White Noise

White Noise

Watch me
A residue or an excuse?
Gnarling at the very
Of where it all began;
A handful of foam.

Have you tasted oblivion,
Perched on the
Edge of your lips?
I have taken swings
From the same bottle
With different labels,
Convinced my stupor
To adore the
In alternate realities.

Waking up with hangovers
In odious daylight,
Eyes besmeared with
Illusory tales,
Written in flashes of laughter,
Patchwork of peeling memories;

It is easy tuck
A suicide note
Between unsuspecting folds
Of bargained contentment.

I have
Crafted to perfection
My caged existence;
What remains are wisps of
Fragile Tales,
Like accidental perfumes
In cheerless alleyways.

8 February 2017

F r a g m e n t s

F r a g m e n t s

I am fine.
I have been fine for quite long


I cannot                    recollect when
The                                                       drape around my head







This is easy.

To not

Dis man tling one thought from                           another;
Who would have
Meandering through each fold
Stifled a different voice
An unspoken


Was gasping for breath
Crying for                    help.



Why do we crave to have our tales heard? Understood? Believed in?

My lies could be
Harmless truths








We all have
Our fire escapes

On how far

Want to


Do you see me now?
I am a






Taking up identities.
Cleaning up evidences.
Convincing myself, hard,
That this is


Amidst the wreckage
Of                         blatant                   follies

Palpable lies.

25 January 2017



But for a rusted lock.
A broken door.
A shattered pane.
Are you willing to forsake
That which you have been calling
Your home
Down to this day?

Yes, I still hear the winds at night
Wheezing noisily.
I hear my pillows whisper,
‘She let her dreams leak
And succumb into moist patches;
Who sleeps like that
Next to enemies each night?
With nightmares warped
From sun-danced dreams?’

But believe me when I say,
That I tried to sew them
With threads of self-indulgent beliefs.
Though I knew;
I could see the bursting seams.
How could I not see?
Scattered toys with sharp ends,
Piercing my feet…
Familiar walls with peeling paint;
You cannot paste them back
Or collect them like memorabilia.

You sweep them.

Under the rug, maybe?
Until next time…

How do you desert a place
You called home?
A home, assembled from skin and bones.

21 December 2016



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