Monday, 9 November 2015

The AfterLove.

When you came to me
The horizon was closing like giant bloody lips.
The world was orderly and neat
With post-its and traffic lights and fluffed cushions.

 You know exactly how taken aback I was

Then as the story goes
My mad crush erupted as the universe pulled over
Sex and laughter and tears mingled
You even saw through my skin like it were translucent

 You know how exactly that worked out for us.

I know I should tell you more often how
I have fallen in love with you, over just the idea of you.
I could plot you against every point on my abscissa
I could reach for you like my comfort shirt.

He wonders why I am not
Jittery with adulation
It is just that I am just tenderly
Accustomed to him.

Thursday, 15 October 2015

Bridge over light years

I think we forgot to count
The countless hours
That rushed by in
femtoseconds or whatever
Finishes earlier.

For these, I look through the layer of clouds and zone out
And I shave my legs and try on dresses
And I play out fantastic, even ludicrous Instances in my head.

It won't last now but it will last forever.

Monday, 28 September 2015


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.

Friday, 11 September 2015

Dainty feet

I can walk on a tightrope
Eighty feet higher than my five-feet-one
I can look down
And smile for the photographers.

I can walk on stilettos
After nine tequilas and unprecedented giggling
I can look at the traffic lights
And mind the unexpected puddles.

I can walk into interviews
Strutting my 'interpersonal skills' and all that jargon
I can read their lips
And their eyes and their minds.

Darling, I only wish I could
Walk away just as dispassionately
After all this time that I have
Let you walk all over me.

Monday, 17 August 2015

Starfucks (2:09)

Starfucks (2:09)

I ought to be writing 

About bleeding hearts and wars
About slander and suicide
About vengeance and crooked lives
Of housewives and politicians

About religion and monopoly
About death and drug abuse
About desires and dishonorable cravings
Of saints and serial killers.

But not today

Today I just cannot bring myself to
Purge my mind of these thoughts of you.
Disown my love for cynical twists,
Indulge in rhyming and sweet unrest.
Learn of the army of butterflies in force
Churning in my stomach, singing out hoarse

Today I am madly, completely yours. 

Tuesday, 4 August 2015


I know love is a beautiful thing
Yet I am desensitized
Your eyes have the warmest brown in them
I like your attention and the clutter of your room
But I'd rather stay drunk and write pitiful verses
Than fall into this love of you.

I know love is a disgusting thing
Yet I am mesmerized
Your claws don't spare my bleeding heart
I have bills to pay and our meetings are overdue
But I'd rather stay drunk and write pathetic verses
Than fall out of this love of you.

Monday, 3 August 2015

Stupid girls in love (An average poem)

There is this moment
Of the horrific epiphany
That my poems will never
Do you justice.

I am from the clumsy experiments
Of traffic and skyscrapers.

You are all that is glorious
From long perfected scriptures.

There is this moment
Of the horrific epiphany
That my eyes will never
Meet yours

I am from the lowly grasslands
Of drought and devotion.

You are the richest elixir
From the lushest rain-forest.

There is this moment
Of the horrific epiphany
That my love will never
Surpass her shadow.

I am from those anonymous notes
The ones she tore and laughed about

You are the wobble in my knees
But she is perched on yours.

I am only a stupid girl in love.

Tuesday, 28 July 2015

For Faty, wherever I may find him

You said you think I write well
Now you have me staring at my chipped nails.
I'd like us to have memoirs like ice-cream sticks
That we can laugh at and reminisce fondly.

I could sing you verses about my longings
All the clouds that burst and you rained down 

But they would not be
About you.
Only about my fatal obsession of you.

I tune out the traffic singing behind you
And think, you are the crooked junction
That I repeatedly try to find my way across
An encryption that I coded myself, and then forgot.

My fragile eardrums tingle with your questions
I think you are, where mathematics fails
And I take to philosophy.

Sunday, 7 June 2015

Faty's Sing

I like singing to you
When the curtains glow softly
To the night of red and weariness.

They sing along too
The people who live in the trees
The gentle ghouls and witches without claws.

I like singing to you
When the warmth of your fingers
Closes around all frigid draught and monsters.

They sing along too
Wailing fervently, melancholy
You'd think they would make me weep, but no.

I like singing to you
When you make me furious
And blood drops to my bristling collarbones

They sing along too
Begging to claw at your chest, draw
Your heart out and down my barren throat.

I like singing to you
When you forget that I love you
And snip away the tentacles that are our senses

They sing along too
An uncoordinated mob of vain soloists
Gliding from ear to ear, hoping you will hear me.

Wednesday, 18 March 2015

Rage and revere

I am
The mediocre, non-awaited newsletter
Flapping foolishly in gilded cages
Curfews and hemlines to guard
A honor that never was.

I am
The presumed freeloader
Fumbling with technology
Rebel if I ride a dirt bike
Whore if i smile too wide
Plastic if I wear makeup
Ugly if I refuse to
Bad if I did fit in your cliches
Worse if I did not.

I am
The bird with the tethered wings who
Flew the airplanes you pointed at.
The one you asked to swallow
Not knowing she could bite too.

I am
The last pillar standing
Bathed in graceful smoke
Loving if I cure your fever
Stoic if I do your laundry
Leader if I sweep the stage
Dancer if I ran in sneakers
Beautiful if I broke all your cliches
Indestructible if I
Establish some of my own.

Thursday, 5 February 2015



An epidemic of malice
The moist skin of orange frogs
Acid rain in churning hurricanes
Ladders and ropes 
Venomous snakes on royal cushions
Lone tunnels humming of runaway trains.

Words fleeing before they're written
Poisoned apples from fairy tales
Inky bottomless pools
Floods devouring barren mountains
Fires swaying to the beats of dry leaves
The company of stubborn fools

She seemed indestructible, refused to die of the above
So he killed her himself, killed her with love.

Tuesday, 20 January 2015


If we ever meet again
You will panic and do a double take
I will politely offer that we get a drink
We can talk about the government
And the humidity and intersection that
They are taking so long to repair.

While our eyes do the real talking.

Yours will plead, darling 
I am sorry I poisoned the air in every room
That I locked and pinned you against the wall.
But be warned, only cold apathy will strut out
From mine,like in this moment right now
(Memorize it, for we are to never meet again)