sssith...

i wish someone has hissed that to george lucas...the fans would have been spared the 'revenge' which should have ideally been called 'the let down', and he would have rested upon his laurels as asked.

ssssith down! i wish someone had told me to do just that...the dinosaur exhibit was soooo huge, i felt my age. my arms ache from carrying the souvenirs. my two enthusiastic mates were busy touching fossils and feeling footprints...after my first scream (jurassic park, when the t.rex swallows the lawyer), i've never really been comfortable around dinosaurs (even if they are just a bunch of bones tied together with giant twisties. i realised that my stomach was twistd up in knots when we were walking back through the park and i wanted to upchuck in the Shakespeare park. (thank goodness i was spared that ignominy by the larkspurs and the last of the tulips).

i wonder if broadway plays are supposed to have so much over the top acting...i know 'The Producers' is supposed to be an exaggeration, but when the words are so clever, why exaggerate the body movements? but i seemed to be the only one in the audience who winced at some of them...and i apart from the 'adolf elizabeth hitler, descendant of many generations of english queens' the gay jokes in the play are stupid. i have way too many gay friends, some flamingly so, but none of them are so typecast as in the play. i wonder of the coffee and cheesecake have dulled everyone...

apple crumble at the europa cafe is incredible. ta!

the revenge of the sith

methinks John Abraham's 'Karam' was a far better film than Revenge of the Sith. Admitted, it steals swordfights and gunfights from all kinds of films, but at least it does so unashamedly, without pretenses. in 'Star Wars', george lucas simply uses fiery lava landscape to distract us from sad sabre fights. too many hands and legs get cut off... and it's not as fun as in Kill Bill. I was so disappointed (i have been a big big star wars fan) i wished i had seen the finale of CSI directed by Quentin Tarantino instead (i hate watching tv).

the review of the film in the new yorker magazine and the village voice is so good, i shall not say any more...shall find out if one may reproduce bits from it and post it here...

meanwhile i am off to see the dinosaur exhibit at the natural history museum...

unplanned

i planned the lace,
i planned the face,
hair and hands
and legs as well,
where and when,
were planned and how!
but your time and mine
somewhere, somehow,
could never really jell.

but just that day,
upon a whim,
when i was locked out
in the summer sun,
i called to hear your voice.

you asked me where i was,
and walked up to meet my sighs.

the dust, the heat,
had had their fill,
and my lips were
burning dry,
my clothes did smell
like a battered day,
and i know i looked like hell.

but then i kissed you,
and you kissed me,
i think it went quite well,
so danger be hanged,
and planning be damned,
i'll have it this way again!

california dreamin

it's strange. coming back to a country that once classified you as mere H4. i want to desperately feel that wide-eyed wonder tourists feel about a new place. i want to enjoy the wide open spaces and my anonymity and forget about overcrowded streets of mumbai, the claustrophobia inducing family i have left behind for a few weeks...

i am hoping something will snap me out of this weird 'untouched' mode i am in right now.

buy 'made in india' linen dresses from the petites section
calfornia chinese at 'pf changs'
new comp at fry's, the one i am using right now
starbucks coffee
new DS games
borders
seriously think of starting india's first 'public storage'
bought spongebob squarepants the movie on dvd and shall we dance (original japanese)

theres the new exploratorium to be seen, friends to be met, chocolate to be had. but why do my thoughts go back to an unfinished

stolen

was it a bad idea
on that humid
hot afternoon,
to turn
a crumpled shirt
with a brown button,
wince on a funny bone,
smudge on glasses,
arms everywhere,
undone hair,
funny moans
escaping locked lips,
taste and smell,
trembling hands,
a whispered promise
'some other time',
into a memory?

Wakt. comic timing, but little else.

as with most hindi films, one is supposed to leave the brains resting back home. when someone suggested Wakt, i thought it would be a welcome relief from the flood of the telegu movies i have been viewing lately (don't ask!).

if you are still waiting to see the film, here are a few dos and don'ts.

take your 'amitabh bachchan hai to film dekhnee hee hai' button. (remember to hide it in the wallet on way back home, then invest in 'boman irani is funny' button).

do not forget to take a calculator (or someone who can add for you). that's for counting the number of times akshay kumar breaks into tears. i'd rather see him beat up baddies in b-grade action flicks. one forgets to count simply because one gets sidetracked into debating whether the effort of squeezing out tears is actually acting or just a hidden camera thing of a constipated man.

