Posted in Poetry

I am at a loss for words


I have since long been wondering,

Since how long have I been wondering?,

Because proof I cannot seem to find,

Of these parcels delivered to my mind,

Yes that was a rhyme,

And THIS was the last time.

I promise.


You see when I start to pen my wonders,

Wonderfully they all hide,

I look hard, but surety still doesn’t suffice,

For all I know I end up at rhymes,

But the promise is kept,

And again I start to wonder,

Wondering why, wondering how, the whens of all that transpires,

But as I reach for my pen, there you have it,

A rhyme,

Now if I again use the word rhyme,

That would be for the third time—-ly!

As I keep my word to you,

Though there is a lack of words anyways,

Meanwhile writers who block my existence with fancy delicacies,

Masked as words, serve drugs,

Shining their brilliant talented LED disco lights,

while I get my caffeine crash,

And a power-saving CFL for consolation


I blame you not for incomprehensibility,

Though you are allowed to feel stupid, no problem,

As in my insecurities, knowing this, it just gives me great joy,

And I am not one to hide the sadistic side,

Also, as bad as I am at keeping promises,

I say you save the frown,

Because dear that wasn’t the last of when I let you down. 😉



Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized

Just Something

-Baleful Basilisk

Note: For a better experience it is recommended that you read the poem while playing the given song in the background : Thank you 🙂 .

That rope is twisted.

But I am the cat curiosity killed.

Not once, but four times over. Tick, Tock, Tick.


Five lives left.

I like puzzles.

My brain is addicted to the high,

That accompanies understanding.

Everything has math sneaked into it somewhere.

I’m twisting, with pleasure. I choose the hard paths.

Without regret. I love lonely treks. And silence.

And rare tea with beautiful strangers.

I love them, all of them. In my own, free manner.

Every single person I shared a tea with.

But they have threads in their clothes. Some have ropes.

I am not an animal in some Jungle book?


If I were, I would be Bagheera. Not an overbearing Sher Khan.

Not the strong, protective mother. And not a domesticated cow in a herd.

Though I would love them both to no end.


I fear that if I stay more than a few days,

They will throw light, strong threads on me.

I am afraid I won’t see them, and one day when:

The noose tightens. I’ll suffocate.

I am not afraid because I won’t escape.

I will, if I must. I’m afraid I’ll break threads.

The snap of which will not be felt in my bones alone.

Seemingly hard to describe how:

I fear that thin threads.

Will force me dead in a way,

Ropes cannot. They cut deep.


Helps with finding excuses. I think.

As I read Nietzsche’s rants? and wonder,

Why I find it funnier than Wodehouse.


Of archaic writers and their absurdities, though.

I was laughing at Nietzsche, the way he laughed at Plato

Socrates and Voltaire. The whole bunch of them. Not really, though.

Laughter, then.

I think it’s good. I wonder who would laugh at me.

It should make me turn in my sleep, or my remains whip up a small wind.

In a way that would be amusing, not frightful.

Because sickness must end somewhere.

Stunning how even cold sunsets remind me of the dawn these days

When I am wrapped in a sweater of warmth, dreams and thought.

The one that was torn away by force. Leaving me:

Dirty, brave and naked.

Wrapped in mud, growing steel shanks.

I missed the soft, mangled sweater through all these years:

To my own consternation:

I find myself knitting scarves again.

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized

Two Poems

– Anonymos


Some days it is intense
Passionate and ferocious and all-encompassing
Nothing not it had ever mattered,
nor ever will.

Calm the very next
An undercurrent of peace in the mind’s ripple-free lake
Everything in its warm mental embrace,
The world is painted golden.

On yet others, it slips in the background
playing hide and seek like a 3-year-old with no patience
heepishly running out time and again,
In excitement and glory and wonder.

And yet it is unmistakably, unquestionably, undoubtedly, all the same
Manifesting differently as particles and waves
Halting the Universe for the briefest of instants,
Making heartbeats skip and pupils dilate.


I asked the centipede,
“Why do you keep walking?
So far, so steady, so busy
What is it you cannot find
right next to where you are?”
It replied, with a soft smile,
“why do you?”

Posted in Poetry

Things that should be funny


–Baleful Basilisk

Silence is a funny thing

It has a way of acquiring meaning.

It has a friend called Stillness.

If you remain with Silence for too long,

She comes along after a while.


It’s funny how silence can be enforced.

