Corruption

Wiping my nose on your shirt
You look constipated as the gooey liquid sticks to your sleeves,
And then you smile
You look so camel (wise and old) as you smile.

This is how we were,
Before love corrupted us.

The devil

On the ruff texture
Talking
My lips feeling the spiral
My fingers holding your touch
Irritating philosophy

It was not for me to interpret
I was just 'yet another person'
Drifting in disfigured patterns
The devil
Caught in desires
wasted...

Smelling Celluloide

In the dead of night,

My fingers grope to reach you,

Dropping all the pretences of love

Making our bodies available to each other

Though only through a medium

The celluloid

Wanting to get over the covers and clothes

And then the curiosity got hold of me

Now in the dark I grope in dreams, turning the celluloid into you

Entangled limbs not mine, but ours

Only to touch

Smell

Hear your body...

Alas, digitalized bodies don’t even smell of celluloid.

Without Touching

Desiring frames tumble out of my FZ38

Revealing me

Some black here, some purple there

Otherwise shades of skin

Curves some ugly some sensuous

Without any alibi,

 Or temptations

Temptation only of u materialising out of those pictures

 Some hair there, some black here, and shades of skin

And those curls

And me again turning you into celluloid prints without touching those shades of skin.

Hexapla

• Disintegrating circles of a stage left spectacle.

• Flattering, frivolous, flirtatious.

• Hormonal conflict between coffee and chocolate.

• The worst are full of passionate intensity.

• Everything against love as guilty of 'alcohol induced infidelity.'

• Waking moments of agnosticism.

And us, 'tumbling out of the womb', displaced in its origins.