Good evening iowa

iowa

 

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SunealVarma

Hi iowa

iowa

 

 

https://www.google.com/search?q=blinkcats.IOWA@blogger.com

 

 

 

SunealVarma

5 paintings for Roger Key

My camera kisses the boot
of the car
brand new and
afraid to come out

Studio A
has broken windows
so drunk homeless can sleep
Perry's garage is torn like a slit dress

the tyre hangs on the tree by the cricket fields
the buskers must live in sculpture cave
as soothing spirits stroke your brow

the piano plays at midnight

harsha park

looking at the green trees
childhood rains
become large drops falling
in frog ponds

the eucalyptus leaves are in crystal gutters
we splash rubber shoes
wilson feels crabs'd bite us

the cube fences and the evening swelling rotis
on a slow fire

aunt knows pride of a poor boy that shows off someone else's building

Bombay Streets

you know how hope burns with tar
on the streets making your poisoned feet
red and black on hopscotches

in Wellington you walk without your slippers
and though your skin could peel in 30 years
you walk Erskine unwrapping cameras

what you saw there the first time
and when she was there
is it still
there?

Merciless

bloody moon
is
boiling
bright


a mad
murderous
bombay night

mercury merciless
without respite
a mean
meandering
burning
light

art school wizards

I pick leaves and barbed wires
for nude women
the charcoal slides
like a memory of an old friend
talk to the black on a day, Ac/Dc turns
40 year-olds into bald teen-ragers
sun burns and ducks hide
blue dragonflies live their lives
i steal yellow from butter cups
and turn it into loving Reds
a purple blue lava-lava land
chomp slightly on peanut butter sandwiches
South Island fills with artists
doodles smile
yester-years melt

7 pm pictures at music festival

the little blonde dog girl
with pink buckles
talking excitedly and fussing
over fluffy white furry
retriever


just because they are shiny purple
flies in a pink underwater
jungle

does not make them
your friend



golden girl bouncing
in a blue sweater
in Brazil's botanical
coldish night


the red hydrogen balloon
never came back home
next stray morning

at five you wait for it to....


a penny was the world
of a possession
as it fell down the side
of the bed
like foreign currency
before the disney posters
and the tintin collection

when i first saw you

we walked the Cuba's
spider tracks
you looked like a spinster
grey


after I had that lamb burger
and you had something vegetarian
having been rejected by Monet

now you pick sunflowers
on cold sumer mornings
with puffy cheeks

After Jessy's Funeral

Mohan and I decided to go to Aarey Milk Colony and have some tea at the cafe. We had to make sense of this. It seemed like yesterday when we attended the party at Khar Gymkhana and Dominic Savio. I remember the padre reiterating that God loves everyone (pissed me off...God and that silly holy-water priest) and the noisy outbursts of the mother-in-law and Freeman was quiet and I had an outburst that surprised me. I had not come to terms with the fact that I was a sensitive guy and the sudden outpour embarrassed me since I could not claim more pain than the blood relatives. I was a brother too but I did not have to live in that house. Daniella was still very young.
We remembered how the Chakala church due to lack of space had to dig out an old coffin and felt how that person would have had a princely funeral too, once upon a time. We felt that Jessy would be remembered as a young person frozen in time and history and we would all grow old and ugly.
There was not many positives but we stuck to philosophy and we needed to talk these things to heal. I visited Francis with Umesh and he had a philosophic outlook too as he told us how both he and Jessy were filmy and how she was always so weight conscious and told him to eat less red eat.
I remember her as a motherly person who gave us extra orange juice and samosas in parties and how we learned to dance in A - 203 and how she was sensitive and romantic and I stood by her wishes even as I met her during my Dimple phase in Krishna Apartments. She lend me Rs 50 to buy my Gibson guitar that I never learned to play. I paid her back in three weeks.
I went to her grave three times and watched it from Sharon's terrace when I met her there. I did not kiss Sharon that night, since I was too preoccupied. I took the longer route that did not involve me passing outside Jacintha, the bungalow.
So we had a conversation in the thick foliage of Aarey jungles grudging her an eternal youth as the only consolation. I remember telling Mohan, how the same locks that were created to protect her in the Juhu flat came in Francis' way when he tried to save her. Destiny. We grew a lot of years that afternoon as we remembered how everyone loved her. Who the Gods love die young!
I hope this heals you Francis.

