12:06 AM


The writer in her late thirties
I saw her write day and night
Had a gawky style of writing
And her words fought a fight

I saw at times she would kill
And give birth to strangers
I saw her kiss the tabletops
Make love to pen and paper

She poured the ink and bled
Her fingers did only dodder
My love, my love, she’d cry
Always wanted to hold her

And ideas seemed to run out
Her life is rushing off its pace
To feed herself now she must
Again sell yet another page

The writer in her late thirties
Had to make another stage
Give birth to more strangers
And kill a few others in rage



8:42 PM 07/09/2017

I’ve had had a bad day
Even bad days would’ve had a better day
I’ve been havin’ a headache
I can’t seem to go past the dead end

I’ve been know for my bad ways
The ways have had their impacts
I’ve been counting my mistakes
And far too many I’ve made mad

The sad part of it all is that
All of it, I may have planned it
And when it ends, my bad day
I’m back to what I began with

I should have taken the cab
My chaps tell me to chug a Prozac
Should upload a photo with a hash tag
and tell the world about me bein’ a drag

I should’ve just rolled up in the rag
Or pack my favorite things in my bag pack
But no I had no intention of goin’ nowhere anymore
Not even whine about it; instead I’d love havin’ a good days’ nap


You dance like the shadow of the swinging tapestry
The swinging tapestry tries to dance like you
And while you yourself are drunk in the virtues
The virtues drink from you
The dead go live and they sway amidst orchids
While you yourself become the orchid of the life
Like the melody of the blowing breeze
The sound taps upon me pleasant
You become the breeze while I crave for that melody
You dance like the shadow of the swinging tapestry
While the shadows dance upon you


1/09/2017 1:00 AM

I was sipping coffee when I wrote this, outside on the roof at Lok’s  (The guitarist). As a soothing breeze blew I fortunately observed the swinging curtain. That combined with some good flamenco music and some of those expressions crept into this poem. The shadows dance upon the dancer but the dancer keeps on dancing. This maybe the first poem that starts another category of its own mostly about different art forms. 🙂


My name is the greed you harbour
And in a portrait of someone
That you chase night and day
But it moves only farther, farther away
And you make your existence your pain
You repeat over and over again
The same never ending refrain
Like the never ending cycle of birth and death
As every being who is born
And is laid to rest
So shall I be too
But before I embrace the kingdom come
I strive to fulfill what only a few have done
The search of God starts with you
And not outside
The encounter of Demons happen to you
And not made to happen
Most die looking for a purpose
While they forget
The purpose is dying to look after them
The time goes slow and the wit goes dim
Trying to understand everything foolishly
Never satisfied.

There is a never in nevermore
But more we seek
More we strive to store
Till no one warns us of our greed
And like swarms teeming in the sky
More they say, mere mortals
What more do they want?
What more can they have?
Wanting  what they can’t
Abjuring what they have
Conjuring what they shan’t
Hovering on this stand
Leaving all for perchance
Grieving for the dead
Killing those who are alive
With their rage that consumed
Like wraith ridden fumes
Robbing the body throughout
Like a demented ghoul



I find it hard to believe
Such vast a vocabulary
But I write only the filth
Such ignoramus pride
Over utter nothingness
Yet I call myself skilled

Get up, run, kiss your filth
Do, develop, become skilled

How filth finds the abyss
In the form of a clear mind
The dirt marring the garb
The sane turned into blinds
Unfrock the frail and lo
With such an ease they lie

Why won’t we target the filth?
When filth is sold and prized

Two roads past I left it all
The corruption I vaunted
Traversed a million miles
Utopia was never found
Taboo they call lethargy
Seldom they run around

Reality washes the filth clean
But laundry men assassinated

The deceptive perfection
Offbeat the ones who chase
Stiletto hidden in sleeves
Substantial stipend to pay
More filth, more reverence
A requiem for this day


In the nag of that swarthy night
When the clouds were all maudlin
Sacred tree of banyan exhumed
Manes evincing the dance of doom

A ghost of a woman old and pale
Who lived her life but in vain
A ghost of a man young and tan
Who knew not of life and its pain

Eight in number the patrol of goons
Marching in fallacy for the shining moon
A philosopher who would stand aloof
Patronizing all the men in love

The woman cries for her empty life
The young man cries he lived no life
The goons cry for there was no moon
Philosopher cries to be known a goon

The crying ones are all manes
That dance all fain but cry in shame
For what would death hold for them
Their lives were only in paper and pen

Yet there was a sense of awe
How they danced without a flaw
What they could not fulfil in life
They hoped to achieve in afterlife

What deity are you so haunting
That renders the men daunting
So when the time is right and just
Fill thrills in the night let it burst

These mains haunt for evermore
For no reaper had them reaped
Fretting these manes seemed weed
Fallow helots of a night’s dream



We are living breathing miracles
Who are doomed to spend but a finite time
We are seemingly exotic parcels
Beneath and above of the grounds of crime
We are a sleep driven tragedy asleep
We are cruel humans; haphazardly sublime
We are a smothering pillow of weed
Wounded in and out, possessed by wine

Fantastic it is that how in an instant
The whole glory becomes the folly perchance
Monsters and men stand hand in hand
Tattered bodies withering for earthly cognisance
The day drinks waters mucked by men
The night sings lullaby to the departed radiance
Vow bounden people singing sorrel
Red is passion, brown is sad; ’tis fake romance

Fantastic it is that how in an instant
We become a part of an even larger entity
In a flash of a second how the soul
Sees, breaths, leaps and bounds an eternity
We see divinity in common things
The complex is what sees us with divinity
And how both predator and prey
Can consume each other with great alacrity