amitabh bachchan hams it. but i am a big fan, so i could see only his impeccable comic timing. he should not be wearing abu jani sandeep khosla stuff. maybe just armani.

speaking of comic timing, i loved boman irani.

the deadpan servant thing got to be too much after a while and one began wondering what he chap is going to say that would be completely unrelated.

one could happily carry on a conversation with a pal on the cell phone (without tuning it to 'silent' mode) because the soundtrack is so loud, even the neighbor would not hear your conversation.

i think there are a few songs in the film but don't remember them, and i dont think anyone else will either.

the mom in the film wears very nice sarees.

if you have to see the film, take a few happily drunk friends along. fortify yourself with coffee or whatever (the last hour actually tests your 'stay put in the seat' skills).

the film actually uses the principle of 'suspension of disbelief' to the fullest. film schools may use it as an example in the future. am glad i do not have to study for credits any more.

*****

i saw a scene of the film being shot and was wowed by amitabh bachchan's skill. this is the scene where amitabh bachchan is at the hospital, and akshay comes to see him but then gets annoyed at his taunts, hands money over to the mom. one minute the big b was teasing me about how his fans have switched over to become fans of his son (i mentioned Dhoom a couple of times), and the next minute he had slipped into the role. absolutely effortless!

*****

I don't care what people think. Chiranjeevi decked up in a mythological costume drama. 'Manjunatha' looks heartstoppingly good! The man has legs!

Saundarya died too early. if one had to compare her to Priyanka Chopra, i'd choose Saundarya as she would look today, exhumed, any day. maybe we could offer Priyanka Chopra instead and throw in Neha Dhupia for a bargain with the devil and bring Saundarya back.

*****

seeking

the more i yearn,
the more you laugh.
the more i chase,
the further you fly.
the more i need,
the more elusive you are.

where is my pride?
where is shame?
what is this bliss i seek?
what magic is in your name?

if only you'd pause,
you'd see, my ache,
my want, my hankering,
is only for thee.

but your eyes are closed,
your thoughts elsewhere.
i ask for but one instant,
will you open your heart for me?

Tricked!

operating on apathy? me?
i admit, i used to lose
my shirt, my temper,
the change in my pocket,
and many an hour, rescuing
books lying on sidewalks,
their spines torn, pages unglued,
imaginary suffering of friends,
their tears and travails,
beer bottles buried in sand,
empty and broken,
idols immersed in oceans
overburdened with plastic,
singing birds in cages,
and performing monkeys,
outstretched skinny hands,
starved for food,
little fish from big ones,
scared cats off fences,
but i realised, tho late,
you had planned it all.
a simple ruse to distract me.
am wiser to your tricks now,
i'll let my need rule me
plain and true: i need you.
shan't hear anything but your name
see nothing but you
feel nothing but love
until you show yourself
take my hand and make me yours.

another review!

was standing in the queue for tickets to 'the aviator' when i heard two twenty-somethings ahead of me, squeal something about going to the movies together. now films have always been a lonely occupation for me. just the screen, the coffee in my hand and me. used to hate the incessant chatter when movies have all the magic. but hindi films are another creature altogether. you need company to slay it, caress it, keep it or throw it. anyway, here they were to twenty something women discussing a new film which i was certain i was never going to see it, because the woman who usually drags us to these films had just found herself a new job. so i listened in happily.

"did you know he got it lasered?"
"eeek!"
"yaa men. now he is all chicknaa. warnaa he was so hairy!"

(aah! so they are talking about anil kapoor, but why? i thought zayed khan was more their generation, but i listen on...)

"how could you see it without me!"

"sorry yaar, i had to take my mother!"

"how could you! you could have called me at least. i would have come with you! your mum knows me!"

"no re. sometimes she is just verrrry low. its been seven months since dad died naa. so she needed to be a little pampered."

"yahi film you got or what to see?!"

"aare baba but it was sooo baad! i'm telling you, tera sau rupaya bach gayaa!"

"why?!"

"aare...kareena's clothes are the only good thing about the movie!"

"lekin the promos are sooo hot --"

"they must have shot the promos separately!"

"aare...bol to rahee hoon, at least shbd they showed sanjay dutt's bare back. this one has nothing. poora waste of sau rupya!"

"what are you saying?!"

"there's no bewafaii in bewafa at all!"

