Friday, 21 November 2014


The words will not
Will not
Write themselves.

Rain and sun alike will kiss
The patterns on your umbrella.
You will lose your enviable physique.
The delicate cutlery from the flee market
Will shatter like your coveted dreams.

But these words.
They will urge you endlessly

You will crumple up a dozen proposals
Find yourself hopelessly in love with the enemy.
Impressive bullet points will embrace
Your once wretched resume.
You will stop scoffing at rap music.

These words though
They will stomp and rage inside your head .

You will indulge in many kinds of stupidity
Buy lingerie from ludicrous catalogs 
Pigeons will nest on your windowsill,
And you will not wave them away.
Your staggering vocabulary will turn inside out.

And yet the words will not write themselves
When you get old and lay down to sleep
The suffocated and mutilated words will 
Creep up and kill you slowly. 


Saturday, 18 October 2014

An adieu

There was once a young man 
Who accused me of being
A humongous pile of cheesy love songs
With hair like straw infused with
Apple juice from expired cartons

He went on to say that drunken mice
Would suffer indigestion from the cheese
And throw up all over my hair.
(Here I am not clear if mice throw up at all)

Now to him I say, Aye, If cheese must
Go, go it will. Though its delightful 
Tang and silken heaven will dearly 
Be missed, the 'L' word shall be uttered 
With utmost discretion, this I promise.

And here it is, an adieu, to all thick
Clumpy and sordid. I ought to close 
This now, bare are the words I type
(Irony is that you try to change 
for the one you love)

Also, note I may have exaggerated a little :)


Friday, 1 August 2014

Twisted Sanctuary

Streams of fresh steam
Transcend time on musty evenings
When you search my eyes
My clothes and my hair
For dirty fantasies and
Gnarled fears.

We swim into each other
Lust driven epiphanies slapping the shore
When I search your eyes
Your clothes and your hair
For dangerous trips and
Mortifying love-bites.

Lights dancing to the lethargic insects,
Darling I have never been more afraid.
I am afraid of metaphors failing
I am afraid of drought and war
I am afraid of the sound of cracking knuckles
I am afraid of the smoke in our lungs.
I am afraid now that you will tire of my ragged breathing
Leave this sanctum and I will never find you again.



