Friday, December 24

replying, of kinds

no you do not write well
why you even write what
you never see
the cliche
the dead moth's dearest
but the body.
its soul
rising smiles
at your word
and its not even
great, or great
what do i call this
this error
do i let it stay
and grow on the heart's
plane or do i crush the
soul and scorn beloved
beloved, or coldly.

Wednesday, December 22

this need to touch

I am
filled with irreverential love
for you
and i foresee a dream
of un-understanding movement
and i touch you
which broods the entire time
and that mark uncovered
lightens secrets
and pleasure of white
severing a vow
and making another
sign with its beauty
and forgetting it there
along with the night.

Thursday, November 25

music must soothe

i read into your mind, to tell that you are shouting. therefore, i must cry and not talk.
tears sell slowly, they are a few weeks old and are eager to come, whoever said you
cause me pain, or you, cause me pain, tears are a blind eye's way to touching the
world even with new beauty when there are faces around you don't want, all that
matter like dreams is the glow of that feeling, the blue-touch and the depth of knowing
like no other-maybe you did. i am blind and still running. tomorrow when i don't speak
i'll cut the pain into, and see how much it lasts. till then for years and less sing well.

Monday, November 22

god, see how i have made my bed
tell me that it counts
and warmth among other things
so i can tell you other wonderful
stories about the rescue
and the explosions in the sky
and the falling in love
before that
that i also wait for spring
to be a woman
waiting, for the bells to ring
half an hour later
then to purse my lips
against all the scratching
so i can get a sleep of
warmth, sucker for warmth
and lie with all the other trees
while they lie awake breathing
i like the little man,
he teaches me things i do not have

Wednesday, October 6

bad day for mad girl

there is nothing

nothing you can keep touching

something you can keep seeing

I hate this

utter complexity bewildering

my fingertips to pain

there is nothing

nothing you can keep lying

and singing oh it is beautiful

you look beyond all hurt

misery groaning tearing

of the body dividing mind

unto pieces you fall into

there is nothing

you can keep thinking

which will make it a dream

within a dream

awake all the time

shining torch on the blindspot

to feel it singe making

its way to core of my soul

Friday, October 1

A death

she had
angels with brown wings
hovering around
last months
with a
baby inside
and a husband too.

moody and pensive,
my mommy swayed free
i did not eat enough
though i was her baby.

and her husband dragged on.
his wife, he didn't see anymore
or feel; yet the doctor felt it
grow, calm and benign a bigger ball.
when work suffers, do you blame a
woman? you married. no, sufferer.

a day. no other day.
walk to the bathroom
fall. breathe slowly. die.
kill the baby,
hit your head
kill the baby,
till mum and child
are safe inside wrapped
in an amount of universal clothes
of nowhereness near your,
husband and dad.

may be i wanted to come out,
or the world has nothing to miss.
uh, im fine with my mother
just that, extremely cold with the walls
thinning and falling
away to browner earth
which will swallow away
our hearts.

Wednesday, September 29

purple in black

thank you for staying up,
i like to rub my eyes very hard
it’s swollen and crying
every other day.

night in bed.
cry, bed bed.
with curtains flowing inward
wind-air-ing inside
rain blowing outside
happening everything the other side.
stay, stay here.

what, sleep while talking?
watch, sorry eyes closed?
what do you think, you pervert
whoring son of a bitch.
with all your charm and history
wither and die. all I care.

good night. morning.
sleep well?
is that all right?

my god. these domestic altercations.

Saturday, July 17

hypochondriacal rhetoric

medical terms cut sharpeth,
wound deepeth,
and bleed profuseth

what i cannot decide

all look,
with notes to the outside world.
yes, yes, this lissome family of three or four.

smiles of a bursting nature,
rhymes to scald and scolding,
what is a thing called rupture
in a perforated pasture to romp.

sleep. dream, talk, wake, pee, and think.
think-think, think-think.
how other people wink,
helps move the spinning top to mop.

aimless on, catch joy and misery,
innocence from the reeds,
forgetting in all the grandsome maturity
yes, yes, this lissome family of three or four.

