You call, every now and then
Inebriated, intoxicated and high
on all but life.
You say it's a farce, this life;
an illusion you refuse to partake of.

You call me, though.
I'm no illusion, evidently.
I'm good company, a good laugh;
I'm a good lover, a good friend;
I'm a fairly good mother,
but above all, I'm a good punching bag.

I take in your blows,
as if your fist was made of butter,
as if these bruises would melt
into sunny delight,
to be served with crispy toast
for breakfast.

 

I’m a Man

I like my milkshake without lumps,

I like my camels without humps.

Doors that open from all four sides;

clothed whores and naked brides.

I have files and folders in my head,

I have exactly one loaf of bread.

Graphs, grids and sixty nine flowcharts;

I draw squares and circles – not hearts.

But then you walk into the room,

your lips apart, your voice a boom.

Your body a map of deep blue curves;

the burning loins of a hundred pervs.

Straight lines quietly conspire a circle,

close upon Reason with a chuckle.

Push me off my pointy cliff;

ring the bell, call for a tiff.

Colours collide, cry foul and fake,

in my heart – a sigh and an ache.

Files and folders are torn apart;

a sly guffaw straight from the heart.

There’s a quiet chaos, I’ve got to say.

Wearing pink is no longer gay.

There is no bulb that’s not a fan;

Gosh darn it, I am a man!

I am a man, so roll with it.

Let it ensnare your mind bit by bit.

They’re both the same – Dick and Puss.

So suck it up, you fat-lipped wuss.

Unfamiliar, not strange

The taste of white smoke
and the sound of black noise
can drive a person insane.

Not me. No, not me.
I live in the cracks in the wall
that separates you from yourself.
I thrive there.
White smoke is what I breathe
And black noise is what I hear.
What I listen to.
What I choose to listen to.

Is it too unfamiliar for you?
Is it too strange?
I'm sure it's unfamiliar,
I'm sure it's not strange.

The sound of your hopes crashing,
the sight of your own crystal ball.
Unfamiliar, not strange.

Never strange.

Scream

Can a continuous screaming inside your head make you deaf? No, don’t snigger. I really need to know.

There’s a screaming inside my head. I don’t know whose voice it is; I don’t know why it is so high-pitched and shrill. It screams continuously, without a break. No, I am not exaggerating. I doubt if it is human, really. No, it’s not a banshee; no, it’s not my mother. It’s an unfamiliar voice. Will I go deaf? I don’t want to go deaf. I’d rather know that someone’s screaming inside my head than not know at all.

It all started the day I wrecked my sister’s wedding. I walked in, scooped the groom in my arms and rode away on a black stallion. Okay, you got me. That’s a lie. It all started when I wrecked my sister’s wedding by shooting the priest. Luckily for me, nobody bore witness to this spectacle – officially speaking. Okay, officially speaking, you know I am not speaking the truth. By now, I guess, you’ve realized that I am not going to be telling you when it all really started – and does it even matter?

Maybe I will wake my son up and ask him if he knows anything about this? He’s two. Surely, he must know something by now? He must know why his mother’s skull is going to explode? Will he know, that little squicker?

Or, should I just ask his father about it? But does this thirty year old man get anything at all? There he goes snoring softly. That heaving, huge body. That familiar rise-and-fall of the growl of his breath. Oh, shut the fuck up, will you?

Ok, well. He doesn’t seem to be buying into this whole ‘telepathy’ thing for he is not shutting up. Not even shutting the fuck up. Not even fucking shutting the fuck up. You see where I’m going with this, right?

Oh, hell. I’ll just wake him up. If he knows that this screaming thing has been happening for the past…haha, I am not telling you for how long this has been happening! No! What if you figure it out?

You think you can make me tell? Ha. I’d like to see you try.

Coming back to me – my husband would actually scoff and ask “isn’t it always about you?” at this point, but since he is busy snoring… - should I tell him? Okay, let’s make this interesting – I bet you a million dollars that the moment I tell him this, he will calmly walk to the kitchen and get me an aspirin and a glass of water. Oh, you think I’m kidding? Bet, then! Wager away, my good reader, for you are about to witness the quickest way to make a million dollars.

