Taste of depression

Sometimes, oftentimes,

When I talk

To myself

I wonder what it tastes like–

Like bitter, starchy tea

With no sugar

Or like poison on your

Lips–burning body and life,

–or is it like sitting in mother’s kitchen, windows shut, smoke filling in.

What color do I breathe?

Or has the pesticide man arrived

Killing every living being

Flying and walking

Deadening grey cell matters

Unprotected by a defenseless cranium.

But what do you really taste like

Or smell like–you have been

A defaulter renting my attic

I should be more familiar

Are you me?

Like a Marquez novel,

The one with the Colonel
And the chicken

My throat feels

Covered in vines, ferns

And thorns–is that

Why I bleed?

A dark brown pleghm

Turns crimson– leaving

Red dotted tinge

In the middle.



There is something dark that overshadows the mellow fields.

It feels cloudy.

No, it’s not going to rain–

Mother cried last night

The wash basin was overflowing

I need a ghost buster

In this ghosted town

Where the wind sings to the trees

And the trees shrug back,

I see, I forsee,

Slash and burn

And picking up the remains

Looking into the pot of ashes

For hope.

Silence of the Nature

A dimly lit square room

Light peeking through the foggy glassed-windows

Crumby bed playing the song of eternity

Of breathing and masturbating,

Into the silences of the nights

In harmony with the multitude of unseen

Chirping insects and animals grazing into the nightly dew

That lie shaken at the sound of the flutter of underwear flying off

And hands greasing into a the hand of a heroin addict

Working the shovel, digging and unhinging

New and untouched graves of souls that died

Into the chemical imprint of films, cut and edited

With breast and vaginas calling like cocks and balls crying

For everything that came from dust must return to dust.

Dust covered,

Swollen gentilia

Dug hard into the red dust

Causing irritating and painful friction

Ants crawling and biting into the stalk

Of ripe green juicy paddy

Releasing new spurts of rashes

All across my body

The strong yet lean stems of the arecanut

Draw taller; their roots flying deeper and deeper

Their leaves spreading into the night sky

Shooting, looking at the skies

Into the whiteness of the moon.

The last shriek, last moan

engraved into the Rustling of sheets.


Unreasoned reason

I don’t know why, my hand

Trembles like an old man

When the sun strikes my window

While my lips crave for a cusp

Of my muse. Drowning merrily

Inside the bitter-pleasure of her voluptuous body. She lies there, still and dark, all the darkness

Surrounding her eyelids as she flutters

In my reflection of my grotesque

Image; cast in God’s face.


Slow moves

Into the Swift caresses of

The western ghats, I was

Washed ashore. Among the sweltering rocks, where waves comes washing in,

A million stars have taken a dip

And they fall

Into the viscosity of nature. Beauty is among the light escaping the intersections of these palm trees

Emerald green like the color of traffic lights, yet

Far away from the chaos and lights

Drowning in the darkness of the canopy of paradise

A seagull builds in the nest, sqawking at tourists. They flew into the safety of their dilapidated buildings.

These rocks have crabs, hiding in the little crevices, pale white hard shelled creatures with pricking tentacles, I lay beside them. Hiding from the blinding confusion of crossroads and intersections.

The city bears a mark

Of my dissected body

Yet the invigorating aurora

Of shades and glistening

Wash me

Again into the black roads of the city.

My skin drying against the salty water

Lies vacant and empty

The waves crashing against the rocks

Slowly, walk in through the gaps

Between my loin and fabric.

As the sun’s dance away to Glee

And a apparition of faces

Cross by,

New bodies turn up. Tired souls,

Covered in the shroud of smoke.


A flag that I can call my own

A little to the left

push it to the end

Stop, before you hit the wall.

turn it by around by three sixty

face it that side

face it to the wall

face it in a way nobody sees your face.


Lie still like a human sushi platter,

don’t flutter around like a butterfly

cause the Gods died ages ago,

Don’ think. Don’t feel, Just lie,

like a story book in the shelf.


Be colorless, Be odorless.

be anything but shed blood.

For all I care, be a rainbow unicorn

in a fantasy world where clouds

are made of marshmallows, but

don’t rain the city with your knives.


Don’t put a ring on my cock. If it’s not yours.

Don’t color my hair or ask me to cut it.

Don’t ask me to recite words or die for it.

Just follow a lot of dont’s  and mind your business.


I like my flags in solidarty

with the silence

of them fluttering

in the evening breeze.







I want a story that I can call mine

If I believe in your myths

Will I receive twelve baskets of bread?

If I eat your lies

Can I feel beauty?

On the holy altar

Can I sleep on cold nights?

Amongst thieves and evil mongers

Would I be gnashing my teeth

If I yell out loud

In your hollow chapels?

Your frankincense surrounds me.

Covers me in your holy attire

The smell of nicotine and damp earth

Freshly brewed coffee and poetry of some long-lost lover.

The music of a woken-up city, sound of neighbor’s yelling, the warden’s last call for dinner

Could I scream in ecstasy?

As I find pleasure

In the deep ravines of my trouser’s

Will you let me, rebuild my lost city?