stoked

 i saw your cauliflowers
in a row next to Broccoli
and elephant garlic

your backyard goes
all the way to Europe
the paintings are actually mosaics
of cosmopolitan

you would go dancing
on thursdays and tuesdays
and i saw the Buddhist jungle
each leaf protecting the fall

spanish stormy markets in Wellington

burning with castles and bull fights
and rolled out time naan
and dali's preoccupation with death....
it is stormy
and my mind flies to Erskine and Erin
I open my windows
as I sip my ginger tea


It is nights like these
when you shriek my name
with a twin vengeance

and feeling

midnight
it is never quiet
though you cant hear a thing...
nor the rustling leaves in southerlies
the piano plays to the virgin

saptahiki

it was an early summer in 70s
and my aunties were drying green mangoes for the pickling season
this was when an open door on 6th floor
informed us that we could get weekly snippets of coming attractions
on our Bharat TV that included chayageet
phool khile hai gulshan gulshan
and Dev Anand's movie Guide
all in Black and Light blue

tonight the fridge sounds sleepy

i open the door to a storm outside
a small suburb with yellow lights
a childhood i lost with paper boats

howling and the telephone cable posts shake like leaves
and the tar road untouched by summer
leads to a bed that's warm

no south island peaks

coffee at the bach
this afternoon

served with savoury muffin
and marc hill's painting

the eternal white lighthouse
collects sunlight like sea shells

we found at mahalakshmi that bhikoo
stole

blueberry sunday

3rd day of a new decade
and the red sock flag goes tiger
the sea between kilbirnie and miramar
is a pack of wild wolves let loose at evans bay
shaking the grey car like a post-coitus volcano
the lamps shake and planes are refused
we did not time it with an earthquake this time
the light pierces from the the dark yonder black gray skies
like a yoghurt tainted by blueberries
hovering over petone...somewhere
the wolves are let loose

Storm Agapanthus

it must be summer
white flowers grow

outside my window


even though
the roses are dying

So

So
2009 passed
so
blooming
fast!



you look down
look up
a century is gone
and you are surrounded

by unknown faces

the roof of a Tata Sumo on a Tiger infested peak

rains on two thousand feet plains
as farming women with transparent plastic raincoats fetch potatoes and spinach
It's getting dark at 4:00 pm
the white Tata Sumo has floodlights and all-terrain tyres
as the brown hillocks in the distance give way eventually
to a two-thousand-year-old temple

We ask the villager "how many hours?"
"Can we make it in 4 instead of six?"
i told Anup you cannot bargain with time.

old portuguese bell
the world stops
in the drizzle and mist of the green haze
and the black dark temple with wired fences
to keep out tigers
the mist and the dark is reserved for the jungles of india
dal rice is bland and goes from boiling to cold in seconds
we sit on roof of the sumo
on our way back singing loudly

and

afraid in Bhimashanker

through Lonavla
and its million waterfalls
into Khandala

Anagignoskomena's Christmas Carol

Raakhee,

long ago you felt it too
one night
there...

in the mystical chill
when Jessy Fernandes went to church

I saw it through Mama's black floral curtains
after Beatles went silent on the eve

------

see those large Southern Cross stones, tonight
and the crescent moon like a peeled piece of an orange

Feel it
on the streets of Newtown
even as the Police are solving
drunk-boy-racer's homophobic father issues

I saw it in Zakir's eyes and Yahya's words and Muffy's demeanor

the spirit

------

Though Burgerking, hell and dominoes clammed
behind KFC is the Orthodox Church
Mount Vic's answer to History
the Greek goose-pimple

2000 years have passed?

smell the resin-fir incense
touch the old brown wood
see the ancient brownish yellow paintings of Mariam
hear the bearded Brahmins
chanting like Parsis
in a durgah in Ajmer

While Greeks with Turkish eyes, Jewish noses and Iranian eyes....

...listen

Haunts you long after the hour
like Erskine

------

We grew up in Bombay, Francis
not Ohio or Islamabad or Hindustan
Bombay: where Mohammed celebrates Diwali and Christmas

I refuse to cast a stone,
I know faith can move Rangi
I love the Samoan next door

I still cannot offer the other cheek though,
another kick yes.
and I know....

