Bokeh in Lakeshore Evening

The stirs of life slow down to rest
at sunset—they don’t like the dark much.
The streets, closed malls and parks—
they are left to the homelss, dogs, cats,
lost newcomers and nocturnal tourists.

I sit on a shapeless rock growing out of the sand.
Through the sunset. After the sunset.

Dull sounds of oars hitting gunwales—yea,
I saw some lazy boats off the shore in the twilight.
The sound of water lapping against the shore.
A dog barking at a far distance.
Nameless noises of being wriggling in the silence.
A cat teaching its kitten cat tricks
on the white table at my room verandah.
Idiot. Useless things.
There are more important things.

I have brought my eyes back to myself
and keep them about myself only to sense
almost imperceptible ghostly shadows
coming into their curtailed field.
I look at nothing particular—
I just remain capable of seeing.

I sit on the shapeless rock growing out of the sand.
Through the sunset. After the sunset.

The sounds of a familiar language are brought
by the wind, the wave forms twisted into unintelligible shapes,
into a strange language or a non-language.
Just the voices kept intact as humans’.
They must be walking arm in arm in the sand.
In love. In the breeze. The evening soon to pass.
Long tuned to the silence and pressures in the nocturnal air,
you can sense the presence and absence
of movements around.

My mind sits at the center of the quiet
weaving a thought without an idea in it.
Thought in bokehs of ideas.

My photographer friend would say
this is a beautiful scene.

At Bercos on 27 December

Waiting for dinner at the table on 27 December (it was my birthday and I don’t consider birthdays as special–I don’t celebrate my birthday), I was attracted by the two waiters staring at something behind me and discussing it. The way their heads popped up from behind the bronze resting Buddha at the counter was quite a cinematic scene.

Contents of the Night

Did a whiff just drift past the rock?
A faint life drenched in the grainy past ghosting around?
A swell of faded memory rolling over under the dark?
A forgotten smell reminding of ancient familiarity?

The footsteps clatter fainter down the lazy steps
winding down the rocky hill in the moon
with the rustle of a hand rubbing
against the rough walls hewn off the hill,
so clear like the night contains nothing else.

Sometimes at nights
slow whiffs would wax and wane,
and the rock in the hilltop wind
would soften to the contents of the night.


Man from the Murk

I want some light
so I out the light
and bore a hole in the sky.

I trust a god
as can dance in the dark,
bare bodies smeared
with the murk of the mud
squirting from pleasure

Perpetual damnation in pleasure,
the foundation no house can fall from.

Dancing in the Dark

Even as I looked, I didn’t see
how it seeped into the port–
the ship of shadows docks
with dancers dancing in the dark
mixing darkness with dance and dancers,
the mix filling the mould
bubbling out sound and silence.

In the absence without pressure,
noiseless sounds ooze out of the ears
to creep for a flash unsensed
before yielding to the yawning thirst.