Sunday, June 20

already the night is looked upon the stars/and our joy quickly turned to tears

a fear
of the words which speak
between the moon and the sea,
i, raging and blindly swallowing water everywhere
and your stoical white with printed answers.

water waves i easily bear,
what of more brighter effusions-
like, of cloudy night of moments or,
smeared hollow on sand with fingers,
names waiting for water.

look down,
i have turned away.

Tuesday, May 25

going to heaven

It defeats the purpose
Of a perfect carcass
To be ripped apart like no one
I cared about; yes, killing of the sun
And the rising of the moon all
Happen without any fall
And, am I supposed to wail
When all of them crawl
For mercy
And what for which I cannot wait and see.

Monday, May 24

ending rain
crawling cold air,
open again

Wednesday, May 19

clad by rain
ants climb up a face-
pausing to touch.

Tuesday, May 18

moans while
a woman of much hair,
strokes bald sky.

Friday, May 14

driven dry

Blinded are we, after every rain
Pressing a body as you sit with it
Alone in the remains of the dry,
Strictly, that moment in our time
I do not feel the cold
Or the gliding of rain drops
To meet the distinctive deaths
While dry bodies like us gape by.
At the growing of the grass
Or the opacity of the clouds,
Simmering down from its great
Pure density.
And not at the sighs you make not for yourself
But at my despair, at my hanging heart
At the loose end of a chin which disguises
The newly green self pity to a morass
Of inimitable sorrow and irredeemable loss
And, the eye newly black from the previous rain
Impervious to your strains of affection
On which I put down a heavy metallic lid.

Wednesday, May 12


At three,
Time comes easily
With single movements in the air
And jumpy noises,
Gather the soul to a calmer ball
And hurl it forward
To augur a sleep
From bad dreams from
oh i never forget the voices
which spoke even through the fan
with an insistence that preceded the clouds
they raved and wanted you to heed
but you rolled them over like thunder,
damn, the woman never speaks.
i slightly wonder if this refusal is defiance
or a ceasing of a murmur at a wish resigned.
clad we all are in the sorrows of the night,
only i hang back with the weight of murder
you know, the deaths you court through senses,
all of them, the five, the five wily ones.
what with the hollow still dug up in your heart
to exorcise the thousand tiny voices.

Thursday, May 6

baby don't

yes, he called
me a stupid little bitch
profanity, i see you through your age
ugly ageing bastard
cover me in filth.
and ask me to look in the mirror?
what have you done to me?
through your cheap novels
and unchanging morals.
fucked me up, right through.
tell me a story a hundred times-
pardon me, but i dont see the fucking moral
of your stupid little tale
you miserable man,
failed by life and its grapes.

Monday, May 3

there, i have said it,
stay, hover and come here.

alight on a crude stone, and
light up this hazy world.

right, here, among other things
i want you here stifling me.

is it true to feel for a body
desire through your mind,

as if i care
i may kiss you only here.

the night devours,
along with i, you.

i have brought you up to my throat,
you will stay now.

i will love you no matter what

that, dear is you to my world
i stretch every truth,
to a dream of fair world
in my moral shell;
i kill the mother and create
because i love you.
i swallow every musical note
and strum pearls on a lost sea-
where we can hear voices
which assure me the loud love?
in a dream place on the other side,
i didnt know to lose track is to care
and killing cutting surfaces
and throwing daggers
at your true love
i will love you forever.
thus twist death to life
and save you from it,
yes this is the true love,
take me word for it,
i lap the human shrills
they touch me down
goodbye, you
i will love you no matter what
this is that no matter what
you honour with your hour
clear it with your ear
and smile happy for you.
i will love you no matter what.

