Thursday, May 7, 2009


i hate you
anonymous reader
i hate that i have to speak to you
with a voice
full of deliberation
with words
full of meaning
i hate that i have to put you first
in order to see myself
i hate that i have to be something
before you
in order to be myself
i hate that
you have to be there for me to make sense
of myself

you critic 
a sleeze
you judge
and sit in your comfortable world
created out of judgements
that need to be made
as my insecurities create your comfort
you, too, must know that it will not last.

you that reads
and understands
and shoves meaning into my words
that attempt to define no truth

you anonymous reader
you are forever gone
watch yourself diminish
as my words expand
into a silence that you will never comprehend
as they contract
into an absence that you intend
to dismiss

it is not for you i write
if you come again
you will derive no strength
no self esteem
your ego is the gunk that rots at the bottom of a pile
of self made lies
your ego is yours
without beauty
you speak
without love
you think
and pollute this universe without care.

you are one daring creature
but you dare
to do all the things
that make you unreal
and i am your queen
but i am your loser

Wednesday, May 6, 2009


look at how the word doesn't seem to like the way it stands
it makes a stand even while it stands
and instead of standing straight,
it slants
as if it were pointing towards something that has been unknown to us
for far too long

i fail
every time i try to define who you are,
the boundaries blur
you and me and us and them and so much more
are none

yes, every character seems to have its own story
y is like a dance,
o an expression
and u something crouching, as if it wants to remain hidden

i like most
when it encapsulates a crazy 
yapping, freakshow of a person,
passionate to the ends of her hair,
spiraling out into the universe at the rate of 55 epiphanies an hour,
and mostly,
dwelling on one word
as if understanding the weight of it on this world meant
salvation itself

asking me to build on this word
makes for good poetry...


An apple
red, round, supple
glistening, glowing,
shapes and shades merge and glide over this bulbous thing
called a fruit.

An apple
i am told not to touch
so i stare at it longingly. 
I watch from far because
i am not to touch.
That apple!
I long for, but i know i would not want to eat.
Bloody apple, i dont even like.
But long for
only because it is the forbidden fruit

that apple – a festering fruit
an earthly, elemental dome for maggots, squirming, swarming, 
devouring the core
why is it so forbidden
when my own core is a family of maggots,
curling comfortably,
waiting to make contact with distant relatives.


I found a way to make you smile.
I miss you whenever my hand creates your writing.
I miss you.
I miss you.
Always, in my writing, I'm talking to you.
Saying things that you may never hear.
And while I'm alone here,
You, too, must be alone somewhere.
If only I could know what you were saying to me.

- - -
“I, too, am heartbroken. But won't say it.”


don't make believe that
liking is loving
or loving is to act upon
or to feel is to define
or to define is to understand
or to understand is to experience
don't ever make believe that
to love is to dignify it.
don't be such a man!


is demorphed humanity
constructed; but constructed on wooden planks and stainless steel and iron rods and plaster and concrete and timber and and plywood and bricks and glasses and smoothness and straightness and vertical and horizontal and parallels and perpendiculars and blue prints and masterminds and the accumulation of architectures together called culture.
And order; solid, permanent, inescapable order.
All manmade.

the smell of sweet lime

I am captured by this zone of purity.
A purity that does not allow in
the smell of sweet lime
that penetrates
pungent, putrid, reeking with obscenity
unless, of course,
you know of acquired taste.
And know also that the thing to eat
is not the fleshy juicy inside
but the coarse and bitter rind.


Red pen
black rim
And a nib that colour cannot ordain
Steel, silver or eye
Not colours
But marked by glint, sparkle, shimmer and shine.
What is written
is black block letters
blackness in colour.
Not blackness – the absence of light.
But black against white
as silver shimmering adds to the glint in the eye.


I am transparent;
I'm like stained glass.
I cannot
do anything but break.
Glass: there is so much drama in glass.
Oh! That it shatters.
Into cold colour coordinated pieces.
Cold brilliant sparkling icicles
On the floor.
Flat fraudulent floor.
It lies
So desperately it tells
all the secrets
of the glass that ought not to have shattered.
The glass that breaks of its own volition;
how is it blasphemous?
It falls and breaks
But not to fall prey to gravity.
Awkward shapes
incline, recline, or stand on their tippie-toes
Always, there is poise
In each broken piece
That cannot be put together.

Saturday, May 2, 2009

the afterthought

whenever i talk to you...
i feel like i'm slithering down a rainbow laid out with banana peels.
i feel like i'm trickling down a cloud in the afterrain.
and the moonshines. and the sunsmiles,
and happiness is a creature i can hold in my palms.
it crawls. it lingers.

i think you're the ribbon that makes a bow around my universe...
so red...
and so lovely.