Think of the perfect
interval for death.
Be it morning, noon,
evening or night.

Each of these proves
an effective dominance
within a limited tenure.

Each of these wants to stay
escaping from a day
as death is harder to accept
after a change.

Death occurs, when
you allow the passing
and also when
you stop the moment.

Death by stagnancy –
an option to stop overlooking
everything superficially,

like stopping a football
to be seen and picked by a few eyes
to feel the real slipping
beneath one’s feet

without caring much
about the rotating earth.

Man has run/still runs/will run,
seeking the one, easier
Easy, being the tendency to hold and soak some
so that, there’s letting go of none

Bottle in quarters
Face in quarters
Heart in quarters

Life in quarters.

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Unknown Interval

Fabric

Source – Pinterest

Bones wearing well knitted covers 

Still torn like a cloth


Proud monopoly of cocoon, 

Its disbelief in widely established fallacies


Usage of scissors with safe profits

Self production authorising self repairs


Fine patchworks judged on their source

Scalpel marks kissed, knife marks liquefied


Ill fated, unseen, real designs of numbness

Finding ancestors in social-sociable textiles


Factory outlets unlike nursing retailers

Displaying, assuring, fantastic disappearances


The immense hiding amidst collateral colors

Supreme acceptances by mankind 

in veils of a natural embroidery, of a young rupture

Modern cottons making a steep fall

Or saving themselves by following paths


Putting on a new damage on an old

Incomplete tailors tailoring the tailored


Singularity failures, singlular – a clown or an uniform trend 

Multi-layered fabric for the camouflaged & skeletal


Death from hand is a handloom, death from death is readymade

Threads and fibres, often mixed with/in a fabric paint.

Knowing

Tendencies of love & hate

where skins rupture into aliens –

Demonic and God like


Differences between a name

and the name, one gives.



Things kept simple in closures

A perfect sleep, 

perfect fist, perfect smile

unlike a separated kiss.

Preferences of measuring 

the maximum within a hug.



The first & last resort – 

From where it all begins 

and the immense advancements

of this civilization so far, 

ends it right there.

Beginning of ‘knowing’ proceeding

unharmed by ‘it’s known’.



Universal failures

in mastering

even an infant/ the infant.

Hoot

Image © Alexander James


My hands wired all around her skin.

Preparations swirling with a two hand clock in her hair,

turning into a potent bun.

The calm northern winds, making the front door flutter
into a satisfied smile

and then, her sudden disappearance

into the black, for a mission.

Now each day I wake in that broken room. Boom!

She blasts herself into a hundred pigeons.

Few die in colors, a few remain,

hooting on my death.

The Falling 

I am falling again and my blocking the darkness in the mouth itself.

What more chaos will make them chaotic?

I don’t add further, no one will see.

I don’t spit as I don’t defame rains.

He claims he will extract my entire head, she claims the claim is good.

They don’t complain if he should.

Then they find my skin is a better model,

Bones on soft powder is the finest fall

He insists on taking my flesh for a ride, my hideous penis too strong and flashing to hide, she nods.

And I block the dark with it, I plunge into the dark with it.

How bold of her to wish from it nothing.

How bolder of her to wish from it everything

and so I fall and continue to fall in a night not naked for me but for all.

I block me in my mouth and so I don’t stay. I appear.

They extract my everything and still its a mutual honesty.

Honest killings mutually rise

He claims he has me. She claims her claim to know

and one who has anything can be hidden as everything or found in it.

What more darker would it be, to witness a bright ejaculation of loss.

Love is a mating of loss. Universes are created at costs.

Live for Leaving

She tells me she no longer lives
and she tells me she has lived what she didn’t leave.

I look at the morning in front of me and at a clever morning up there, always a morning.

I turn towards her and I commit discrimination
as the first discrimination is of a morning into faces.

Something seems taking shape on my shoulder into a dream just waking

and dreams never happily sleep in mornings, never happily continue for the day.

Two strong concentrations at war over a flat piece of land beating chaotic drums and a mouth of famine hovers

over a land of non sodium, fair sodium, melting sodium

and a strangeness who takes in and forgets,
takes out and forgets in a prevalent yellow dazzling itself in a crematorium.

I have seen jellies of an unforgetting childhood forget itself badly on a face.

I have seen the gloss remain as the untouched but proud, faked noon Sea

which signals with earthly winks, and whenever the earth has winked, it has been deadly sarcastic.

Hydrogens occur in pits. They create them and stay in them

and the concentration floating has always seemed a happy population living happily but unhappily.

The jellied population has been colors at war –
Black and white, brown and white, blue and white.

Colors clash to be friends or foes

and I have seen white accept in it making broader and attractive.
I have seen white become ghostly white when they resist the beautiful white.

My world is different where the Reds always dwell inside, they appear addressed as infections, the yellow as disease.

My world is different where colors blend into a new era of permutations and combinations.

A world where varities matter more than the skin.

And the world has seen the greatest war when the war is unseen.

A color tray where extremes are friends, commoners are enemies.

In my world one fights over ‘God having different colors’ and one fights over ‘Why God is unicolored?’

And here it is all with potent abilities and their possibilities, resting on my shoulder, wrapped under a blanket dream.

An unknown darkness weighing on a shoulder feels so light.

I don’t know how unknown it will be when it’s known.

The retina yawns the dawn of actions of men.

Ears are adamant enough to label their own music and blasts.

Tongue sticks either to itself or to many.

Lips spew and seldom preach love, hate, manipulation, anger, treachery only for some.

Hands oscillate as obsessions, fantasies, politics and terrorism.

Hair is either the murderer or the protector in one.

The body is just a target to love or kill.

My shoulder does carry –
from inorganic love to organic shits.

I am in a devastating news and prepare for my news more devastating
The good news is only a way to my news thats better.

I am neither for complete destruction nor complete peace,
always stuck with the bombed woman on my shoulder.

I continue and I die as a man who has known it all like an archaeologist’s calcium with unknown future.

I die with the immense weight of a man of 21st century

dying in his own century.