The 2d story

A memory
from broken milk teeth
and old old tea table.

Spans into a middle age man,

Or a boy who thinks he is old

Still biting candy out of wrappers

And playing pop music

Chained to the rhythm.

Watching and staring

At the computer screen

Flipping through online sites

Worrying about the MS word cursor.


The coffee mug is empty

My table is cluttered

The song has been playing in loop.


Time is no longer relative

It has actually stopped

My watch has stopped ticking

I can hear time cry.


There is a tiny pimple

On my freshly-mowed cheeks

That I see in Louie’s face

A kaleidoscopic reflection of my childhood.


But sometimes

I feel paper thin

Like I am the paper

Or its me in ink.


I am floating in an origami world

Being floated and folded

Into a fine little duckling

Waiting to be slaughtered.


I am

A product

Among the multitude

Of them stacked

And racked in shelves


No, no. I am a dream.

A slip.

Into some dumb person’s imagination

Where memories are just lying flat

Staring at the skies

Like two lovers

In 2d.


Death of poetry

It begins with knowing,
And knowing too much;
like going to a school
And then a college,
Reading thick books
And talking about writing all the time.

But I don’t know if people talk
Of this disease
that poets endure
somewhere in the mid-fifties,
where every word, every word
seems like a suave hand shake,
And you stop playing dirty
And disgusting; mining and drilling
Making larger and larger empty holes.

It seems.
You know.
Where to talk
How to talk
Where a comma begins,
And your career ends.

It all is numbers;
A bigger scare than your fifth grade maths teacher
You slip into your pajamas, listen to lullaby
And sleep at 9. While she knocks and knocks
Until her hand fades away.

You wake up to find
An old memory
Of knocking and you think it was fucking
You strip them naked, parade them and
Make clowns, set up tents, and a whole fucking
Circus town.

“Something is amiss”
You say
And you continue sleeping
Until you fall dead.

Closing ceremony

How do you close books

that were never opened?

How do you shut doors

where light never fell?


In the sweet breath of summer

Sweat toiling down my spines-

i see,

A smell, a garden.


Swift moving wheels

like our nimbler hands

wielding worlds through words,

a smoke arises.


Sun arises in the east

and brings death to summer,

bringing out the silver shine

of a Moon gloating.


Solitary. Alone. Four-walled

death in cage of conspicuous memories.


While the leaf

drifts apart

the tree awaits.



It’s the same old lover

In the beginning,

there was


And then, there was life.


A crude

washed-up picture

made in some dingy, dark room.


I cried. I yelled.

My voice resounding my ears

my body vibrating like a tuning fork.


Toilet paper rolled out

on the floor

Old cosmetics

chucked in the bin

A swarm of bees

and the KFC bucket.

This grief has suckled the life

out of me. A birth-giving mother

that bashed her infant’s head

on the black stone


It’s a river that flows;

along the village

dark and murky

from the factories

spewing death.


Flag, sickles and loud noises

Applause and swatting of flies

More the anger grows,

bigger my penis shows.


Aside in a corner

drooling on the pages

I lie- waking

in the middle of night

checking if the pages were filled.


The calm night

has a breeze,

has a tone,

of a lover.


Fitting in perfectly

laid on the clavicle

supporting the rib cage,

protecting your breathing lungs.


A splinter no longer than—

my finger;

Lying idle, hanging and waiting

To fall out.


The tiny opening,

exiting and entering.

A broken accordion,

Playing in odd rhythms.


A prickle on the toe.

A pebble in between the nails.

An over-stressed facial muscle.

A sprained neck, a sore gum and a blocked nose.


Flowers arrangements

trapped in a metal cage,

laid over a brazen stone.


It’s the flower,

That grows beside the corpse.






A kiss on the lips,

burns like acid.

deadlier than a heart-attack

Is a heart pulsating for love?


Flowers wither away under the sun,

crumbling to ashes.

The pain. The burn.

has started a melody in the garden,


The new weeds

that grow have

strangled my vocal cords.


Green, dark and black.

they grow covering

the blue skies

Into utter oblivion.


Even when the candle flickers,

Love is seen in the soot.