Tuesday, November 8, 2011

The Soul Guitar

My pregnant guitar sleeps
on the meretricious zone of my dispatched room.
The foetus of your heart’s song
tediously grows inside the womb of my guitar.

The strings of my guitar
are like your eyelashes
where I jingle the chords and rhythms of your tears
with the tip of my thundering fingers.

My one-armed guitar
have six fingers.
The extra finger
points at the automatic digital emotion
that lies between you and me.

I sing the song of your red ribbon.
I pluck in the tunes of your shampooed hair.
I taste the philharmonic melody of sweets that you send.

I write letters to the unborn foetus
on the wrapper of those sweets
and I pack a smiling moon
on the remaining wrapper for you.

Your soft feet
gently steps over my chest
and you walk all through my lungs.

let’s count full-moons
on the calendar of our phagocyte minds
and let’s just play a chord
which would make us a double full-moon.

Close my eyes
with your palms
and let me create
a virgin solar eclipse.

Sometimes, you and me
drinking cappuccino in a crowded restaurant.
Sometimes you and me
riding in a rickshaw
with a sweating map of codified city
under your armpits.

Sometimes you and me
eating the reflection of stars.

I see you
with the eyes of roses.
I talk to you
with the lips of roses.

Sometimes you and me
growing just like bush of roses.

I just go for a bike ride
with a hangover of whiskey
under my shoes.

The guitar guides my journey
speaking like a prophet.
It preaches me about
words and music.
It tells me a story
 - a story about a widow and her empty bed.
- a story about a college boy and ashes of cigarettes.
- a story about sex, fame and filthy money.
- a story about branded smiles and wound with price tags.
- a story about hate, anger and mute faces on television.

The front lash of this guitar
is like your face.
The back lash of this guitar
is like mine.

And we melt into one face
in one solitary frame of this guitar.

I turn over
the photograph,
a dusty lens of camera,
few posters on the wall
and bottles of dry fabric paint.

I was a painter and a printer,
who painted and printed
brainless heads of mountain,
who painted and printed
your age, your breath, your whispers.

Your anger calmly sleeps
inside the refrigerator
with some cold curd and pine-apple juice.

Your words
hits the glasses of my window
like the grains of monsoon rain.

We used  to stand together
under the huge church bell..
You often talked about your father’s modesty,
I often talked about my mother’s delusion.

Your bangles used to give music
to some of my lyrics
which I wrote
in the yellowish pages of Peepal leaf.

Those lyrics were bullets
that was never fired from a revolver.
Those lyrics were grains of wheat
that never grew in the soil of pleasures.

I have piles of audio cassettes and disks
where I dig the laser beams of fantasy.

A tea cup falls down
and my lyrics spills
all over the floor.

Do you still search for time under your pillow?
Do you still listen to air stuck in wind-chimes?
Do you still wish to go on a river-side adventure?
Does your daddy still look for a NRI husband for you?

I recall the days
when I listened to jazz in a radio.
My black radio used to yell and cry.

It was a radio
that I purchased from nobody
and I sold it to none.

Last autumn
we just sat near a lake
biting and chewing rows of roasted corn.

That was the day
when thousands of farmers died in the country.
Maybe the corn tasted like some dead bodies.

You are an orphan of two hundred weeks,
I am a father of nobody’s child.

Just remove the cobwebs
from the rotten windows and creaky doors.
Heat up the freezing silence from your mouth.

I have some pills full of songs.
Take it. Swallow it. Sing it.

My pregnant guitar sleeps
on the meretricious zone of my dispatched room. 
The foetus of your heart’s song
Tediously grows inside the womb of my guitar.


  1. its very much like us daa.....strangers of poke generation.

    1. @amit mamau!! thanks for tolerating me line by line.

      @pallawib_ yes bhai...infact its a virtual poking.