Category Archives: The City Introspections

The Gypsy In The Sewer


Metal bars stuck around the hollow of his stomach since the day he was born – it never went away.
The nomad was abandoned, his mother was the drain. Everybody knew the stranger from the underground.
The gypsy roamed the international sewers trading a part of him with the merchants from the surface.

If you were to be one of them, you would definitely ask, “Where is his gut?”
And there would be none.

Let your name be Alice.

A louse crawled in his flowing, gray hair and Alice ignored it, pretending to be disgusted by the sewage instead. Perhaps she wasn’t pretending after all. Alice was genuine.

A leash held him in. The jail was made up of metal pipes filled with the black bile from the surface which their citizens couldn’t stand. It was made to prevent the traders from stealing the nomad.
The Gypsy from the sewer smiled from the enclosure.
He could stand us. He could stand anything.

The people liked him because he was the only one to ask, and they wanted to tell.
His eyes would gleam with the sheen of dreams, as if his tear ducts collected your stories.

He remembered each one of them.
He remembered the time when the two towers fell as the bird went blind in the middle of the city.
He remembered the boy who left tears on his shoulders when he told him about his brother who left.
When that girl gave him daisies, he asked her how she found them and he still remembers the garden in her backyard where she played with pythons.
He hasn’t forgotten the wall which fell when the cold years went away.

When he slept it all came back.
He walked through the garden, breathing the dust from the towers, looking for the brother who was lost past the broken boundary wall.

In his sleep he lived on the surface, amidst the part of the lives the people left behind.
He worked the hardest in his dreams. Breaking and mending the weak, creaking parts – making a whole which functioned.
He found the answers to the questions they didn’t even know they will ask.

When he awoke, the answer was found in the cage of his stomach.
Each time it was different.
Once, it was the bonsai tree with thin, paper leaves.
The merchants took it up to the surface and planted it in their cities. The plant grew into a metropolis.
Then he made a red star and it made the wall which crumbled.

A tiger cub sat curious in his stomach when Alice told the nomad about her cycle which broke. The cub’s piercing eyes searched her face, maybe looking for the tooth which went missing when she fell, or imagining the white fluid dripping down her lips and eyes. Her stomach was yet not fat.

His pupils dilated, its throat vibrated – its purrs called to you, Alice.

When she finished telling her tales, the other merchants handed him the money.
The cub was squeezed out of the cage.
It trembled with hesitance. Its tiny claws dug into the metal of the pipes.

Alice picked it up; the tiger’s licks left wet, red trails on her neck.

The merchant group walked away – ready to fuel their machine of civilization with dreams that they would distort and promises they couldn’t keep.
This one would be good for a decade.
After which the merchants will return to buy a part of the nomad again.
It’s best for business.

Alice glanced back towards the gypsy again. His cage lay hollow, his eyes caved-in.
He will never see his cub alive again.
The surface which thrives on his organ implants bars him from living his own dreams.
Or does it?

Alice strutted away.
A leash has its way.
A louse still hangs on his silvery strands which may never shine with Sun rays.

The light awaits the nomad.

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City Introspections: The Skins

She peels her skin at seven in the morning.


“Let it be,” he said. “What harm can it do?”


Both knew that she wouldn’t listen.



that would be preposterous to say.


She always listened.

It would be a crime to say that she didn’t.

She was the empty paper which would let you write on her.


But she never obeyed.


The paper is blank again…



Crumpled, it lay around her.


She makes little mounds of the dead skin.


It peels off easily.

Chemicals which burned her had already left half her face hanging.



The next layer is tricky.

One can’t know whether its skin or just sewer crap.


“It’s my own fault.”


She vomits.

It evaporates.


She feels cool when she is caressed by the vapors.


What is left are stitched rags of prison created by her parents and her childhood — which she loves but has to loathe.


What did they think?


She will embrace their anger and failures so that her life could be wasted fulfilling their failed dreams and borrowed expectations?

That she will live the tar they blow into her lungs?

That she will live chocking?


Their stitched-up prison will never wrap her in her grave.


When the rags are burned away,

She reappears.


He cannot see her anymore,


And she knew she was free.


