How far I seem, to that man
Who feeds on, worldly flesh alone!
Sold out to love, whole human clan
One that adores, that lure outgrown

Which slithers on shell, but fails to storm
Sanctum of soul, oh! That creed sublime!
The tide that soars, amid a riotous swarm
Of streams, that bend the curve of time

Let be today, that day, of fiery bliss
I bare to you, my cherished pain
Born to soul, salvaged from abyss
That child, who bore, this man insane

Come! See thru flesh and heart, unearth
That aching dream, lasting on dole
Come! Cradle me, my yearning’s mirth
Be one with me! Come! Kiss my soul!

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

Such has been love, that aging cherub
Blasphemed for life, deified to death
Lone voice of truth, amidst times’ hubbub
Yet one more song, past that lasting breath

“Would you care to carve, on my stone,
Your passions’ worth, for me!” she said?
“May this be, that matchless milestone
In histories resound, our love undead!”

“Was it never before, as much sublime?
Your cherished blush, my flush of zeal
How different would be, that wondrous chime?
That tolls to lord, our hearts’ appeal”

She said, “Like the freshest dew, so pristine
That avows pure creed, of my heart’s virtue
Let’s see, how your fiery flairs, underline
The bliss of bread, that sees us through”

“O’ Dear! Beyond us, lies that world
Where angels tread, on lovelorn hearts
Will have the bounds, of two realms blurred
To dare the limits, of our intuitive arts”

Will love evolve, to a new threshold?
Spent-up to be, the same dreary tale
Or won’t be sold, lo and behold
Old magic extolled, just won’t turn stale

Will feed on hearts and sleep on souls, as ever
On four letters or long epics, as it plays along
It will stir and dare man, for a new endeavor
Since it first began, till the zillionth love song

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

Where hid that lad, in looming manhood’s garb?
On moon-lit roofs, overlooking busy bazaar
Tiptoes he across, eluding “voyeur’s” barb
A randy thief, hounding fissures ajar

As day succumbs again, to night’s mystic snare
Comes alive the same, hunt for indulgence
By a soul laid bare, in this illusive affair
Of a man, and his deviant, insolence

Unwary feminine flair, strays in nighties and chemises
Whilst he devours every inch, of skin, on parades
An owl, on the prowl, how brazenly appeases
The lust of a man, lost in worldly charades

Blessed with puberty, some crime divine
He weighs its vigor, in every vista sublime
Of that starkness replete, beyond confine
A half-naked woman, his full played mime

He flies night kites, lit with fancy’s delights
To reach out to, umpteen forbidden dreams
Is it riot of instincts, or his passage’s rites?
That make him a man, not what he seems

Veiled windows, his sworn bête noire
Dogged curtains, to his heart’s despair
A lust-dead man, only knows to adore
Not a soul, but a shroud, laid bare

His creed akin, to a scavenger
Sniffing bins, sifting remains of the day
Or a lure-enchanted, passenger
On an endless chase, a thought astray

As midnight yawns; offs lights; carnival dies
Peeper has had, his heart’s fills, no qualm!
He dreams away, the night, with lurid lies
Needless to say, “Ain’t you and me that Peeping Tom?”!

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

What maketh man, so sociable?
Amongst a mob, of urbane men
Is it some virtue, negotiable?
To feed his ego, now and then

He ain’t a man, they say until
He dons that guise, of ego’s choice
That glorified ill, his cherished skill
That devil’s voice, which ages rejoice

What Napoléon had, and Hitler made
A God of an ego, weighed in blood
Why Churchill said, Stalin’s charade
When both baptized, in the same holy mud

Is this the one, that riotous discourse?
Where men dissect, each other’s core
While some content, flogging a dead horse
The rest resurrect, a dying cold war

Leaders make nations, or it’s the other way around
Though ego makes leaders, meanly noble, for sure
For they dare and defy, history’s faith profound
That sits on the shoulders, of her lasting savior

Its creed akin, to that tide, in the sea
That slumbers, until dared, by heaven’s pull
With a kindled soul, shatters gravity
Scales the sky, defiant raging bull

How measures a man, this sinful love
Of his dreadful clone, that talks for him
Though, enshrined in his soul, a bleeding dove
With crimson coos, sings life’s lost hymn

Yet again, Obama sold off, to Putin’s petty plan
Hand-in-hand, two foes, on a phony moonwalk
Back to where it all began, O! That ego-ridden clan
Destined to doom, a lost caravan, when egos talk!!

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

Who steals the view, midst the million, few?
Beyond that frown, that fear, that smile
Is the face that stands, in fog and dew!
A lighthouse seen, from a million mile

Whose design is he, born by fate’s decree?
A child who sees today, an outgrown beast
In mirror his face, shows the time’s debris
Startled he says, “Why made I, a man’s feast?”