Saturday, May 1

the first line

the heart sometimes lies
and twists your arm,
finding you blush
whispers your humiliation-
on the hair in the neck
and cries pity, pity
softly clasp your wrist
run its fingers over
and touch my finger's nail
and feel it hard and like
the curious old thing,

Tuesday, April 27

day when you come
be nice to my father
treat him like a child of ill,
with a lot of black tea and
don't care hugs of sleep.
take him with me around
sniffing his cheek like his
mother who loved him
and he who loved me;
tell him he can see me
in love and happy
and that he will always be there
in a dark shadow that is in me,
or that when i cry it is a child
of one remembering old songs
he made for welcoming sleep
to a little baby girl.
measure my love
and show him how i rush to
meet him.

Wednesday, April 21

every day i know.

dead moths in the morning,
remind every night and clawing through, work
beside the sun to win over new light.
this is a new sleep with enchantments of entombed,
lie over, and let me prod and jab,
when wings die
they do not float.

Sunday, April 11

time and her

Desire, my dream child,
Crossing legs over another
You have forgotten.
Faces you have smeared on
Red lipstick and
Walled it off strains of memory.

Desire, you crazy bitch,
rubbing off lust,
in a casual wave of hair
and moving silent still
even when you are not here.

Desire, this magic box
Trapping and killing
like a pigeon in love,
till eyes see only you,
in every shade of air.

let me be there.

Friday, April 9

If you could smell the air around,
And sense this ache
Of whispering love across
A thousand states,
And realising only through sounds
Happiness I alone can give,
I would make a crystal ball
And make us dance together
With the snowflake and the pretty white.

Tuesday, March 30


This, dear sir is an old story about an old land. It didn’t have beautiful trees, or therefore birds or music. It had a large ocean like the moon, appearing ahead without the trees, and in it many little seas, rivers, ponds and natural lakes. It glistened and sparkled like a branch of stars. There, beneath many layers of the beauty, stinking in earth of black soil and dark skies-where it rained like every day, lay the junkies. They lay hatching over the grass all day, with hands up in the air supporting their air of the hair of the heir, just pointing out the nitty-gritty of the whole absolute affair. There was a narrow, engraved passage through which it would be let out to the beauty, where alone they saw dreams in colours, and the smoke floated by below all the clouds across the world. The fish, the masters of the old land, saw it and loved it. It was scaly, and long, it slithered like god’s equal himself, and the dark net guised his evil. They were attracted to their new god, and drank it all in. like the most delicate poison, it lay slurping every bit and sucking at every little tit. They thus breathed for many years, many centuries, and aeons. They would grow up a day in the forever, and float in the haze and go high, high up with the shooting stars, and when their eyes opened they saw clear in the air, the rainbow. Kissing its many colours despite the mother ocean’s brilliant colours of the shades, forgetting in an instant’s most valuable time all the time of their real blue world’s life. It is in such pleasure steeping that the smoke gently ruptured their gills and they lay flattened in to lungs and dead. Dead like an old man’s little daughter up in between the bricks. That instant of time, the narrow passage cracked and the engraving caught on the fire and unfurled its many branches. The junkies breathed through the layers and saw the world. That was the word.

They nurtured the world, and made cement and choked it. It sodomised the dead fish and made them humans. They evolved faster, leaping through vertical concentric circles to emerge as apes in that magical sequence. That is how we were born. Junkies therefore, in the real mythology hidden between steps in destiny’s labyrinth, were adorned as gods, for mis-producing an entire race of seeking for such, such beauty.

Our ancestors banished real eden from the top of the spinning top, stopping it by a little finger by its neck. Anyway, anyhow and anywhere, they didn’t get Eden, but they got us our dying pale blue earth. Eden is the red glowing blood apple.

Sunday, March 28


The bodies, which we hang on to. Like a child’s favourite clothes. Like, people we do not know. Like, ideas which you never meet. You will find all these things, shown to you in neat piles in a ruin, unmarked everywhere, you will lose your sight. You meet friends there, husbands and lovers, sons and grandfathers. They guard the ruin like a woman, which made him.

