Tag Archives: writer

Failed Paths, No More

I am tired of walking
On your dreary paths.
I shall rather sleep
On a patch of grass which is my own,
And later fly in a sky which chooses me.

My life has too much laughter destined for it.

I can’t waste my breath
Running after dreams
Which you failed to achieve,
Or obeying rules
Which failed you.

Tagged , , , , , , ,

The Quest For Truth



In order to find what was before existence, what will be after it and what it is, we have to peel the layers of our own presence until we have undone ourselves — reached that point where existence and non-existence cease to be apart.

The absolute truth, hence, requires our absolute death as a precondition.

We can’t be IN existence and discover non-existence.
All theories about such a subject will be mere conjectures.

Tagged , , , , , , , ,

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.

Tagged , , , , , ,

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.

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 , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,