She hopes to see him invisible too.

She knows he dreams of it.

She feels he will find his emptiness —

that he will go back to his source.


Everyone will eventually find the vessel which is them,

And be free of the shit which it is filled with now.


But she will not wait;

It’s been too long.

Let others take their time.


And as for her,

She is Freedom already.

City Introspections: The Pebbles

He can read the pebbles.
Like scrolls written by the river, he reads their stories and weeps.

Some pebbles are old. They tell stories of a time when the river was clean, healthy and alive.
The pebbles’ smoothness tells him of the joy the fishes, snakes and the naked girls and boys used to have a thousand years ago.

The pebbles are like totems telling mythologies of times when the earth was respected, the city was dead and the river was alive.

The majority of the pebbles are now black; in places which was once a river bed.
The river is now dead, the earth disrespected and the city is alive.
Or is it?

Some little children stack them up like little skyscrapers and kick them down for fun.
The stories the pebbles tell are unheard by them.

Listen to the pebbles.
What do they whisper?

We have witnessed the jungles and the villages.
We have captured rivers in our grooves.
We have seen you take birth.
We have seen you grow.
We have seen you become a monster.


Don’t throw us away when we warn you.
We are the stories which make up your boundary walls.
We are your protectors.
When we fall away, the wild will devour you.
The snakes you killed, the hyenas you slaughtered, the wolves you ate — all of them will return.

When we fall away, nature will return.

Who will protect you from the storms and the sewer-floods then?

We don’t ask for much.

Heed us when we talk to you.
Don’t piss in the river.
Don’t blacken it with your shit.
It is the life source of you retarded millions.
When it will truly die — you shall cannibalise on your life.

We love you.

Love us back.

Or go fucking die.

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The Vending Machine

It stands in the centre of the city, like a public whore with open legs — free, filthy and infested with AIDS.

It has dents and scratches and a cracked glass through which it displays its wares.

Nobody knows who decides what is to be in her that she will give away for a penny.

Sometimes when the government feels like it, the vending machine stocks up condoms.

The next day her glass is shattered on the ground around, which is covered with cum and burned latex.

At other times, some philanthropic NGOs decide to distribute free food.

The vending machine has to be retrieved from a slum-gutter the next day by the police.

When the vending machine decides to garner some respect, it stocks up the usual free-market wares from China and USA.

Two things happen after this decision is taken by the machine —
1) The scum of the streets drill holes in its body and devour all the processed delicacies which they only see in the hands of that distant population which regularly walks over their faces, ignorant of their existence.

2) The socialists and the communists attack it with a sickle and a hammer and rip it apart like a run-over street dog.

It is when the vending machine sells religious books and symbols, overpriced and unaffordable by the people, that it machine becomes holy.
Lamps are lighted in front of her and garlands of marigold adorn her battered metal body.

People loan their daughters to get a cheaply printed book, which they believe will set the world right.

A speaker is mounted atop her, which spells out the rules of the Books to the people who think that slavery will rescue their souls.

It becomes a celebration of control. People dress in the same garb of pretend-sacredness and lose themselves in praising their master.

Self-proclaimed saviours of the world cull all those who choose to follow a different slave-master than theirs.

The people who decide to be away from this, seeing the ripped guts and smashed heads, they are dumped up with each other in a pile, their bodies drowned in cheap kerosene and set on fire.

The vending machine is now enshrined in a temple with marble arches and golden doors.

The vending machine has gained its respect.

The Artist Of The City

The artist’s tongue is as long as the skyscraper.

She licks the streets, the cars, the roads, the wall with piss on it and the beggarly children infested with fleas.

She takes it all into her belly.

Digests it in her stomach.

Pushes it down into her womb where it gestates.

She sleeps on the floor covered with a snowfall of white talcum powder.

She borrowed the powder from the eunuchs of every neighbourhood.

She lathers it on to herself everynight.

The scent makes her orgasm.

The powder is the dust which flows freely in the city.

It is unseen because it is never too much.

Just a thin layer floating in the air like mist.

Just enough to let people breathe, just enough to suffocate them and yet not kill them.

One can see the powder in the artist’s art work.

