september 2018




...why is it silent poets

are the only ones worth listening to


every fire has its heart

every stone its gleam of justice


and in every drop of rain

there is some ineffable creature


screaming for its right to exist

why then do so, so many gurus


still insist on spinning the world

on the tips of their erections


for the earth’s course was set

with neither passion nor clairvoyance


just the cold stupidity of equilibrium

a silence so massive


it swallows these black tears

crushing both the eyes and lungs


where then will ye bide

for there is no inalienable right to scream


and the face of such a world

spins far, far too fast to be seen...








...we, surely, are a touchstone

refugees at the very heart of tyranny


an empire diving into dreams

overrun by some vast, erotic fulfilment


and this surely is no coincidence

this transubstantiation of passion into power


of virtue moulded to sit nicely in the pocket

no, no my love, I have not forsaken you


it’s just that our world

has become a shameless predator


and although outwardly free

yet always I am here littering the darkness


hiding my feelings in caves

afraid that this menacing fulfilment


will surely let the tyrants seize the underworld

and make fugitives of us all


and ‘though the heart’s empire

may be lost in its dreams


and virtue in ashes

I will never forsake you, never...






                            (iii) what, if a thousand suns go down in the west

 and thousands more rise again in the east


it is only a repetitive placebo

a rough, uncut forgery


reality, it seems, has always been somewhere else

a dreamy epic just below the skin


and so here we are

throwing our misery across space


forever exposing ourselves to eternity

praying that we too possess some immeasurable beauty


some immeasurable, intense future

that promises to rise in the east


while the song of songs

and all ancient lullabies


go down in the west

dragged by nostalgia


the dreamy skin

the dreamy, exposed truth


which, it seems, has always pretended

to be something else...






...I know when the ink must flow

it’s when the mirror turns away in disgust


and the hands of some inconsolable doom

rip into my stomach


this torrent of foul graffiti

so-called sonnets


that disguise themselves as ecstasy

as midnight cockroaches


crawling from my throat

in truth, they are all uncertainties


conceits transforming mountains into air

masks that pretend anything is possible


even the squeezing of rainbows from my breasts

the blue-red milk of the why and the wherefore


two words, three syllables

that have always sent people crashing


against the ignorance of a million years

every ode and feeling etched into stone


the one flesh where everything is possible...