There, there, now don’t cry. Never use your body. It is which kills, slowly and deliberately. I sink in to more metaphors, and like blood flows along with every other thing in the wicked world. It is a beautiful dream. You sleep there for many stories of years, and getting older clouds look real. And you stay on.

The body mirrors the shadows, all the blood giving red its many shades of colours. The life presence of it all, she says. I am your muse, she says. The body draws conversations, and then makes violent sex upon the sandy beach of time’s little forehead. You will notice similarities, and common faces but it is all a convenient copulating picture, nothing else.

The body stretches in to bits which divide it, and starts deteriorating like a perfectly healthy leaf, quivering and shaking in her mad dance to death. It is all a very normal game. Delicately nocturnal then.

You grow old and die,down down you go. And the true shadows never meet.

Hang back. Hang back.

Thursday, March 25

Watch a wound
Its coming to life, its dying birth
The blood rushing out,
After a trap with others
In a body of darkness,
Flowing hitting each other madly,
And to out stops,
Meets your eye-
Pausing a moment,
Hovering a smaller moment,
And trickle

Wednesday, March 24


Born a thousand years ago, when the questions stated coming, they are friendly fragile creatures who pine by morning, afternoon and the night for crystals which do not exist. In this way, they are very similar to archaeologists, except they do not dirty their hands at all; but crowd their little minds with forests without trees and animals but with war cries of passion and more passion. They sleep late, mediating with the night to hope in the morning with heavy eyes, but of course they do not succeed and do not realise. Like, a man being spurned, they look up paths ahead, stepping over the one your eye may directly see if you close it. In their childhoods, they didn’t live with their parents; they observed them and loved them but never could figure out the tender nerves of the socio-biological blood connection thing. They exhibited tendencies to do the opposite of what they were asked to do, they lied mindlessly, dreamt soullessly straddling dreamworlds of other people without asking permission. Surprisingly, they sucked when it came to directions probably springing from a childhood habit of going in the opposite direction when asked to come this way. It was a conspiracy of geography and psychology where lost in mazes, they would fight imaginary battles. Hide-rs grew up to feel like outsiders, trying at the same time, to suppress all those anti-social tendencies like pushing a blind girl over the steps when she enjoyed precariously, her aimless life. They understood their difficult positions later and frustrated often turned to roughness in sex and abuse in relationships. They caught solace in different smokes, grieving over the hazy smoke when it flew away, or uncurled leaving them. They often barrelled into their bodies hoping to find the crystals in that core; they didn’t. Today, they cry silently and do not answer questions. Oh yes, it is a perverse peace.

Tuesday, March 23

Up a talker's ass

dear dear
now i am in a fix
mouth can be closed, like this.
you stop talking, like this.
and then when you can't, you try to kill yourself like this.

burying more sand in a desert,
scattering them up on the wind,
circling birds with more sand,
worlds go awry with upside down
grain of sand.

please eat it and die,
and peace be with you,
and with you.

PS: if you can still not die, come to me. we will make love.

'And the stars go with you'

Stranger, you are.
You must not talk to a stranger,
You must always lie to one,
And when the world stops moving,
Grope in the dark for one.

Carry a mountain, drop it over your head and cry loud. Scream like you can hear states away that I miss. Kill birds to make them all die for you. Make water and stir, and let it rise, and move slowly, like this………that when it reaches you may idle, make circles with feet, and slowly lower, feel water move like leaves across an angry face, take in the water and go down, till you see all worlds tiptoeing in the assembly of the water lords.

To lie back and remember,
The days of your happy and sad,
Call to hear a song,
That let me in where I made cuts of blue,
Smearing it like a sunny bitch,
And sleeping without looking at you.

There, I know a bee I can kill,
I planned its sting
I didn’t notice its dying,
Till criss-crossed it cried sighing.