(at this point they notice a huge smile across my face, and realise that i have been listening. they put a hand on their mouths and start giggling. i motion them to move forward as it is their turn to buy tickets. predictably, they are going to watch 'sins'!)

Tetherballs of Bougainville

The New York Times describes 'The Tetherballs Of Bougainville' as: lava seems lukewarm compared to Leyner's red-hot riffing on the ephemera of popular culture."

now on a normal day i would have ignored a review but the back cover enticed me with:

'Say you're thirteen years old and your father is about to be executed by lethal injection for a murder committed with a shoplifted hand-blender when you learn that you have only one day in which to submit your entry for the prestigious Vincent and Lenore DiGiacomo/Oshimitsu Polymers America Award, which is given every year for the best screenplay written by a student of Maplewood Junior High School. The problem is, you haven't come up with the title. What do you do?

If you're a kamikaze humorist Mark Leyner, you turn your predicament into a demented product that might be called a novel, if that definition can be stretched to include a hybrid of memoir, screenplay, and movie review (with a little classy poem thrown in). Navigating the remotst tributaries of popular culture, airing our most appaling and outlandish appetities, The Tetherballs of Bougainville is all the funnier because it tells the truth about who we are, right now.'

i dont care what the truth is as long as i did not have to defend not reading yet another indian author writing in pretentious english (about eminently unsuitable boys or achaar scented incest in the backwaters), or a non resident indian penning more ghastly short stories about the indian experience and then dissing india because they were so 'nu yawk'...

this book made me forget every cliche and recreated the magic that fiction could really be.

i even stole one book happily from the extensive library aboard Carnival Cruise Lines (after they conveniently lost my laptop), and thank god i did as the book is not available on amazon or powells any more.

other books by Mark Leyner are:

Et Tu, Babe
I smell Esther Williams
Tooth Imprints on a Corn Dog
My Cousin, My Gastroenterologist

like a rabidly hungry canine, i devoured all his books. after tom sharpe he is the only one that managed to convert me to putty.

altho i do freely admit to reading and being completely absorbed by Across the Nightingale Floor and all its sequels... some morantic part of me that refuses to be squished i think...and also to having read all the No.1 ladies detective agency series (positively hated the short stories by the doctor though)...

but then i absolutely watch all big bee and srk films, and write love poems...so a few brain cells are clearly not breathing.

however...partially distrcated by 'trishul' on sony, i have realised that i do not remember why i wanted to write about Mark Leyner in the first place. maybe i need to sleep. but the sins one is about to commit will keep me awake i am sure...

Light on Black!

It was early morning when the telephone rang. not having prepared myself for a social lie ' i'm busy maybe some other time...' i happened to answer, 'no...i'm free, bolo!' to this friend who happily proceeded to take advantage of my truth and rope me into seeing a film with her. Black!

as my friend Vee from Austin explains..."it's another version of 'The Miracle Worker'. Having read the play and watched the original theatrical release with 2 award winning performances, had aboslutely no desire to see another re-interpretation, albeit a desi one. So much for all the hype about something completely different, something that had never been done before.(?) Et tu, Bhansali?"

Now Vee is a movie buff,I mean she can 'movie sequence' like she programmed the damned game and in comparison, i can barely connect two or maybe three films...(the game is film sequence and you can download it from the lifetimetv web site), and when she has this opinion about the film when everyone is gushing, I thought it would be a good film to catch.

i am in the theater, and six coffees later i have no desire to use the ladies' as the damned water has been released through tears. my head is so heavy from the obscene color maniplation (not to be confused as copying off the big K's three color coded films red, white, and blue) of black and white. i have a headache and i feel grossly manipulated.

headache because everyone acts over the top. the dad hates the disabled kid, the mom is over the top illogical (one minute agrees with the dad, next minute she's kowtowing to AB), the house where the kid stays is like a library or a museum (the photographs are far too many, placed too high... did people in the house climb up ladders to view the photos?)...

I love films but i am very suspicious when copious tears are deliberstely induced by the director...looks like the dialog writer was directed: aisee lines likho ke har line par aansoo aa jaaye! close your eyes in the film and you might see shades of kadar khan there...give me sholay or deewar or even veer-zaara's 'aisa des hai mera' for that matter for dialogs that touch the heart! why, i can still recite dialogs of AB's old film Trishul...

i think the almost knee-jerk reaction to films like this one is "wow" simply because it deals with disability. hence the assumption it must be good.

