Tag Archives: love

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.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Baboon Banter On Bestiality

Baboon Bestiality

Baboon Bestiality

The Baboon swears on his mountain of slimy bananas that it loves all kinds of filthy copulations. And that is why the Baboon is in awe of the unique ability of you base but creative creatures to fuck, suck, lick or sexualize anybody and anything.

What sours this strawberry pie is how some groups of prude humans reject and are disgusted by their species’ diverse sexualities.

So, when the Baboon encounters people who actually embrace these differences and work towards making them acceptable, he greatly respects them.

In conversation with such a person, the Baboon encountered a difference of opinion.

The human was a queer female — an LGBTQ-feminist activist.

The Baboon had asked a question about bestiality. She said one of the things about sexual liberty was consent. And since animals don’t speak human languages (except for the Baboon) they really can’t communicate consent.

So, that was why she did not support bestiality.

The Baboon of course disagreed, not only because he can ramble whole articles and not just consent, but also, because animals communicate regularly with humans.

The Baboon regards it a little naive to think that humans can train dogs to sit, fetch or sniff out cocaine from the pockets of sneaky smugglers, and still consider dogs can’t communicate something as basic as a desire for sex?

Sex is one of the three basic desires, along with hunger and thirst.

Every species has some way to communicate the desire to have sex, just like the desire to eat or drink.

If human pet owners can be told by their pets that they are hungry or thirsty, the animals are very well capable to convey they are horny (take the Baboon’s word for it).

But the Baboon also thinks that this may not be so simple.

There maybe (are) cases where the animals are really raped. And it is not such a gobble-dung idea to suppose in many instances that these animals are not able to communicate this to a third person.

Thus, the Baboon thinks bestiality is al right when done with consent.

But the Baboon will not encourage (nor discourage) this as it becomes difficult to differentiate between sex-with-consent and barbaric rape, for the human society (which is still really retarded as compared to the Baboons’, I must say).

End of Baboon Banter.

Now go fuck that pie!

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

We Have Survived

We have survived.

We have survived your gas chambers and your World Wars.

We have mutated and lived through your nuclear explosions.

We have taken bullets to our heads to fight the ignorance you preached.

When you decided to bifurcate our homes and cleave our hearts to suckle your emaciated, infantile egos, we were the bridges across your borders.

In your carnival of riots which celebrate your manufactured hatred, we provide sanctuary to the refugees of sanity whom you betray.

We are the ones who pick up the pieces and bury them in our bosom after you decide to smash the head of that 5 year old in the name of your religion.

We are the rumbling in the streets and the roar of hope which you seek to suppress with your pitiful water canons and your police.

We are the geniuses whom you behead and later on uphold as the icons of your religions which we rebelled against.


We have seen you destroy our world;

And we have lived through it all.


We have survived.

We will thrive.


Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

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.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Kiss Me In Your Dreams

Kiss Dreams

Kiss me once
And steal my soul,
Take my flood
To its shore.

To the land of no more.

When the stars we sweared by
Burn in their pyres,
And the promised eternity
Turns into a liar.

Kiss me once
Take my soul

Keep the song I’ll sing no more.

On the edge sits the boy,
The sand trickling down his hands;
It’s Swept away, from the shore
To the embrace of your door.

Take the sands
Kiss him more

Take him beyond his shore.

In the lore, you see him come.
In his cloak of fire.
The stars die in the supernova.
Eternity is a worthless thing to aspire.

Kiss him once
Take my soul.

In conclusion, I have to go.

Wake up princess,
But what will you find?
Whose is the sands?
Whose is the shore?

The flood is no more.

Whose is the song?
Whose is the lore?

The stars are no more.

Love was the dream.
Whose was the boy?
Whose was the princess?

It was the lie.
The lie was the gift.
It was you.


This poem came to me last night like a dream.
I am not really sure if even I know what its complete meaning is.

This is inspired by a close (lady) friend of mine, to whom I am attracted to but not really in love.
But I shall describe this poem as a love poem.

I know I have subconsciously drawn the inspirational energy from the lyrics of ‘Kafka On The Shore’, a fictional song in the novel of the same name, written by Haruki Murakami.

I will really appreciate if you will try to analyze the poem and attempt to discern its meaning.

Tagged , , , , , , , ,

Day Dreams

Darkness — suffocating, painful darkness. This is what surrounds me when I open my eyes. But, when my eyelids lie in a resting embrace, a new world is dissolved into reality.

Welcome, this is my world — where the moon shines with a rainbow glory and every particle throbs with the blood of hope. Where darkness is celebrated along with light, where my demons become sacred.

Where fantasy breathes in all it’s glory.

I float in the golden sky with the crown of eternity. My fear of heights vanishes in this sacred sanctuary.

I am successful, I am fearless, I am GOD.

Fame — Amen.

Love — Amen.

Art — Amen.

Power — Amen.

