Vasudev Murthy's Blog, page 7

Deep Thoughts

Deep Thoughts

Stand stark naked at the edge of my rotting soul
paint me a darker black
will your love sink in the quicksand
of fermenting rice batter?

Patagonian Musings

Patagonian Musings
---------------------------
Oblivious to caustic lust
A poignant feral tinge in his vacillations
Go! Tell them that Bulgaria was lost
To a Samurai’s football fetish
Hold the Danube’s depths close to your heart
Dew drops of hatred, a cordial mist
Goodbye.
Yes, goodbye.

Fijian Recipes from Hell

Fijian Recipes from Hell
------------------------------

I asked him, the man with the Cubic hat
How do you dance at midnight in your pink nightwear?
He looked at me closely
I need a dented BMW to answer
But take a look at the menu

Phosphorescent omelets from the eggs of disgruntled illiterate hens from Vladivostok
Pina Coladas from unhappy lonely pineapples from Samoa
(which was then under the occupation of the Germans,
So the breezy mauve rumours go)
Burnt Rice pudding with a touch of failed peppers

A Message from The Sous Chef at the Restaurant of Desires

Absurd Poetry

I can write really bad stuff. Like this

blue leaves of nakedness fall 
into dark pools of happiness

The Delhi heat and the dew in his garden. 
Is it you? 
Or the brown dog in yesterday's restaurant?

let the Alsatian of your sleeping green happiness
bite the ankles of my memories

Orange Juice in the Desert

(A celebration of the 50+ degree heat in Riyadh)

Orange Juice in the Desert
 ---------------------------------
The sands have not spoken today
Though the winds have been scalding

Let me sink, very slowly, very quietly
While she sips orange juice and waits
That man on his haunches, with the Indigo turban
Watches, watches
He has seen death in the desert
But none like the still water
Of an Oasis

Come forward with your sword, O Taureg
And dispatch me
I may not sink, I may not stay afloat

She will glide away
A white ghost
Leaving a glass of orange juice
On the desert sands
Just beyond my reach

The Artist

THE ARTIST
---------------

The flourish, the glance, the raised eyebrow
Eyelids that droop, barely masking icy eyes
Your set raised chin, your arms akimbo
To surrender or
Perhaps to welcome
The burning earth’s release of
Long departed ghosts
The wisterial scent of the good
And the miasma of evil

Who am I?
Just an anonymous Leonardo
Let me sketch
With pencils drenched in sorrow
Throbbing curves, shaky lines
On a canvas of boiling water.

You turn and look with scorn
A torch burns into my soul.

I am nothing.

Quiet

I can hear no note from your violin, my friend
I see you yearn, for something to emerge
Your frenzied bowing on stoic strings
Your tears, your face mobile with terror
The story must be told, you say
But the violin is quiet, very quiet
And you bow and you bow and you bow
But
I can hear no note from your violin, my friend

The night has dropped on you
Like thousands of dark restless nooses
The grim music of your tormented soul
Swirls around the wood, stabbing the emptiness
Even when your fingers move and you bow
Blue blood smears the strings
Sound struggles and finally – weary - gives up

I can hear no note from your violin, my friend