"how can you laugh aloud at rani's chaplinesque walk? she's blind!"
" see how beautifully she's trying!"
this is what someone said to me as i got up to get my nthcp of coffee. i was hoping the bloody story had moved forward by the time i got back. it doesn't it gets worse! one of my friends is visually impaired, and i DO NOT SEE HER WALK LIKE THAT. and its not 'cute' or 'good direction' to have a slly chaplin film (very obviously a directors cheap trick)play at the stupid cinema theater..who's he 'kid'ding!

and what's with the weird clothes? if it's a period film then AB's clothes are buttoned all wrong. too few buttons on his jacket. and the stupid kid (sorry, just rolling the eyeballs skywards and behaving like a cheap exorcist imitationor even throwing food about is not acting, it's being a brat) wears skirts. what kind of mother puts skirts on an accident prone disabled kid? she should be wearing pants! the horrid princess leia hairdo on rani is just as bad as it was in star wars...

at film school one is taught to write out character definitions on a page to help understand progression or growth of character. eg. how will he/she dress, react to social situations etc..try figuring out the dad and the mum...you'll go crazy!

has anyone seen kamalhasans hindustani, chachi 420? or govinda's movie with multiple roles? sunny the spy or even anil kapoors fat-man make up...the prosthetics were far far superior in any of those films than this one, and this one happily gives credit to some chap for his obvious and hence shoddy make up. and what a horrendous white wig has been given to amitabh bachchan so it matches the hospital white! one did not know the disease wasted hair color as well as the brain!

given that there's nobody like amitabh bachchan. but he limps too the moment he starts doing a shake-the-head a la veer pratap singh from yash chopras latest...

forget about black. i'm betting long names for movies are soon going to make a comeback...after all black did not work, neither will sheesha or bewafa or any of the stupid movies... and we'll continue to put or hands on each other's mouths, and confound the dumb waiters at restaurants by mouthing "woaaater!"

Get Off!

Get off that merry-go-round!
It’s for people half your age!
Get off that table!
Stop that dancing!
Stop that drinking!
Stop that singing off-key!
Join the matrons now!
Your turn is done!
The sun has set,
on your parade!

Cant you see?!
We were just,
Too polite to say it!
But now it’s time,
To hang up those dancing shoes,
To put away your clown hat,
To pick up that walking stick,
And settle down quietly
in that rocking chair.

It’s time to complain
About the nasty weather,
of tired aching joints,
and sudden pains,
faltering eyesight, fine print,
And lack of civilized company.

untitled

my dreams are too endless,
my mind knows no fatigue.
i do not want peace with you,
i want you.
endlessly...

the prophesy

the awakening

when water shall touch you
you shall be marked with fire

he will walk with you in search of words
and you will sift the words for him

you will heal his fractured spirit
and he will bring to life yours

the acceptance

and you will want for nothing
if you begin to accept this your fate

fight you must for unpractised are you
the ways of fire may singe your soul

for the fire could blind you to the calls
the fire could take away the healing

temper the fire with your cool waters
let willingness mingle fire and water

the realization

fire shall rage stronger by day
memories of water soothe the nights

waters in turn shall be tamed and calm
for fire shall make strong the healing

just fifteen days before a year is marked
the water shall with fire willing meet

all else shall be put to wait
water-fire fire-water shall part not again.

coffee, you and me

Once, I hid safely
Behind smirks of coffee
And crackling conversation.

Once, my dangly ear-rings
Distracted those wanting
To look deeper.

Once, my brazen hair
Outshone happily, everything
Between my ears.

Once, my eyebrow
Raised artfully, quelled
All attempts at intimacy.

Still wondering why,
I let you unravel
This carefully knit personality,
Over mocha and samosa.


(an apparently better version of this is on caferati...)

page three, dahlings!

i would absolutely hate to have a sullen, unhappy, miserably made up, badly dressed reporter wander thru my beautifully turned out page three party. even tho she is the daughter of a very very dear friend of mine, who would rather be seen dead than wander about a party dressed like a JNU drop out. yes, yes, dahlings. I finally saw 'page three'.

