To My-Self

dear friend,
who is in the thick of things
up to his neck surviving twisted hinge
have you ever knelt on both skinned knees
before the picture stationed on the mantle
yes I know they never look the same
catch yourself thinking in all vividness
a good thought you ought to give coercion
authority is not meant to be questioned
turn your head away salvage your bones
and flesh and blood and mind now grown cold
with independence wear the age of the old
humility comes from slavery
Mother Teresa who was ground under a groan
gave up skin for lepers and her bones
in the long run speak of how you or I
should devote leather retire an old drone
mortal assembly cannot, better not follow time
sing like the parakeets do ironed in their cage
taking pride in master’s stuffed shirt
speak to yourself alone write a poem
when tears turn to anger and anger bemoans
you would’ve made art out of your crazy tone

To My-Self

It’s All About

It’s all about slavery, starvation, drying flower pots
lets never water them but water them down
the industrial wash
It’s all about breasts taken by surprise, trembling limbs, little girls
lets all gather around and tell them it’s ok at 12
to be the bang for the buck
It’s all about awareness, depression, swimming in self vomit
night after night searing torsos in nightmares’ sea of flames
no ears would hear you talk about it
It’s all about war, survival of the fittest, lying under the sun cut eyeballs
where these homes are built atop human skull gasoline
I put all my eggs in a single basket
It’s all about suicide, weeping slashed jaws, maternal-child genocide
bring my dysentery cup of soup enriched with blood
gushing from the world’s bosom
It’s all about turning this mountain of shit
into good craftsmanship
It’s all about being the platoon
corrupted by the dark spot on the moon
It’s all about the speech of a clown
It’s all about who cares what it is
Or who is another ten fingers two eyes
It’s all about those holistic moments of labour
when all she wanted was to get rid of it
It’s all about the lie
our hearts pump
It’s all about the machinery
of human existence

