Baby dreams of milk


Baby smiles
Baby croons
Baby says eyayeeyaeyooyey
In sleep.

In baby’s dream
A pair
Of boobs
Twin springs
Of milk

gums wet tongue wet mouth wet
thick thick milk wet.
gurgles baby.
glob of cream slab of butter
glands furiously turn
blood to food in the factory of love
desalting distilling reforming refining
in centrifugal pumps pipes chutes taps.

In baby’s dream flow rivers of milk
where swim milk fish
sprout milk trees
bathe milk mammas
bloom hundred boobs like milk bubbles.

Milk baby dreams a booby trapped dream
Where a milk bomb explodes
Into white white stars.

Milk baby wakes up to
the Three Dukhaas. *

• Buddha’s concept of the three Dukhaas (sufferings) in life– dukha of ordinary suffering, dukha of change and dukha of conditioned states.



A prayer on V-day/ By Ra Sh (This poem is obnoxious and not cleared by the Censor)


Namo pendulous boobs, O mother,
Devi of jack fruits, ripe as elephant heads!
Namo mountainous butts, O mother,
Devi of pumped up pumpkins, bursting clouds!
Namo thundering thighs, O mother,
Devi of marble minarets, quivering pillars!
Namo bush fire fire mouths, O mother,
Devi of magma quakes, lava saliva spills!
Namo Namo Namo Namo
Namo rosebud, brownbud, copperbud!
Namo Namo Namo Namo
Namo scarlet lips, sugar lips, pickle lips!
Namo Namo Namo Namo
Namo gold clipt, silver clipt, bronze clipt!
Namo Namo Namo Namo
Namo my noose, my leap, my serpent venom!
Namo Namo Namo Namo
Namo my jack knife, my net, my elixir vial!
Namo fat fat Namo blood blood Namo flesh flesh!

Of Dogs and Men 3


Walking past a
Pack of mongrels
Sleeping by the road
Eyes closed content
With the dog life they lead,
I saw buses whizzing past cars
honking along drunkards
weaving in and out of
the bar workers discussing the
wages women buying brinjals
surveyor measuring the road
width sweeper cleaning the
drain school girl on a cycle
office goer hailing the auto the
two local mad men strolling silently
in opposite directions.

(Had a busy day…phew…bank…office…market…

Returning in
The evening I saw
Them still sleeping
The mongrels in a pack
Of contentment clutched
In a dead end community
Grip of solidarity camaraderie
Bound like the pages
Of a history book a still life.

A white van stood by.

Next morning,
They were gone.
A lone pup
Sniffed around.

Architecture of Flesh

( When tagging this poem to Marya Berry, a recent friend, I found that many of my new friends have not read this. Please pardon me, old friends. I am posting it again, basically for the new friends. Also, because it has been a year. The poem had come in Kindle magazine.)

In Ngariyan Maring, you
are flesh, spiked with bamboos.
Riddled with holes even before the fun ends.
Exhibit number one to nine nine. Traitor.
‘Rebel pussy’ shot with mainland guns.
But, you are safe in the city.
In Gajapati, you
are flesh, pounded into the black
soil by booted pricks with brass buckles.
Exhibit numbers one not not to nine nine nine
‘Rogue tribal cunts’ scooped out with
the state’s excavators.
But, you are safe in the city.
In Khairlanji, you
are torn flesh, stripped meat on cart wheels,
skewered genitals, broken legs, Exhibit number one
not not not to one million. ‘Lowly mouse holes’
pried open with upper caste crowbars.
But, you are safe in the city.
You run the country from the city.
You have nothing to fear.
You have brains. You have malls.
You have the Metro and the Parliament.
Exhibit number one million one.
The blood is not the thing.
Nor the searing wolf bites.
Nor the ripped intestines.
It is the gloat in the eyes
that bore into the flesh
that day, this day, every damn day.
Exhibit on a table, a spread sheet,
an autopsy  chart, a mortician’s design,
an architecture of flesh built around a void,
a hollow, a frozen core.
1.Ngarian Maring is in Manipur, Gajapati in Orissa and Khairlanji in Maharashtra where girls were raped and killed brutally either by the paramilitary, police or upper caste goons.


2.Written before the death of the Delhi rape victim Nirbhaya/Damini/Amanat/Jyothi.

Ka Kha Ga Gha


River, effervescent,
Froth, rocks, rough cut sun,
Crematorium, half burnt body,
Me, cool sand.
A girl crosses the river.
Moon spotlights her.
The curtain of stars rises.
Her feet, ankles, shin, knee,
Resurrect inch by inch,
Sink into the current once again.
Tangerine thighs, pubis, the vermillion gash,
Reverberating belly, two globules of mercury,
Resurrect and sink.
She emerges, a walking rain.
The rainbow cloud erect above me, seeping.
An old question, I ask her.

Ka Tvam Bale? / Who are you, girl?   (1)
Kanchanamala / Kanchanamala.

Kasya putri? / Whose daughter?
Kanakalatayah/ Kanakalata’s.

Kim te haste? / What’s in your hand?
Thalipatram / A palm leaf.

Ka va rekha? / What’s written there?
Ka Kha Ga Gha / Ka Kha Ga Gha.

Crematorium/ body/ me
She floats next to me
Like a rippling soul.
I begin to scrawl Ka Kha Ga Gha
On the knots of her silver spine
With a fiery finger.

(1)  Beginning Ka Twam Bale and ending with Ka Kha Ga Gha, it is a rendition of a famous Sanskrit poem by Kalidasa(5th cent AD).  Legend has it that King Bhoja wanted the court poets to write a poem that ended in Ka Kha Ga and Gha, the first four consonants of the Sanskrit language. Seems Kalidasa,the most gifted among them, met a girl on the street and asked her these same questions and received the same answers which he made into a poem and presented it to the King next day. To me, the poem brings out the girl’s openness, friendliness,innocence, her readiness to learn and her level of freedom in the society. Her name is Kanchanamala (a golden necklace) and her mother is Kanakalatha ( a golden vine). Note that she gives her mother’s name and not her father’s.

Using this poem was not a deliberate act. It came to me as soon as she emerged from the water.

The Ring of Love

By M.R.Vishnuprasad
Trans by Ra Sh

Twenty five year old hari leaves home.
on his thigh is an image tattooed by
his friend tony.

Like two swings hanging face to face,
they swing away from two branches and
swing closer again.

When their lips and fingers soar in harmony,
birds flock to their chest hair and
savour the fruits.

When the jean is unbuttoned,
the Court hammer shuffles a bit.
The seed in the bird’s belly becomes radiant.

They open the door to the bathroom and enter.
They witness the festival of the fish who
have smuggled in the waterfalls.

When they bathe as one, green paint spurts
from the shower.
Two wet trees grow tall between the thighs.

When they make love, the leaf drops from
the cracked seed and the trunk splits in two
and the rings of love suffocate them.

Their law and justice are between their thighs.
they are signified by two erect trees.
a swing in each.
on the first swing they build a Court with
a pack of jokers.
on the second swing, they mould a god with
grains of salt.

they kiss, turn,
whisper secrets,
two broken voices call out “Oh God”,
as if they could drop any moment
from the swing on the tree between the thighs,
and keep swinging left to right and right to left.