and loved the film. really really loved the film. the drivers were real, their language was so cool i wish i had taken down some of the lines. i wish i had written some of those lines. i cannot stop laughing about one of them calling his boss 'doberman' because i am reminded of not so long ago when a friend called her husband 'gabbar'...i absolutely luuurrrved the cop with a short fuse and a degree from ferguson; he was so sooo manly, i forgave him his profuse perspiration. i loved the creepy movie director who asks in a deadpan voice, 'degi kya'. i loved the karva chauth party. i loved the socialites. i loved when dolly thakore says, "show me something in white". i loved the snivelling secretaries of hunks. i loved sandhya mridul. even loved the ingenue from dilli. i love atul kulkarni walking to lecture konkona in kolhapuri chappals. i wish i had written the maachis exchanging scene between the policeman mister bhonsle and atul kulkarni. i loved everyone except our oily bengoily babe who was practically in every frame of the film.

don't know what madhur bhandarkar was hoping to get out of having the 'jhi'-like konkona sen wander around the brilliantly shot parties. she was so sullen i wanted NOT to gossip with her...i suppose he probably needed approval from the arty set...but she was so yukky i wanted to make a 'cold cream mein kitnee chipchipahat' wala 30 seconder...her make up was oily, i checked my own t-spot several times thru the film. and so many close-ups! shudder! atul kulkarni looked cleaner than her. hasn't anyone informed her of an oil-free face-wash?

everyone around our sullen (someone slap her! she has a job, and she cribs and cribs and cribs!) reluctant page three girl grows up as a character. the dilli girl, sandhya mridul, the various boy friends, the editor, and why, even the socialites manage to grow as characters. while crib queen just wanders about in clothes my bandra maid would not wish to be seen dead wearing. i mean what's with khadi gramodyog type kurtas? looking at her awful clothes, and worse ear-rings, i know for sure that she would not have the sense to figure out if wore a dated armani or a brand new araiya outfit to the party.

i know page three reporters who are so smart, so quick on the uptake that she looks out of place. she has no special dialogs, so when she makes that one smart crack as she tells the 'mate' 'lock the door next time', it seems like someone else said it.

sorry i sniggered when i saw her best mate and her boy friend make out. 'bound to happen!' cooed a silly co-ed sitting in the row behind us. 'they are so sexy and she is so eeeek!'

and i protest vehemently if anyone calls this acting:

she lands up in a madh bungalow where children are 'working'. her expression as she opens the bedroom door should have been that of a suicidal fish surprised at the worm that came with the hook, not as if she really expected a puja.

she is at an underwear shoot as a reporter. she looks like shes auditioning for balika bodhu, she simpers and smiles so coyly i want someone to tell her there are page three reporters who could tell you they've seen naked pool parties and would never bat an eyelash in surprise.

she even reacts badly when she is asked to be crime beat babe. i would be thrilled, because that's what i wanted, and to be training under the newspaper's best crime guy...she looks as if she were being made to drink castor oil.

so, should you see it?

But, of course! if the film were so bad, would i have wasted my time sitting through it? have walked out of naach and have asked people to stop munching popcorn when we were watching schindler's list, so would i tell you to see it if i had not loved it?! with neverland in the theaters which is goooood? i would have told you go see shark tale, or even the incredibles in hindi, or watch a re-run of kuch kuch hota hai- on sony tv...

go see it! but spend only the morning show money. 50 bucks is way too much already for the torture of seeing the sullen babe.



afterthought:
maybe she should be cast in and as 'phoolandevi II, the return to death valley'

maybe i would cast the girl who does the society pages for the Mid-day instead...

maybe i would cast the decomposing body of parveen babi instead...

Blame it on the kimmam

methinks the khan and karan johar ought to do a 'lata mangeshkar' on the errant nandy babe. on the other hand maybe the entire film industry will automatically do a 'lata mangeshkar' on PNC...

what's a 'lata mangeshkar' you say? our very catty nightingale had once effectively killed competition from bole re papihara babe from the south by simply saying: shan't sing for anyone who asks her to sing.

i was also wondering why we have not heard a peep out of that pony-tailed self-styled management guru who insisted he was going to storm the film world by his well-researched film...the film came and went and no one including the audience cared...i don't think people even bothered to review it...only khunnas is, why are we so tolerant of fake guys like arindam chowdhary, and don't ask him to go back to his books or in the very least stop calling himself an expert or cut his pony tail off as an old fashioned prayaschitt...

maybe we should have a little more decency or self control and not show beautiful women in a state of decomposition... am speaking of parveen babi...even if it sells newspapers...

have suffered this control mechanism within that will not allow alcohol to get me off balance, neither will it allow the weed to work...but have discovered an old fashioned high called kimmam. it's going to help me thin-slice everyday life. and if you have not read blink, you will not understand what i am talking about. so until then, i leave you to fester...