It’s All About

On Ambition

slaughter women inside institution of marriage with a broom stick
stuck up the hilt of their ass
wipe the floor with them simply because convenience is golden,
and dowries are making a comeback,
get your contract arranged consult India where parents in law admire
their son’s wife like a diamond stuck up a goat’s ass
swallow your grandparents, burn down old age homes looking up
into the sky
bring your hands together like a shovel flatter your brothers and sisters
in marrying yellow skull with soil
stand up tall with your teeth chattering like a machine gun, debating
mass tactics, chin up! These’r great feats humanity like the mountain
of shit
that can never be moved unless taken by handfuls, overwhelmed
with these unpleasant sightings anyone’s still beating heart
in all its machinery of metallic gray skeleton
would hum
no song of a weave angelic, let alone the one you grew up
jerking your cock to
no, neither of your children who howl on both knees in subway stations
their speech of despair demanding harlequin attention from peers
who are also howling twenty first century cosmetic shouts
would jump off a bridge nor run facefront
towards an oncoming train, you’re doomed
your best wishes are full bodied cancer smoke rings
born out of a tongue made of leather
beaten into shape
like a squashed moth, that white fuzzy stuff forms spurting
in the corners of your lips that one day flakes off dry dandruffy filth
off pubic beard
stand below the crown of inchlong pricks like the one they made Jesus
chant hymns yell how innocent you believe you are
of your grime
gargling in clear blue skies a black cloud, this plague we are
inching footsteps at the brink of our house, under its dome the sting
of our voice like a hammer swung brings back the whack of winter
inroads from skin to bone, gutting innards till faceless, loveless dusty eyes
whoring home for a pile of sand, sawdust and iron scraps of thrown charity
for the friend who jumps and hops smilingly like a nut utterly convinced
into fire of envy
discussing longevity of friends basking inside a stuffed shirt whose riches
rising from the pit of their stomach swell to their brain bringing self justified
spiritual revelation exacting sanity after closing doors on the faces
of old friends more coldly, cosmopolitan greetings
wrecking bosom for the cunt, of wheelbarrows, of garbage, of cock cigar ash
wandering crowded streets like perfect beauty of wornout asses of chairs
of disease of ambition where civilization throws pavement stone on their
crazy golden crown
yes ambition is the disease society slaps us with most lovingly it must never
settle down for anything that could offer a moments peace
restless, fidgeting hair around fingers like the revolution snake coils
around a tree,
or else you’re just sitting dumbly
ambition to chew more than is fed until diabetes shows its ambition
ambition to pit torsos night after night charring in fire of dreams
waking up a new drunkenness chained in the endless ride from teenage to adulthood
and back and forth and again reliving prized memories until drained of all brilliance
ambition of the dictionary to call it object or goal desired and not greed
ambition of colonised lands to be independent to practice their own sleaze
ambition to never realise all human drama springs from disobedience
ambition to assert wisdom only with those of a thinner bank account
ambition to catch life outside twenty stories high from the eyes of the poor
ambition to stand sharing axis with others who’re also diamond studded
petal by petal unfolding layers of lower class
but strictly over a drink
ambition to flaunt hookup like industrialists who in the faces of underprivileged
wave their genetals
ambition to have ambition, ambition makes the world go round and round
like a wound up toy blindsighted powered by greed and insatiable hunger
humanity caught in a neverending jetlag
and politicians spring regardless of season whipping out cocks preaching
collective communion
they promise holy piss, holy semen, holy ganges of unflushed shit, holy cow,
holy petroleum
holy democracy on the pedestal of dreams of the tens of thousands of trembling limbs
atrophied, unemployed, slumped along the floor carrying the day’s crown
so they could advance celestial hierarchy flashing buttocks
snowballed back and forth between captains of industry whose ambition
machetting its way through slums like an ingrown toenail has no end in sight
but to unveil the city’s leprous design of gunshots, swords and a pack of cigarettes
burning in the hands of every child
orphaned by better sense who in a sheen of filth and sweat, artificial dirtier than dirt
righteousness take center stage deciding for us what you or I believe is angelic
who set the benchmark barrelling us down into a pool of self loathe
unless for greater good sons and daughters are packed off
to move the economy
having their breath harvested and hearts and brains and ass for medicine
still breathless tied to piano wires the music that wheezes out
from Africa’s satire
ambition to defend morals of double standard where genetics, race, colour, sex
and how many times you’re fucked in the ass fucked in the ass fucked in the ass
fucked in the ass whether you think your compadre is an impotent sack of flesh
or someone you walk beside as equals in either opinion makes all the difference
in what kind of fish you catch

