City

New York is dark gray and black and occasionally, wears red high heels.
The sun is brighter here and blue bounces off the crisp whiteness of your linen.
They wear dark glasses in the high fashion of the underground.
We sip iced venti lattes in cutting edge silences.

Fraternal and communal, organic and asexual
Beautiful and banal and shiny like vinyl.

Sarkozy and taxis, new friends and fading memories...

Paris is the perfect scene of a crime
Revisited in retrospect, black and white, and all mine.

Red, red wine...

London is like the cold, wet drizzle of my cubist, wild dreams.

London screams at me, in fifteen foreign silvered tongues, each more candied than the next.
London stares at me, as I stare at the words on its walls, purple and red with fire and swollen grime.
London makes love to me, as it sings three balconies away from me, touching my head, my hands, more intimately than any lover could. Feeling and looking deep into my filled heart, coiling itself around me. Drinking the deep red night in, after and breathing the long and langourous drags of smoke that unfurl with heady, sudden rushes.
London is soft, slow, sweet jazz, as sexy as the dimmed city and its glorious long legs. London is techno and the feeling of electronic desire, pulsing through your fingertips.
London is the old market of what is never on its way out and hardly ever in. What matters is the refurbished.
London takes its time. Even as it threatens to hurry you out of its way, afraid you will spill its morning coffee, steaming at its edges.
London is warm, like sex and good food. London is ice and whatever else is cutting edge.
London is the papery edges of a rare shop around the corner, hidden like the olive nestled between our martinis.
London is my midnight, the one I cannot sleep through. London is my new friend, who I share my tea, and laughs with.
London looks at me over the heads of those we do not know, but see. London winks at me, as glib as a stranger, intimate as a sock.
London is my lover, the one I never may know.
London is my fantasy, the one I easily shock.
London is their style, as they walk across these years.
London is my freedom, the one I may not tire of.

Old hat, new hands...

The problem with fanning yourself near an old flame, are the inevitable small fires that are bound to rush up at you.

There should be a permit to get all childhood fantasies flushed from your list of want-to-do, before one fully grows up. Chocolate houses, the beginnings of rushing adrenalin and the desire to smoke a cigarette/ jump off a cliff/ drink local hooch.

Instead, I now have a wild thought.

Every time I see you, I wonder what would have happened, if we had kissed one night and figured it out, in whatever way.

Every time I see you, I have this crazy desire to take your hand, and propose that you get out of my system, once and for all. Not immediately. But immediately after we have gone our separate ways.

I wonder what it is, that still worms its way into my thoughts, even as the next day, I rush around in my life.

I wonder why I never think of you, otherwise...

Someday, I should complete my incomplete. How, is a funny question.

And then, after that, we can be pals.

Intermission...

I have eight hours of spare time. Free to wander about, trapped in transit, between one country and the next, in a giant coloured ball of an airport.

I have not slept in eighteen hours, but this glitzy, cotton-candied ferris wheel has me awake.

People have slowed...dragging their languid eyes and heels... because their bodies have said that the time is dark night.

Almost morning.

Work breathes deeply, finishing with me in tired satisfaction.

I make lists.

Starbucks, after months.

And desire. Or some such thing.

Relief...

I can be perfectly, mostly, absolutely and importantly in joy at my present...
I can be morally, informedly, entirely and so consciously at peace for having moved on...
I can be superbly, supremely, so rightly, fanatically relieved that it wasn't meant to be, that I made the right decision...
I can be bodily, heartily, sensationally, savagely a better, brighter, happier, hotter whole for having left the past behind and lived life ten fold...

What is it about love that never fully goes away, even after I've left the room and locked the door behind me.

What is it about a photograph of you...or a sly touched up memory... that solicits a grudging wry smile...

What is it about our past that has never fully ceased to exist...even when it is so wonderful that it is not our present...

Liar.

And yet, you shameless, painted peacock. A picture of you can still make me smile.

Tomorrow...

Its crazy how hard forgiveness can be
It's crazy how much you are worth
Feel me up underneath my raw skin
Make me remember that you are the earth.

Understand my existance, undermine my warts
Walk with the fears in my handles.
Feel me and thrill me and play me by sleep
Brown babies of sweet ripened candour

Love is a many spendoured angry white beast
The quick fuck is our one horned shy wonder
Please tell me that story, the one with the deed,
the fences, the fancies down under.

Slice me a moon, and pour me your wines,
lets dividend your return from our share.
Silent night, anxious breath and freedom in the air,
I love you through each word and each stare.

Travel.

You whisper hard into my angular bent ears,
forever the delicious little gossip
You breathe in me lustily, claiming tomorrows,
you are always falling right out of pocket.

Untangle my ears, release my white toes.
You free me of every one of my whims.
Unshine my boots and muddy my green heart.
I will love you till the end of sin.

Kiss me again to the music of whores...
teach me how to count with my heart.
Make movies of my dirtiest fantasies and faiths...
Show me what what it really means to be apart

I'll promise you my freedoms and unmend my sexy ways
I'll forget each story from into its middle.
Three coins, a stamp and a fridge magnet for my time.
I'll remember to relearn every riddle.

The very sexiest of them all...

http://akhondofswat.blogspot.com/2009/09/repairing-brindavan-by-ruchir-joshi.html

Repairing Brindavan...