoulder
To wake him up from his slumber
But he lay there on a bed soaked with urine
With ears which were not too keen

She called him for the next two days
But he was lost in his deceased haze
He never woke up to hear
Or to hold his ailing whore near

In a day or two she too took the cue
To start a flight, brand new
Amidst diseased books and infected laughter
The corpses lived happily ever after.