donald trump

Only god gets to say
Looking in the eye with a little arrogance,
“you’re fired”, while flipping his quarter pounder hair
Like a Big Mac, striking fear through every muscle
On the chin and cheek.

And still there’s something about God
That you just cannot ignore.
Like the mogul heart and boyish twitter account,
A virile potency that shames most men his age,.
The flaming beauty sharing his bed,
An eastern-European accent that makes among
Other things, empires rise and conquer,
And a babyish chubbiness that makes
Plus-size, a little extra chin and muffin top,
And still, an endearment.

And he will always be the great white hope
Of a land that has seen decibels of brays and trumpets
Dividing a patchwork land
Both crying freedom and foul. While the seed
Of Kunta Kinte rises like the tide of the river Gambia
Demanding equality – Martin’s dream
That echoes at best, like the lonely dribble of a basketball
At the hands of a young black man
In a Washington DC court.

And God-haters will line up in the streets
In the name of science and arts
Or for the 14 year old felled by the albino trigger.
They will sing, dance, write and explore
How to make America a bunch of God hating atheists.
Forgetting for a moment that landslides
Of the heart and ballot, were once a story
In the American heartland.

And God will promise little things
How to balance opinions and cheque-books
While the polls see-saw. Storming on
Like a Walmart cart on a Friday night
Opening up like a packet of Lays chips
And watering the flower bed of the American economy
Long before taking time to smell the blooms.

And God is everywhere.
He is on CNN and Fox, on the church nave,
On twitter, in every sensitive issue
That needs some political incorrectness,
– Some long-needed honesty –
On the lips of every refugee and drug mule
And on the long road to recovery
Of mistakes made long ago.

And they say Moby dick was a fat white whale.
So is God. Pequods will rush, Ahabs will roam
And still there’s an ocean that needs
A larger than life. One day they will say
God went through this dust bowl
And made it into a promise land.
And protecting the ten commandments
Of the great American constitution
Will be his greatest redemption.

And there’s something sharp about a God
Who drives the message in like a golf cart.
And knows when to play the trump card.
And heaven is just a little oval office
And command central, from where
He will send angels and thunderbolts
To the great turquoise playing field.
And do wonders with the hearts
That need moving.

And bridge he will, everything symbolic
About America, The tint and the shade
The ghettos and the mansions
The sleeping and the sleepless
While stalemates slowly turn to landslides.

And there’s nothing ironic about
That beautiful autumn day in November
When fate wished America



Mini Skirt

Mini skirt

The hem line
That makes boys become thieves
Of glances and perverts, of their
Own curiosity. What stands miniature
In stature and is pulled down
With great difficulty
And yet sways in the gentlest mistral.
The short and the shortie
That makes Danny De Vito look tall
And a little underwear a peekaboo.

And this item of clothing
Is what makes girls grow up
To the angst of their dads
And yet makes moms reflect on their heyday
When they too were 70s chicks
Darting around in bare minimum.
This item will always be
At the center of wardrobe malfunctions
Or perhaps scandalous affairs
And will make the boyish heart giddy up
Like a mustang in the wild.

And yet, there are no constitutions
To a scanty piece of clothing
Just the perfect sovereignty
Of comfort and the reason, legends
Like Sharon Stone, are made on screen.
And she will only ask for respect
From the uninvited and scandal from the invited
To make her come off in loon.
When the strangest epiphany falls
– That a naked woman pales
To a glimpse of her hemline.

Disclosure was always an anti-climax.
It takes away the mystery
Out of the plot. The suspense
Out of the riddle.

Perfection out of imperfection.



When you’re a tiny toddler
Who’s just found his feet and bum
You learn the art of the spoon
When your mommy feeds you
And you in turn feed mommy
Just to make a mouthful stand.
A symbiosis of feeding each other
Some pureed vegetables.

And you learn later on,
That making love is no different
You carry a spoon to feed an opening
With curvier lips
And just like a gorging throat
A gap swallows it all in
And leaves a little out.

And the spoon defines you
The circus acts you pull off
The Russian roulettes
The times you’re embarrassed
When you’ve failed to launch
And the sugar rushes
Of your closing act.

And you’re spoon fed
On traditions; and what else
Is more custom-designed that the spoon traditions
You foster. The spoon is the greatest piece
Of charity ever-developed.
It makes another, sated of the
Very thing you spoon out in gratuity.

A whopping helping of love.

Superman (A Humor Poem)


Superman in bed is just a myth love,
Why, haven’t you seen
That tiny bulge in his undies?

And his little armed soldiers
Too are too stuffed
To get a little momentum going.
The last thing you’d want is
Superman endorsing a fertility clinic
Or the sperm bank.

It ain’t that good love!

And still I can picture Superman
Starting his own condom company
When he is a contraceptive on his own right
– In his skin tight undies.

And there’s still something
About those damsels in distress.
Like every woman with a college degree
On the other side of 35. And when you’re there
A man with stuffy plumbing and a waning garrison
Becomes your price charming
Or worse your great white hope

So darling, if you want superman
In bed, come to Sri Lanka.
Here all men wear sarongs
– Loosely wrapped ankle length garment –
In bed and they don’t have superpowers.

And no, nothing is ankle length, honey!

Just men with honest jobs
Who love to raise a family in their after-hours.
Here, they are called real men

– “Ilandari”.

Who only do missionary sex
Or occasionally like the Canadians, doggy style
And still they know the time,
When the moon jumps out of the cow,
And it’s no rocket science.
It’s like poking in a thermometer down
There, like Catholics do.

And these “ilandari” are so good
At getting women pregnant

You start to wonder – was baby Jesus a Sri Lankan?