The dialect of my lips multiplies
into the bed of roses I have grown ever since I could,
stringing out pieces and pieces and chunks
from the skin of my body, and from the looks
I have pertained in my eyes, in my gestures,
and though my lips tremble like a dilapidated
drum bearing thumps over and over and over,
they form cohesive, certain, careful words
which transform into roses quite different
from the ones I find growing in my garden,
and they screech an indistinguishable noise
every time I’m told that the dialect, that my dialect
is that of a fox in another land,
scurrying silently behind the lion,
the roar of the king of the jungle,
and I’m told my roar, however distinct, is not my own,
and I avert my eyes to the back of my hands,
leaning in, at times, to trace my nerves
just by looking at them, and wondering
how many of them have found the skin
they belong to, how many call it their own,
how many have found a medium to express in words,
in silence, in zipped up, choking throats,
in locked bathrooms of locked bedrooms,
in the chaotic noise of the metro,
in the breathing sea–how many have found a sound
to the lips, to the words they speak?
How many would exchange me of my dialect
to grow flowers, of any kind, just their own?
(Never known, never known, only felt in the
rushing of your nervous nerves, too afraid
to speak the truth.)


I feel them latch onto my back
whispering, humming
to the music of memories
haunting memories,
talking about places and
nooses and niches
and hiding,

my spine:
heavy of the dark places
in my room, tear stained
carpets solemnly swear secrecy
and spots of life
smudge the walls
as the hollowness
of the spines
pulls out promises and
tears them apart;

the ghostly sleep of
the lifeless bodies
and the stench of death
from my backyard
claws, whispers,
burns, abandons, leaps:
changing shapes,
changing voices;

the voices prolong.
the voices never leave.

my ghost:
a silent house, alive
and broken, bloody of
the broken stairs and
beautiful mornings
in which life seems to seep
around the corners, but walks
away- a weary traveller,
too tired to
fall asleep;

the beauty in the living
of lifeless bodies
and the stench of death
from my childhood
shakes, screams,
chokes, grapples, shambles:
changing bodies,
changing voices;

the voices prolong.
the voices never leave.


The rusted latch pushed against 
the cabin over and over, creaking 
as it breaks patches of white paint 
-so silent and rigorous-
running a whistle to that of the wind-
a little girl sits, staring at the waves 
which remind her of 
bodies floating (dead, not living)
with their clothes becoming 
parachutes to lay still in the sea-
the whistling continues to vapour
the breaths no one 
no longer takes
and the girl sits 
waiting for faces to show up, 
for her mother to 
brew her warm milk;
the sea never gulps, 
the sea never swallows, 
the sea never becomes 
the things you lose, 
those memories simply marooned to
those who never paddle to the shores;

she sits on a boat, 
bigger than most,
there’s a compass in her hands 
which swings its faces in all directions
watching her watch 
the sea take shapes 
as its hypnosis sways back and forth- 
a gullible pavement; 
she finds the wrinkles on her
face, traces her loose skin, and 
lets the wind take her shaven head
into a dance of whirls only felt within,
her heart beats 
to the thrashing of the things 
never found in the sea,
rubbing forgetfully into themselves;

she finds herself waiting 
for the salt in the air 
to be cleaned. 


The light from the lighthouse, north of where the
unspeakables lived, was an indication to burn
the brightest torch light we had, to burn
the soft echoes of the mountains where we
lived, into the ashen ground of the deadly
lips that soiled where all the stories grew.

The light meant that we must set fire to the
corners of our wilting walls, glued thick with
alcohol from the blood of the rapists, who pulled
our insides apart from their sordid stenches,
reeking of timid pelts screeched off of tigers
on their hunting trips- horses whinnying,
galloping in circles like a carousel, fighting
their breaths and eating dried hay, slurping
mouths that’ve never tasted flesh- to the huts
where the unspeakables cut their hay,
closing in behind walls of green, luscious
waves of their crop. The light blinks four
times, and the fires from our five candles
are tamed to fly, as if butterflies burning
the air around them, and the crooked walls
surrender after three days, the men inside
take three hours, while the farms lay still
to acknowledge the lights of the sun;

now the unspeakables slip into the ashes and sit,
now the unspeakables are tamed,
and we rape their remains.


Trace the lining of the wall you’ve been longing
to jump past like Superman, lick the sides, the edges, 
the whole texture and taste it curdle the insides of your
mouth, let the gimmick of an amalgamation
of a structured building heightened to please eyes,
seeming to be a permanent fixture berate them of
nearly every thought that occurs, every feeling
of significance that rushes past through the nervous
system; the night sky has seen lovers entangle
themselves into each other here, has seen the
frolicking back and forth of a cat, presumably, 
rushing away to some place unknown, 
has found lost letters, cases, pendants and
shapeless shapes of broken memories,
and has found you, sticking to the edge, 
caressingly, as if an only friend; it seems to
sway slightly, back and forth, a hum reverberating 
silently over the quiet city, only the occasional 
sigh of the wind seems to turn back to you, 
you’ve seen the dimming lights constantly for days,
the cigarette smoke fuming out of your imprisoned
lips, your eyes brim with tears, or perhaps it is
the gush of the all knowing wind, whispering to you,
calling you out, asking you to speak, to be, to move,
while you slip out of your clothes, your skin,
and lead your mind to conclusions of how people fall
quite often of tripping, and stark naked too, sometimes,
and gently caress your arms as you dare not slip a
peek to the ground,
and your lips speak inaudibly how nothing, explicitly,
nothing is ever built to last, as you fall,
wishing for the umpteenth time, everything was a dream,
when it was.


