nan: December 2007

The loom of life By: suraj sharma 0 comments

Now that the labyrinth has been made throughly numb,
all we have to do is follow
the malleability of ambition, risking of course,
the collapse of conviction

when we are on the edge push will come to shove
then we will find the abominable abyss we so dreaded
to be only an echo in the nightmare of history
inept and inconsistent with the waking propellants of desire

And those in the higher echelons shall beckon
And those in lower rungs shall be inspired
The trajectory of dreams will find congruence then,
And the threads of existence shall dance in the loom of life.

Season's Greetings By: suraj sharma 1 comments

Winter stumbles under the drunkard poet’s gratitude
The provenance of ten thousand trembling thoughts
Burning like the fireplace he can only dream of tonight

He’s smashed but the derelict has yet to disintegrate
Slouched, he thinks he’s aerodynamic for the gods who’re
Wondering if he’s hovering or merely levitating in delight

The threshold of pleasure retreating into the night
With promises of bitter strength injected at dawn-
Paracetamol greets him with the season's best

In answer to her question By: suraj sharma 2 comments

Your question will not make us wise
Some answers aren’t made for speech
But the truth is, eyes meet eyes
Souls find souls - there’s one for each

It’s not that the answer is any more clear-
Than the voices I hear - though they motivate
But who’s to debate over what fools hear?
And who may hear what fools debate?

You might be my long-sought twinkling star
Or maybe just a reminder of this romantic riot
You’ll be mine eventually- even if as a battle-scar
But for now, keep close and keep quiet.

Porn Star By: suraj sharma 2 comments

Trashy porn star effortlessly slides
Around the well-oiled corners
Of my dirty mind

Autumn Migration By: suraj sharma 2 comments

The flutter of autumn,
Birds in migratory excitement
Cedar twigs wave

On Poetry By: suraj sharma 0 comments

Poetry is for those with too much time,
To put aside
As remnants of our fleeting glory -
Words multiply and divide

But which word’s worth is more
Than the inscrutability of them all?
No, poetry is a mere amplification,
An exaggeration - however small

We are but an accursed lot
Us mathematicians of desire,
Though poetry gets us nowhere
But at least it gets us higher.

Free By: suraj sharma 0 comments

Que Sera Sera,
Whatever will be, will be
The best things in life are free

To run away.