Dreams — Amen.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Apocalypse — The Harbinger of Harmony


A colossal cloud looms in the horizon,

It’s chaotic, smokey darkness promising a dawn of peaceful night.

The silver acid that rains down from it’s womb

sizzles as it gnaws on the walls of the forts and castles.

The howls of the guns and cannons echo louder than the thunder

as the chains of their hypnotic control finally break away.

The raindrops wash away the scarlet, stinking soil;

It’s time that the trees taste water instead of blood.


A ferocious inferno engulfs the globe,

It’s fiery arms chocking the barrels of the tanks.

The heat melts away the metallic skin of the nuclear demons,

Their bodies swallowed whole by the flames inside their hearts.

The tentacles of the burning pyre 

scavenges and feeds upon the guns and the gas masks.

The inferno reaches for the pages of history,

Incinerating the faces of Hitler and every other prophet that blinded the world with their hate.

And in the end, only two words are left behind as the fire extinguishes —

Never Again.


A procession of kings with golden crowns

Walk towards the gigantic pit;

In their hands they clasp a piece of their lands.

When the Sun rises and the clock strikes twelve,

The kings fill the pit with the soil in their fists.

And the golden rays from the sky stir the seeds

Which have lied dormant for centuries.

The Earth trembles as the seeds sprout,

The trees pushing through the depths of the land, seeking freedom.

When the forest finally emerges, there is laughter;

The children who earlier nibbled on the border walls,

Now feasted upon the apples and grapes.


The gates of the dungeon have been demolished,

The light of the moon invades the darkness,

Burning away the ancient monster with it’s golden, flaming sword.

Millions lie sprawled on the floor,

Their skins infested with spiders and maggots.

Their slumber breaks after a thousand years,

Their eyes burn with the morning flames.

They wear masks of vivid colors,

Their faces suffocating under the musty beings.

Scarlett threads sew the lips of the prisoners,

Even their tongues have now given up hope.

But as the night begins to die 

and the second day of freedom is stirred in it’s cradle,

The masks begin to crumble

and the Scarlet threads are cut.

The ungagged jaws now open wide and the throats begin to roar,

The mountains shudder and the skies crack as one word reverberates in all it’s glory —


Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,



I hold her hand as she talks about him,

She tells me how he made love to her.

I sniff her hair, but I smell his sweat;

Even her scent proclaims that she’s owned by him.

We kiss and she caresses my cheek,

I know she misses his hard stubble.

She likes it rough.

She promises me that she has forgotten him,

But then, when I take her in my arms,

She asks me if he’ll come back to her.

And then, in a soft, low whisper, I say



He is with his new girl, his hand on her waist.

He smiles — proud at his achievement.

He has to realise that he’s just another man-whore.

He shows her off like a stolen diamond ring,

He should know that he’s just her trophy prostitute.

He asks me if I think if he’s popular,

And then, in a voice firm and harsh, I say



I find him sitting amidst a crowd,

He says that he feels lonely.

He will have to take of his red blindfold.

He shows the way to those who come to him;

It’s time that he follows the path that he knows is his.

The scarlet wounds on his feet bleed,

He should stop sprinting when he needs to walk.

His pencil lays broken on the table,

He asks me if he’s a bad writer

And then, in a loud, ferocious roar, I say


Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

The Death Of A Legend

Perched upon a golden throne,

I will die with my scepter and the crown of a king.

A prophet, a revolutionary, a shepherd and a guide,

My heart will be preserved in the hourglass of eternity.

And my soul will live on forever,

Dancing upon the thunder of immortality.

My tomb will be a temple,

A shrine of my glory—

Where my followers will burn reverential incense,

And my enemies will lick the floor with their tongues.

My blood will rain down from golden clouds,

And the world will be drenched in the sea of my being.

My flesh will be a monument, a sculpture, a symbol,

An artwork testifying the power of dreams.

My face will shine with the splendor of the Sun,

Enveloping eternity with it’s warmth.

And my voice will reverberate in the multiverse —

Singing, shouting, screaming my name.

The day of my death will be a festival, a celebration.

And the streets will flood with people awed by my magnificence.

The skies will echo with hymns narrating my eminence,

And the chant of my name will be upon every human tongue.

‘Coz when I will die, perched upon my golden throne,

I will be a God. 

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Memory Of You

I remember the days we were together,

our beautiful bond was to last forever,

or so we thought, but that was not to be.

We don’t talk anymore, I don’t even look at you.

My rose of love has transformed into thorns,

the pleasant memories we shared have now turned painful.

Sometimes we gaze into each other’s lives

through panoramic, tainted windows.

But when our eyes meet I pull the curtains

to hide your face and my pain.

We shared our first kiss and many more sacred moments,

but now we bear our pain alone.

I have started my life anew, without you.

I know you want my friendship back,

but frankly speaking, I don’t care.

You were just a crucial chapter in my lifestory;

And although it’s all over, you will always be

something that I will cherish 

until the memories of my life fade away.

Tagged , , , , , ,