/silent towns and humming streets
wait for you like lovers
on a lakeside waiting for letters
in bottles from the other shore
why did men sing
of love being patient
without ever falling in love
with places that
have always been in love
with them,
that never walked away
after a fight
that never left
even when tears fell
on asphalt or knees bled
on frozen tar
cities are lovers too,
streetlights french kissing you
goodnight after long walks
night rain petrichor caressing
tangents of your being
and bridges,
well bridges doing their own
thing to arrest sorrows
your laughter composing a rhyme
a romance of its own
with the rustling breaths
of a city in love,
you will feel all it’s love
with this rhyme,
smelling like the lady of the night
tonight, just give up running
and wait
like you will never get to wait
if only sins of loving could
be committed out of contentment,
then these places could have
a place of their own too
a reservation made
before time,
in hell./


‘But it isn’t easy,’ said Pooh. ‘Because Poetry and Hums aren’t things which you get, they’re things which get you. And all you can do is to go where they can find you.’

There’s something about the way humans hum.
Sordid hurt
Wrapped in a satin cloth of sugary sounds
That comes undone
By little nuances of life:
The first strawberry picked out
from a branch just high enough
A little raindrop that fell
inside a coffee mug
A song after a first kiss
So much stays
In this minutes hum,
So much depends
On this seconds hum,
So much leaves
After this moment’s hum .
Could we let wishes guide
Where we go from here tonight?
It’s too tough to stay away
Until tomorrow,
So we hum to each other
The map to our dreams
So that dreamscapes become
The place where we meet,

The big bang theory

There are too many unanswered questions,
unheard screams, encrypted words
that float around in ions
in the sky trapped between the earth
and the universe
There’s a last entry in a journal somewhere
It reads, “Day 107: Beautiful blue berries”
Day 108 through Day 113 contains no lines, no letters
Just dashes and dots,
Encrypting nothing of importance
to science or physiology,
There’s only so much
that ‘Beautiful blue berries’ could mean.
The blue berries were beautiful ,
The beautiful berries turned blue
after it’s skin was pierced with the hunting knife,
The berries were a beautiful blue,
A perfect suicide note
To leave behind on a convertible bus
In Alaska.
I give up interpreting words,
I have learnt over time
that they are contortionists
invited to parties to con meaning,
So instead, I trace these dots and dashes
On my palms,
And wish upon a divine decree
to let me in,
on the secret to this code just this once.

How is it that when you want to die the least,
when laughter seems unconquerable,
days with uncountable infinities within its folds
Is when, death decides to strike you
And when one knows
that destruction awaits,
just miles away from a dying star,
is when fate decides to favour collisions,
Reversing laws has always been it’s favourite game.

There are too many unanswered questions,
echoing rebellion in the ionosphere.
Amongst them,
floating aimlessly through the shadow
of blue moon,
Is one that I asked a guy
named Chris McCandless once,
Did he wish to die,
the day he accepted his death?

of snooze and sunflowers

There’s a snooze machine inside my lungs,
Synced with sunflowers and touch me nots that grow inside humans,
When the touch me nots falter,
My alarm tells me to stop breathing
I have learnt the meaning of raincheck the hard way
It comes wrapped in vulnerability
and stings when you least expect it
when you have laid out
the steam pressed red dress,
hairstrands spread like pop tarts on hotel floors,
I gulp rejection like sour punks with holy water on judgement day.

Still, I press the snooze button and carry on,
My body has grown immune to most alarms
It has practiced enduring skipped heartbeats in Yoga classes,
and taken “how to hold your breath for a minute and a half” swimming lessons
I have accepted that the math I study is a myth:
What goes around
forms knots elsewhere
never to come around,
and the only cycle that survives is
the one where I struggle not to stop breathing, every day.

So I keep my snooze safe and sound,
tucked in between ambered bosoms
Carrie Fisher tells me to take my broken heart,
And make it into art
So I try to talk in parantheses, flashbacks, glosses , commas. Fullstops.
Fullstops always seem to fill the space between me and sunflowers,
Words dance on waves of hallucination
That comes after pressing the snooze button on an alarm, Poetry helps heal sometimes
But even the words that come out of my mouth are murderers,
They kill most of the important ones inside.

I know that one of these days
just before sunset,
the sunflowers will hesitate again,
and the touch me nots will refuse to embrace my touch,
my alarm will tell me to stop breathing,
And I would have used up
all my snoozes, all my words

One of these days
Sunset will be like waking up
in reverse.

In passing, we often seek solace
Undeveloped films hang framed on walls
We look for history in desolate halls
In passing, do we ever seek a lost face?

My Nani once told me a secret:
She said Black and White photographs are ways
To make you look beautiful, for days
She says this with her heart afloat, a leaflet:
She pulls out a picture of my Nana with one leg
Atop a camel, he feels like old wine to me
a cassette player playing tunes with Masala tea
And each one of us bows to the monochrome comeliness.

Frozen blood melts like lava through hollow shins,
Where once our laughter echoed
And warmer still the music showed
4 funeral services and an abandoned house ever since.

There are photographs that never find place
on funeral tables or even on wire barricades,
they get burried beneath broken toys, or bronze putrid plates
Or hollow utensils etched with silent names.

There are poems that never happened,
Poems that are far asleep in knots of wrinkles,
And for a lonely night, a kerosene lamp and frightened tinkles
Some parchments with ink bottles were blackened

And oh, in passing, do we remember
The ones who were to be remembered
in undeveloped films and photographs, in poems that are numbered,
And oh, in passing, to reminiscences will we ever surrender.

Someone sleeps
curled up in
my musical reveries
She waits till 1 am,
counting headlights
in the distance,
An empty bed,
assurance muted
in between blankets,
She retires
when the windchimes stop,
Places hope and a locket
on the bedside table
she knows,
someone calls to me,
and that’s all to me,
she knows,
we will never slow dance
in the kitchen
ever again.