Why does she arrive?

She comes in a tonga cart
smelling like shit
wearing tattered old clothes;
made from old bedsheets
and crown made of used paper bags.

The princess come right
onto my desk
taking a dip in my
fabulously new pool
of dark blue liquid.

But why can’t she be adorned in flowers
or decked in jwellery?
making me a pauper.

Um. Ahem.. Cough. It hurts.
A series of life-sustaining noises
creep out of this carefully sealed jar.

I can’t even find rice
to paste this envelope
like my mother used to.


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.



Staggering with the dead

It’s cold, chilly winds

The hot warm soup

“It’s spicy”


Shutting off the tap,

it’s brass knuckles

leaving prints

on my hand


Tomato soup is red in color.


Warm and cozy

Like my pool.


I am lying beside it

Staining the blue tiles

Into maroon.


The blood-soaked water

Is now bloddy red in the



Fishes choke

on my platelets

They float

Like clouds in the sky


The sky is sparkling white

A white Mercedes

Is walking beside the bus.

The cold has creeped


My hands are numb,

My fingers are falling off,

Shell by shell

It peels off—my



In the midst of shrouds

and withered flowers

Mushrooms and dead plants grow in



The warmth of closed windows

has disappeared.


The sand is cold,

Dead people are icy.


The bus is gone

So is the distance.



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.


Beach day

Vast expanses of beach sand

The dust, making my feet heavier

Leaving more heavier footprints

I walk towards the beach


The distance is

far more than I could remember

the farther I walk

the more father it walks away

Perhaps it’s the waves.


Or maybe once

The land that I walk on

Was all the sea

Until it receded.


Small kiosks of soda bottles

Of all colors; Red, green and yellow

Shops selling fresh, crispy fried fish

Horse riders looking for

More riders; making me smell horse shit and piss


A plate of bhelpuri that is stale

Prawns that taste undercooked

An overpriced coffee

An annoying woman dumping water bottles in the sea.


Dark skin men in maroon boxers

Some white women getting tanned

Tiny kids walking around; dangling their flaccid penises

Tiny teeny kids walking around; making it a pedophile’s heaven.


Sea washes away

And brings back dirt

Old bottles, and probably a dead body.


Yet the sea remains sickly green

Or is it of a shade of blue

Only trying to build another wave

Over another

Washing her tears of failure

To our knees.


Why? Why ? Why?

The sea just knows it all.


I laid my eyes

On a lighthouse

Near rocks and

Lashing waves hitting them


I began to run towards it

Barely moved; legs become heavier

I walk.


I walk and I drag myself

Noticing the couple spot

scattered twos and twos

Under the setting sun

Laying streaks of light

On the tiny pond in the middle

Those streaks moving along with my eyes.


The big lighthouse is in front of me

IS far far away from the sea

no rocks or lashing waves

Yet I am back on the road.


Everything I found on this beach

turned fake

Yet everything is fake!










A Ash(cz this is not your regular grammatical error)

A fire burns the paper

Paper pulped from the tree

Tree chopped into wood

Wood dropped in the fireplace

Warm, cozy grandma stiches and knits

The cold, soft wool into the warm breath.


Smoke arising from the buildings

Throws away the ashes of paper

Imprinted with words

Words or the soul?

They all cry.


My glasses are grim

With the soot from this city

Motor engines hooting smoke

Burn in ecstasy at the fire


Fire catches my dress

Dress knitted from yarn

Yarn from a slaughtered animal

The animal within me or the soul?

They all cry.


My bed is strewn with ashes

Ashes from men smoking

Ashes of burnt bodies

Ashes from the fireplace


Yet on a cold and clear night

And a stormy rainy night

I like to smoke a cigar

And watch the ashes fall off.