Monday, October 16, 2017

The red light

I see them swim hand in hand
in a sea-green balcony
beyond the sea-sick building
beyond the hustling billboard
beyond the blinking traffic light.
I see him lay his head on her shoulder.
The weight of his day, his life, his being
laying gently on the curve of that wing
resting, dormant, breathing, silent.
And at the moment, me the voyeur
wanted to be him, wanted to be her.

Wednesday, October 04, 2017


There was a time
when I believed
I could be anything.
Be great.
Be loved.
It was a beautiful time.
It was a foolish time.

Wednesday, September 20, 2017

The Smile

Have you ever smiled smiles that hurt 
and crack up the corners of days
stretched out beyond comfort 
pink sunrises and sunsets
with drops of oozing red blood
speckled on them
causing crinkles in your dreams
crow's feet in your thoughts
smiles pricking with shards for teeth
gleaming gleaming gleaming bright.

Wednesday, August 23, 2017

What now?

The Gods are dancing together
On a bed of corpses of those who
fought each other for them
and then fell like trees for timber
Leaving the jungles naked
Like bodies naked squirming
in a haze of meaningless encounters
Encounters fleeting like prayers
going up in incensed smoke
Ripe with the smell of burnt flesh and fur
Drifting in on the breeze from forest fires burning bright with flames orange and red
Red like the leaping, darting tongues
of people lapping feverishly
at the promise of feeling and
coming out empty, sick to the stomach.
For nothing is sacred anymore.
Neither faith, nor nature, nor love
And we're asking, what now?

Wednesday, July 12, 2017

3 AM

In my dreams,
not nightmares
my skin is peeling.
Dry rinds of seconds
and minutes and hours
and days and months
and years shedding,
their weight falling off.
My blood is vapour
and my muscles dust.
Borne on the wind.
Floating. Fine.
My bones are shards.
Opaque, scattered, broken.
Bright green grass grows
in my one intact eyesocket.
And my nonexistent mouth
laughs and laughs and laughs.
In my dreams,
not nightmares,
I am gone, I am nothing.

Saturday, July 01, 2017

Open window

Where are we going
on these tarred, muddied,
cemented, potholed,
contracted, sub-contracted,
proposed, encroached,
beaten, taken, forsaken,
leading here nor there roads.
Where are we going in cars
driven and pooled,
battered, air-conditioned,
owned-loaned, rented-dented,
horns blaring, all that swearing,
where are we going.
In rickshaws and taxis
begged, cajoled and fought for.
On scooters and cycles.
Hanging on in trains and buses
so intimate with the bodies
of other struggling strangers.
On callused burning feet
where are we going.
To jobs, to babies,
to babies who will get jobs
one day, some day, any day,
hopefully, eventually. 
Where are we going
in a tangled mess of ambition,
fortune and misfortune,
want and envy and want.
Our limbs in a twist, moving.
Like a chant. Like a rhythm.
Like an overturned insect
in the throes of 
an inconsequential death. 

Tuesday, June 06, 2017


You are desperate now
for inspiration.
Even turning towards clichés
like the first rain,
winding roads at night,
and loneliness.
But you find nothing
and realise that
at the moment
life is quite simple, ordinary.
And perhaps, that's a good thing?

Saturday, April 29, 2017


This sadness inside me,
it's like a pebble.
Hard and cold, but small.
I can carry it around,
without much trouble,
in my fist sized heart.
Yet sometimes,
it rattles against my very bones,
this pebble,
causing such a din
that I can't hear much else.

Wednesday, April 05, 2017

The search

Most will say,
look above,
forget the dark,
find a sun.
I say,
it's only
when you go
deeper than
the darkness
that you truly
find light.

Tuesday, March 14, 2017

Of poets

It took all my heart,
and then some,
to put myself down
into four lines.
It's quiet, that heart,
now that I've been asked
to apologise for this poetry.

Tuesday, March 07, 2017


Your vanity bores me.
You count not
the experiences
the people
the songs
the mistakes
the lessons
the stories
the wounds and wins
the words and poetry
that these years gone by
have given you.
You count only the
wrinkles and the grey hair
and your obsession
with all those signs of old age
only show me
how little you've grown. 

Wednesday, January 25, 2017


It was the tallest tower
of the highest hill.
And yet I floated down
like a leaf from a 
beautiful Autumn tree.
And so, I got up
and continue to be.