featured in the poetry forum January 29, 2016  :: 0 comments

Ce ne fait rien
if we step forward

life is a narrow
straight line

those who look back
fall down

with a bang
into a deep, dark ditch

let’s go
we need not make the road wider

you know ‘the world as will and idea‘
don’t be afraid

of a polyphonic silence
the high street is not ours

editors note:

Yup, it’s the journey. What matters is movement; the end is unknown. – mh clay

The Scaffold

featured in the poetry forum November 5, 2015  :: 0 comments

The scaffold screwed on
The stony wall of memory
Is strong enough.
Faces on the shelves
And laugh
Like mad men
Who often make me forget
And darkness,
The plants in my garden
Or, even
My pet dog,
Waiting for me,
He forgives my all tortures
But forgets nothing.
Grueling climbing
On the scaffold,
Reeks of lubricant.
The steel pipes creak
Even far away.
In my pocket
The smart phone vibrates
But I never shove my hand
Into it.
The garbage men
Move to and fro
On the street
Like ants.
They are burning
With the summer’s sun
On the dry paper
Of work.
I observe from the top
How all the streets crowd
Around the paper.

editors note:

Memory or imagination; both look the same on paper. – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum August 22, 2015  :: 0 comments
​a bus moves slowly                    over a torn page of history

i feel a push on the back          EMPTINESS               in a

puddle@familyplanninginindia               grass-blades flicker

in the sun       here green is OBliterated        rain objectifies

the summer heat             and the characters of a love story

published in a school magazine         the nest of a tailor (?)

bird doesn’t depend           on its country’s inflation         in

the  sweltering  summer days  good and  evil have  faces of

triumph       it’s QUEER that Adam’s desire breaks the wall

of nature          a self is viewed “as an aesthetic and ethical

object to be created and cultivated”               VIOLENCE

“schopenhaur has described the surging dread that washes

over  man  when  all  of  a sudden  he loves his way among

the cognitive forms of appearance”       in the form of social

revolution            “whoever in this intellectual sphere began

talking  about  the  immorality  of the soul was immediately

excommunicated”           the cabinet ministers lean forward

over the table while they exchange views about the forth-

coming budget            the creepy = trendy looking monster

was discovered dead by the side of a pond          sitting on

a tiny branch of a tree a crow          looks at the CATAPULT

where the prime minister of its country sits  with a package

for the poor

my book-case is full       with old reeking papers waiting for

fleshy       MUSHrooms + party guests

editors note:

​Nature, nurture, not sure, hard to bridge the gap; gotta hold it all together till the party guests arrive.​ – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum June 15, 2015  :: 1 comment

Luminous cantilever bridge connects
Between the two edges of night.
How does light travel faster than me
When she is a wintry night?

The broken fossil stone
Nakedly shows the impression
That resembles a Brahmi script on a stupa.
Moths of darkness
Incongruously flock around me
And groan like chanting Pali hymns.

On the other side of luminosity
Forgotten foot-steps rock.
Heavy moments fall
From the dilapidated wall
Like tired voices over my phone.

Packs of handshakes,
Skinny smiles,
Profound stammers,
Robust whims,
Sticky glances

Perniciously define me on a podium.

Now I play an important role. I have to teach people with illustrations on
How to stand on a podium balancing on the two feet – light and darkness.

Two entities
Are two schools of architecture
That integrate.

Energy and mass remain constant
In the roadside car-park.

Migratory waits,
Since early Stone Age
Blow horn
When we meet in her neighborhood’s café.

At the coffee table
Every “!”
Proves the limit of our freedom.

editors note:

More “!”, more freedom. No limits! – mh clay

My Patience

featured in the poetry forum April 2, 2015  :: 0 comments

My patience is a gibbet
Around it my neighbours stroll
And whisper keeping their eyes on me.

The cognitive forms of my desire
Indulge my clay feet;
Though I sit quietly on a stool.

Then they go back to the field
And bind the paddy sheaves
For interpreting history.

I throw my laughter high
To the meridian
And tease their knives.

editors note:

They can’t cut what they can’t reach. Hang high! – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum January 12, 2015  :: 1 comment

My silence is a Gothic church
where I douse the night
after nirvana.

the foot-steps of fire
and water.
Before standing
on the cliff of the azure morning
I threw
my garments of light away.

editors note:

Naked time on the morning after Nirvana. – mh


featured in the poetry forum October 31, 2014  :: 0 comments

Somniloquous window of my room
goes up to the zenith
of the frosted cloud.
My exiled door hangs like a cliff.
your face is hanging
on the cob-web of your city.
In that vertigo
husks of your presence
burn and fly
around my desire.

editors note:

Sweet satiation from a babbling sexomniac. – mh


featured in the poetry forum August 27, 2014  :: 0 comments

We enjoyed
the symmetry of walks
and peeled sex
without caring
what does damnation
exactly mean.
A fucking phone call
changed the gravitational field
of her facial nuances
like the election manifesto
of a ruling party.
Wrapping up the mornings
in old newspapers
and putting them
into our trousers’ pockets
we sucked South Avenue
grabbing with our fingers
until the juice of crocus petals
drips intricately from its twig.

editors note:

Love’s juices flow like infatuation with a flower. – mh

Love Flight

featured in the poetry forum May 23, 2014  :: 0 comments

Plant a kiss on my lips
with your whole fire
so that I can know
your bones.
Time has made you nude.
My vision is interwoven
with the roots;
the roots which grow
from our hands and feet
and only go down
to the floor.
I’m flying up and down
between your nudity
and the floor.
Around me
a winter’s night whistles.

editors note:

Cold Winter’s nights; the best time for serious tree climbing. :) – mh


featured in the poetry forum March 10, 2014  :: 0 comments

A thick tar
flows through my veins
steaming and reeking.
you lick
like a wet, sticky frog.
Your New Year’s wishes
are slushy;
each word is
meticulously deciphered,
very carnal.
My Sweet Heart,
your tongue is too froggy
so it pulls me long
to senility
in a mossy moment
of orgasm.
A thick slush comes
out of me
and drenches you

a hungry earth-worm

editors note:

We couldn’t stand to see if they smoke, after. Too froggy, indeed! – mh