Christ, the son not the Lord, was Buddha,
Moses was Krishna and Crusaders,
the devil's army

------

the Greek church is a lit dome of coloured kaleidoscope
and it's all glass
see it touch it feel it


Silent night....holy night

------

Καλά Χριστούγεννα! (kalá hristúyenna)
Ευτυχισμένο το Νέο Έτος! (eftyhisméno to Néo Étos!)
Καλή χρονιά! (kalí hroñá)

s o...o l d

on a day known for Lemons
and Strawberries

marks blur and clear the canvas
that refuses black vehemently
turning Lambton Quay into Cuba
one red dot at a time

the Mexicans want me on their side
Yahya the Afghani poet has other ideas
Italian, Greek and Spanish are just sunblocks
Dan says

but it is Monique
it will always be Monique
the one
the first
"three hundred and...its wet"
her gentle face sparkled
as she spoke of her dad
his liver and Ruffo

"100 pesos Senorita!"
I am touched as I kiss her on her cheeks
the night before Christmas

you never forget your first they say
She runs to the ATM

dark knight rises

all black is soft
all black is wild...

today
the blues shall dance
on all blacks.

and the ascent of the dark night
on the back streets of gotham
will seal the doom

scorpio rising

Lambton Quay,
my colours are black
and your winds have died.
Today
I will show you
just what I am made of!

Red drops on Tamarillo

Picking up the $2 brush first to get the hand in motion the streets full
flags red and green; running rampantly large
fluttering like my soul and the yellow cushion sculpture blowing
with wellington winds
loved the veteran with the very cold eyes
dan feels i get the reaction and yet no stage flight
Wellington I did not open my eyes to see you as I got lost in strokes I created
the wind has made the easel an impossibility
i do hate my first born on the streets with a vengeance that only a scorpion
ascendant can give you
lemon bitters come to aid with chips and hare krsna puris
one thing at a time is what I need to paint
it has to follow the line....the tsunami came and went but we were high on the heel
and no one cared

spanish quay

today footsteps splash red pink red
high heels painted with a brush
after one long year, 20 days

The dustbin catches fire
quenched by red hot chillies paint
cooled by cold council shuffling bookshops

at lunch hour you arrive
with coke, avocados, plums and love

the spanish woman talks to me in south american dialect
my confusion gives way to English "You are Picasso" "you are Picasso"
blesses me hand on head and I seasonsgreetings her

energies venge splash and dots and crystals
merge with carbon monoxide and three kinds of pakodas

three little children and prince austin paints with me
i get my yellow and pink mixed up with blacks

random hugs from a random stranger

lambton quay: you stand there long and they return

sometimes the nuns

dan, sometimes the nuns walk down this stone henge paths and the sky is burning with gray storms
some nights they do not have a mass
some nights they reclaim the old piano
and Erskine buzzes with not just sour southerlies
but souls that will die to find art in the Room A
stimulating
and the woodwork shakes
no it's not Erin...she's gone
it's the pencil that digs into the moisture
and you felt their tears on the last day
we quickly exchanged notes


I was too engrossed in mine

blowing the lights at Lyall Bay

a filmy embrace
lights shake the airport
gently
cars honk as we kiss
as i catch the eye
of the two ghosts
atop Maranui Cafe
winds blow on

storm-and-balloons in porirua

the winds howl with the vengeance of a black dark tyger roaring towards
no from
titahi bay

the black gown flies and graduates feel the lack of heat
the book gallery is a solace
and in the far corner
(though i need those 1.5 for nears)

in the far corner
is the creamy, dusty greenish blue sky
and a red hill and red land lined with huts you can't even see
scratched on brown wood are their dreams

as they hold two afakasis
in dirt brown cream blankets
and canvas that looks like ancient tradition
holds them as they hold their whanau

the little denim clothes
hang on

new moon

calm is you
calm is the voice
in your amazing soul
void after a long scorpio night

slept on the cheek

You are the sun.
You are the Lord, God, master
of all you survey.
you slept in
and the birds

sing only for you.
Ludlum said Sleep
is a weapon

the wind blows only in your direction
and the sun smiles
and the sea sings from the small island

