Envious of Your Moon

Tonight I will
                         

 Set on flames
                          

The silver self of mine
                   

Till caged in iron chains
               

I will gulp down
                      

The chalice brimming with nothingness
                              

Till insomnia in my eyes settles

 And in the puddle
              

Where fossils of imperfection float

I will drown
                         

To let my blood in it get muddled
                                       

 I will let the flakes of cosmic dust
                             

Wane my heart
                         

Till I am sooty and blotched
                                  

 I will be a blank paper
               

Having a spotted equator  
                    

To become a bewitching metaphor
                             

Like your nocturnal Moon...
                             

Would you then doll me up in your verse?

Copyrights reserved to Paras Ali/2017

Blasphemous Mother

The red robed whore bares her stomach to get it scissored

In closed-pavilion, the reeking clots she desperately cuddles

During the hours when darkness sets the moonbeams blurred

Because the bastard in the city of saints deserve some respect

Look at that hefty, thick lipped she-male?

Who tarnishes the last bone of cigar's ash

When ax-edged droplets of pan are spat on her face

And whole night the she-male prays for nothing

But to be a Ma of a complete human

The Queen of the Jungle, while, is the Queen of the gore

Benumbed and blind, she watches ‘Man of her life’

Rummaging through the thirty teeth, picking his furious four canines

To tear down and incise his son's last crumb of flesh

Not frightened of the sun, not scared of the woods

The Queen of Jungle stands like an unmoved stander

                                         Dead to the fact this cub had more than half of herself                                                                         To win his love, his numbered nights and days.                                              The cub's breath is traded-off on cheap bargain

Paras Ali/2017

How can I Harm you?

            

My whole self is a blue butterfly

Caged in the glassy walls of semi-colons

My eyes, the twinkling hollow buttons

Can only inhale the fragrance of moonlit stars

My wilderness is sifted with velvety ribbons of puns

Burnt in ashes, my cells flung it down

Those notes which syntax grins till beheading their crown.

Fear not my love, do not change your path

The castle of yours in my sky vast eyes resides

Still you are the emperor of my town

Why my skin do has looks so pale?

Won’t you ask what turned me frail?

Mocks on my verses, the reverberating storm of adverbs

Grounded in ink, I am a puppet, whose lord is words.

The frothy clouds rain stony diamonds of verbs

Over the stumbling waves of my toddler thoughts

Why would I, a noun less pronoun, defame you?

Words have crumbled me into briny sand

Each time, sun ascends, my bare innards roar your name

Nor words can change, I their foe

Neither I am willing to let you go

Do not be frightened of me my love

Would you leave my heart in this painful hour?

 When all is fair in love and war

Paras Ali/2017

Creatures of Night

                                                                                                                                                                      

Sitting by the side of footpath he fixed his canvass right beneath the street light.  He clipped his messy curly hair falling on the curve of his flatly bulbous nose with a pin and a strange laughter rippled the wavy eerie of silence. Not a single line adjusted its roots on his brows as nothing was new at 2: am because life at night is always louder than the one in day. The howling dogs rent less than quarter of a night , the other half is filled with the sighs of a hopeless whore who willingly canopies herself in the alcohol infected breath of her one-night lover with a hope that probably he would come back tomorrow not as her buyer of flesh but her suitor. Her opiated sensibility keeps the Poet alive and her whispers weigh down the broad shoulders of his pen. Few inches are yet left to complete the circle of night, half of them are occupied by those slum dogs who litter the piles of garbage and populate the nocturnal nights of roads, while the other half is taken up by a painter who picks driblets from the stench to feed the avaricious stomach of Art. This is how the night wallows inside her circle and each one of us like vultures eat her inch by inch but it never spits on us back .                                                            

 ”Quiet children for fifteen minutes only, he opened his bony fists for thrice and mumbled with his lips "Panda rah Minute “to the grinning crowd of young folks".                                       

 But the hissing could not stop so he placed his brush at the back of his ear and crawled straight to them : " I will give you all money, you need to sit in a pose I have explained you earlier ".                                         

 The murmuring got patient with the pledging request of a humble painter. He managed to ignore the way these children of sundry age gazed at his sleek body. He blew a puff of smoke and took his palette out. The thirteen year old girl having silver nose ring caught the eye of his brush first. He sketched her face with a free hand , yellowed her freckled uneven skin and unleashed her handcuffs tied to quagmire of poverty just beneath her lavender shawl tattered enough to expose the platinum  streaks of her tight braid. Then he pouted at the eleven year old boy adjacent to this pale girl and painted his lifted chin, an element of pride usually every man child is taught to have, and then his golden front tooth resembling the red-edged squinted eye of his, as complete as an abstract painting. Third, came the turn of a tail less dog, on his skin clogged dried clots of blood which were at the moment brown. The dog did not has the nerve to bark aloud but with children calling him "Barray Sahib" automatically pushed his wet tongue to lick their shoes slashing trucks of muds .  Everything now was on the canvass, humans and animals sharing the same genetic traits, a slumping cavity of Art in the jaw of colors and another darkness which infiltrated the valley of night.                                                                                                     

Perfect, all done. Can you take me to your hut? The joyous painter husked giving last strokes to his painting.                                                                                          

The mockingly toothy-jawed children responded him in utter assurance:" No, we cannot take you to our place, no one would let you sit with them ".                                                                        Why? You want more money? He asked.

“Our grandfather is as smart as this "Barry Sahib”, though people call him "street dog” but he sounds like an English Pet. You know what he says: “These painters and poets are more Beghaiarat than us the slum dwellers, their pencil touches the face of their woman before their own fingers, and they breed on leftovers ".                                                                

The painter did not shook his head nor furrowed his brows as he knew life at night is larger than the one in morning. 

Paras Ali/2017

                            

     

A Malang

Wearing a robe of broken alphabets
In the eyes filled to brim
with orange bangles in my hands
cracked enough to hold thunder of
Sentence lacking story
Decorating a jaded smile on lips
Like a famine struck sun
and walking with anklets of burnt moths
Which has snuffed out the last candle of my town
Bare feet and empty spirited
Like a moonless sky
I swirl with the beat of wild wind
Still you say
You have not consumed me?

Paras Ali/2016

Writers Block

Duveted inside the blanket of silence

In the hub of smog

Hush ... Dear thoughts 

Do not come near

In enormous peace they sleep

For his pores have caressed

My unharnessed words....

Paras Ali/ 2016

No Union, No Partings

I have made a quick exit to the sky                                          

 Fleeing from the thunderclap of Your world       

 I have pursued down the streets of my barren solitude                                                      

 To beckon only Your memories.                     

 and setting the clamor of the voices mute                                 

Away from the people of Your land                                            

Miles apart from the continents of your sand                                                

I stroll the boulevards of my Sky                                                

 Amid the darkness, I admire watching                

 the glow worms burning into fireworks over your bosom                                                           

 I have gone to the sky                                        

So not to blacken your sweetly scented rivulets                                                                           

Not to keep you choking in nostalgia's foggy blankets                                                            

But to live like a lunatic holding an immortal  craving of You                                                          With those infinite moments  of present which never turn to past.                                  

And far-sighted future ensuring no meeting of our shores.                                                                       

 I have gone to the sky                                       

Yes Leaving you behind                                      

With no union                                                    

 Can You and I                                               

Ever be separated ?

Paras Ali/2016