I am She
I am Her
Some days I like my coffee black,
on others with a pint of whiskey,
there are days I cry watching Casablanca but
there is no day I like pink on me.
Yes I am bad at math,
but dude, anyday I can beat you in arm wrestling
I could have twins some day,
but throw a bomb next Tuesday.
I can dye my hair red tomorrow
and you can watch my thillana danced the thanjavoor way.
I earn more than the guy I am with,
I don't sleep with my boss,
but I could, and oh she is a woman.
Every third friday of the month I get a little mad at the world
and no, every other sunday I don't wish I was married with kids and
Some days I make love,
Sometimes i just fuck,
I am still She,
I am still Her,
I just am not
every one of your stereotype.
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Nothing much of a story
Like a premonition
the two clocks in the room
stopped in unison,
stuck in an awkward spreading
at 9 and 2.
perplexed in the vacuity
of the abrupt end
An anthropologist, his subject
A poet, her lover,
and their nothing much of a story.
Through the Venetian blinds
time still streamed in
like it had when it all began
over a shoddy copy of Klimt's water snakes
when like an effortless poem that came back
in an inchoate afternoon dream,
love had come and
locked its arms like the lesbian lovers
around their recalcitrant minds
weighing it down with pleasant inertia
belonging in a pair of two.
Time still sweeps in,
like stale coffee and yesterdays's winter
in the darkness of the night outside
over abandoned signposts in unfinished journeys
wearing down memories that will
have no retelling in some future gathering,
Still on a night like this I will say it
for you to hear,
this nothing much of a story,
for the sake of nothing
but love that was here
and knew it had to leave.
the two clocks in the room
stopped in unison,
stuck in an awkward spreading
at 9 and 2.
perplexed in the vacuity
of the abrupt end
An anthropologist, his subject
A poet, her lover,
and their nothing much of a story.
Through the Venetian blinds
time still streamed in
like it had when it all began
over a shoddy copy of Klimt's water snakes
when like an effortless poem that came back
in an inchoate afternoon dream,
love had come and
locked its arms like the lesbian lovers
around their recalcitrant minds
weighing it down with pleasant inertia
belonging in a pair of two.
In between there were
insignificant days
nights in a hurry
lunches missed
and dinners had on time
there were thoughts
autumns,
desires,
disagreements over high necked pink sweaters,
post marxism,
and
a loud laugh in a silent room of strangers.
Time still sweeps in,
like stale coffee and yesterdays's winter
in the darkness of the night outside
over abandoned signposts in unfinished journeys
wearing down memories that will
have no retelling in some future gathering,
Still on a night like this I will say it
for you to hear,
this nothing much of a story,
for the sake of nothing
but love that was here
and knew it had to leave.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
..answers in you
On such a day
when I left my thoughts out in the open sky
to dry up, shrivel under sun's naked gaze,
tiny raisins of left over ruminations
to be picked up by strangers
and nibbled on with strange ennui
It bothered me
that like the pigeons that came picking after
leaving droppings of undigested desires,
how for my incessant questioning
I still rake for answers in you.
when I left my thoughts out in the open sky
to dry up, shrivel under sun's naked gaze,
tiny raisins of left over ruminations
to be picked up by strangers
and nibbled on with strange ennui
It bothered me
that like the pigeons that came picking after
leaving droppings of undigested desires,
how for my incessant questioning
I still rake for answers in you.
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