you are slept

and all is heaven

nothing

there's nothing inside empty spaces

not even nothing

a desert thorn
running miles for a drop
poisoned by the ruby red evening sun

there is water on the glitter
not all's a mirage, you know

I select my falls
western lamps in the horizon
its night and there is an other side

past old graves in victoria after the steps
and the sun

oh the sun

always the sun

Vedic Texts

Vedic Texts know you are the oil lamp through storms
I try to hit that ball to the railway lines in a society where they
burned the hydrogen balloon and your nose
you taught me to crib for the cork ball that cost 5.25 and all mom's fear
enjoyed my boisterous singing and told me to dot my i's as I wrote of stars
"do you think you are a king" you asked when you played volley ball
under the lights
and drank Appela (gosh it had a hot model) for the ads
i awaited my fatalistic glory that Cheiro promised me
but in a strange we we were always competing

Chirag

We watched Guns of Navrone at your place and Rod Stewart's concert and
stole each others book at will
You were my first best friend and you took my bicycle around the
yellow hay grounds
that I had to run on for talking too much in class

I next saw you outside the Municipal School called Rajda and English
was our first exam and I had not slept all night
You gave me an example paper and not a single question came in the public exams

and then I met you at NMIMS and asked me if I would like to write a book
We met the mad Vijay Mukhi and you felt I wrote reasonably well

You told me how Neha was not worth crying for as she had abandoned the fight
and I should drop my weapons too. I was fighting a lone battle for nothing

That made sense. And then I met you one day back from NZ
You hugged me and called me a brother and you had matured with your
Steve Waugh looks
and that was the last time I saw you

Fuck you too

Every death
makes me more irresponsible.
I refuse to be serious
more than ever before
(that's something).

Today I glow more
with every blow
and every blaze.
It's my way
of saying fuck you

death

The day Chirag died: 12 Dec 2009

Rohit, Dr. Rohit send me an email saying that Chirag was dead. It has not sunk in and I can afford to be philosophical. I met Chirag in school, when we were 10ish. I was the naughtiest and funniest guy in class and we both started out by getting identical marks. I think in a strange way I earned his respect since I was doing well academically. We bungee on a tree I discovered on the far end of the school called "Spring Balance". The branch was elastic in nature and through the years we fell apart but I still had his respect. Chirag was always very ambitious and I was always very complacent and while he went on to study Engineering. I studied Arts. Dropped out, went back and completed a few degrees. He got into management and we both wrote for the same publisher Vijay Mukhi. I was famous for the wrong reasons since I sang on stage in school and just snicked in A grade, where as he went on to distinction.
When I got my heart broken he advised me a couple of times. He let me use his computer to finish "Love War and Computers" and I borrowed his books at will. He was like a brother to me and I just went and talked to him at any time day or night and he was the practical one.
Chirag was now a Doctor and CEO, WESRA India, Chairperson (DAML), NMIMS University, Vice President, FIST, Executive Director, IUCI and Member E&T Committee, IMC
I was a mere Masters degree holder and I wrote to him.

dear chairperson dear doctor
I am looking for a friend of mine that goes by the name Chirag. We used to swing on the swing balance and were best friends in 5th standard. I being the golden drifter have had a bit of fun, nothing too naughty but he is doing well so if you see him say hi and tell him if he wants to go through the nonsense I have been upto he can visit www.blackberrycats.com


He wrote back:
You are right - he is doing well but in addition to being Chairperson and Doctor he continues to remain Chirag. He doesn't have too many friends who like the swing anymore, but that is more to do with age than anything else. His friends these days seem to be more interested in stocks, governance and other such stuff that does not matter anyways.

He tells me that he would love to catch up with older friends who can either call him on +91-22-2671-3009 / +91-9820143070 or drop him a line giving their coordinates so that he can call them back.

I wrote back:

I am glad I did. Unfortunately due to innate immaturity i have not grown up much since the orange fluffy jacket in the 5th standard

====

I tried calling him a couple of times and Rohit said he was dead and I am still in a philosophical daze. I remember him fondly calling me a Bastard when he suggested I should marry Gretchen in Bombay as I should settle and I said her boobs were too small. He instinctively laughed and went "Varma you are a bastard".

He was there to talk anytime and I implore all my friends "Don't Sweat It". I am not great, in fact very childish and immature but hey! somedays its JUST NOT WORTH IT.

