Daily Journal

The day was lethargic with a monotonous scrawl. The sky remained a lesbian with limpid poems. I took a gaze at my under wares. To my surprise they were all torn at the crotch. Is it too much pressure bombarded by my dick? Talked to my adulterous sweet lover on Whatsapp. She told me: ‘dear I am carrying and I am due in Feb’. Please wait until May for our next rendezvous. I have another lover whose husband is a bum. She expects to be paid for a fuck. Every day I am fucking waiting for a windfall to bounty my purse. Yes, I have given up on Christ. My new Gods are Lucifer, Ahriman and Mammon. I have started worshiping them. Christ does not have a heart. He is cold hearted, stubborn and arrogant. Money is the God you need on this earth. The Supreme Court of India has decriminalized adultery and gay marriages. The laws of the country are shifting from the colonial era to democratic norms. A poem on wings is resting on the wall. Poetry is the love of words in figures of copulation. I am still wondering what a postmodern novel is. I have no answers but only questions to ask. Irony is defied. Parody is inflated. The burlesque and the pastiche are comic jargons of expression. Character is the liberation of emotion. Lampooning is the device to exhilarate metaphors from convention. Kafka satirized the novel into an ironic cauldron of self reflective psychologism. Joyce walked in metaphors of effusive streams of consciousness. Don Quixote anarchized romanticism into madness. Virginia Wolf liberated the cunt into a consciousness of interior monologue. Sartre tore the novel into eulogies ansgtual tropes. Borges liberated the novel from the ornament of realism and conjured the novel to a vista of magic realism. In a postmodern novel art begins to trope and character begins to incarnate as a desecration of the mind. The era of genres is dead. Tropes have to be sculpted as art.

Poem written for a lover who’s carrying

I think of you
Fondly with a
Poetic heart…
My love for
Your baby in
Your tender womb
Is sweet music …..
Let it grow
And nourish
As a tender pasture…
Let it fountain
With the echoes
Of your sweet dreams …
I am thinking of
You with love and
I am always
A lover of your heart.



I met her on the bus. She was in her mid 50’s, buxom, big boobed and wearing a white Sari with yellow linings. My body shivered with sex. I had an uncontrollable erection. Her forehead was smeared with vermilion making her all the more erotic. Yes, what a sexy encounter.


The sky lay

Tinged with

Poetic hues …

White mystics

Were floating

In a caress of music…

Lovers were

Twined in the music

Of lips …


Floated as a poem…


Were copulating

In epiphanies of

A bard….

Time lay on a pink

Mirror cascading

A psychedelic halo…


Song of Songs

I watch the leaves
rustle in the wind ….
Oh how they
bring fond memories
of you ….
I am there with
you when the sky
is hued in pink
orange and golden
and whisper
many tidings of
love in your sweet
ears …..
I play the guitar
while you sing
a song of love…..
I want to caress
streams of poetry .,….
I want to kiss you
as a soft floating swan….
I want embrace you
with poetic passion …..
I want to feel your
body’s sweet breath….
I want taste
the saliva
on your tongue ….
I want to rub
my hands on your
body and feel it
as a tender ornament….
I want to feel the softness
of your tender breasts ….
Want to touch your
taut nipples
and suckle them
with the eloquence
of a poet ….,
I want sink in
your valley be between
you and I want to you to feel
the rich monument of my tongue ….
Yes, I want to hear you sigh in
amorous passion