Bare bones

Shall I uncover myself?
and reveal
the juciy,fleshy, red muscles
strung tightly to
a casket of bones.

Bones that will one day
kill me, turn brittle and fade,
disperse into the air
like an withered rose.

You said love is uncovering.
You said love is shedding.
But i knew, you just wanted me
to manscape. Or trim my hair.
The rotten insides
scares away oesteroporsis.

I remember my mother’s old visits
to an old, dingy clinic
and to the giant conglomerate;
All of them wanted to poke
injections into her bones.
They said she is weak.
Doctor says she could die by
just withering away.

So, they injected her with calcium
made her eat calcium tablets
She now has a big plastic box
labelled ‘medicines’.
Still, she complains of leg pain and back-aches.

Uncovering is a painful exercise:
tugging at the skin
pulling the skin hair
baring the muscles
to a world of microbes and UV-light


a nest of empty voices.


You stink of rulers!

i lie hidden
like a clean underwear
hiding amongst a pile of
unwashed, unclean clothes.

The old cupboard
with straight lines
has kept me suffocated
amongst the stench of these clothes.
The giant lock prevents me from escaping.

Sometimes i hide among striped men
sometimes i hide among the brightly colored clothes
sometimes i just crouch in fear.

Fear of being found
and thrown out
fear of being played whack-a-mole.

Once I slipped through
the tiny light
under the door
They caught me
beat me black and blue.
They turned me upside down
and threw me out.

Ever since,
i lay hidden among
this pile of boring clothes.
Looking for darkness and security.

But that day i found
that a strict and straight ruler
might never understand a poor
clean underwear.

Drunk adulthood.

Strewn in a pile of ashes,
Ejected out of the pilot seat,
Drowned in a glass of liquid;
a hell lot of parachute-talk
for a man who is dyin.

We go. We go. We go places
and then stop time. Kiss and let it go.
We see. We sea. we see movies in old theaters
and we get bored.
We buy popcorn and an old bottle of rum
couple it with two cups of caffeine.
We drink. We smoke.
We drink. We smoke.

I sit in my parent’s house
on the old iron swing
the pale pillow smells of farts
and I hear creaking
of bones and doors.

Lying in a pool of blood,
anxiety has seeped into me
A deafening silence ensues
a trembling heart.

An another pool
glistening in the sun
comes to my mind,
Me and towels
sitting at the edge
staring at clinking glasses
with fancy liquids- like
crayons in my bag

Playing with imaginary friends
and clashing figurines at each other
We wrote stories
We never were scared
We just clashed and clasped
one figurine onto another.


A swarm of ants
crawling under my hands
making its way to the navel
walking into a dark and hairy tunnel
they march into it.

The brown bottle storing sugar
has been left open
a couple cubes; lying on the floral sheets
Ants are swarming around it.

The large speaker
emanating bass
trembles the ants away
they bite. they scratch.leave placard lying around.

A plate full of vermin
cultured in a hostile environment
is now a graveyard; shriveled and contracted bodies
Ants walk in and out
It’s a play field for them.

The old man
is grumpy and hairy
and rubs his big hands
on those ants; squishing their heads

It burns.

Bottomless pit

At the bottom of the sea,
lies turbulence and pettiness,
Deep rooted-floral beds
in their multi-colored worlds.

Over the sea there is always a breeze,
gently touching my skin
lashing at the red lighthouse;
illuminating the golden fishes
casting heavy light
on the old, paint-removed railing
from where I pen this.

It’s a field of boulders, with sharp corners and tough surfaces
A death bed. A casket of my own making.
getting lashed against the waves
Shelled inside an old rum bottle-
A note floats;
waiting to be re-opened.

The ship that I have departed
is hooting;
announcing the sharp distance-
between me and the land.

Ahaha XD

I remember going to the church during my school days and in my condemned childhood with my parents. Not that my parents used to cane me or made me revel in grit and slime, but I always found that my mind was free to roam and wander in solitariness. But when I grew up, I began to detest the sweet smell of old-ceilings, the sound of brass bells going off; resonating the old priests’s cracking voice into an auto-tune, the neatly-tied bows that hung over my alter-boy clothes, the words off the giant black Bible.

I also remember my first holy communion. Clad in white dress holding a white candle, adorned with a white ribbon. Holy Fucking Christ! Could you say I was virgin in more ways. But. nevertheless, I was excited to have the tiny white circle that the priest gave to my mother every Sunday. Dipped in an little alcohol, the priest was offering me what I desired the most all through my childhood. Holy communion is the visible form of something completely invisible. And for me, it was desire. Desire to share something from my mother like siblings.

I would hum to the ecclesiastical tune of hymns before sleep, recite the rosary with fervor  or read those stories of saints and wonder what it was to be them. They were to many what Harry Potter was to many children. They ended in the heroes dying for what they love. And its’s that meta-physical love that I gathered contrary to my parent’s pious intentions. So, in Christ I saw gore and suffering and in saints I saw fan-girling.

In my early days of writing, I would wait for days for this holy spirit to descend on me, so I could write. I even had a ritual that i shall not mention. Until, my English teacher in eleventh standard told me the ‘muse’ never arrives. Now, if I think about it, she told me walk towards her and to bask in her bosoms but I did not perceive it like that at that time. And maybe, that was also the time, I lost love.Only to be regained with a new sense of revolt. A burning desire to prove that I am right and everything else is wrong.

I writhed in the pain of this loss, that I shut tight the doors of my chapel. Locked it with a strong, big golden lock and swallowed the key until it reached my gut.But only to be revived the slender legs of men in shorts playing football. Men of many sizes and color, in full-length and ankle socks, adorned by sharp pointy studs in the colors of gay flag. Long evenings would be spent under the giant clock-tower on those cemented seats that overlooked the basketball court, wondering if the ball was going to reach the goal.

But later when I began to write, I had forgotten everything that was me. I was empty and dry. I began to wrote about the emptiness but I still was parched.And then among strong pressure for time, I met my next love–lying  motionless in a steel cup, the black filmy surface reflecting the unruly hair i possessed. We went a long way in weaving sweaters in cold nights and doing a bit of gardening in my garden in the backyard. We never left each other except for moments of human error.

But what I was  still forgetting is that I had lost something. Something I really liked . Now, when I look at candies, I see Christ in them and eat them with reverence as if I was performing my own little mass. I began to see Christ in crispy fried chicken. I began to see him in the music. Even so in my frantic efforts to become a man with the help of a laptop screen.

But in my dreams you scream

of the places we could have been

if only we had opened a tiny tear

into the castle, so dark

so dense

that water floats.

light would walk

in freshly dressed leaves

mating in the Eden;

Bare naked telling the stories

of Creation.

if only we stopped

to hear the gurgling stream,

beating and pumping-

the river Nile of my existence.











I imagine the wind undressing me,

Black clouds forming lead buttons.


One by one,

they come off,

as the music plays

in a quite peculiar fashion.


The old, black Tv looks like a dumb box

My mother feeding me rice balls

The smell of masala dosa

Arising and landing into my nostrils,

Rancid lake-water from grandmother’s house

The smell of fevi-quick. Acetone. Nail polish.

Coffee. Roast and warm. Home.

The way my house smelt like

Maybe like two old butts stuck together for ages.


I don’t know what i am saying.

It’s quite hazy with all the cold wind blowing

Or is it a dashing forty- five degrees?


Origami finds order

But only creases and folds

reach my heart.

I find myself

huddled in a corner

dressed in a black suit

worrying about

the white stain.