As for Chirag, we shared some very intelligent conversations, some PG Wodehouses and Alistaire Mcleans and Ludlums but not the same philosophy and such is life. Thus is death.

purity

Mccormick's boats, with the cultural paint peeling in art, sit at the
end of a small Greek fishing village
this is island bay, the most alive spirits in wellwood. i entered
wellington through the parrot restaurant
dan and me counted the twelve ghosts and Marisa haunted the grounds.
Erskine was Irene. Colour bled
like torn arteries in the dark green secret rooms that catherine
understood. Now I know Kapiti was a jungle too
The electric grey skies on the top of an ancient hill is a movie based
on life and the storms keep me alive
bombay has fishing villages too. Mahim was named after the Mayhem that
was Anglo-Portugal war
Parel is where you fall and never come out of the jungle and lal baug
was where a big red tiger lived

some trees give fruits, some flower, some wood and some shade. I save paper.
sleep in the other section like dead wood after the showers of a life time

It's summer. I am alive. And Mona Lisa paints though never
fading....have lost their toxic oil

a horse, a song, a smile, a kingdom for a friend and great grandfather
no longer rules but the warrior blood
poisoned with passion paints love with purity

one by one

one by one they all left
the king and the pauper
the lady with red shiny hair
the Kenny Rogers impersonator
the psychic and the doctor
the man he thought he was god
the devil. the guy with the new haircut
the princess that stole the stars

the stage was bare
the stage was empty

acrylic

when oasis ends
deserts begin
caravans pass
roses steal the evening
sunshine

you steal every moon in the sky
and blur the stars with your tears
I paint you Mona Lisa
and smudge your eyes with dark pencil

glass beads

the glass on your already orange Rajasthani curtains
lustres with a vengeance. The camels have gone home to feed on thorns
black book's black humour coming out on a day that started sunny
and gold was the horizon and all that jazz....but now your moon has
started to trickle
through the greyish silver like a red herring
your fickle Luna dance is fading in the light of the day

spanish moon may be rising on the hills

I wish I could love you still but you helped me out of the bloody mess
and the walk on river Hutt 15 kms into Chinese Fried Taita
The first floor has black walls and the depth in that dark alleys dark windows
besides Rhian's million dollar jewellery. The horse stood by the motorway
on his side of the fence. I thought I should talk something. The situation demanded
some politeness so I asked him if you loved me. Chooks insisted I listen to the native pigeon
in Waikaromoana for answers. Christina is an amazing picture but it was Jamie who in his weedy trance
asked me to hear birds
and this is Monet's meadow with tiny yellow flower and the horse knows and I walk
as it stands and watches. the lonely creature in the middle of nowhere
he reminds me of someone I know

Refreshing

that chant cleared the cobwebs
a nightmare
of a black cat and her
schizophrenic mistress
the winds will pick up
too as green pace

refreshing
the inbox
a thousand times
is not making you write

I walk the empty dark streets

on a cold christmas on bare streets and mirages
of a million butterflies at the bat of your eyelids
another day another pen I did not borrow at cafe
peace has deserted my eyes and i need to sleep

when your own paintings scare you

as the clock misses 12.30 in night's AM
I hear news from India
young kids sleep on coir
found in the depth of a jungle

one looks at a black and white painting
exactly, around a year old
it's the parrot lady and she's not nude
she looks unflinching at me
my signature beside her face

penetrating under the yellow night lamp
Wellington drops another celsius

Henderson

I went to the graveyard
late
last night

the garden of eden
with a million words
every grave had a face
a name
and every ghost

was a poem
inscribed on stone
set to tone

a kaleidoscope of dark colours
paul took pictures
and the chinese women
held the torches

2 am's can be fun M
and perfect time

for writing

poetry

a perfect day

It rains grey smog
and no news from the bill
yet
Lee thinks it's a good day for poetry
me thinks so too


Monday mornings and library's abuzz with book bouncing
a cup of tea nags you like a wife..it's get up and go
the flute plays on a railway station in India
the snake dances visually
all men are snakes
and dogs
and frogs

and pigs if born in the year
or fire goats in Chinese

the dead body

with a first class pass I travelled luggage
Francis knows what i am saying
he knows all Bombay's funny facts
he laughs when darwaza opens
and sniggers when Mithun tells Manek

