I’m bleeding onto the paper again
And I’ve lost a lot of blood
But it would be
More fatal not to
More fatal not to let my heart
squeeze the blood on
through my veins and gush
All I know and feel and pray and am
More fatal not to flood the lake
And break the dam
To let it all escape before I’ve found
It’s filled up to the rim
And I have drowned.

stop all the clocks

Stop all the clocks

Close your eyes

Till your chest stops heaving

empty sobs

soft “good byes.”


Unplug the telephones

Let ’em ring

Curl up in the corner

Stare out the window

At nothing


And let your tears pray

What your words can’t say

And you will find a way

To rise


And let your hands

Reach out

And let your tongue

Tell about

The love you once found

In his eyes



Underneath the dark skies

Are the trees

Underneath the fruit trees

Are the birds

Underneath the grey birds

Are the flowers

Underneath the sleeping flowers –

Is the earth


Underneath the heavens

Are the mortals

Underneath the mortals

Are their hearts

Underneath the hearts

Are springs of longing

Underneath the longing

Are the Arms


This in a mirror darkly do we see –

For we have yet to comprehend what’s underneath



I am closer to you than your breath
I am closer to you than the sheets on your bed
And I am closer to you than your blood running red
Oh, I am closer to you than your breath

Open up your hands and let me hold them
Open up your eyes and let me show them
How faithful and how true
I cherish you

Indian Sun is in my Veins

The Indian sun is in my blood
It rushes, boiling, through my veins
It scourges
And it lights a fire

It spins up sunstorms, fire breathing
And, like a dragon, rages through me
Slithers, scuttles, swoops, and flies
And as it simmers underneath –
My skin is cold and tantalised

Oh, cold fire –
You almost soothe me
Oh, waking sleep –
Of broken dreams
You truly are Verona to me
Boiling, beckoning, banishing me

You cannot eat me, Indian sun
I’m captive to a brighter Star
And you can roar and you can fight
But you can never win this war

Yet, all the same, the Indian sun
Combs my hair and beats my head
And leaves me bruised and aching still
In flights of unrequited rest

From Blue Chunni