Category Archives: 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



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Unbroken Rule and Broken Desire

— Skylark, the entangled soul

I thought you to be the most precious unbroken rule

Surrounded by walls outside the exclamation

Most carefully designed, beyond imagination

Imagination that lies in the silent shout

Trying to push me so hard to come out of the desires

Screaming desire to see you inside out

Desire to find a loop hole in the sophisticated architecture of the wall;

All the things, all the missing wills I want to know at all the times.

desire of dying to make your portrait in the canvas

hidden in the very core of my mind.

I can see your conscious intelligence

But I am in love with the curiosity of knowing

all your qualities, your attributes and your evilism

in a coherent manner;

before going into a failed love

willing to spend some time with you

to have The Last Supper

Or just like The Last Ride Together

So as to maintain a sustained imagination with harmony there after ever!

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– Dead Poet

Emptiness is all there is;
That and my consciousness.
So I fill the void with all of you,
And hope and love and loneliness.

I am the centre to everything,
The master of all creation.
And all I see and write and do,
Is but my imagination.

How do you know, what’s red for me?
For the same could be green to you.
Everything will be what I want it to be,
And never know if it’s at all true.


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Zen and the fidget spinner

– Loquacious Llama

fidget spinner.
i really do.
it’s not a
atavistic fascination
with childhood,
at least that’s what
i tell myself.
i just like it.

if you asked me
what it looked like,
i would not say
distant and dark,
like the tenderest of nights,
and there’s flashes of silver,
like the moon on the waves
lapping at the shore”
i’d just blurt out, in the most
vulgar, apathetic tones,
it’s black, really,
but that’s not important.”

if you tried still to probe
further into this fertile ground,
if you asked me, say,
what it felt like,
i would not say
supple and light,
feline almost, like the
goddess bastet herself had
slunk into your hands
when you weren’t looking.”
i would simply remark, in an
offhand way,
it was smooth and like really slick, you know,
when i first got it, but now it’s all
loose and jiggling around,
falling apart, really.”

and if you chose to
pursue your line
of incessant questioning
further still,
if you asked me, reasonably enough,
how fast it went,
i would not say
faster than
a thousand thirsty horses
galloping through the desert
in search of a well”
i would say,
and you would hear
the longing in my voice,
it’s nice and all, i mean,
does the job well and everything,
but i wish i’d gotten the next
model up, just the one
slightly better than this one,
that one, that one would have
been nice. but this one’s fine too,
really, i like this one just fine
the way it is.”

and yet, if you pressed on
with your uncomfortably familiar
queries further still,
if you asked me
if it made too much noise,
i would not say
just a little soft sound,
like the chirping of the tiniest
of sparrows, you have to
almost strain to hear it sometimes.”
i would say,
lightly pressing my temples,
it’s crazy, it’s like there’s
a whirring sound in the air
everywhere i go, even when
it’s nowhere near me
at the time.”

yes, i find it peaceful,
generally speaking,
and no, that is not
the probable autism that
dwells beneath the waves
i would not say to you, for instance,
some say it is salvation,
some call it nirvana,
others shangri-la, maybe
it’s just your very own personal paradise,
just yours and no one else’s,
i would say,
exasperated at how difficult it is
to get a simple concept through
to you,
i just like my fidget spinner.
and that’s all there is to say about that.

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When I Move Again

— From Under The Rubble

Oh yes, I recall,
Little sparkling beads
Spread atop the skies
And a little frame underneath, lightly hopping
Rhythmically on the tiles that lay,
To the beats that set the days of infancy forever anew.

Oh yes, I recall,
That shifted frame, towering over
Those tiles that lay, no hopping just passing,
No beats, just signs, signaling and signaling and signaling

The hopper soon crawled across the lane.
For the skies didn’t change,
But still the beads got lost,
Heavier and heavier, that silly towering frame
Just forgot to look up again.
There had set mist, and then blinding fog

Just when turmoil set, the slouching frame
Caught sight of worlds yonder
As a swift flew by, swiftly alright!
‘So light, so pure, so swift’, the frame thought.
Following which, over himself, a heap he felt.
That foggy world felt distinct,
The sparkle was felt again, somewhere it was,
though still out of sight.
Laying and laying I had waited long,
It was time,
When I move again

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– Baleful Basilisk


I saw a pothole

Right there! In the middle of a lonely street

Surrounded by the most beautiful scene

My heart would dare to see.

Or my nightmares allow.

It was a little dirty at the edges,

Rough, with such bravery

As decided martyrs to no purpose preach.


I laughed at the irony,

The pinnacle of uniformity

Was the piece of difference

And my heart broke as it felt

This might not be tolerated.

If you quite get what I mean?


What if that was the whole point, the pothole?

And the water splashing in the rain,

With the promise of a whole new biome

In a crack we don’t understand

So, then we were the drones,

Not able to see.

Sometimes ‘repair’ is destruction

And loss of faith belief.


Then, of course I had to do

Something terrible, you know?

The way I always do.

Run and jump! Like a fool.

Mother said, ‘Be careful’

But I was always crazy

Everyone said so.


I had a back thought,

That I would slip at its edge

Not as if it could happen

But with the quietest acceptance

That it must…

Though I could be quite the athlete

And this was hardly athletics

And I waited with the half-anticipation of a child

Who loves the first few seconds

Of a disapproving scolding,

Before the aftermath strikes


I was a mad fool

A chipped, unstable pawn

In a game of perfect pieces.

Allowed to survive as a variation

Just in case.

For the first time, I rationally felt

My part was still gently played.


And usually I fall with such control?

But this time it was on my face.

Then I was the pothole,

And for a few seconds

That would never pass

The weight of humanity

Would pass over me.

I tried to contract my lungs

And suck in water like some would gasp for air.


And then mother came

I just was lifted up

Through no volition of mine

And the pothole, a kindred spirit

Soon to be destroyed.

Left behind, as I went away

A walking mechanism.

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Happiness, conquered! – Sweet Summer Sweat

– Nature’s Natural

Passed three hours of the merry rain,
Scaled four miles of the woods’ embrace;
I neither winced nor shrugged at the helm,
Victor, I, rose in the hills’ praise.

The green leaves hummed in the land’s tune,
The moonlight shimmered in its bliss;
But the banal chirp in the wind,
Returned me to the old abyss.

From heavens above it ushered,
For someone’s prayers had been heard;
Twinkling speckles veiled the Magi,
Before me was glee, in the mud.

Long ago, I had made a choice,
The pursuit of it, to pursue
Love and joy in my mundane life;
For paths to happiness it knew.

Scraped the brown off the glistening box,
Cleansed with my dripping merriment;
An angelic lever turned left,
My gaping mouth, over I bent.

No rains, no woods; No waves, No hills
Shadowed the poet on his way;
Returned he to his new heaven,
Down in the dust his prized gift lay.

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