Nobel Prize


What I had no hope of ever nearing in,
Until the madman streak spread like lightning.
Through the third eye, battling the heart, bathing
The finger tips, inking words.

Yes, everyone calls me “mad, beyond repair”
And so, I will act like a real madman.

A crane lifting her wings effortlessly
Knowing she could only fly to a paltry height,
Now looks almost a gazing falcon, who looks down
At the falconer, with the changing color
Of irises, turning bold brown, eagle-like.

And one day there will be no altitude too far.
No coconut tree, azure sky or lofty exosphere
Only a sequence of Sartre, Pasternak and Duc Tho
Waiting to be filled by a slot vacated by fate.

The legacy of transcending hundreds of icons
By the sheer iconoclasm of stripping the world of her many skins,
Establishment of her heart, deracinating
Apathy from her roots, and pedigree off a prize.

And be, not just another god of fickle deed,
Showing the mettle of his teeth.



The loneliest night was spent in insomnia
After a visit to a psychiatrist
Who told me that I was schizophrenic.

How the egg and chicken situation
Eats me alive, how can my genes by so corrupt
As I look at my scrambled mind
Holding the mirror at so many angles

And yet how beautiful to see the psychosis
You don’t have, refracted from so many angles
And I sitting on the floor, distanced by reason.

Now, look at me, stranger than folly
Trying to defrazzle from the ghostly labyrinths around me

How endearing is it to be clinically sane
And yet, possess the genetics of a madman
And be like a lighthouse, with rust
In her metal pieces, bearing a flickering light

And that vision, doctors call delusional,
Has been my panacea, of curing a disease I don’t
Have with pills of expression.
Schizophrenia gave me the voice of the poem.

How dreadful to live inside a bubble
Of a lie belonging to a billion people.

How barbaric for a lie to rape the truth.

Masturbating in 2013


You give in to the memory
Of the memory. How when we didn’t have playboy or porn
Back in 1996, we had our memory to replay
The woman at the British Council Library
Who in that curvy green dress, stormed
My senses, never to let go.

She made the grass on the third eye
Turn into a fiery wildfire. How beautiful
When your memories molest you, letting your instinct take over,
Gazing at that selfie-stick that lengthens,
To keep that smile, afloat, like flotsam, that keeps you going.
There’s nothing remotely Botox about
The feel of your fingers on a selfie stick.

And that recording device still keeps
Track of so many memories of a graceful gender
Gracing the tips of my desire-brimmed wonderland,
As I gaze through the porthole of yesteryear
To disembark to the sheer spontaneity of a smile
That can never bloom in pretense or depreciation.

The most-natural selfies of men unstifled in smile,
Aren’t they clicked in front of the bathroom sink?

Bull’s Eye Pregnant


Have you seen how eggs
Are arranged in a fridge?

It’s always in two lines when the one closest
Is sucked in by your fimbriae like fingers
And dropped on the frying pan.

And as the egg breaks
You see the white spreading
Like an amniotic ocean
And the golden yolk,
Afloat on top like a moon island
Squirming of life.

God Days


Depression 2

You’re tired to the brink, to the collar bone
Sedimenting on beds and reclining chairs.
The long plod of life
As hostile as a mammoth scorpion
Reversing for a fight.

These are the days you remember God
When that stubborn strain of weariness
Regulates your movements
You’re like a potato, the couch kind,
Still the TV is too loud for you.

And those days shit happens
All you can do is to flush it all down
To the awaiting amnesia

Of a black hole God.

Witch Hunt

Be yourself 2

I’m alive because of me.
The window I look out of, has so many cracks now.
As if pebbles and stones have been thrown from far.

Strangers or friends, anyone for that matter
Wrapped their arms in front of their ribcage
And watched the game unfold,
Carefully, being the spectator.

While I plodded, fell, stumbled and kneeing my way
Past booby traps set by ordinary people.
How can a lone white pawn fight
16 black pieces on a chess board?
Can’t you see I’m fighting the greatest odds
Mankind has ever seen?

Salem was not my birth-rite.
Only Avalon was.

Moratorium 2

Camera Type Writer

Few will ever fight the system. Period.

Have you seen a mercenary?
Rugged backpack on the shoulder, a gun on the belt
Sports shoes on, travelling the valley
Of the lexicon, walking slowly
Learning not just the art of mere survival,
But the tricks of the trade.

Look how that soldier of fortune
With no support from any man or beast
Shifts his imagination through paradigms
In quantum leaps, throwing out
Traps to catch doves, hares and squirrels
To cook them on a camp fire

And when he is weary from the long walk,
Feeling lifeless and crumpled, all he asks
Is a little helping of manna,
To format the heart and begin another day
Of not knowing what is in store.

How beautiful is living for the day,
By a water bottle, aluminum cup and plastic plate.

Oh the simple needs of a poet.
To serenade words, metaphors and similes

To where solitude mixes them up
In to the outreach of a poem.