Ok, hang on. Give me a minute to tell this ugly fucker that I have some issues.

So! What is it that you see in my hands? Oh, no! Oh, yes. It is a glass of water and a fucking aspirin. Pop the pill, shut the scream – really.

Hand me the money, won’t you?

By the way, I have no siblings.

My Nose Is Deaf

My ears can smell

the vetiver in her curls,

as misty as the swirls of dew

atop Shiva’s abode.

My eyes can touch

the sparkling sands of memories

and that flimsy sieve of time

they pass through every moment.

My nose can see

the familiar scent

of sweat and detergent,

and the nape of a certain neck

My skin can hear

the sweet sounds

of a kiss, of a union

of a gurgling stream of love

Then, sometimes, I wonder

what if love can’t be touched?

Can’t be smelt?

Can’t be heard?

Can’t be seen?

What if, after all this time,

I wake up one day

to realize that

My nose,

my stubby nose,

is deaf?

Struck

In the midst of glib chatter

loneliness struck;

a sharp arrow

travelling from your eye

to my heart.

In the midst of making love,

fear struck;

a poke, a nudge

threatening to tear apart

my existence.

In the midst of balloons and confetti,

joy struck;

the colours, the mirth,

the sheer gaiety,

I could not resist.

In the midst of antiseptic and blood,

many a scream struck;

the only vent

to the pain
and my impatience.

In the midst of sirens and debris,

love struck;

the memory of tomorrow,

as scary, lonely

and joyful,
as I.

Eye of the Needle

This needle of time
makes a patchwork
of colourful days -
each bit, different
in colour, size and texture.
Sewn together,
you and I,
in this tapestry of life.
Rich in detail -
a portrait of lone threads.
In its pursuit of progress,
this elegant thorn
may poke my fingers
once in a while.
A harmless,
bloodless conquest.

Today, through its eye
I notice a dark red mark
on the nape of your damp neck,
that the loose white button
on your crisp white shirt
was desperately trying to hide.
From me.

Two Lives

I slept for fifteen minutes
And dreamt a pretty sight.
Now I feel sick.
Tired.
I lived two lives
in fifteen minutes –
One that pretended to sleep,
One that pretended to be awake.
And when I woke up,
all that pretension
bloomed an eternal romance,
built a pretty cottage,
gave birth to two angelic children,
carved out a decent career,
and blew a tiny bubble of hope
that perched itself on my head –
the weight of which,
even two whole lives,
found too heavy to carry.

LOVE

Let me run out of life
before the cascade of love
in your lush heart
runs out of force,
runs out of water,
runs out of sheer mirth.
I cannot float
pretty paperboats
in a pool of sweat,
or on a dry trail of tears.
They long for the waves,
the currents,
the rhythms of a surging life -
like the one flowing in my veins,
waiting to be stopped
dead in its tracks
by the glinting edge
of a fruit knife.

Trapped. Again.

Those kohl-lined eyes

guard a fortress of secrets –

unheard, unsaid and

ignored, mostly.

a gleam of faint familiarity

that sparkles in the black,

like fireflies in the night,

or a pin-prick of sunlight

in the closed coffin of life.

I am free,

and yet,

every time I look at her,

I feel trapped

in my own reflection.

Fish Fingers

I can never forget the way

my fingers looked that day

when I wrote you a letter

and left it on your desk.

I can never forget the way

my fingers looked that day

when I turned the doorknob

and saw her watching you sleep.

I can never forget the way

my fingers looked that day

when I took the ring off my finger

and flung it across the room.

I can never forget the way

my fingers looked that day

as they examined the cracked mirror

and touched so many lives.

I can never forget the way

my fingers looked that day

when I caressed your body

till you clenched in ecstasy.

I can never forget the way

my fingers looked that day

when I wrapped them around your neck

and breathed my last.