The lines on the skies

Love is the toughest battle on the soil of love mongers,

who calibrate with the pulse of heart a needle,

to silence the morning’s ad infinitum absurdum,

the cosmos silence the beat of the pale stars,

to give birth to the new white stars washed in,

the unison of thurst the bodies entwined in love-making,

as if the whole world has come under the sieve of the noon


Moon walk

I heard the faint sound

the sound of angels rushing

and see the moon transforming

into a giant hut which hangs

over the German streets

People coming across a bridge

waiting in the salon for a coffee

And I drinking the wine from

a chalice from the holy Troika

having roots on a German street

The people looking at flying shadows

projected white images on the wall

and the farmers eating potatoes

while the domestic dogs on the unleash

barking into the face of the moon

a German businessman drawing smoke

from a cigar, glares at the stairs to the moon

how far the love could go? asked the giant Solomon

The sluts emerging from the roof

and walking tip-toe to the cemetery

a few flowers strewn there

and a wine of the forgotten land

laden by the side all forgotten in the sun

My memory of you melding with snow

and appetite for love growing wild

as is the column of man who has lost

the game of cards to the ducks

the chatter of girls unfolding into

a prater of nonsense, the moon

forming the love statue for the whores

who chatter on and on like a stale German wine!

The moonlight

Tease, tease tease the moonlight

upon the heavens is bestowed the music

of the light slanting another night

out of the closet of nature’s clock

and the sun is ticking fast in the west

you chase the moonlight in the streets

wearing black clothes as growing is the din

of the day in your mighty arms that light lingers on

there’s cut-off face of a lemon on the edge of the glass

its 10pm and the moon in the southern shores

dances upon the haywire wind that is fast

clipped and nipped in the bud, the sonata you recall

and your sky is empty with only a moon

to pace the distance and sweet moan of life

hardly creasing ,very pleasing bunks the love

on this starry night somewhere in the paradise.



A Strange love

Hiding behind the fence

picking love at last in flowers from the floor

there’s a hand of God in the reckoning of love fete

where the pygmies fall for the giants

only to be called moles on the mountains

To watch the movie in tie-breakers

as the game of soccer which like

the bees walking upon the behives

leaving behind the love potion in making

consumed dot by dot by the gents

on a June day that’s usually hot

and they fancied poison for a strange love instead

The Soccer Sunday

Woke up to the tapping sound of light rain on the other side of paradise

It was, in fact, a drizzle and the world cup of football is two paces ahead

and the sleep in the eyes reserved from watching late night soccer games

makebelieve balls to goals as if a magician is calling the name of Goddesses

The fruitful Sunday, the God’s birthday is upon the stakes of daily sport bets

will there be enough ripe sweetness in the fruit soccer produces for the day?

The Church bells rang a tedious sound why is there a religion of soccer hey?

Took a walk on stopping of rain and read a magazine while fending for rice

Nothing is as hasty as the news on Politics and today’s soccer games call for

attention as to who will wear the Divine crown on a pitch of socialist Russia

Damn the war it is love that fills the minds of fans without ennui and speech

Kill the Lovejoy is a distant call of fairies in the skies who can’t see Pope lose

to a goal of Ronaldo baptized as the son of God who never is put on the cross.