Raconteur

He would tell tales.


Personal. Impersonal.


Faces. Masks. Identities.


Lives. Etched off ink...

One more tale

There was love.


Distanced, at a bridge's length.


The bridge had been burnt down...

The last song

A red rose. A love letter. A song.


They were all meant to be yours.


Today, I leave them by your grave...

The song

Loner city. Busy streets. Breathing traffic.


Cigarettes. Dead. Bruised.


Wrecked homes. Ripped dreams.


Short stories...

Banalata Sen

Kohled eyes. Faded bindi. Vermilion crumbs.


Sudden storm. Right. Wrong.


Scarred lives...

Lust

Untidy dreams. Undone hair. Unusual pervert.


A midnight slice. A piece of dawn.


Stranger souls. Familiar poetry...

Confessions

You. Me. Stranger stars.


Drenched, at a skin's length.


A bit of filth. A bit otherwise...

Poetry

Myopia. Untamed stubble. Pale eyes.
Words. Snakes and ladders...



Love seeks a new address again. Again.
An artist or a lecher?



Charm. Vulgarity. Realism.
Abstract? Diseased??

The midnight tales

My love, spoilt and sour
Is it real or just another fable?



Marooned democracy, over a cup of tea
How much of an actuality? How much of a lunatic?



You. Me. Drenched in the inexpensive city-lights
A dream, or just a miscarriage? 

The other side

You. Me. Aesop.
All dead. All alive.



Sane. Insane. Borderline.
Who's who?



Imagination. Illusion. Fantasy.
Where do you draw the line?

A thousand times...

A thousand times, I thought of telling you
But, I couldn't speak a word...



A thousand times, I thought of writing to you
Poetry, I could never afford...



A thousand times, my city felt the rains
And yet, we could never get drenched.....