One can see speckles of it in the hair of the corpse which she made.

One can see it in the frozen orgasm of the gigantic penis which is installed on the streets where the sluts come to mourn their lovers.

One can see it in the crucified dog who hangs on the dome of the parliament, refusing to die.

The powder is the city.

The powder is the artist.

You hate it.

But it is in your breath.

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The Forest

It has been here forever.


A narrow strip of trees, caged by two walls on the either side – the remnants of the forest which gave way to the city.


It stands stubborn, arrogant and indestructible.


The bulldozers never touched it.
The axes were all impotent.


In its bosom it holds a parallel civilization.


From the windows of the high-rises all around, one can see the birds – its airforce – keeping a vigil.


Often peacocks come out of hiding, weary of the incessant love-making.

Often they will fly towards the city, peering through the windows at sexual violence and erectile dysfunction.

Their call rings like laughter.


They can see through the hollowness of your eyes.
The systematic draining of your soul has made you incomplete.

What happens when you realize that with all that money you can only buy Lamborghinis and 12 Storey Palaces – but these are far from enough.


You sleep with a hundred people, but the sex is dead.


You peer into the eyes of your lover and your lover needs another cigarette to stand you.

What happens when you waste your life to get to the top and realize that you’re already dead.


What happens when even your death is just another event, even for you?

You blame the concrete and the machine.
But it’s you who is broken.


The forest knows.

And that is why it refuses to abandon you.


The walls on the either sides have gaping holes with open arms.


Take all your drugs and alcohol and cigarettes there.

The forest will let you intoxicate yourself.

It will let you vomit and spasm and even let you die of an overdose.


It will let you mourn, for you should mourn your death.

Its mosquitoes will suck away all your blood.

Let them.


If you die she shall bury you in herself.


But if you survive, find a lover.


Make love in the forest.


Feel the skin instead of the designer clothes.


Kiss with love and not with technique.


Taste and not just lick.


Do it with love and passion and not for duration or achievement.


You will know pleasure and not just a fake orgasm.


Do not sleep in the forest.

Stay awake and watch the trees.


They will shower their dew on you.


Look at the stars peeking from behind the canopy.


Let the dogs sniff at you when they come.


Know that you exist and you are not your name, or your position, or your popularity or your money.


You are worth the labour of the Universe even without those things.


Go home.


Take a bath.


But don’t forget the forest.

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Filthy Delhi Lover

Do me in the doggy perv,
Take me in your lap and surf,
Shit’s the lube there is to fuck
Your Filthy Delhi Lover.

Hussain will paint us nude, my love.
With every thrust with every shove,
We climb up their towers and call;
Let the cameras cover.

Let the celebrities clear the way,
When legends walk they shall sway.
Bow before us ye bitches
You slaves want us as rulers.

Quote me in the Time, I say.
Hear me talk about that May.
When i groped you in the train, that day,
Your kick made me cower.

But thank god you are still potent, douche.
I like it when you fill my pouch.
Your ass is not forgiven still
You ask before you savour.

Cheap Bra,
Easy Rip.
Wet Cunt,
Take a Sip.
Take me in,
Don’t make me dig.

My Filthy Delhi Lover

You’re hard
Let me help.
On Top
Ill make you yelp.
Lie down
And you shall delve.

My Filthy Delhi Lover

My staff
But your crown.
I am your slave
Wipe off that frown.
You are the Queen
When I am down.

My Filthy Delhi Lover

There are some nights when you don’t sleep,
My poet, I shall let you weep.
Meet in me Hauz Khas you creep.
Ill show you how its done.

Ill ask before I rape you,
Bring some ropes, take the cue.
The stars shall know we were there,
We shall leave our mark.

Delete that clip, you will be slayed
I’ll break your apple if it will be played.
That MMS is useless son,
Stars perform live.

Take me for a Royce Ride
We’ll bitch about Joyce with pride.
Your piss on Ulysses my Aphrodite
Makes me wanna crash.

Lets go to some art gallery,
Lets make out amongst snobbery.
They’ll call our piece performance art
And sell it for a million.

