The ghettos have graffiti here,
Unlike the plush Colombo 7 restaurants.
The only difference between the citizen
And the illegal, is what time you come out,
And for the illegal alien, it is after twilight.
Here you have the dichotomy,
Those whose lives appreciate in a new land
Buying one’s way to happiness
And the well off in Colombo who talk
About the good old seventies before the war
Erupted, how the clubs were groovy
And the women in miniskirts
Were eye catchers. In this dichotomy
Of ghetto dwellers, you inevitably see
The classes; the well-off back home
Are struck in limbo, neither here nor there,
While the new rich are driving Audis
And watching cricket at the MCG.

Migration is never the same cup of tea.
Some get it sweetened with sugar,
While other drinks the bitter version,
Worrying about the trade-off. It seems, migration
Is a can of worms, some who creep out
And others stay in, and in time,
The heart become like a compost bin
Decomposing your roots and heritage,
Who you were, before you were hooked
On to the new way of life. Time heals wounds
And grows new tissue. I’m guzzling
Away beer like a Eucalyptus tree
Absorbs water from the soil. While
A tea cup gathers dust, traded in
For Starbucks and still the spoons you
Scoop sugar with, are the same.

Somethings will never change, I say to myself,
As I walk down the road to be greeted
“Good day mate” and before I know it,
My voice reciprocates the greeting.
I was just mirroring, a commonplace greeting
And yet I’m circumspect, trying to fit myself
In to that archetype I had in my head – A Sri Lankan still.
I failed. I was now more Aussie
Than I thought, owning my own esky,
And calling the sheep “jumbuck” and the bush
The outback and still, the lamningtons,
Keep reminding me, the thousands of ways
Coconuts add flavor to a curry.

I guess I’m neither here nor there
Like a refugee in Christmas or Manus island,

Oceans adrift.



Moon 2

There is magic in rods and cones,
That suck light and make windfalls,
Of acetylcholine, swallowing the beauty on offer.
And through the cloud cover,
Like through a magician’s hat,
A rabbit emerges, trapped inside a circle
Decanting moonbeams through a funneling pupil,
For the audience to embrace
The paltry traffic of light,
Making impulses like the ocean waves,
A moon controlled epic for the lust
Of what knows only celestial glimmer,
And who only knows earthly gather,
And in that intercourse, you find
Little packets of wavelength-defined outbursts
That dissolve in the retina, to make solvation,
Beauty’s primal impression.

Tree House

Tree House

The tree house sits on a giant Kottang tree in the backyard.
A playhouse, a play pen for a little child

And a gadget-rich den for inner-child. It seems
What makes a child a dweller inside a tree house, sculpts

A man with a little foggy heart, misted in nostalgia
Of how once things were, embellished with the need to invent his own little space.

Toy train tracks go all around the floor planked with ebony
With landscaped surroundings, figurines of farmers, train drivers and truckers.

The big fellows driving even bigger monsters of steel – tractors, trains & trucks.
And arranged on book racks are the DIY books of carpentry

And the latest car magazines sold at the nearest Seven Eleven
And a large sofa, with a Nintendo game console next to it.

Little figurines of dinky cars and super hero figures litter
The small cabinet on the side wall. And all is hunky dory here

Child and inner-child eclipsed together. The springtime memories
And the autumn dreams. A sacred truth hung on mental walls.

It seems we never really grow out of our cocoons. And even when we grow
Wings, we retreat back to the homely places we once treasured.

The larvae that we once were, walled inside a little fiber closet
Light in nature, a little sentimental, always a collector

And we build these treehouses inside abysses of our heart
Just to accommodate the monkeys we once were,

Who lost their tails and grew up.