Sunday, January 29, 2017

Tartarus Spinning

Stuck in place
Stuck in time
Tartarus spinning
For my crimes
Little sins
Over ages, compounded
My dreams, shackled
Imprisoned, impounded
I carve out new links
With my teeth
My fingers bleeding
As my guts wreathe
Used to the pain
Chaos, noise, disorder
The silence burns my ears
Embrace me, Tartarus

Friday, January 20, 2017

Medusa Mourning

Love leaks
Air from an old balloon
Looks alright, inflated tight
It'll lose its will to live soon

No sparks in this tinder anymore
A sense of possession, that's all
To belong is not to be owned
Moths to the flame, aren't we all?

Crunch bitter words
With bloodstained teeth
Lie in a cold bed
But inside, seethe

Slap these rhymes on my face, love
Tell me "no, not that" one more time
And I'll say I love to hear you say so
And you'd believe that it's all fine

Friday, January 13, 2017

Vulture Words

Words circle me
Vultures with no culture
Waiting for a meal

I lie in my bed
Stare at the virtual ceiling
Flipping rhymes in my head
Just to catch some kind of feeling

A feeling that would stick
When all else falls away
A feeling that would trick
Me on my fucking way

The words blur
They're shifting
In my dreams
I'm drifting
The vultures sit
On my shoulders
Pecking pieces
From my fucking brain

Sunday, January 8, 2017

the nail

for the want of a nail
the coffin was lost
an ineffective seal
that released a ghost

out into the world
the apparition loomed
visiting the people
that had caused its doom

it tried to talk
it tried to scream
it tried, it failed
and so it wailed

now the ghost is embedded
into the random sound of things
when a door creaks, a dog freaks
or a bell suddenly dings

it moves chairs at night
just enough to not cause a fright
but a sense of unease
that something here is amiss
I am sitting here, and I think there is something behind me. This poem is for this ghost.

Friday, January 6, 2017


i lie down in my bed
the mattress splits up under me
to swallow me whole
like a sinkhole in space
for a peaceful moment
i am free from all the cold
the hate that fulminates
the anger and the rage
for a blissful moment
i turn the page
and then
(oh then)
a stray draft of cold air
silently creeps into my warm lair
it tickles my feet
crawls up my legs
as try to dream of futures
in coffee dregs
the bed spits me out again
confused, disoriented, i am in pain
so much pain
i just went to sleep 1 minute ago
why do i have to wake up again?
Where did I read the word fulminate today? I don't know, but i like this word.
This poem is for all those who hate getting out of bed on cold mornings.

Tuesday, January 3, 2017

Outrage Ka Culture

outrage ka culture hai
har mushtanda vulture hai
har nari dukhiaari hai
har shehar me hahakari hai

tattoo karwa lo hashtag 
ab apne apne maathe par
kholo khirki aur cheekho tweets
har ik aate jaate par

ghar ke bahar sardhi hai
galiyo me gundagardi hai
ab jung ladenge bed per se
khade sipahi sarhad pe

WiFi ka signal tez tez
like aur retweets par rage rage
mentions me machi hai maar kaat
koi viral kar do meri baat

sab dost sahi, dushman hai wrong
gussail tweets ki ping pong
kuch yes yes yes kuch no no no
koi sun lo mere opinion ko

I don't think I've done this before. But here is a highlish poem. People reading in English, sorry for this. People who like to read Hindi, sorry for this, too.

Share kar do social media par, please.

We do not talk about that

There are some things 

That are better left in silence 

Hanging like dead bodies from trees 

In midst of conversations and broken sentences

It's easy to ignore 

hard to say no 

And extremely difficult to control saying 

Babe, I told you so

Now we've practised exchanging longing looks 

We've almost mastered the love in the eyes 

The cracks in this facade are plastered over 

So we can't hear each other's sighs

Why pay attention when life's full of tension

It's apocalypse of soul, but darling don't mention 

When God opens his book to take stock of us sinners 

We'd still be asking each other 

Love, what's for dinner? 

Because we do not talk about that


Forgive the formatting. I'm on a mobile device and this poem just wanted out. 

Sunday, January 1, 2017


even arsonists are lightbringers
fire, doesn't always mean destruction
a knife is a knife, but in the right hands
it can change the world

one slice at a time

could you cut me a slice of that cake
or slice my jugular and watch me quake
as the blood sprays all over the ceiling and walls
and weakened and dying, i curl up in a ball
maybe I'll rock, or maybe start to roll

besides the point, though
the point being
we all shine
whether we burn or burn others

every heart is an arsonist in diguise