On the Baptism day, a soul in the fray
A blessed farewell, to a faceless man
Now more than a face, a faith’s essay
Echoes his soul, the spirit of a clan

Thru the poison shops, those murky backdrops
In mayhem, strewn apart, spent staggered souls
Their faces, full-licked, half-bitten lollipops
Furled flags are they, on stooping flagpoles

In those feisty cafes, where smoke dies over ash trays
So many souls squandered, in so many chases
Each weary face, masked in, caffeine’s maze
“Will face truth tomorrow, at leisure”, it braces

In queues lined up, each quest, a shakeup
Of a man lingering, in ration shops, job dialogs
A face that lasts, to the fate’s runup
With a coerced smile, glued on each underdog

Now that last deceit, stole by death’s conceit
His face, a tranquil sea, a grave of destiny
A heart missed all the beats, now a man is all defeat
A soul though smiles away, a lovelorn escapee

The façade of this edifice, a man, his woes and bliss
Tide past likes waves in soul, on face their tell-all traces
Passions galore that arise, to brim a heart’s abyss
Summarize the human graces, bared by reading faces

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

New birth of doom, or heaven’s calls?
The fury that slept, now kissed the horizon
See the shards of sky, torn by fiery walls
Held bonded, by faith, of its spirit unwon

Said the storm to night,” O! How I blazed in dark!
Lookers forgot you! “What is night?” They said!
“Better shining storm, than this misery stark,
Enough of this dark, be it storm, instead””

“I was meant to be, the night, I am
Not a fickle storm, with fleeting light
But a serene shade, not a blinding sham
Nor a brazen parade” said the night

Said the storm, to sky, “Have scorched your soul,
Many times before, to weigh my sway
Why a passion misspent, on the dole
To lose once more, to your fortitude’s play”?

“Akin to an urchin, you, in my vast expanse
How bland your pranks, no pain, no sigh
You sound like the gist, of unrequited romance
O’ I pity your futile tryst.” said the sky

Said the storm to earth, “Did you hear the roar, it was me!
Who else could shatter, your splendid sleep?
If not me, the Goliath, on an orgiastic spree
How reborn, overnight, that nerve you reap?”

“Yes! Heard and felt, a spent force melt, from above
How hard you tried, to prove your wrath’s worth
Still abloom in my arms, unfazed, labors of love
Lasting spirits, in immortal farms” said the earth

Said the storm to sea,” Were the tides too much, for you to bear?
I saw them, wash your face, with fear
I tossed you up and down, at will
Like a toy, I played you, to my heart’s fill”

“Oh! So was it you, loudmouth, insane lout?
Is victory, a crudely defined, decree?
It’s neither a matter, of conceit nor clout
It’s anything, but self-flattery” replied the sea

The spirit that swaggered, will it now concede?
To the fact of the matter, the truth in its form
How elements, conferred, their enduring creed
You’d know, if you heard, whispers of the storm

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

“Blood for blood!” gallons how many, to sate the revenge of an imposed bloodline?
Minions galore, they madly implore, “for every Sikh slain, a rioter earns”
Alas, Indira demolished, Rajiv idolized, another false god, toadies enshrine
To coddle the clan, discerns each yes-man, “Go on brethren! Till the last Sikh burns”

“When a big tree falls, the earth shakes”, alas, a head of state, Rajiv, brazenly bodes
Which duly decodes, “my godly clan, dare not hurt, if hurt, more pain it returns”
Congress henchmen, avengers of Gandhi clan, bolstered now, hit the Delhi roads
“Dynasty our redeemer, let’s celebrate, orgy of carnage, till the last Sikh burns”

Her Punjab escapade, grossly went wrong, Operation Blue Star, Indira’s swan song
Indian ethos outraged, Golden Temple blood-bathed, rendered an object of spurns
Indira slayed, martyred? Or a headstrong lady paid for a misadventure headlong
To the minions’ delight, a martyr forthright, passions ignite, till the last Sikh burns

Aah suddenly! Kerosene comes free, to strew the fire across, at Congress’s cost
Racism reshaped, mothers gang-raped, tots butchered like pigs, a nation’s soul churns
Is Rajiv deep asleep, as his murderers make a clean sweep, a no contest almost?
Crimsoned streets, charred flesh reeks, revenge speaks, and hate governs, till the last Sikh burns

Police knows well, impotence has its rule, in Rajiv’s blood orgy, it became a wiling tool
Felons freed for henchmen’s killing needs, but a Sikh when pleads the cop adjourns
Meticulous means, to mark homes “S”, through voters & ration lists and records of school
Congress-perfected pogrom, Rajiv’s tom-tom, played by turns, till the last Sikh burns

Six decades of decadence, thanks to Congress’s prevalence, its bootlicking to a clan imposed
On the nation, for sycophants’ gain, this dreadful collusion to remain, a miasma with profane downturns
How many more to kill to thrill, an inept dynasty, to the lust of power alas, so predisposed?
Not the last one though, many more to come, when dynasty yearns, to fill more urns, till the last Sikh burns

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

Ah! Kitty of the cathouse. No! She ain’t that shy
She frolics with menfolk, and breeds bonsai
On parade, her gluttony, not forbidden tattoos
Those half-cherished, half-ostracized taboos

Baptized by the papal curse, with ferula upside down
Married to dark comedy, Satan’s gracious face in town
She pounced on me, smirked “Care for a tête-à-tête?
I measure you, you fathom me, come closer; don’t fret!”

