If I spoke of violence
would you listen
if I sang of the broken
would it capture your heart
if I wrote of all the things
we take for granted
and only value when they’re
torn apart
ISIS in different disguises
right wing evangelical fanatics
hindutva murderous fascists
all man made losers and wankers
Bathed in odiferous slickly slimed drains
Aspiration lowbrow through slytherin brains
Sibilance parseltonguing itself via plaster
Inside and without channelling disaster
Lengthy both in body and years
Insinuated in hollows and unwitting tears
Soulless soul horcrux bearing
Killed by one almost unfearing
when a paradigm shifts
the known is wiped clean
with what we don’t know.
all reset to zero
it seems like eons and
constellations away
when we had dinner
at that little Greek place,
Bacchus;
the one where
we bought plates
at 5 bucks a pop and
flung them against the wall
They say at some point feelings die
relationships get old
and I have never questioned why
believed what I was told
so my expectations lessened
just waiting for the worst
but I know now this ancient wisdom
must take a refresher course
Growing up in a small town in Bangalore
was both a breeze and a constant challenge
we were raring to rule the world and more
while wrestling with compliance and balance
there was a strong lady called Jean
not a bone in her body was mean
she embraced her tribe with what i’d describe
as all the fervour of a queen
Alleluia! The picks are rhyming!
I can hear the church bells chiming!
Does this mean the algorithm’s changing,
Or will it stay the same?
this frequent traveler must find some fun
from hours of time in lonely room
breakfast in bed is best of all
eggs and bacon, coffee on call
A thesaurus I am not
my poetry’s only how I feel
words within are what comes out
but apparently that’s not the deal
There was a young girl name of Jess
who said with a twirl i confess
I’d love to knit purl but my heads all a whirl
two clicks of those sticks leave a mess
months, weeks, days, hours
culminate in languid showers
white and soft, cold and hot
tingled tangled cotton cloth
I used the last drops of clear liquid
on nail-sized pad of cotton fluff
t-zone inflammation put on hold
my face needed no other stuff
pushing turnstiles
climbing steeples
viewing airfields
pulleys draw me higher
garlic and onions’
sulphurous essence
wage olfactory assault
upon my senses.
Mid-autumn festival
is large in Hong Kong.
heralding autumn,
calling an end to summer,
full harvest moon rises
low above the city,
phosphorescently eye-balling
the gratitude of family.
writhing gargoyles
sharpen their canines
against your shins,
grinding through bone.