      Hello. I am Mishca. I am an old woman who used to be a writer. Today I am dying. Faster than the distasteful flowers my niece had delivered to my bed at the hospital. I am on my deathbed thinking about the men I knew and remorse. This will be my last story.
      Of course there was I time I was young and desirable; with a small horde of immature men and boys vying for the attention of a petulant and proud child-woman of twenty, whose head was bursting with quirky notions and taboo dreams, under a mane of golden brown hair. Mishca at twenty was well-read and artistic, she walked with a gentle sway and a poorly disguised arrogance that made her irresistible. I say Mishca at twenty, and not 'I', because she is a only a picture ripped from a dormant past. I am the dying Mishca with her tar-grey lungs, chapped lips and conservative ideas. The two ought not be confused.
       Last morning, I dragged a painful leg to the only window i found, fumbling to push it open. I say fumbling, my thin veined arms are quite clumsy now. I remember sneering when my parents complained, years ago, about deteriorating vision and arthritis. Now I know. Anyway, so that is when I heard someone call out my name, and I turned around carefully, ready to tell him off for wanting the windows shut. And I looked, inhaled, felt a wave of memories swamp my failing mind; it was Viktor.
I first met Viktor when I was nineteen, he hinted that I ate too much and I was outraged. But we found a solace in our conversation that was quenching in so many ways, we became fast friends, we became the best of friends.
       When a month later in a wretched looking cafe that played sleazy songs, he said he loved me, I threw my head back and laughed. Our affair was comforting, the love letters were sincere and the kisses were sweet. In the heat of our physical encounters, I almost did say that I loved him too, and enjoyed a whiff of the tenderness. We did talk, debate, discover our dreams and make plans, endlessly. Viktor would touch my cheekbones and talk me out of my selfish miseries until my features softened and I was happy, bathed in my personal Clair de lune.
     And then on a December afternoon, wrapped in my purple scarf, I walked into Anton. We were on a broad rickety bridge, a parched river fluttering under us. Somewhere, Debussy's notes caressed the cold air. He had that insatiable look about him, the smell of forbidden chocolates and inexplicable thrill. He was quintessentially charming, I could not push him away and throw my head back in laughter at his bold advances. In a ecstatic whirl I was rising in feelings that I did not know of, and I did not want it to stop. Yet I kept it from Viktor then, perhaps I was afraid of his coldness. Perhaps the clandestine nature of it aroused me. When our bodies met, I was taken to the point of delicious insanity, any detailing of which will now result in a distorted form of pornography. While Anton was my delight in nakedness, both of mind and body, we could not count the number of ways we were alike. Before spring fell, we were hopelessly in love, and I snipped Viktor out of my life with a promise of letters and damp eyelashes. Later I went on to marry Anton and we smothered each other with the happiness of our new found world, but that is a different story, full of private jokes.
       I see that Viktor is dying, faster than me. I last met him a sixty years ago, the tacky lampshades casting shadows on his fallen face in that cafe when I told him I loved someone. I love that word, tacky. The shadows had done well to camouflage his pain, and I only had the sweetness and dregs of guilt left when he held the door open for me. There, my friend had been wrapped up and stuffed in the back of my failing mind, I had written no stories about him. And just like that, I see him now, his eyes still softened the same way as he looked at me.
      We small talk from our respective beds, he seems genuinely pleased to know of my marriage, and genuinely aghast to learn of Anton's surrender to a heart disease. He asks about my illness, 'We are all dying', he says, to which I say 'I'd drink to that, but it would kill me sooner'. We talk about the towns we once lived in and our convoluted plans. He tells me about his frivolous relationships with several accomplished, amusing women, i half listen, meditating on the shadows cast by the hideous lampshades in that dingy cafe. Feeling a remorse delayed only by a few decades. I let it seep down my dying body, concentrating on the pain.
       Later at night I wake up, wondering if I had been asleep at all. Viktor coughs noisily beside me. Quietly, I ask him if he's okay. He laughs softly, the way he used to, and breaks into another fit of coughs. I try to move without hurting my vertebrae. Silence.
'Say Mishca, did you ever love me?'
The shadows dance across our faces. I am grateful.
'I did. I did love you.'
I can almost hear him smiling. I smile too. We both smile and listen to the night. There is nothing left to say.
       This morning the bed is empty. He died a few hours ago. It is ten o' seven on a Tuesday morning and I am writing a long impending story about a dear friend.