A logical solution in this world,

Where we, one of the most inefficient species

On the planet, decide:

We want our inefficiency to be efficient.


Funnily enough, the same comparison applies

To classes of human beings:

Haves and have-nots. Men and Women.

Silence is often for those who have-not

While those who “have” scream at the top of their lungs.


It’s like we are really children,

With the added ability to have sex.

And added incentive to control other people.

People with candies scream because the shape isn’t right.

While a world of hungry children,

Would be glad for a rotten piece of bread.


Silence is often assumed to be a characteristic.

And it is, but not acquired by choice.

Invisible threads of privilege support our puppet shows.


It’s funny how we all forget,

That plants grown without water and nutrition,

Or without fertile symbiotic soil,

Tend to die or become stunted.

Consciousness is funny,

You think it’s you.


Strange when you are half-supported by the best threads.

And the other half is dangling because some cheap paper tore up.

Perspective is the funniest. It gives rise to other inefficiencies.


Like empathy.

It’s giving somebody your threads,

Because you think they have only paper.

An inefficient process for someone,

Who cannot prevent their threads from being stolen.

And with people who paste paper over threads,

To maximise capital.


I don’t speak of Stillness very often, though.

Because stillness is love.

And I like to protect that segment of my existence

From the multi-level system of inefficient puppets.

That measures everything by efficiency,

Which is just a justification for inefficiency, in the end.


Love is the calm that washes over me,

When I don’t have to be a puppet.

It’s a rare, unintended side effect,

Of partial isolation. It’s lying down with my parents,

In silence, saying nothing, absorbed in thought.

But still not alone. Its when my silence breaks for a moment,

And the whole world doesn’t matter.


Stillness is delicate. It spoils with display.

They call it love. But their love is not stillness,

The calm of not having threads.

It’s pulling an act for the benefit,

Of nobody. Not for enjoyment.

For entertainment.

Subtle distinctions are funny.


Posted in Poetry

About Her


–Baleful Basilisk

Sunshine doesn’t burn her.

She has thick skin.

But the wind comes in,

It enters her without a conscience, without care,

Making it ache where it still can.


I look at her, there are so many images.

I have lost count and I have lost care.

I don’t understand why it all comes to this for her.


Sometimes, she smiles as she peers,

She is a child, I don’t understand her.

She makes a graceful pattern

Out of everything as if

It does not matter to her whether you throw a stone

Or a knife, Or a petal.

She has learnt how one can change into the other,

In a moment’s glance, a single act.


I made a home for her,

And she made heaven out of earthly things.

In a quiet ecstasy, I watched her grow

Faded scars and bright lights.

She looked so strong, I let her out

And she ran out joyfully.


Rolling down with glee,

She was forgetting me a little,

She was lost in someone else.

Her memory is by necessity

Short and unsteady.

With a tendency to repeat mistakes,

In the name of kindness.


I didn’t see her for days,

I missed her. It was cold here,

I managed with coffee and books.

She took all the music with her.

I was happy though, for I am old

And her joy gives me life.


Yesterday, the door knocked.

She was there.

My child, in a tattered cloak.

Her music stolen and her heart cold.

I looked and though I embraced her warmly

It doesn’t seem to make a difference.


I wish I could convince the winds

To neither love nor hate her.

Just let her be, in the quiet calm

She creates for herself and her many loves,

Where her best thoughts mould her world,

And sometimes reality.


Posted in Poetry

Fixing a Hole

– Onanistic Okapi


When I heard that
Dark Souls was getting remastered,
I felt my heart
(and this is no joke)
drop into the pit of my stomach
and leap back up into my throat.
A d
ull thudding and
the surging of
fresh arterial blood,
and all those years
dropping away like scabs
from an old wound.

If only I could be
so grossly
of course, but also)
that I could express even a little
of why that should be so!
Sing in me, Muse,
and through me tell
the story of
all those nights,
those dark, heart-stopping nights,
huddled up in front of
dim screens,
striking out when you can,
and when patience wears thin.

Those terrible nights you
could do nothing
but fall,
when you keep
slipping up
and misjudging the bounds;
down, down,
crushed to the ground
no matter how hard you tried.
Those sleepless nights
you spent on forums
and tutorials
and the like,
convinced you were
doing something wrong
but just what that was
remained yet to be seen.
Those disquieting nights
when you would just
throw up your hands
in sheer frustration
and switch things around radically,
try out unseemly weapons and crazy tactics
and drastic changes to your character,
and you would get
clubbed into the ground again,
but worse than usual, somehow.

