Wednesday, April 7, 2010

Bad Omen

I should have known,
when I first sat
on that (forbidden)wooden threshold
of your house
that this was the bad luck
that they were trying to shoo away
from under my feet
(and yours).

Sunday, February 28, 2010

And Us

We were fools.
We owned the world
(only) in the twisted fantasies
of our own minds.

Once words and meanings
showed their true colors,
we had nothing
but the gaping empty truths
of our lying bodies
(ringless and bare necked).
And a story that trespassed beyond
soured dreams
pointing fingers
and feminism.

Sunday, February 21, 2010

Plot Device

And we were weak.
We lied.
We made up stories
like children playing toy soldiers.
Thinking we will be home
in time to save the day.


In our abstractness,
our "good intentions",
our pretentions to save them pain,
we have dug ourselves
our graves.

Saturday, February 20, 2010

Basic Nature

I have sat
too many times
in the midst of empty words.
Fitting meanings.
Make belief.

They didn’t feel the ill-fit.
The choking at the mouth.
And now when I speak
They don’t listen.

This Time I Speak the Truth

Maybe that was what was called instinct. Hugely ignored. That little feeling in the pit of my stomach. That I-have-forgotten-something feeling. But in between all the pushier feelings maybe there was no space for that. Caution and stupidity have probably switched roles somewhere along the way and there is no knowing which is which anymore.

The games we can play with our own minds and our memories are embarrassingly potent. Here I am. I have a choice of how I want to remember that day. The day. The only day that from then on should have mattered. And all I can remember from it is the feeling of wrongness. Something missing. Somewhere, something, somehow.

The lead up to this event was also eventful. The excitement I saw in the younger eyes around me was missing in mine. How do I tell you the real story? How do I break your hearts by bearing my soul to you? How do I tell you that what you see is just an act colored by your own demanding and desperately constructed realities? If you knew the truth you’d just tsk tsk and sit back wondering why all this had to come this far anyway.

Flashback to that “fateful” day doesn’t help much. But does put things into perspective. Weighs them out and puts them into that futile bag of realities labeled “hindsight”. Learnings, there are many. But once again you’d say I think too much and this reality that belongs to me is only a manifestation of my arrogantly selfish mind.

I don’t have to close my eyes, sit in a dark room and brood to touch this reality. It swims right before me dimming only when I am deeply distracted. But you will say that is life. You will say distract yourself. You will say come here, let me give you a hug. Take a deep breath, move on.

And I am.

If only learning from mistakes was not our anthem. If only truth and honesty and dignity didn’t mean anything. If only you’d admit that you lied and you would prefer that we continue living our masked lives. If only you could bear yourself in front of me and let me hold you instead and remind you that this pain is more yours than mine. I have crashed and burned over and over again – and keep doing so – but am still breathing just enough to tell the story.

And a story there is. This one is the kind that is not talked about if helped. It reeks of human mistakes and childlike innocence. This one is just slightly poked at the surface, if at all it must be mentioned.

But here we are sitting opposite each other, lumps in our throats and questions in our eyes.

Why? What next? How could you? The questions are many. And the answers unsatisfactory.

There are people who are allowed (expected?) to make mistakes and those who are not. Ironically the former are forgiven easier. But I have made a mistake. Now under the weight of words like “perfect” and “flawless” and “destiny” I can feel myself give away. Look at me and you’ll know the empty words you are ranting. Can I just tell you that they are not true? It was only what you wanted to see. Those gaps were filled in by your own dreamy eyes. You made it up and made me like this. Just open your eyes a little wider and you’ll see the cracks expand into gaping holes. Bottomless pits.

This picture is not beautiful. And this cloud of hope that I hold in my hands belongs to you. I didn’t dream it, or want it. I hold it gingerly with my fingertips, nevertheless, afraid of what might happen if I let it go. But it prickles like an allergy and squirms to jump out. This thing that is yours. A stranger in my hands.

Just like me in your hands. Waiting to exhale.

Tuesday, February 16, 2010


The God
that was battered yesterday
had to be pacified today.
There are still
so many wishes unfilled.

(sometimes that is done to people too)

Sunday, January 31, 2010

The Upside

doesn't always
have to be this way

after all
has been
fun too


why is it that


and nonsense

fall apart

with you


Sages and Learners

the metal din
of keyboards
and the whir
of stale computers
whiz on and on
in the background

the learners
and the sages
both give sermons

quiet, heavy words
soul mates
and spiders
killed by drowsy heads.


tempers roar
in this cold sea
of unseeing eyes
and whispering tongues.
dawn is short
- a flicker.
its orange hues
turning fiery too soon.
and as the fire roars
and without,
look back
at the flicker
you have left behind.
I am still the flame
ready to burn
with you.
for you.


It was in choked,
hushed whispers
that they told our story,
assuming (very bravely)
a grim embarrassment
for our shameless,

Radiant Fantasy

I long
to ride
the waves
you summoned,
drowning in the
foamy crests
and surface
drowning in the
unreachable heights
you plucked
and spread out for me,
drowning in the
depths unseen
of wild serenity
and float back
to life


reaching out
across the cold glass

these images
trapped inside on
"the other side"
in fear
of when they would have
to step out

and wipe their
old, tired hands
on that smooth surface
that, sometimes,
still tells their story.


This unwant
is a gray thing.

so it sinks,
till it finds
a spot
- a grudge
or a sore.

A niche.

Color Blindness

the yellows
and oranges

dipped into

does not look

(as one might think)


you had said

I had said

This is the
of our delirium.

A river
the parting in my hair


centre stage:

"boil pasta,
chop chop,
salt and pepper,
serve hot"

back stage:

"is the fourth floor
high enough?"


It’s still too early

the sun hasn’t set
on the marks of our love
or on the crumpled
bed sheets
the still smell of bodies
(yours and mine)


help me rub out my teary eyes
so that you can
once again

Jigsaw Puzzle

Directions for use:
Pick up pieces
And place them
Where they belong

Oh… Look!
It’s a pretty house!

Who Died?

What is that rotten stench?
As if something was left

Problem Child

Please go away
I want to be alone now.




I’ve got a story
to tell you

Listen to me
I know things
You have no idea about

Listen listen….
Don’t fall asleep yet


When I go mad and fall
You can kick my limp body and try to wake me up
“Wake up bitch
Don’t leave me
Don’t leave me now
Smile, dance, sing for me
Am bored
Wake up bitch
Am not done with you”


a lot more than
heavy drops
quenched soil
distant rumble
scented air
and pitter patter
got through this time



just the talk of
cloudy skies
and the drumming of rain
against window panes

and there

another shower
of his poetry
drenches my senses


on the other side
painted a better picture
than the one
the skies so desperately
tried to paint