Saturday, 28 June 2014


I want to tell you
A story that creeps up from behind 
And wraps its barbed wired
Treacherously around my frail neck
For years I have laughed off
The cold spidery fingers that urge me
That urge me.
During the distasteful closing notes of a popular wedding tune, she decides she would be that poet.
Of course, she had the idea scribbled in several corners of her scattered mind from the time she had known Alex. Even when they'd shown her the cellophane packets that took her to the blue mist. No, even earlier than that. Even when she was seven and wrote an amusing little rhyme about a chomping cloud.
The parents had been just that, amused. That was what she saw anyway.
I cannot say if her eyes are narrow and constricted. I cannot be sure. After all, we only see what we want to see.
She is not stupid. She is a spirited obstinate child. She is only mine to play with and criticize. So don't you judge her, when she sneaks out in mended shoes carrying a few meaningful trinkets and cellophane packet, hoping she looked like the stanza of a poem that had always played in her scattered mind.
The parents don't see yet. It is a crucial and expensive wedding.
Soon she is in on a train, it is an ugly maroon dump of of grimy men and women against grimy walls pacifying their grimier children. She is playing out her suppressed poems on the broad barred windows and a woman with intricately cracked heels is asking her why she is alone. I'm off to meet someone, she says, fascinated and terrified by the deep cracks. Next she is tracing a few small words in her notebook, about the music of the ugly train, but instead thinking about the depth of the chasms she is falling through.
She has always wanted this fall. It always chokes her to know what and when and how. She delights in the sheer uncertainty of her destination and thinks of the worried parents and the hum of the television set and crying babies at home. They shouldn't be selfish, she reasons again, the poems and the blue mist need her more than ever.
The poems play again, more gleefully.
I will plant seeds on the bleak barren mountain
And the empty clouds will give in and rain gloriously
I will break my heart to a string
Of ungrateful unfaithful lovers
I will weave in and out of misery and uproar
And tap my feet to the music in dingy taverns
They will look around and frown
And frown.
The evening darkens, and she doesn't admit it, but i know she is missing the feel of her slippers and her pink nail-color. Instead she thinks of Alex. He had come to her out of the blue mist like the perfect poem he was. He had told her she was too beautiful to waste away methodically in the stupor of a city with its dusty lanes and petty quarrels. School had been an orderly flurry of notebooks and class tests, college was a needle pricking her temple. Alex had given her the gift of the truth, a truth she had seen all along but resisted because it was surreal. But time was slipping away and chaos was evading her. She couldn't take that. Alex didnt want sex, he wanted her attention and he wanted her to come with him. He wanted the corner of her lips to crinkle. He had filled her notebooks for much longer than he had stayed.
So you see, now she fancies herself a rebel. Rebelling against everything that is real and orderly. Where is she going to? To this Alex, I think.
I know now. He is a cruel boy with an iron grip on her frail neck. Love is the most poisonous of poems. And she is in love with the dark-haired Alex and the truth she has always seen.
Her notebook feels grainy as more dust pours in and settles on the full, creamy pages. Something is not right. She inhales. Where is the ridiculous rush that was to drown her in the happiness he said she deserved? Devotedly she thinks of Alex again. His preoccupied green eyes and promises that she will find things that will move her to tears. The hint of a stubble under his firm mouth that will graze her nipples when he makes love to her.
Now I see it. Alex has pulled her into a ghostly canyon where they would dance to wild music and wash off the mundane world they were caged in. After the fall they would reach home and things would be alright.
She is a stupid girl, eyes clogged with stupid poems. I cannot rescue her. I am only a pair of eyes, judging, playing, watching with malicious relish.
She is breathing, eyes half closed, when the train stops. The woman with the cracked heels swears and spits, and it is revolting and strangely comforting. She still has her feet planted on the lackluster world she has turned her back on.
It is this comfort that she despises.
The train has stopped and they're looking for her. The parents. The police. The fear and mystery are ebbing away. The blue mist is clearing. She hasn't even written the first word of the poem.
Now I can see her, almost hesitating.  Almost doubting the truth around her frail neck. 
But there is Alex. The perfect poison. The perfect poem.The cellophane packet. She is off the train now, drugged from their reunion, perfectly happy in his arms, in his clutches. I see them now, tangled against another cold train track, the blue mist closing on them. She smiles contentedly as she feels the tracks sing with the rhythm of the approaching train.

Monday, 13 January 2014

Pretty Medusa

The snakes that I let crawl up my stomach
They live on my head now.
Only thing is, often they throw these hissy fits, It's
Something I shouldn't have allowed.

The neon green baby wants to play in the rain
But Orange-with-brown-spots here
Thinks he has the pneumonia. Blue ribbon fancied
Blue-eyed boy, but,(said another), he's stony 'n austere.

I just can't seem to focus, there's already an awful
Lot to do, a diligent young gal like me.
It's a shame these slimy darlings have their stupid
Little problems, they just wont let me be.

Everywhere we go,even nosy passer-by s
Make sure they don't stare. 
But they do call us an 'eye-sore' (I really am not)
And hire people to chop off my hair.

They're being rather mean, but that's okay, I've got
Too many friends anyway, they'll only ever have a few.
We grin knowingly, they just don't know it yet
They've got snakes whispering from a midst their hair too.

Saturday, 4 January 2014

Songs of sad folks (everything is broken)

Songs of sad folks (everything is broken)

She writes with a broken nib
Every curvaceous word breaks twice before it ends.
While the broken legs squirm
Under the weight of the broken glass tabletop which pretends

Otherwise, just like the broken door 
That she locks every night, ceremoniously, hiding the key 
Inside the hideous broken vase with 
Its long-wilted flowers, that heirloom of a broken family.

He drives a swanky new car
With a broken stereo set, and every lyric breaks twice
Before overcoming the erratic waves
And gliding past the streets broken from jagged malice

That somersaults its way down
His narrow driveway littered with broken whisky bottles
From the last night's new year's party
And fits snugly into the symmetric cracks on his broken walls.

One day at daybreak, they will meet
Under the broken billboard, walking gingerly and vexed
Around the fringes of the broken earth,
Unromantic and sullen, hoping, hoping to be fixed.