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.


Steamy hot politics

I want to be an a-political writer
Dreaming, wanting, desiring
Touching, feeling an erection in the bathroom stall
Downing whiskey shots with beer –batter onion rings
Listening, watching, smiling, and dreaming again.
Fall in your arms and wake up with you naked—the
Sheets fresh with semen yet crumpled like the discarded tissue.

My first baby tooth, my first kiss, my childhood toys we used to play
The color of crystal clean water, the vodka glasses with my batch name on it
The sound of honking in the streets, my father’s dahlias, my mother’s cooking
The tank overflowing, neighbors yelling
And finish it, with the sound of a cooker going off
The bland smell of rajma in the air.

I want to write about your flags. Some are red colored while some
Are yellow and green. Some are just white and some are just like
Colorless odorless gas. Reeking of a self-conscious stench. The breath of a burnt revolution.
But I prefer your long hair, swishing in the air
While you talk about these colored acts.

But, honey, your sickles and hammers make me sick
Your flowers and gestures
Yet, I love the grin on your face
When I tell you we are alone
Alone in the room, parents are away
And you just lie naked
For me to watch, for me to write.

Don’t make me write
Don’t take away my words
Don’t force my hand on your girth-full cock
Yet I love my lips pursing
At the sight of a dream;
Awoken and sleep.

Eternal Grind

Peeking through the thin curtain

the ones with the polka dots,

I can see my mother

lifting and dragging

the dough along the sides

of the stone mortar.


She is cutting onions

into thin rings

along with the chillies

her eyes watering.

Or is she crying?


The window left open

drags into ebbs

onto freshly swept floor.

The phenol is over.

Why is the floor so shiny?


Dad has left the groceries

on the dinning table

Squashed tomatoes. Unpeeled onions. Tiny garlic.

He has switched on the TV

and is laughing. At something.


.The exhaust fan is black

covered in grim and soot

the cooker is shooting rings of steam

the milk is spilling over

and the lighter is wet.


It’s the evening.


Dinner over dirty tables,

time-tables and lesson plans

milk with horlicks for me.



The night in the kitchen is out.

Yet the moon still shines,

so she won’t get fired from her job.




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.

The umpteenth return

The final run

the last beat

the left button’s click

A showdown of the bear mauling a rabbit.

It’s my final shot and we are all sitting at the pub. The light were all coming along in straight lines. The pounding on the oak wood table sounds louder as I place my shot glass, wondering if the thick bottomed glass could break.

The music becomes faster

and  hearts race as the batsman hits

a boundary.

I re-adjust my coat and stare into the abyss called the bar.  There are all kinds of people drinking here.

Tired travellers. tired travellers. tired Travellers.tIreD TrAvElLeRs. tired fucking travellers. tired travellers. tired travellers with only one thing in mind to drown the journey.

A poetry comes to my mind. I am picking images right from the oak wood throne. The nacho no longer wants to be with the chicken or cheese. Its under my teeth; grounded first to tiny little pieces and then to fine powder.

The new fosters beer claims to be cold

and the thin layer

of condensed water proves it;

the beer is sparkling golden.

The new Fosters beer claims to be cold and the thin layer of condensed water proves it; the beer is sparkling golden.

My memory is now like a shifting gear; each click taking me to a new reality. In one of those realities, I was inside the car and the man shouted at me for keeping my head on the cushioned seats.

The sugar rimmed shots

claimed to be the last dregs

from this chalice of life.

Binary digits began floating. Zeroes and ones. More zeroes and ones. More of those numbers umtill I began counting the zeroes and one and they turned into letters and numbers

I am sitting in my fifth standard

wondering if the denominator

went above the straight line

or below it.

They still dont explain the journey or the problem.

I am reading Khaled Hosseni’s Kite Runner. I am reading Rohinton MIstry’s Fine Balance. I am reading. I am moping over Catcher in the Rye. The football scene is killing me. Fair young legs dressed in Manchester United socks. AK Ramanujam and his hairy horse.

I wonder it is brevity or long fucking deatils that they call thick detail that makes good poetry. Or maybe it is just a paradox. Or a fallacy. A tragedy and a love story.

I am falling love sideways in Cheriyan sir’s class and somebody takes a photo and makes that the class group’s profile pic. They post all kinds of stuff including tomorrow’s class’s timmings.

Runnning down

the memory lane of being a teen

I wonder what makes Ila

so addicted to coffee.


Maybe its the sugar

or the intensity of it

Or maybe it’s the aroma,

fresh beans slowly dying in boiling water

Or maybe it’s the sweetnes of life or

the brevity of sips

or the long gulps of the concoction.


It”s the memory of being close to something so close.

I go home, order a coffe mug and make my first coffee. It’s bitter and wierd. But a moment later I knew sanity.

The line between sanity and insanity is just a vague understanding of Abnormal Psychology from last two semesters.

What is sanity?

the rush to feel ordered

or the order to feel rushed?


I found tea.

Lying next to the coffee machine

inside the MIrrror office.

Sweet taste of orderly life swimming in insanit of emotions. Its the renuion of emotions and rationality.

It is a glitch in the system.

The Great Depresssion and the giant collapse begin. Buildings fall down and tables are being overturned.

Tubelights are fickering off. There is terror in the air and fire all across the floor. Poeple are screaming and the music is fading

The last beat is so slow

that I find my head being grazed

like a tractor on the field.


The beef burgers so late

the thick foam from the beer is now

at the bottom.


Wait, what is the missing piece?