Sandeep Kulshrestha's Poetry

I love you and it is tragic as it is not within my understanding of the quality of my solace when I think of your face I love you and I cannot define it and neither I have the capacity to do so perhaps I just admire you or its just plain lust can I look at this state of mind as a trance? it makes me whirl myself in a "sufi" dance I haven’t lost my sobriety when I say that I love you I will not follow you where you go nor would I wait long hours in the dust of the by-lanes of your house perhaps I would never even show that what I feel is what I don’t know I love you and yet it’s not just about love nor it’s about what I feel or what I miss I can blame it on infectious togetherness the word “love” is theatrical but I don’t know of any other term to use and of course, thinking of you doesn’t give any clues

Turquoise, reds and yellows a crescendo of warmth the door opened towards a portrait of her mind mystical, if I may say so was the vibrant flow of expressions amidst timeless elegance the dull lights captured the rapture of an omnipresent aura words, some spoken some untraceable and some broken out of the shelf life of tempest emotions were surreal, painless, cold at times yet out of the warmest closet of her heart I met her though it was not the first time earlier, I had traveled somewhere near her charred soul the music and the time flew instantaneously like her immaculately effervescent self which proclaimed a negative space, within her though my objections remain intact on this reasoning The visit continues and the music doesn’t leave me her magical smile is the ultimate mystery

I pamper you with unsolicited stares looking at the contours of your eyes as you work and chide It’s just so invigorating seeing you being just so busy I pamper you by observations of your busy smart self as I smile within to see your confused, questioning smiles your giggle at the coffee machine is not really a whisper I can imagine magenta lips decreeing someone’s frowns and decadently sharing the escapades of the mind I pamper you by looking at your graceful walk with a swiftness and savvy couture so when i do all of this I imagine jazz music at a place where i will be gifted back much more than i could think of

Perhaps the fall designs the dreams to sip warm desire out of the melting pot of not so amicable arousal the leaves fall as nonchalantly as possible outside but when i go down and drink the very organic you your sublime intellectual banter escapes into a shell and the dormant whispers get submerged into a crescendo when the sip becomes profound It is thereafter not a sip anymore but a luxurious lap deeper than what the autumn can convey and you spread the feast casually you are the conductor the host, the torment music spreads like orgasm slow, seductive, serendipitous and my flavours get changed different colours of decadence spread their wings Interestingly, it is you who wants it to go on till the leaves don’t stop falling my thirst has just warmed up the tongue still mildly lubricated I need to drown It till I am fed with you

My directionless detente crucifies my senses I need the endless orgasm of the day where i lay barren, awake, liquid to be taken and in the cervix of a naked soul i need to make love to the breezy feeling of an ecstatic mind i am alive cosmic illusion sucks me in makes me what I am I need me endlessly I crave myself I give in I give out and the silence grants me my wish

The heat of her verse gets submerged in the throbbing sea of her eyes her eyes or a mirage? questions of subtle nuances don’t qualify when it comes to her A walk in the shrubs or a lazy kindled emotion she walks with the lilies sensuously camouflaging the rays of the sun with her smile traversing through the dropped leaves of the willow tree the words sounding of the woods descending on a mystical dawn a fantasy of a touch a listless sound of the bees she cascades humming dreams

Out of my seven girlfriends Six and a half are married one is conscientiously married to her inner, juxtaposed situation the second is married to the innuendos of a rat race, sitting all day without a back rest even on a gloomy dark clouds day the third has chosen a man to quench her hunger of joint fallacies of anger, of greed, of plastic smiles the fourth has married the contours of self obsessed melancholic constructs fifth is an abstract piece of broken clay married to her enigma, which shows in her gaze the sixth is on an eclectic bond with her own split self, a merger of effervescent intellect and a cosmic zombie the first half of the seventh is unmarried lives that part as a quintessential single, open, vulnerable, desolate, creative the second half is married to her traverse past which insulates her from future decadence

Her Red coloured dress resembled a Venetian house which lay besides the gondola in an unrealized dream as the Gondola retreated through the hazy eyes of the canal the house kept on getting bigger painting one part of the lake with a mixed coating of the red and the green accumulated piece of the ubiquitous waters but still red was the colour green was the envy she was herself with the poets while a poet let one more dream die

Parleys of sunset Immaculately playful over the corner office at the cusp where the late evening coffee meets the sea this sight hardly ever melts the succulent arousal of power the power of seeing the sea through the blinds and smiling the stock is on the upswing and so are the waves of the thrashing sea the sunset pats the shadow of the fading sun on the periphery of the faded evening the blinds are down

morning starts with a holocaust or was it last night that the bird sensed it? one who came from the farm where the feed was stale was willing to die the life was anyhow wretched, he said so, a nice human being could consume him and offer him nirvana the cage was anyhow worst than a concentration camp the horrendous travel to the place of mass murder was not which anyone saw while eating a popcorn with the bird’s name on it there was no preparation, no time for the last words or wishes but a colossal fear and anxiety there was no noose to hang but brutal strokes of rusty knife if it is “halal”, it is a slow death and “jhatka” means the end of the soul the bird becomes the part of someone after death and hence lives on with the same fear, and same anxiety caged as ever before, in the graveyard which is called “human”

bleak heat inconsequential hopes time stands still

Listless, like a churlish dawn over the overcast vineyard, at the plucking the eyes don’t see the foggy distance the mind cannot fathom stillness before the vengeful storm hallucinations of walking on a thin wire when the world looks like a haze of black and white and grey through the translucent lenses of a stoned photographer the boredom converts into a dark spiral of disdain and decadence nothing, not even a favorite movie does the trick what does it all mean? which spicy corner of the city shall I tread or discover to get the purge of emotions of laughter, of gratification? sleepy eyes yet no sleep the fog disappears from the windowsill and transcends into a gloomy space the mind craves stillness of the chatter and a tranquility of sunshine in this clutter of hopelessness

A flyover collapses over the corpse of human life and a bomb explodes across the street in what is known as another Country a large conglomerate of blood and fear spills all over and the dirty mind laughs an over-speeding drunk vehicle rams into a trivial footpath and some perish the creation which took painful nine months gets out of this world in friction of nanoseconds should this bring a numbness to the heart or a “life goes on” hashtag in the brain to inspire the self-degraded human mind of course their kids died, why should we bother the news channels bring the new chemistry to the chaos the morning innocent Sun and the silence and the newspapers are an imperfect match morning Tea is still better the subtle pain of the mind, though stays in the corridor of thoughts every life, killed so ruthlessly every day, mostly so, without any reason makes living so fragile, so decadent, so liquid trampled by politics and fuelled b

“Surreal, but nice” the actor said in a movie when he got swayed by a kiss which was instantaneous and effervescent i did believe in the movies and created mine in fantasies I still do the landscape looks more real on the screen and so does romance and lovemaking so i was part of this week where i re-developed my teenage instincts and it happened the forties doesn’t make you less romantic then your vulnerabilities age is merely temperamental i was gently persuaded by her lips to respond back illicit for some a secret for many sinful for me the softness of her mouth melted my thin line of defense the kiss was a culmination of hidden desires and molten self the raw skin touching mine love was omnipresent with the noise of traffic and fear of the knock on the door the kiss was lustfully decadent and meditative “surreal, but nice”