g a r b a g e

                         
         
high on romance-life-new age music-Coelho          
we had mouthed words as the banal sun went hiding          
behind the Kanchenjunga in its warm indifference          
         
those words probably meant nothing but  
back then it was about belief          
         
so we treated that tomfoolery as divine will          
even at times thought of soul union or                  
some transcendental craptalk          
         
we became Mickey Mallory sans bang bang boom boom          
pristine-almost as innocent as sarcoma          
free birds of fine plumage dressed in            
free tibet tees          
       
for years it seemed          
that was the shite          
         
when one nears thirty the early years somehow  
become some godforsaken ed wood flick          
         
ah yes  
try denying that          
           
i mean          
         
all those familiar stares at which our hearts          
used to skip a beat like it happened in those          
chick lit novels you would buy from the tube          
for nothing only to read and cry for days          
         
i bet you do remember that time we met          
after a week and someone had to yank me from          
becoming roadkill on the western express highway            
         
and those wild nights by the indifferent Arabian          
when you thrashed  harder than the rain          
everything-all of it-hot damn          
         
all the blood-bile-booze-bruises          
poems-phone calls-piss-pills          
madness-silence-violence-nothing          
         
chasing after noisy taxis with you inside          
wiping your smudged kohl-ending the phone calls          
that i made while trying to keep up running 18mph          
         
smooching till paralytic fever set in amidst mild          
chances of threshold electrocution at synapses         
         
making love in the bushes with mouths covered          
grunts muffled-gravel cutting into the spine          
or giggling while dashing half naked afterwards          
away from security            
         
one lives the life and then is left with residue          
sky high-undeniable-non-disposable as one cannot  
get rid of it  
 
may be-ah never mind          
         
all these hank jr-cole porter-ray charles-menuhin records          
wong-kar and jarmusch dvds with director's commentary          
stored inside the cupboard with a blue ray of annaud    
         
and all those photographs inside the shoebox of trial and          
error in the kitchen that resulted in delicious chicken curry          
we had eaten with frozen yoghurt-cold naan-white wine          
not to forget the unused tommy girl-thai beach sandals          
           
well what about things one can't ever lock and hide away          
   
like memories of black label-nepali weed-country rum          
followed by large packs of durex and strips of aspirin          
   
monologues of endless love and soul connection under          
clear night skies with imaginary falling stars and shit          
         
   
and all of that    
   
reminds me more of you than you have ever          
reminded me of yourself ever
then and even now          
         
well probably that's why I sit and          
write about them          
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
p.s-Thank you ugly. Disappointing.