Homelessness

She finds herself homeless without me

She told me once

“Muzammil

I don’t have a home

Except what you wrap around me”

I walk around aimlessly in search of home

From one lamppost to the other

From this pavement to that one

From this city to that city

But home is an idea

Conceived only in her presence

When I lose all the metaphors of home

I wrap my arms around her

And she says

“My love

This is the only home I have

This is the only home I need”

Revenge Served Cold

She talks to me everyday

But only over cold unattractive phone

And hangs up every time

Before I gather my dissipated senses

She knows

The art of revenge

So well...

Read Me Something Tonight?

When I can’t reach you

When you don’t attend any of my calls

When you block my texts

And unfriend me everywhere

I’m left with no other choice

But to use my poor poems

To talk to you

To reach out to you in desperation

And right now

Just to let you know...

My phone number

Which you must have deleted

From your well-chosen contact list

Is written on the inside cover

Of that old edition of Shakespeare’s Hamlet

Which you carelessly keep at the corner

Of your untidy table

Among unread books of Foucault and Borges

How about you read me Hamlet tonight?

Or maybe saddest lines of Neruda?

Moles

Do you know

What these esoteric moles

Placed uniquely

Like ancient temples

On an undiscovered island

All over your body mean?

They are the end of all those sentences

That I couldn’t tell you

You don’t believe me?

Read them yourself...

Romantic Fascism

Don’t write such words to me...

What words?

You know...

Words like

My Love...

My Sweetheart...

Meri Jaan...

They create an illusion of love

More than what it is...

Heil, Mein Konigin!
Heil, Mein Konigin!

International Day Of Peace (21st September)

He:

“My love

Is world peace even possible?

Is war ever going to end?

Would humans give up violence?

And live peacefully...”

She:

“No it’s not possible...

Until

We lovers unite

And practice love

Rather than talking about it

In ridiculously long novels

And foolishly sentimental poems”

I Have Travelled Long...

From the high plateaus of your forehead

To the lower plains of your feet

From the evening shades of your earlobes

To the morning nail-paint of your toes

From the margins of your beguiling mouth

To the wetness of your forbidden lips

From the corners of your hypnotic eyes

To the stubbornness of your unyielding arms

From the loquacious glibness of our weary days

To the silent manoeuvres of our amorous nights

This traveller has travelled a long way

My love

Longer than all dumb calendars...