Late

I wandered about the house silently mouthing the name we had made up for you. I wondered how your pudgy baby arms would feel around my neck. I hugged myself. I have been doing that a lot lately. And smiling. I unwittingly walk into the room we have painted for you. Swirls from ‘Night Sky’. Yes, we want you to adore the same pictures. Listen to Bhimsen Joshi and Nusrat. We have even decided that you have to hear ‘Ode’ in German and not the crass ‘joyful, joyful’. Then I smile as I look at my image reflected in the glass that protected me from the cold January breeze beating down Council Crest. Portland was beautiful in winter, baby, and daddy will take you skiing on Mount Hood or maybe Rainier. Mommy would be waiting at the Lodge, memorizing Scrabble lists (so she could beat daddy at the game once again), until both would return, so tired from playing in the snow, you would sleep in the car on the way back home. I smile again. The word ‘mommy’ was far cry from the swear-a-sentence Armani clad creative director who could quell arguments with just one raised eyebrow. But I did not mind it. I know I am not cut out for diaper smells, or strewn toys, or baby burps or even bawling babies. I have never ever held a baby in my hands before, never wanted to. But you have changed that already. I have willingly stepped out of my stilettos and silk tights into hush puppies and track pants. I will never buy a baby bag with teddy bears and pink elephants but your diapers would be happy in the black Calvin Klein baby tote, I think.

I frown. Why was the phone ringing so much? What had happened to the answering machine?

Ah… the girls had not given up on me yet. We are going shopping, baby! Vee masi and your momma were going shoe hunting at Nordstrom. Maybe we will check the Rack out as well. The difference between Vee masi and momma was that Vee masi bought shoes when she was unhappy, and momma bought shoes just because she could.

The drive is fun, 108 fm is playing Bad Company again. I must remember to take the chunk of clay rolling about the trunk and dump it at the Community College. Mommy is not allowed to sit at the wheel any more. But when you grow up a bit, I shall teach you all about glazes.

Daddy is going to meet me at Powell’s after I’m done shopping. We’ll have cookies and chai and maybe not resist buying one more baby book, and then come home.

I buy three pairs of flatties. How much Vee and I laugh at the change. But I cannot resist that sexy two-toned slingback, so I give in. Maybe I can wear them after you are born…

Powell’s is so crowded I cannot find your daddy. My feet ache, my back aches and I am in the Blue Room, leaning against the bookshelf. Where is your daddy? Suddenly everything seems to recede. Thank god your Daddy materializes. What is he looking at me like that for? Why are so many crowding me? Go away all you people. I am just dazed a bit from shopping, that’s all.

I tell you baby, your daddy is going drive me crazy with his concern. He has left his car in the parking lot and hey he’s driving me to St.Vincents’. Maybe I should just lean back and close my eyes. Why is my back aching so much?

He’s talking to Doctor Arvind on the car phone, does not want to listen to me. I am going to be fine, let’s just go home. Don’t crash the gears; it’s a sports car sweetie, not your Montero.

St.Vincents is cold. My head hurts. The stupid nurse insists I sit on the wheelchair. Really! I am pregnant, not ill. But I feel so tired. I do not wish to argue any more. I feel silly being wheeled around like that. And will someone listen to me? The wheelchair is wet! It’s making my clothes wet. See hon, touch this, it’s wet, isn’t it? Why am I am feeling so tired? Someone will please someone get me off the wet chair? Why are you shouting my name? And why is your hand bloodied? Hell! They made me sit down on a bloodied chair! My white Gap pants will never be the same! Oh Doctor A, there you are! Sorry about all this fuss. What? Just that my back hurts like hell. Huh? Too late? What are we late for?

random

wolves are unforgiving,
but never quiet.
come, bay at the erring moon.

*****************************

shaam dhalte dhalte
hamara bhi kuch loot gayee hai
koi roko use, wah --
raat mein gul ho chali hai.

jazz

under orion's shadow
and a waxing moon
fate did sprinkle
a handful of stardust
on you and me last evening.

"give in, give in," said the stars.
but you, determined to be difficult,
let me drown my desires
in the capuccino swirls,
and the last few crumbs
of unholy dark chocolate
sticking to the lazy curves
of a silver spoon called need.