where has the world swung

vanished quietly

into the cold outside

and inside


voices speak to yesterday

and wonder why

feelings hear tomorrow

yet refuse to die


the world seems to appear

a gaping wound

surrounded by gore

of all the years


a large yo yo


from a white beard

unwashed and tangled


another world swings in

on gollum’s hair

reeking of fish

and heat



it hits the wound

and rebounds

was that world real

or is this one?




21st sept, ’11


The spurting of seed

Onto the palm of the hand

Resurrects the soul

I May

No face, darkly etched, from charcoal,
No word, that can form any prose,
No light, at the end of the tunnel,
No calm, to lend the mind repose.

Words there were, many years ago,
A promise to see the heart through,
The sun shone bright on butterflies,
On anticipation of the new.

Sadness and grief are siblings now,
They have their own stories to share,
It’s charming in their company, too,
They make for a creative pair.

I fear listless indifference,
That’s maneuvering towards me,
Like some fog on a dead cold sea,
Sending a sail down to captivity.

Inspiration waits for those who seek her,
Like some whore on a barren door;
But what of those who chose to love,
And are loved by Neglect forever more?

The past too, spreads her milk-white thighs,
In that softness lies no morrow;
And what can future present
Wrapped tight in her bliss or sorrow?

As day turns to long, lonely night,
The eyes feel heavier than the night before,
I may slip into the dark of the past
Or let Neglect make life a bore;
I may move towards that fog-ridden sea,
Away from this pox-ridden whore.

Valentine 2011

Time has a way of stealing away love.

It corrodes from the outside to within.

Now it becomes hard to decipher

What is virtue and what is sin.

There are countless people who say they love,

Though hate eats away their souls as they grin,

Whereas those people who profess to scorn,

Have compassion housed deep within,

And what I see all around me

Is a hollowed belief caving in.


Through this tumbling sanctuary of dreams,

This exhausted race to figure it all,

You have been the constant,

You have been my wherewithal.

You are my Atlas,

My valiant mark,

You are the candle

Shining in my dark.

Life says, all changes, everyone will leave;

You disproved, and I go on to believe.


My dear mom,

You said that you hate the way I am;

In essence, negating the best part of me:

The courage to say I am different;

The truth that I want you to see.

The tears you shed, ma, were actually torn from me,

The hurt you bear is only a small part of mine,

It took effort to bear my soul,

It took innumerable moments in time.

I wonder, as I walk away from you,

If you will ever realise,

I am cast out for being true to myself and you,

From under a shelter of lies.

I think, as I walk down this new road alone,

Of friends, of love, of hope, of you and our pain,

It strikes that I won’t even have the grandkids

Who may bring you back to me again.

Yet I walk on, because, somewhere deep inside,

There is this voice that strengthens me,

By being honest about my difference and refusing to hide,

I have had a hand in protecting another destiny.

Mine may not be safe,

If you are to be believed,

But that voice keeps telling me

My soul, my soul, is relieved.



17th June 2011


Hello, Fool


Why was there a second chance,
When you yourself do believe:
The deceiver’s heart
Beats but to deceive?

When has the scorpion
Changed enough as a friend,
That the frog who carries him on his back
May just get to see a different end?

More fool you, fool, fool you,
Who knows change in essence
Is but a mere adaptation
Of just an overt difference.

Then how do you know?
And how do you feel?
If only you could stop your heart,
Or rather, squash it with your heel.

Still, this is mere rhetoric;
And your world is delusion;
So the only sane thing to do
Is be a god of illusion.

What do I write or say and to whom?
As the world, you, too, remain the same.
If only you could adapt, dear fool,
To cruel rules of this callous game.

No Good

The hatchling flew out of the nest;

But the crow was watching;

She flew for just a few seconds;

She flew her very best.

That was not good enough for life.

The glistening crow swooped down

Like a swift guillotine:

His wings the slice, his beak the knife.

That was an end to her being:

A month of chirping hope,

A month of familial love,

A month of believing.

16th April, 2011
05:37 am