Or we shall buy a red light,
Put it up, make the city bright.
We burn the khadi, win their game,
Parliament is now planetarium.

We shall orgasm seeing the Mars
Claw my butt, leave your scars.
Plan a party with the chamars
And dance with the hijras.

Its sexy when you talk society,
Justice shall be your piety.
Its nice when you worship none,
But love and freedom.

This is how you make porn,
You are wet, your mind is warm.
Dream me up when I am gone
Your Filthy Delhi Lover.

The names of certain communities, which are used as abuses, are not used in the same sense.
The poet doesn’t intend to hurt anybody’s sentiment. If your interpretation of this poem hurts your feelings, then you shall solve it yourself.
This is a dialogue, not a monologue. Meaning there are two speakers.
The poet doesn’t condone rape. The ‘rape’ used in this poem shouldn’t be taken in the literal sense.

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The Bubbles

The bubbles fly higher than the pollution of the city — above the stink, above the toxic, suffocating smoke which chokes the hope of life in children who will never see adulthood.

Their origins are always ironic, in places especially designed to cull the hope, the dreams and hence the rebellion they encapsulate.

I see them.
I see them floating above the monument in which names of the men who were thrown and ofcourse, killed in the fields where they stage the theatre of madness. They call it war.
The sacrificed goats are named as ‘martyrs’.

And yet the bubbles are born around the green fields of this temple of horseshit.
They dodge the flame which burns with the purpose of slaughtering these mutineers.
They float above it, mocking it with their survival. 
Dreams can never be killed with the warning of a gun and the command of patriotism.

A general tries to scare some children with his blabbering. “March,” he screams and they play tag. “Obey,” he shouts and they show him the finger. When he threatens them with court martial, they fling some mud on his face.
The children are the ones who create the bubbles.

The bubbles try to surpass the sky. Many burst on the way. Some become stars.
All stars are bubbles who have reached.

I see the stars from the valley which was once heaven. What happened?
They burst the bubbles.

But they will be born again.
Expect them.

The people had eaten into the tales of the soldiers and the spies and the terrorists. They had believed them when they had said that the individual is born to be the whore of something larger — to religion, to the nation, to the cause.

The kids walking in the streets know that its a fuckers-tale, meant to procure large-scale prostitutes from the streets of the city which was once a dream itself.
They will rebel.
They are the bubbles.

They’ll rise again. They have to, for that is the law — the individual is larger than the swarm.

I imagine them floating to the place from which their city derives its nickname.

My city derives its nicknames from its dick.
In its streets, the morality-whores search the streets for girls who are free. They try to chain them with brooms and bangles and kids and marriage.
“If you love your culture, stay at home.”

But when they go back home, their bubbles take down their propaganda and their looting machines with a mask of anonymous rebellion.
They come back to the streets, strutting, their fiery eyes unafraid and their hands clutching knives to hack the penis from which my city derives its nickname.

Their rebellion floods the city with bubbles of fire.

A tower is under construction. It is the bubble machine that is the future of the world.
Children work hard on it. They give it endless hours of labour, sweat and their sweet smelling dreams.
It is meant to purify the air of the city, to filter out the toxic blood which pollutes its river.

It is the future of the city.

The city is the future of the world.

It is coming.

The bubbles will flood the streets.

Expect them.

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The Urinal Palace


They trace their lineage from the vermin of the throne.
This age has shown them their place.

Their palace now lies in the stinking urinals hung up in the corner of the street for people to pay their rightful obeisance to these sluts of power.

They enjoy these golden showers, often opening up their ass to satisfy their lust for silver cum from men who had licked their feet the era before.
Greedy whores.

Their eyes see only the glitter, they gobble up shit thinking that its gold which their ministers adorned their asses with.
They call out to beggars for the ‘gold’ which they live on. They like it stinky, and liquid — filled with diarrhea.

They truly are the children of shit.

Earlier they had ripped the innocence off the children with their swords and guns and wars and rapes. Their habit still persists.
Whenever they hear their giggles on the streets, their dicks, lathered in the bloody filth of the past, hardens. They call out to them, tempting them with stolen candies and toffees picked up from the streets.

