Statutory Warning

Getting people to share
in toxicants in
your room, on your bed
is a nefarious sin.
Not recommended.
I do it all the time. Yesterday
the hibernating vestigial dreams
beneath the silent pillow
were cremated by
the jest of a cigarette stub
as it slipped off
to bury
a hole.

Eclectic Dream IX

A rustle is audible
between the clicking
scissor leaves, as
they open
and shut. A fleet
of stairs below
the percolation
of winter rain
in between her unclicking lips
resembles an old country trailer
as it fills up the rusted siding .


© Aditya Bahl 2009

Languor, diagnosed

What is this
untiring unfamiliar feeling
which afflicts stars
treading the mill
of a winter night clock,
and turns grey
the walls
of a one room bakery.


© Aditya Bahl 2009

Elastic Sunsets

a delayed, slight bloom
in the half closed eyelid,
of the dim evening sun
was revealed on to the lane below,
overridden
by rubber tires, fresh dark tar;
in platonic measures, somehow

all leaving with an aftertaste
of her affectionate gaze on early mornings
telling the boy how he'd inherited
another monthly assortment of fines
while he lost
his disconfected sense to her
on the school entrance
penniless,
delayed 15 minutes
by half dead batteries and
half closed eyelids,
again.

© Aditya Bahl 2009

Rebels are Glorified

always. We defied the mid road,
an almost invisible mound. It was
a one
and a half meter rebellion.

© Aditya Bahl 2009

Intimacy in Winters

can be hard to come by.

Knots are very intimate entities.
each knitted
into seemingly infinite kaleidoscopes
replicated into
the size 37 finiteness of these flannel sweaters.

a transfixed young, dull boy
gets acquainted
with the cornea
of his stagnant ceiling fan.
it reflects
nothing.

i impassively still, arbitrate the verity
of wintry boomerangs.

© Aditya Bahl 2009

Of an invisble fungi stench

Imagination has the sweetest stings
of all. Liberation can be distressful,
a little bit.

With flourish of flouride froth
in my mouth, I think of
how the wood tempts a young boy
with showers of orange tinted, dead leaves
on the mellow grey of his sweaters.

and .. .. with the inconspicuous guilt,
of an amnesiac assassin,
how my room, stinks with
an invisible fungi overgrowth.
It might be my own doing.

© Aditya Bahl 2009