Suzuki Swift


Japanese exclusiveness
The pumping goodyears, the popcorn airbags
And the lightning speedometers
And a knowledge that there are
Crash Test Dummies in a Tokyo Warehouse
Squashed and rammed with a similar model.

You know Japanese technology
Is how you vroom the mapless terrain
Of an island, searching for serendipity.
We drive with condensed water leaking
From the AC, a car jack shouting “hit the road Jack”
And wind in my pipe – and my hair –
Making whiplash out of my worries

Cruise is how you flyaway
Lifting off from the nagging brutal reality
Forgetting the traction of life on time
Mocking the fierce wind
With ground speed.



The devil is everywhere in Sri Lanka
He is there in wooden masks, with red tongues
And curled green locks. He is there is drums
That make havoc of dance. He is there in dance
When we eat fire and swirl our toes
To the noise of his two drum heads.
He is there in love, in worship wearing masks
Blinded by circumstance.

Yakka Yakka, Devil Devil,
How we don’t need much
To find the little wheels that follow the coal engine.
Like the lips that swallow, the eyes that make love
And the palms that grip

Yakka Yakka, Yakada Yakka.
Even the tsunami couldn’t stop you.
Not even Poseidon and his wrath.
How can a little engine be stopped
When her heart is heme-rich
Circulating vitality from chamber to tip.

Heart at times, can grow horns,
To clip our wings; to fall.

At a Gay Night Club


When my friend Niro
Asked me to accompany him to a Gay Night Club
In Australia, I declined. That was one step too far
For me. I was petrified of a forcible sexual encounter
Or even a gin-soaked man fondling my testicles
Or I walking in on two men consensually
Making the wall, a vertical divan.

Then I still think, would I have had an epiphany
Or a paradigm shift. Of how great the journey
That a two-compartment train,
In reverse, can take, whistling from the coal burner.
With Pet Shop Boys singing a song
About a place where a young man gets lost
To the electronic beat and the beauty of ethereality
Of his one ephemeral – A stand of his flesh.

And what if I got lost to my heart
As I saw fruits bats for their true beauty
How they bit into the fruit, swaying with ease,
With finesse, and how they made the music carry their wings
And it was amazing how blind to their surroundings they were
Just like a man dancing with a woman

And dozens of lips, I imagined, would have been so drunk
Clutching another. Freedom was the right
To make mouth fit to mouth, lips mirroring lips
Assembling the foul smell of Gin
And the odd freshness of mint.

And I wonder about Niroshan, a romantic
Gay guy, what his fate would be. Knowing
His conscience’s final frontier would be his body’s first.
How one man will find his skin, deep in another.
And how skins define who we are.
And who we are not.

And his skin will be gay, the happy man,
Who I believe would never buy a happy meal
To a Pet Shop Boys song, and wait,
To complete what lies beneath his curry skin,
– The chambers of his spice bowl heart –
With the ache of a happy spice.

Love – Defined


We are freaks that freak out
When we are too close
Unknowing that claustrophobia
Of a little locality is what uproots
A meadow of little grass roots
And love, isn’t it a grassroots movement
Of how underground fibers hold
Together the beautiful blades
That radiate from nodes
And rise towards the morning sun

For some people
The blades are just a garden lawn
While for others, they are switchgrass
And for the rare believers, elephant grass

And for the endangered romantics
It is a grove of golden bamboo.

San Francisco


What is the attraction of San Francisco Bridge?
Is it the flaming orange,
Of the black box, called the human mind
Which records all the turbulence.

And we bemoan a righteous death.
When we are as ominous as the smog
Curling into our eyes. We are moral freaks
And death is the height of our morality.
Of how we see the need of obliterating the pain
By taking some morphine.

How we are never gods in life
And yet we hold the power, just like God
To become one with an oblivion. How we sculpt
A body of darkness from one small rib.

And we forget how we dressed our dreams
With clown uniforms and made love
Like in a circus. Or how we raised a little seed
To a sapling of calcified bones and stringed flesh.

San Francisco, is where the cowards sing
Their elegies. Their laments. Of how
A million rays of light is not enough
For a black hole to swallow in an event horizon.

You don’t leave your heart in San Francisco
You only leave your fractured bones
Collected in body bags. When a zip, zips together a eulogy
Makes little zipping noises,
Informing the condemned soul,
Of the zip code to hell.

Guantanamo Bay


He wakes up
Looks at a little book and recites
Lines from right to left
Some moments of purification
For a man in a 6 by 8 room.

And he summons god,
A beautiful god who could make
A woman modest, a man committed
And love a conjugal language;
And afterwards, looks back at his long incarceration
In a sugarcane island.

And just like a sugar cane
All his sugar is encased inside the body.
And one day he will come out
And slash his skin to taste the sugar
That over the years, has turned bitter.

When he realizes that he was a nice guy before.
Who’s now painted in streaks of Hemingway.

And all it takes is a revolution of the mind
To make sugar, a lethal poison.

Potato Farmer in Peru


While a potato farmer gathers a tuber in Peru
We are gathering tubers, swollen
Anatomies that make us
Cry of longing of despair, helpless
Like a refugee in Manus island
Or a prisoner in Guantanamo bay

We have a heart that swells
When a potato field is not just so many
Eyes summoning you, it is a woman
That could see past your night
And dapple stars in your sky.

And that swelling is our vitality.
Under the ground, away from the beholder
She makes starch castles
And all it takes is a little enzyme, amylase
That she holds, to break the polysaccharides
To monomers. Sweet sugar of love.

We are all potato farmers in Peru
Hoping for a bumper season
Of one larger-than-life tuber.