The zebras tend to smile after the act
And some times before , in anticipation.
Their camouflage acts fine when smiles
Are mistaken for tiny shadows moving
On the floor of the forest in dry leaves.
After the act no difference exists in smile
Between the zebra’s and its predator’s
I have notions that all this is not there
With the sun and the clouds and the sky
Falling in the sea, in their fit of laughing
The wind sporadic from the mountains.
Mountains are not there in the horizon
The horizon is a notion from our dreams
Embedded in old mountains not there.
Notions are not there when bodies gone.
The artist has sullied his dark hands
As they shine on mother’s whiteness.
Her many arms are stubs in reverse
With weapons yet to be put in them.
Her fierce tiger is making in a corner.
But a demon is yet to be conceived.
In plaster of paris, good takes shape
Earlier to mould and shape than evil
With its several shades and tonalities
So difficult to create in white purity.
The China bats she sells make some sputters
As they go about electrifying flying creatures
Burning them to zero entities, in tiny air fires.
Her dress colors captivate with small mirrors
On the woman’s dress, narrating life’s snippets
In a moment of your life at the traffic junction.
They are the mosquitoes that will burn to cipher
When the bat plays with life in a fireworks show.
We have dropped a bumblebee from our fly.
Women’s faces were flushed with our shame.
Their songs went bone-dry in private blush,
As our tigers growled in our private pants.
See the buses bloated with men and parts.
(concerning the recent gang rape of a woman in a Delhi bus)
A large hairy bee with a loud hum, living in small colonies in holes underground.
The sights were contorted in smells
Of rotting arms, sweating shirt backs.
A whole world sprang under elbows.
The crooks of arms went contorted
With framed faces going up and down.
Some went contorted with laughter.
Words were contorted in their meaning.
Four in the afternoon is brilliant lake in teals
From an alien land come flying a long way,
Co-existing in crowded bazaar of local cranes.
Together we shop, say teals among cranes.
Lake is everyone’s shopping for stomach fish.
Some fish dance in the empty air of baskets
By the lake ,for women to decide their prices.
Soon they are on way to hungry stomachs.