Sunday, March 21


You bitch,
You promised.
And the trees sit still, holding bad breaths with an air of suspicion, at the impending decision. I grovelled, and crawled and licked the floor and wrote her name, to soothe my antagonism. But it flamed up to beat me down, to keep the head level down to the floor and smell it by the cold surface. It is not reminiscent, but it jumps on my breasts endowing them with a certain heaviness that I want removed. Discard, this minute, this fleeting minute when it turned one. When you promised, what now do I do with memories floating to be formed? Of dreamless sleep, and beautiful touches, and a feather screaming through; lifting me against the moon, for her to see.

Thursday, March 4

Lights bright up spattering across the plain
Rewrite this history,
It’s been a long world in a remember
Of looking you at better so you see
Living saying long, long hour
At this city like any other,
World, it not good, you are still old,
Musical chair moving, skipping few places
Till you twinkle feel them at tips of slanting fingers,
Plan gather dust in Egypt,
Long night, long night, meet Ra and give him my gold-
Sands of a long long night of yesterday tiny fire lights

Wind moves gentle in the deepest corners of night
Stepping on little souls to bless them with the magic of love
In the night. Stop. Stop.

Slowly going insane,
With the light all alive
Which I cannot see, but hear and feel
Right above towering. Wherever whatever I do
Hovering in front of a heart break
It will sleep.
Like yesterday, the time of chance I never had
Or of the laughter leading to lily ponds
Like revising this romance
Where end kills chances of I
Can’t you see it?
Red, in an open book
Seeing covered in fluid,
Let it live like on and on.

Tuesday, March 2

I watched love make me yesterday
Thrown round loops of hair
Of a curly haired man,
Sink round eyes of desire,
Moving them through the leaves,
Make jump over the moon
To a water of pleasure sincere.


Monday, March 1

I am sun’s daughter and moon’s lover
I crave in the sun, sunk eat in the night-
I watch clouds move, making the moon
Laughing travel or trail,
By bushy trees make me veil look at you
Beautiful till tomorrow
It us a new world,
Where pleasure springs from the down,
And little fingers hop in all sides,
It is a real clever to watch meaner dies kill lie still:
Excellent life, it is so nice,
And themes are here, lost and never sell;
Which which which which eh, calls you
Strumming, waited for you all
I am surrounded nakedly
It is just the closet in your head is open
Excellent life, greater sin
Is take my hand,
Weary hand of mine, sweet child called Mine,
Very soon round you bitch leader suns of a pack
Called, eskelongriefe [it’s a long grief]
Vibrating phones set the tune,
Watching good doors behind you open
To know light must shut out,
And snakes will wither
And you will bleat the dream of
The little flaieries blowing in the wind.
Like life in a mystical flute.

Wednesday, February 17

2010 pointers.

today, i sat and listened to people. hard and long.
there was a man, another man and they were not united, they said.
we must find a secular tradition to stop all this bloodshed.
i slaughtered a hen yesterday in mind to eat nice chicken.
sensitivity to violence for mankind. humanism. dead.
ask, ask, i will enlighten. curiosity for solutions.
dialogue for answers, and discourse for me.
full stops work so well.

Tuesday, February 16

To the poet

dry, dry the ordinary
while observing the kite,
drawn by the wind-
your eyes flash,
and you note:
[eager, naturalist
and authentic as the green]
there is air,
around me,
and you.

feel it not to be alone.
he said.

Saturday, January 30

to you before this world.

You little, little woman
Smiling so much and happy all
What did you dream,
When you passed through that curtain,
Passing it over like a veil rent
And running
Like no one can
Rush and your father,
Surprised this love can hold so much
In your grin at your every smile-
Or how much you may be lifted off this world
Then feel the air swing around,
as only a bird can
in her dear moments of depression;
You take it in, this life with swoops of joy
Unfailing catching you, he records them
For later, his girl happy.
You move head towards the chest,
A slight touch all your affection
Pencilled at only his heart
There are then, just you and him.