A synthetic dialogue

Mountains mirror my monologues

Delayed responses

off the cold, rugged hide

tangle brazenly with the thread

The effort that goes into the untangling

is what really simulates the adventure



The book on my shelf

A mosquito lies
dead inside a book
I religiously once read

three rows of letters
out in the middle

the red halo
enshrines the body

now on a shelf
it lies
the blood smells yellow

around the spot open
a trail of burrows
frequented by pilgrims

I dissect
the anatomy of the burrows
How thorough the silverfish were!


Words –

battered and bruised,
used and abused,
celebrated, relegated,


deemed as spoils of cultural wars,
donned as pride,
skinned as hide,
held as armour,
pierced as sword (for nothing leaves a more lasting wound),
hugged as identity,
kissed as sorrow,
dreamt as tomorrow –

have percolated
down the fine mesh
of lives and worlds before you,
to get to you
with hope and a twinkling desire
to be lead

to a place they’ve never been to before


What’s for dinner tonight?

What have we got here?

I see, a quiet, cold night
out of December’s deep freezer,
finely ground desires, cold water 
sourced directly from the shore
of doused hopes, a sprinkle of
native sadness, a ginger of a brazen self.

Just let the mix simmer to some sad synth rhythm
and there you have it –
soup for the sentimental soul

A portrait before the rains come


recurring dream

a city wakes diffused

week two at cluttered quarters

desert under my


my water bottle an erect palm

an oasis

We own no cooler no AC

instead our doors remain open

we receive among others

  1. tap of sunlight

  2. waking dream

  3. smudged horizon in 3.5 x 6.5 frame

  4. call of duty

  5. glimpses of tomorrows and yesterdays hongsangsoo-esque in their playfulness

  6. cue for indifferent / friendly tea

  7. smell of night-soaked underwears on the balcony

  8. call of duty

and of course dead skin of the city

settles over utensils shoes chairs

and is wiped


settles for window panes

magazines dictionaries my oxford

and Lyra’s

fiction and poems


like dust on poems

night slips


over you

dust at traffic intersection


under a red moon

sleepy sands in yous eyes

you conjure

a different city

I hear something shatter

Dreaming love, a day dies – incomplete.
Crows fly away into the black.

Their caws will return
to the familiar morning
of grumbling engines,
bodies swaying to the beat of metro,
memory of cozy beds,
a collective yawn big enough to
swallow Monday mornings.

Good morning love – a day begins. Destiny.
A crow flies away
Struck amnesiac by rays
bouncing off glass towers.

I hear something shatter.