dream is a vagabond

a mutant moon’s sordid prying,
behind murky moist blinds,
bared ruptured penances .
bated breath dithered the flames,
with the sibilant coil's touch;
as lights went off brazen longings.
along the vacant lanes,
silhouetted ruins
of sinuous desires loitered,
near the pane, with parted
red tulips drenched in luscious dew
gnawing at dormant dreams.
dark, amorous facades
unfastened ,unleashing
whiffs of wistful vapors
burning, voluptuousness.
eldritch light deflected off
carnal shadows.
then the blue moon’s prudery
obscured itself into a starless sky,
to become an eclipsed mind.

“These people abstain, it is true: but the bitch Sensuality glares enviously out of all they do”.

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The cow’s indolent moo at 11 am
induce multiple yawns,
the time, when lac-reeking envelopes and postcards
arrive at the local post office in my village;
the tea time luckily coinciding with,
to wash down hints of erosive eroticism,
inciting nagging lassitude.
Sounds of music, football, tops and marbles
and moss reeking breeze from the pond,
salvaged the moment’s catch,
at the critical time of 11AM
on a dull holiday,
cached in the hypothalamus.

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I like the dust on window sills.
I like it more on the windows of an old church,
an abandoned one if there was one.
Dust, the pristine remoteness of its virginity
rests in it’s attribute of ‘untouchability’.
On the altar, the idol,
on the archaic staircases, photographs,
vessels,swords and truth,
a covert uniqueness,
a positive imagination sleeps
covered, and in waiting.

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The distant lights grayed enough to erase the silhouette of the vagabond. Day -blind owl’s hoots falling on deaf ears. One fifth of his freedom became deafness. The tangible went begging for choices when abstract kept itself seated on a bench, in a nook of the square. Creation loomed beards in indifferent chins while autonomous nerves stomped liberation’s blooms.Knowledge became ‘heartbeats and respirations’. Clang of coins leaving just enough tang on the tongue, winding like vines to fasten tightly around the apparent. Snakes stay put in the holes as fearless wretchedness became freedom’s synonym.
Then the moon came out to shine on the vagabond.

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The drenched crow
sat on a perch,
akin to a cross
least scared of the
crawling shadows of dark,
the torrential power
in concert with heaving
green waves
brought things to sadden
in twilight,
pecking it’s sodden
uncombed wings.

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