She led me to her holy attic, above that banished tomb
Which echoed the last rendezvous, in a sin-infested womb
Splintered goblets of passion, a yet unbroken song
Unrequitedly that plays along, to who shall it belong!?

Kitty shoved me on the couch, a kindled soul in awes
That dead man, now so wide awake, as she set to bare her claws
“Hey Kitty! Is your bareness, so white, or is it vitiligo?”
“What you see, is what you get, not what you want though!”

“Your claws are sham, your pits unkempt, you stinky whore”
“What brought you here, is deeper, not just passions galore
That endless chase which fails a man, his pride’s lasting slur
It ain’t me, but you lie to thee, your manhood, death’s metaphor “

As night deepened, the tryst spread out, its tentacles
In clasp of defeat, two souls rejoice, a machismo suckles
Immortal venom, from the breasts, of a sold out dream
Ain’t she the Goddess now, for a man, to rout or redeem?

Did we make love, or it made us up, two riots undissolved?
How many times to spend our souls, to feed a love, unresolved
For it ain’t love, we ain’t lovers. Ain’t you the art of deceit?
Or a half-hearted keep, of those yearnings replete

Unfathomed, left, her lasting lies
Or the only truths, civilization defies
The dimensions of a woman, and the flair, she prides
With nothing more, left to bare, what all she hides!!

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

As I return, to where I left
Ain’t I, the same, in a life bereft?
Of a drive to drive, beyond the reach
Of yesterdays’ rituals, so hard to breach

Obliged to rise at 5, each day
Some penance is it, or toll to pay
By a man, who bears, a father’s heart
A hubby, a wage slave, can you tell apart?

Treading on mornings thru lost alleys
One amongst the aging faces, matching tallies
One more farewell, to the bus I bid
Which carries my young seed. Alas! Me a lost kid

The breakfast toast, has new blisters today
Unlike mate’s dark circles, on unbroken decay
The dailies do shout, to a deafened, spent man
Whose creed resigned, to scan that layaway plan

Thru the taxi queues to the office gates
Wail weary ways, on endless waits
Same place to work, and lie to self
A pigeon-holed man, rotting off-the-shelf

Beating retreat, the same spineless rebel
Under earning’s spell, every fury to quell
Breadwinner indeed, rules the roost, at nest
Makes love to a dream, over sinking breasts

Yes, the same climax, of a day’s life again
Another coup de grâce, to a spirit on wane
To rise from ash, a halfhearted man born
To be force-fed again, on obligations sworn

Though underneath, lies the unfelt, beauty of it all
As tedium enthralls a man, with a faithless call
It’s a surrogate to futility, obsessions’ mother
Who makes men mad, who better sane be rather

Yes, regurgitated truth, life is, over ages, lives and moments
Why just resent the routine, not value the endowments
It plays on and on, unvanquished, motley tunes, rife
Wished away, yet dished out every day! Monotony! The symphony of life!

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

She squelches on my canvas, hues of deceit
Whose grandeur, reeks of, crumbling hauteur
A swelling mold, on my soul, carousing its conceit
Vanquished many manly prides, never found that connoisseur

Who weighs her worth, against her airs!
But does she know, where lies the end?
Of her boundless dominion, of despairs
“Oh! My splendor’s sins, I comprehend!”

One ain’t ample! More the merrier, is the holy rule
What she treasures more, her glory, or the hearts
She tramples on, who stray upon, her paradise of fool
Doomed escapades of Caesars, jaunts of Bonapartes

What she veils, and reveals, beyond her starkness
Is the mystique, that defines, her phony creed
A chapel, ringing sultry chimes, draped in darkness
Or hostage, to her elegance, yearning to be freed!

She slithers past my senses, a lizard, on the prowl
Looking for a crevice, in a man, smitten, she thinks
Quips she, “Bow to conquest! Throw in the towel!”
I retort, “Spare me, your fusty fest, your vainglory stinks!”

Unrequited, eh! She spits malice, bares fangs, her pride
“You ain’t a man, of machismo! Has your manhood died?
I smell her venom, simmering now, vanity up, in the mist
“Neither you a woman of virtue, nor me a misogynist!”

© 2015 Vikas Chandra