Little skulls form a pile behind a urinal.
Their jaws are wide open — as if in an eternal shriek.

No one hears them.

A little child is tethered to a urinal in front. He is gagged with a 100 year old underwear, bloodstained, cum soaked just as the queen liked it.
He is the sacrifice.
Coyotes in khaki come in their jeeps.
His existence is snatched away into oblivion.

In order to recreate the fortresses they so loved to lived in, the moles have made their fortifications with blood-tipped iron rods and bottles which stink like intestines.

It rattles like a snake when the new vermin speed past them in their imported cars or helicopters.

Sometimes they stop for a piss or a shit.
As if drowning the city in their sewage wasn’t enough.

But the old diseased refuse, “No incest with ugly brothers,” they say, “No use collecting the same HIV in the ass.” They like variety.

They spit and leave, pissing their pants with their blown up egos shattered. They are so used to fuck that they have forgotten how it feels to have their asses ripped apart. They have forgotten their childhood.

The old hags wave.

They know that its only some years after which they too will join them in their ass-whoring.
That’s part of the game.

“We’ll be waiting,” they scream.

And the cycle of death completes itself.

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The Cafe OR The Awakening



The machine’s blades spin – cutting, slicing, and crushing the brown beans into dust.

An emaciated hand turns the lever in a slow, clockwise motion, filling the room with a shrill mechanical creaking.

That machine must be ancient, I think to myself. Maybe it’s an antique?

Only antiques ever creak that way.

My eyes gaze towards the arm to which the hand is attached to; I can see the aquamarine veins swell with the exercise.

Maybe it’s the hands and not the machine.

Maybe the hand is a part of the machine.

The machine stops.

The lid of the grinder opens; a seductive, dark smell of fresh coffee tingles my nostrils.

I can feel the  caffeine already taking hold of my brain.

My eyes wander, I see a dust storm raging outside the window. A pale Sun hides behind a haze the color of coffee.

The door of the café suddenly opens, and a woman with hair as long as a cape enters.

She sits besides me and we see the hand scoop the coffee from the machine.

The woman is not wearing any clothes; her hair covers her body like a giant, lustrous cloak.

Her breath caresses my skin.

And I realize that I am naked too.

The differences are pretty apparent – between her tender curves and my hard musculature.

And yet, we aren’t different at all.

We both have a heart which beats faster every second, we both have lungs which breathe heavily with passion, we both have brains which are intoxicated with the caffeine which fills the air, and we both have eyes which twinkle with anticipation.

She’s not just a woman.

She is womanhood.
She is the mother, the wife, the whore, the virgin, the priestess.
But she is also the father, the husband, the protector, the provider, the priest.
She is manhood.

And yet, she is none.

The emaciated hand distracts me from her, keeping a mug on the table.

It is filled to the brim, the fumes of the coffee wafting up to my chin, leaving it hot and moist.

We share.

I feel the wet imprints of her luscious lips when I drink from the mug.

I feel the caffeine flowing in my blood, making it hotter.
Does it make her blood hot too?

The coffee flows deeper, penetrating my soul. Slowly, it surpasses even my soul; I feel it flowing into her.
I am her.

What is the difference between me and her?
What is the difference between a man and a woman?
Is it merely the genitals?

“Do you like pink?” I ask.
“No. Coffee is my favourite colour,” She says.
Now, when I come to think of it, coffee is my favourite colour too.

I feel it flowing again.

Something changes, and I am no longer just a man.

I am manhood.

I am the father, the husband, the protector, the provider, the priest.

But I am also the mother, the wife, the whore, the virgin, the priestess.

I am womanhood.

And yet I am none.

The difference does exist.

It exists only because it needs to exist.
It exists only because it needs to be undone – that is its true aim.
When a couple makes love, when they reach true orgasm, only the kernel is left, the difference disappears.

That is the awakening.

The kernel is the truth

The difference is just a lie that leads to the truth.

The coffee is finished.
I am spent.
The woman has disappeared. Maybe, into the coffee coloured dust storm.
I peer down at myself.
I have disappeared too.

In the end, there is only an empty mug on the table and a dark, seductive aroma of the coffee lingering in the air.


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