I am sick of beating you
and
audiences are bored


or how an MBA graduate sells wada paus in Mumbai

a
n
y
w
a
y

the luggage is emptied with lathis
it's not as bad as Bulsar shuttle
getting creamed in dadar
my poor mom, I have protected her like a child


the lathis send the commoners reeling out at station
and the dead body from a train accident
is piled travelling alone with two khakhi cops
armed with lathis incase of a terrorist attack
he dead body for the first time in an empty train compartment

going in style

It's raining
we wait


for the next train

First hike

This was when bhavnagri ghatiyas were
sold at 4 am and all Gujarat passengers
got their savoury breakfast with teas that came from heaven
with ginger and elaichi

and hot samosas and wadas and ghatiyas were devoured as we
went to the national park
still huge

still filled with leopards and monkeys an birds and bees
and as dark as Karori on a rainy day

We climb the 2000 year old caves that have women all over
them and bat shit coloring them

we climb to biscuit point and see Borivali..the huge statue
of Buddha or Mahavir

the little train that we never got into only Utkarsh got
access and Chelna

The mountains are unrelenting and the occasional burp and
roar keeps us walking as i tell my first spate of bad jokes
not half as good as Maharashtra Hiker's Club described by
Sandeep on radio

We got down and aborigines feel the land keeping a watchful
eye
Bharat has a thing for low strata women and died of AIDS 6
years ago

We cook. I watch by the river. Papads and potatoes and rice
and puris
Bharatdada knew whole of Thana when we reached the other
end of false lakes and dam construction

Now they tell me there is a concrete road that utkarsh
bikes through
But leopards millins of them feel the largest National Park
in Asia

103 Km when they last counted the mosquito infested grey
solid houses
for camp fires from Maharashtra tourism board

Respite

dark days are ice for goggle eyes. I'm
not Kiwi, do not sprint to summer lights
nor beach nor glarey suns and seas

the day mints like a hill station - punchgini
dark fungal, the mist is an ice cream flavour
we have arrived atop a mountain
six hours from Bombay through
rural Maharashtra and perus and oranges
sold with salt and spice

little yellow card

For five thousand years, Brahmins
kept Sanskrit guarded in dim-lit caves
on leaves and barks. But we were allowed

sons of kings,
all knowledge
from archery to debauchery


Ext. Present - day

one afternoon,
the wellingtonian sun
was out
Irene had left

Tadasi gave me a small yellow card
with inscription
as old as time
printed in modern inks

india's zero

the day they discovered zero in india
school boys laughed on rainy streets
is that our contribution?

n
o
t
h
i
n
g

half fried

It's not the taste of the hot chili pau bhaji on the street at 12 am
in Bombay's last suburb
Borivali

Hindi film over. Brothers reunite, kick crap. Feel-good post-Emergency
movie tickets are 115 paisas and passé
we stop at Maharashtra bakery that has an old (or was it young)
bearded Muslim guy in lungi selling buns

Dad's back
asking me if I know what Deewar means: cop and don with the metaphoric
Berlin Wall

and i awake from my half unsleep after 12:30 early morning
to the sound of eggs (read round potatoes) frying sunny side up

dad throws some chili powder and salt and the yellow looks bright on
winter night
and the crisp brown egg white comes alive in a bubble oil bath

Truly noble

surface pigment south pole, swan water,
Antarctica, toxicity, Vulgar gold
heroic sublime exploitation

French files

M - yellow goddess within a square ring smiling in france
on cobbled stoned nescafe ads
a french window behind the vines...the empire
neha's shiny brown kutch eyes
french shop with goodies gold
happy yellows
blonde yellows
Art, Artistry and Karla's perfect ass

Noble Antarctica

penguin couch in the blue ice cave
sleeps on mint flavoured waters
a midnight sky away from yellow flags
Aurina to an abyss eye-blue blocks
fat lazy darkie sleeps
on his tummy

walking; branching; towards familiar green sunsets

church street was divine today and
cuba's buckets filling colourful water
its a structure. its a drama
the cat woman who lost her paint and sketched edges
naked under the moonlight
with oriental hairless company
your eyes are blue, green, gray: divine
define little drops of land that no longer belong to the
sloppy walk on the other end
of erskine
iowa