But you must sing too, then,
of the delicate, sensual nights,
when everything seems
to be going your way,
when you find yourself
on inroads you
never even knew were there.
Of when death can’t seem
to touch you,
of when the doomed world
(and all its doomed inhabitants)
seem as warm and snug and inviting
as your bed back home,
of when you can dance your way
around the pain,
(and dole it out
in equal measure,
if you so please),
of losing yourself
and timelessly.

And even when you’re done
and finished,
you’re left looking for
the same things
in all that you see,
that perfect balance
between patience
and just being, like,
a complete bitch all the time, you know?
Yes, I have
had my way with her sisters two and three,
wandered the shores of Cuphead,
taken a dip into Hollow Knight,
frolicked in the meadows of Titan Souls,
dabbled in Salt and Sanctuary,
I’ve done it all
and something is always missing,
something itches just the wrong way,
something is always off,
something is never just right.

So I must return now
to her once more,
after all this time I kept
myself away;
to lose everything
all over again, to find
myself anew.
For ‘tis a
cruel mistress
I seek, and I
must prepare to pay
in flesh and blood and soul,
for ‘tis what
she demands of me,
that grim, ghastly goddess
of mine.
(But I shall give them gladly)
For if there’s one thing
I’ve learned from Dark Souls,
it’s that:
If one is doomed for a certain time to walk the earth
and when everything is already doomed anyway,
the only way from there is up.
And a
lso, of course, git gud.


To the girl who sits across from me

at the lab
and has that smile
that’s just right in all the wrong ways
or wrong in all the right ways,
I write these lines for you,
that you may stumble upon them
someday, somewhere,
and find these
moments and glimpses of you
that I wished to crystallize
in my hapless, infantile words,
to be pleasing, perhaps,
or even mildly amusing,
for that is all
I could bear to ask of you.

You, the namesake
of an unusual, calm river,
with aptly wavy hair.
Yes, you, of the
feminist blog and the thick lenses.
You, of the
bright eyes like fathomless oceans.
You, of the
peerless, sultry bloom of youth,
and the forbidding, steely tongue
that comes with.
You, of the
acid wit and snappy retorts,
half-whispered underbreath.

How did you drop into my life
so simply and yet irrevocably,
like the petals of a jasmine blossom
onto a prickly lawn?
How have you spread your roots
so far and so quick?
You dwell in my dreams so,
(and so often)
and when I awaken
they still keep the
hollow of your form.
Like waves thrashing against cliffs,
my thoughts return to you,
(and only you)

I dig my toes into the sand
on your banks, afraid
to venture any further,
to be swept away
and tossed about in the currents,
to wash up, gasping for breath,
on some unknown shore.
I fear too
the thirst I seem to
have brought along
for you,
(and only you);
it is relentless and unquenchable.
So I stay here,
and watch your spectacles
mist up when you laugh,
and I wonder if I shall someday
gather myself up
and brave your surging waters.
Tomorrow, tomorrow,
(you of the)
endless tomorrows.

Posted in Poetry


A house of mirrors inside the madhouse

I stand there quietly,

but not quite calm as I see her.


Draped in a costume, a chain on her neck, padlocks on her soul

Standing with candy.  

Sticky, sloshy gel for them to suck from a glittery wrapper

Her soul and brain smoking it up

Smuggled stuff inside a cold cellar, where her heart used to be.


She was smiling long ago in a green field, with the crops tickling her legs

Her dress fluttering, a little too fast, a little too high.

Blinking, eyes full of light and the warmth of love.

As air rushed in and out on its’ own whim, probing her mind.  

Minds don’t heal in flurries of snow, I don’t think yours has.

Mine rolled up like an armadillo, hiding the parts you probed for.


Now, she is black, shrouded in mystery.

Not a glamorous dress, but a veil of deception.

Sudden tremors from her spine travel up as she counts, adds and multiplies.

Lucifer whispers into her ear, a little too close for comfort. The world has hidden itself.

It always does, many spines together often add up to no spine at all.


Inside her, the child was sitting in a corner, under the bed

A slight coughy tremble and tear-stained eyes round with wonder and joy

As the world underwent metamorphosis. Broomsticks, elves and strange lands tickling her mind.

And she looked outside, my only flame. Then she saw me, and broke into a smile.

A smile I answered with a laugh, as Mother bent under with coaxing eyes

And my blurry, crazy world, for a few moments, couldn’t twist my mind