On Ambition

Mother’s Contours

the doorbell keeps pestering like a whining child

whose mother’s breast milk is tainted with rain

she lost her features like the warmth the garden

whose bosom is overrun by weeds

like the tides the sea must sacrifice

to become a river

there is no door that can be opened today

only walls that pull a blank like another prayer

marooned on temple footsteps


toothless no words to describe

how they wished they were weeded out

when they could

child your cries ought to thin down,

more limber

like the flower of this world, black stemmed

with its corolla half chewed, like fingers

of a leper resemble half burnt plastic, the Rose

is but a mirage you’re playing catch with

yes, you say you share ground with good conscience

but it must be on equal footing lets be clear

neither are you a coward nor foolish

whose good heartedness is the reason

the desert offers nothing angelic

barren breasts, she blames little darling can’t suckle

down comes the whip opening tiny hands

that can barely hold the book of hymns

catch this my child, a glimpse into the future

moments before yellow skull meets soil

you will see your mind as clear

as the cloudless sky incapable

of holding ashes

this is the world you’re born with

Mother’s Contours

Catching Moss

Midnight’s egress out the doorway alley

emptying its guts over family garden

looking for the break of dawn, lapping air

through boggy creases between tiles

of red sandstone onto the rough skin

of my tongue, I breathe in swallowing peat

nose burdened by the musky preserve

fruiting from spasmodic eruptions’ epicentre

where legs meet completing ultimate cunt

my consciousness for the cities’ bang

for the buck liberates jets of salty gusto

iodine and a touch of phenolic burnt sweat

my skin on hers marry to flavor alpha salute


Catching Moss


Winter's my favorite season
I like the cold, I like the warmth
I immerse in a hopeless glass 
of whiskey by the hearth.
This year I found all of me 
beneath the comfort of her hold.
Winter spares no empty bough
never thought it could get so old.
My favorite season winter remains
not longer than two months
I wish... I wish... I wish again
we could sit joking the world outside
O I wish the tides change course
and we could set out patterns
on this spilt milk.
The years that have gone hang around
my sweet place will come once again
I dream... I dream... I dream we
may never sleep bleak again.
Winter is the taste in warmth
but I may never write it a poem.
So long... so long my dear friend
I'm right here with nowhere to go.
The moon appears faithful tonight
in rings of smoke clouds encircle it.
O all it's dark spots are well hidden
waiting for you to add dye to my time.
May my beliefs never change I thought
they twist my gut fruiting into milkiness.
I am who I never thought I was
energy wrapped in cloth: a name 
already dead.

Gathering Myself Back

An artist is made not by creative brush strokes or working alphabets like alchemy. Creativity exists in us all, from the common office worker to the affluent CEO, we are all creative in our own special ways. But the artist, the one who has in his grip all the courage needed to light the darkness inside his fist, is the only one courageous enough to take the plunge.

Tomorrow is the day I’m supposed to join another office job. Beginning tomorrow my tolerance meter will start taking a dip day by day and if history is any indication, I would not last in this job for more than 6 months. The longest period I have been employed by any organization is barely one and a half years out all of my 7 years of being employed. I believe this display of job hopping exhibits a strong pattern of escapism into a realm of higher promise, if you will, because I have in front me a mountain that I hope to conquer and every “office job”, no matter how reputed or well paying, takes me away from that mountain.

Honesty is that prized commodity which only shines from a distance. Therefore, I had agreed to trade some of my courage in return for a little lack of faith toward my art. Of course the writing market is not at its peak and it was not as early as yesterday that I heard a poet becoming a poet simply owing to his or her own merit. Paper is sinking under the weight of the internet; this is a fact that I told myself before I added the last interview in my bag of endless interviews.

So, here I am, disemboweled from my art and attached to the dilemma of whether or not to join this job because I know it will take me away from my mountain.

Distance does equal speed over time, the farther I drift away from my goal the longer it would take for me to travel back assuming I keep up the same speed, assuming I don’t age.

Throughout history art has never been the field leading to affluence but is certainly the one leading in terms of influence. And here is my courage. Today the distribution system is undergoing a rapid makeover and no one knows for certain where paper would be twenty years hence, perhaps the odds are tipping in favor of the internet. Which can be both, a plus or minus in many ways.

One need not fret as to a way to get one’s name out there in the open. We can all safely agree that everyone is capable and allowed to carve out their own special corner in the internet space. Again, here lays my courage.

It is not a task to get published today, but sadly some societies refuse to budge from being orthodox. The section of youth born into such a society will have to display herculean courage in greasing the shackles that bind them to the methods and notions of the past. Among that section of capable youth, I too belong, undoing the tangles, separating my views from theirs as a means to achieve harmony.

After all this thought stirring up a wildfire in my brain, I feel a moment of respite as I picture myself writing and being able to make some sort of a decent living out of it. I may not be aware of the exact figures of revenue but I can vouch for the fact that freelance is the new technology bound to change the way we have been looking at the writing industry. As more and more people take to freelance, there is definite hope for the writer to beat his way out of how he was perceived years ago.

Note: I had taken my blog off this space and had turned it private and removed all content, as you can see. Being caught between the pressure to do what’s expected out of me by others and myself, I tried to become the heroic son every family hopes for. Couldn’t keep it going for long. Tomorrow is World War Z at home..

Gathering Myself Back