: The dark world

The dark world

as the city lights drop the day light and brown shadows are
a sadistic delight
and the black creeps up on you....it's monday in chicago
and the world is breathing in labyrinth of the mist
tick tock sings the click clock
and a bandaged man and a chinese dragon attack the
protaganist as spellcheck bleeds
the stench of 40,000 coffee cups feel the air and golden
girls are shadows ghosts and dreams
while I am a reality standing here and now

Suddenly

Its a fashion
It's coloured water no Sorbet
Its sunny its x'mas
suddenly
where did you come from
how did it happen

Small post-its after oil spill

Windy

the northerlies
do not give
a fuck
for the door

Saviour

I have saved yellow
and reddish cream
paper from the recycling bin
this stormy night
and

all is well
with the world

Entry, the

I entered Wellington
by train
this time
and after the hustle died

the Libran art student dropped me
to Island bay via Massey and an A+
Frances picked me in her $2 car
with a hug and a boisterous smile

only frances could give;

away from Northland fungi

Auckland Spring Collection 2002

So I left joe’s house
when thumping angela
went crazy with the scar
on her left or was it right
breast

we never went to Wellington
just the casino where he was stopped
by a Samoan guy who winked at me
he must hate palangi

Onto Anu who did her Gemini trick
off to Manurewa through Krishna devotees
waky fought with his mormon wahine
packed to anu back to Manurewa

and the evening I finally reached
the haven called waterview
emma cried missing her Wellingtonian flatmate

Princeton

do you still have goa eyes that can see in the dark
as you did through the slum cows and hay
and charcoal fires after
sir raghu's tuitions

First spate at tea

Now I can sneak into my duvet


and write again

your snoring

is the best

sound of all



Cousin Utkarshbhai

your sleepy lowlit streets aswarmed

yes Bombay washed every morning behind ears

before everyone made for new york streets


your green scooter was on its last petrol less rounds

uncle taught me difference between widow and window

red ridinghood; copied jokes on early creative notebooks


bound together jataka tales…a picture book liana paid $30 for

palmtrees grew on tins. Comics cost 25p Tintins Rs 8. aunty

wildly disapproving. One fight with cousin utkarsh. Cold shower


in 3rd bhoiwada servants slept in the corridors…we on rope cots

ran to buy milk in the mornings. Missed the van and uncle paid black rates

temple’s trust taught us religious texts on katashna, (woolen mats to sit on)


2 rupees a month. Nights we ate on streets. Spiced up onions

garlic. Uncle disapproved. The white mosques and umbrella shop

were on otherside of Yogesh Enterprise. All lived in peace



pitch darkness

we are shut, the inn-keeper from asterix

said in pitch darkness

of waikaromoana

we were tented by the black swan pond

and

wood pigeon spoke

chookie heard him

chookie saw ghosts

chookie fought bad energies

for me


chookie heard him

the oracle

like tanga tawhine nights in mission bay’s

secret beach or back boyracing lawns of war memorial museum

& half moon bay & cold raglan with aunty

and Hamilton and Manguni up north

near keri keri never fernflat. Never ever fernflat


the moon could seriously burn you in waikaromoana

the cold night. It came strong

behind the hill and clouds of waikaromoana

my baa black bought solace to native spirits

but the church bells were shouting rape


I slept under a blue nylon gazebo on hard grass soil

the night before I met you in the c-c-c-c-cold

pampassed river and a burning sun. the lady kissed

me. Lost on way back, we killed a possum and vomited

in the snake trail that had Gisborne written all over it

yes. Summer nights froze and burned. I did not sleep after the

rustling firewood chatter and jokes and anecdotes and stories and songs

we are an old civilization


tea

maybe a warm cup spilt

over a brown flowery table cloth

will help me think better M


that was not the first time I wrote at 4.00

ladybug feels I don’t write anymore for romantic therapy

but a fire keeps burning


and I cant thread a needle either.

