All my silent cries
Are two edged daggers,
Peeling the walls of
My throat
One swig at a time

While the stars danced
To vile tunes –
My melancholy was the crowbar
To force open
The drawers of self-loathing
And anxiety.

Purple nights crept up
Behind old walls
Of shadow puppets, playing out
Ghastly scenes in past tense;

You dwelt comfortably
In plagiarized tales,
Mimicking my skin;
Each night
I find myself,
Renewing the lease
Of your stay.

When I run out of metaphors,
There is Famine –
At the cornice of my
Failed charade,
Or making love
To the tunes in my head –

I cannot tell.

22 March 2017


(Motel (2015), Clem Crosby Image courtesy Pippy Houldsworth gallery)



In that street,
The lamps have dimmed,
The shadows, twist in themselves,
Contort into insomniac magpies
Hurtling towards darts of shiny specks;
Broken beams illuminating
The Shadow People
Made of tattered dreams and scarred self-esteem.

Their trinkets try to wrap hastily,
But sobs don’t rhyme
With the jingle-jangle of broken bangles
Neither do colognes mask
The salt of unspoken seas.
Barters made under neon lights
In an unlikely backdrop of
Unsteady harmonica tunes.

To the shattering of bottles,
Emptied in the hope of vanquishing demons;
Who knew they were knotted electric cables
In disguise?
Dumpsters overflowing
Reeking of selfsame horrors
As unspoken minds
Have let their thoughts rot –
Putrid carcasses.

And the first rays
Wipes all evidence without a trace;
A stage stripped
Of all realities.

30 November 2016




Can you tell
Fear, from the
Gradual numbness
Catching on to your feet?
Like brambles and nettles,
Do you carry them around
Like unconscious badges
From robust strolls in dewy morns?

Or when at nights,
You dive underneath
Your coarse blankets and linen sheets,
Are you cold, or in hiding
From your skin, weighing on you
Like an armour?
If your breathing does not seem like
The solution wine glasses are made of,
Don’t let it clench your throat
As a rope made of
Question marks would.



Does my blood remind you
Of war paints, war zones
Mourners, murderers?
Are you nauseated yet
By the acrid stench
That trickles down your perfectly arched back?
I hope the answers you seek
Lie somewhere among
The carcasses of your past identities
You now deny access through
Barbed wires of your present pretensions.

I’m out of tissues and blotting papers.

Several attempts later,
I hung around slovenly,
Strung of halfhearted melodies
And smokes mingled into
Frosty nights.



Is there a Rise without
A Fall?
Prison walls could not mute
My jarring thoughts, an
Antithesis to my public side.
The inmates leave,
Their voices remain
In dank memories of
Worn corners.

Don’t come too close;
It’s contagious.

16 November 2016

Clockwork Doll

Clockwork Doll

My anxiety is like potions
In glass bottles
That look like popsicles
Melted, by uneven heat.
Dollops of crude, ghastly-shaped
Images, floating in its own
Mess; I could not save from

I’m trying to whisk past
Glass walls, reflecting its empty spaces,
Only to stop midway
And behold the spectacle
Of myself, fragmented.
It is hard to differentiate
Fiction from reality
When the red margins seem to blur.

I am the corpse, of a clockwork doll
That was conditioned to

And repeat.
And repeat.

Until the clockwork broke.

13 November 2016

Truncated Dreams

Truncated Dreams

When all this is over,
Is over…
Will I trace my way
Back, through reeling
Time zones right across
Your empty eyes squeezed, of
All its clichéd stupor-induced
Visions, bathed in disbelief?

Between pauses and sunsets
I have collected fragments
Of your slurred alphabets
Spiraling down, down,
Into an abyss where you and I
Could only dream of building
Towns, folding and unfolding
Our paper dreams.

I have tried it again, and again,
And again…
Running in circles, chasing
Visceral galaxies I created, of
Meaningless jargon in
Elitist lips:

How have they found me?
For my painted face was meant
To remain uniform
In the turmoil of uncertainties
And childish follies.

In between the lines of stories
Told before, notice the spaces
Where I will pour lines and set them


Notice the smoke.
Do you see your name?


7 November 2016

Lights Out

Lights Out

The billboards with their fluorescent glow
In a City of dark bends
And dingy corridors;
The light flickered in its
Fragile case, sellotaped and glued
Tiny sparks like broken glass
In the sun.

I’m trying to hold my head
High above the waters
In a space punctuated with semi-colons,
Reeking of bitterness left by
Unfinished sentences with serrated ends,
Evaporating into a jailhouse
Of four walls.
I’m inhaling the same
Over and again.
Exhaling, a putrid mix
They have christened as
My resentment
Because you can cover up a mess
With a fancy drape
And pretend it is non-existent.

Flickering lamps of unsteady flames
Painting hallucinations on blank canvases
Of patchy whitewashes.
Behind peeling wall paints,
Peeps countless bundles of
Laughter, in fragments
Grievances and boredom
Collected like soot
And burnt out matchsticks.

I walk though empty rooms
In the darkness,
As the last light wanes


27 October 2016



My crimson noons and blistered nights
Are flipsides
Of the same coin.
Battered, with hammered thoughts,
With tears and sighs
I tried using to grow my bonsai,
Of paper leaves
And ink stained veins
Narrating tales, of shadow puppets
Dancing, to my insomniac dreams.

In silent whispers
Speak the gaping wounds.
No bloodstains leave evidence
Of my carcass heart;
No steel sharper than your shrapnel words
Could leave battle scars
I’ll carry to my grave,
Or distorted images
I’ll make love to, all night long.

I’m singing dirges
To overlap my decayed mornings,
Dregs in teacups;
Refilling normalcy
To draw the curtains
Of a bedroom of undressed emotions.

Somewhere in the garden,
A chameleon mimicked the sun.

19 October 2016