It’s a sorry sight;
the plain old movie
in black and white
but mostly grey
and your floral dress
shining in silver, showing
nothing of the comfort of
spring your eyes bring;
the twinkle in our eyes dimmed and
the colourlessness of mundane words
swamped over abruptly
to rupture souls and vindictive scars
which scream occasionally
to the terrible abruptness of the love
which lives through a hiatus,
and it isn’t fair, not
when you have Venus in your arms,
it has been turned blue.
And it isn’t fair to be
asked to transform melancholy to the mild
smoke from your cheap cigarette.
It isn’t fair, it isn’t fair;
checks and crosses and
shapes and horizons, but we’re here,
running around in circles;
it isn’t fair.
I wish it was,
I wish we breathed without corners to embrace;
I wish it was,
I wish we were naive enough for it.

Manoeuvred Analgesia

Narcotics tingle my insides as the cheap liquor
combines with the smoke of tomorrow;
I’m on the roof, and the picture perfect paralysis
of the ignition of life seems to combust with each
firework on New Year’s eve. I am trying to lift
up the equanimity of my mind for the next fixation
of three sixty six, when my resolute description of
arbitrary edges seems rather unresolved from the
past three sixty five and I am trying to locomote my thoughts
over what happens, where it happens, how it must proceed
because I’m falling whilst standing on sturdy ground,
because I’m breaking while dipped in a tube of glue,
because failing to sense pain when I don’t have a condition of CIP
is exactly what the crease of calamity finds itself
fissuring upto; perhaps it is too late to find complacence
in being the turbulent tornado when all I am thinking
of is something more subtle, more unwary, more damaging
more Earthquake, more tsunami when I’ve survived through
years on drugs which have only come to define me a hurricane;
a little less predictable, a little more forgetting to my instability.


Plucking flower petals at the expense of the moonlight
which cascades over shadows and dingy sights,
I saw a girl who spoke too loud of her heart and soul,
and another one who ran through my neighbour’s corridor,
and it was strange, for my heart beat louder than
it had in years, and my eyes stuttered like I could
touch the expanse of the skies, as years and years
ago, I swore I would. I watch his eyes; the sky is clearing,
they dance across the stars and glimmer over the beauty 
of the sun rising, and the girls are fading the melancholy
away with their silent talks, with their jittery and crooked gaits;
they smile because they could feel the warm gates
open up their hearts; while me and him, we huddle close
for we’re afraid of things that aren’t dark, and the sun rises
ahead with a calm and our shrieks terrify the great
gurning gobblers; we promised them the electric, elate
elves when we only tried to learn of fairies, when our
magic drew souls, and we promised to harness the scar
of love- “It was possible once,” they said when asked.
I suppose they burnt holes on our backs. When the last
call for our arms was bid, I believed in it; our throats dry
of lullabies and the virtue of the fruit of a child’s first cry,
I believed in it all, because we were angels who could
be, and we chose to become all the things 
we swore we never would.


A case of the epilepsy causes the brain
to lose consciousness and convulse
capriciously, without much sense, and
bereft the world of the person’s ability
to affect those around him, and those
about; but the truth is, in those few
moments of disarray comes this
moment of truth, juxtaposed along
an epiphany, breaking bonds and
forming new cells and burning little
memories and brazing clarity. I should know,
I’ve survived it without telling of it,
and I snort, thinking of where it got me;
right at the centre of the Earth, just
the middle of nowhere, with the
people I chose to love, and with the
spite of knowing I never let them choose me.


It has been three days, four hours, 
76 seconds and 12 memorial moments since
I have last written a piece (a rhyme, rather)
which tells of anything that might just be
worth a read, and my pocket dictionary 
is weary and torn at the edges of its 
recurring use and keep, but there is
not a single word I recall to have read
and there is not one explanation to
what my mind keeps and what it throws
away because there is not a single
elaboration of the things I choose to
admit to seeing and those I don’t or
haven’t seen, and I would stutter words
of profanity to my insipid hands which
aren’t well kept (though perfectly clean) 
as of my continuously, without much
thought, chewing my fingernails, and the
skin which protects it, off for I would
explode if I didn’t and I would crash
the seas if I didn’t need my silly habit
of peeling apart the dead cells which
are tiny and greatly unkept, indeed; and
we can’t have that, now, can we?