elephants

purplish dark lavender clouds chase three elephants, under relatively clear skies
it's not the thunder of Bison that sam and I missed in thekkady after
the 20 rupees meal
this is a thousand rupees feast and a hundred rupees tea
made by a man from jammu with a taste of pakistan and kashmir
it is not the beef kofta in andheri's lion of punjab colony
made by afghan youth on idd
Reshma was a huge infatuation and the terraces had sunsets that awaited her
Gretchan thought I had no hope in hell in that little green church on
a sunday arvo
no
this is none of the above
just a little orange lap of luxury
a bulb nap of funny little words from a blue book
this is a cream wall flavoured by spices and false humility
and a huge lotus from a girl in christchurch
oh! these girls in christ's churches
newtown is quiet, awaiting a storm
wellington opens its secret places
that miss you in the first year
wellington's underground words that locals publish

Not often does saturday come to the party

it must be Diwali in India as i see more lights on the dark beach with
0 three and negative ions on a mild night
a wild night
spiced by Malaysian and Indian saffron
with a chai the Bangladeshi boy ran after the train to complete his
Ravindranath course with whiff of pepper, cardamon, cinnamon
Not a thing is a miracle people chase like a mirage
Not a therapy for heartbreak free to chase orange vividity
the soft winds from the north don't bite the trawler going to Picton
temperatures bounce like frogs
on a dark bright night where grass sings like a caterpillar

Five on an Island

hot Bombay afternoon
tar's melting in jocelyn's thums up lane
uncle feels I should've worn a cap

brave, even adventurous
Garamond moors, islands, castles, tunnels drilled
into souls
blyton's world of Brers, Goblins, Pixies

Gollywog
I read a biggie whilst jaundice,
or so the homeopath with big breasts thought
I devoured spiceless oilless chililess
Mung Khichoo and white sauce's
yellow week absence

Carlton Disa alive, lives near
1 rupee Eastman films in St Francis

Funky town played on
three small lights flicking
on Sony Panasonic


cream Disa household in IC colony
past Beef Butchery
Carlton hids the dog
that had bit him
before he went to Lonavala, a Catholic Priest
in making

three investigators had their hideout
we needed a club house too
i recruited ashwin, nelson
in the wild moors beyond Borivali...

green and yellow vast grasslands before the sea
It was wild and sky blue and
we even followed a few people

the West

writes poems on fish, nets, cats, cat names!
now then
i started at idea spot and moved to million @s
boom dot boom boom dot dot
hotmail refused me a name but usa net was kind in an afternoon at
don YGP's bungalow and through fireonlines, blue crayons
and redpencils we must pass with wild crayons
slightly wild, randomly reckless and not totally cuckoo as mohan suggested
this is when
tigers made a killing in love, burning and forests
singing cactus was best from world's worst writer
green moon river bridge, but little orange fish stayed away
when sunflower frogs, souls, blues and arts came to the party

wild passions was okay but nash turned his nose up at red tag levis
but i must
have ginger tea
with red chillies salt parathas
and
Luke's Red

VASAI FORT

Its warm and orange and fort's grey. arun
clicks a few black and white, we circle
black broken stones across the early morning
fisherfolks and farming ladiesthrowing wheat in
the sky. in the white bluish blush gray vacuum
click
and a road goes nowhere at once to portuguese
churches without a roof. arabic words are urdu
and a lady
invites us for having food. standard indian greeting
orange yellow spicy gravy that we decline
before we meet andrew and moses before
they will go off to sea
time pauses

orange

dan the orange in the back of red and black ain't flames
they are champas and mogras and gulmohurs
lady is still intense whilst orange yellow spring blooms
she holds onto the green sapling
she hugs on to the leaf
keeping her tracks golden
crimson rage was a rock band in bandra in 70s

poetry on last months telstra bill

6 degrees in karori and erin is ice
there's tea (kiwi supper) with recipe
before mom leaves. for once the stars
do not twinkle. kilbirnie looks normal
little village not nightflight to venus
ever since i got my plus one point five

as fish eggs get laid before them
never thought i would get the bible out of longburn
from a chinese brother, what a chinese brother.
my glasses are geek street but you like my Movember

iowa express races on orange paper & Bishop's sermon
is fire not water Li though man will come and go
and little brook near Mangere goes on forever

ice stays in the church of christ
untouched by twin emotions as slow fire
cooks unlivened bread one fibre at a time

i run out of paper
mom always said stars in sky = flowers on earth
oh nursery rhymes you make me cry