Monthly Archives: January 2012

Stop it

What are you doing?
Why are fixing yourself a drink?

Please let’s not drink today.
Or do a few joints before
we can allow
ourselves to behave
the way we so want to
right now.
But we don’t dare to.

Let’s not be afraid
of our senses.
Let’s not use intoxication
as a convenient excuse.
A fucking crutch.
Please.

Yes, we want each other.
Yes, It’s normal.

I am in my senses,
right now and
hand on my heart,
I can eat
your lower lip,
Just your lower lip,
for a full year.
Before I move
on to your
upper lip.
Not breathing
the whole time.

That’s how hard
I want you, woman.
That’s how bad
I want you, woman.
Get it?

Why do we need
these excuses for?
This charade before
you let me kiss you?
Let’s show some respect
to our want.

Please pour that drink
in that sink and
come here!

Thank you!


Disappointment

Sorry!

I am not planning
on greatness.

I am perfectly okay with ordinary.
I want to have real friends.
I want to eat fish curry and rice.
I am okay with dreaming
Two- Bedroom-Hall-Kitchen dreams.
I don’t mind a little pot belly.
I want sleep like a baby on a
sunday afternoon.
I want to drink beer and swear
at the Indian cricket team in
language most colourful.
I want to have ordinary,
happy, plump, edible children.
I want a sweet wife
with laugh lines.
I want to be remembered
as a decent man.
Hopefully.

But not for too long.

I don’t have a great
unrest in my heart.
I don’t have fire in my belly
I don’t have the lightening
In my eyes.
Forgive me this time, posterity!

But I am a Hindu.
So in all probability
I’m coming back.

Next life, promise!


Smokin’

Exhaaaaaaaaaale!
Watch the tendrils
of smoke climb
vine-like,
in the air.

In slo-mo.

Feel the weight
of her head
on your shoulder,
the warmth
of her smile
on your cheeks,
as she reaches for
the joint.

Listen to the faint
shrieks of kids
playing cricket in the
building car park.
The sound of traffic.
The world floating back to you.

Feel your stomach muscles crawl,
as her manicured nails
trace, the drying channels of sweat,
to the side of your stomach.

With a suppressed giggle
grab her hand and
turn on your side
and look into her big, bright eyes.

So soft. So new.

Watch her take a long drag
and lean over to
blow the smoke
into your startled
mouth and get high on her,
your head swimming.

She says something.
You are far away.
‘Come again?’ you ask.
And both of you burst
into hysterical laughter
till you have tears in
In your eyes.

Watch her climb atop you,
stubbing out the spiff,
gathering her hair behind her,
looking down her shapely
breasts, at the gathering
desire in your eyes.

Watch her lean down,
till her mouth
is next to your
ears, whispering
‘Yes, please!’

Here we go again!


Good luck

So how is this going to help?
This thing that you are doing?
This avoiding of me?

Do you believe that
with enough time
you’ll miss me less?
And me you?

Do you believe
you can spend an hour
not thinking of
me even if we
never meet again?

What will you miss
less given enough time?
Laughing with me?
Crying with me?
Fighting with me?
Making up with me?
Waking up with me?
Are you kidding me?

I hear you.
Of course, ours is
an impossible love.
It’s hopeless.
You want to
move on.
You want
me to move on.

It’s feels like
the logical thing to do
like it did
when we kissed.

I wish you luck.


Rage

Sweetheart!

I’m falling out
of love with you.
The heart is going
colder by the minute
like tea poured and
forgotten.

Your silence is
like nails scraping on a blackboard
setting my teeth
on edge.

Who do you
think you are, bitch?

I’ve had better, you know.
I’ve loved and been
loved by women
whose toenails are
classier than your
whole pathetic being.

Sexiness is like
an iceberg.
It’s the nine tenth
you can’t see that
makes someone sexy.
And you have the depth
of a dishwasher.

Think you’re leaving me?
Fuck you.
I’m leaving you.

I’m done trying to
make myself small to
fit your cramped heart,
littered with garbage
of your forgettable
past that you
won’t throw away.

I tried to make you fly
but you’d rather crawl,
play it safe,
hedge your bets,
toe the line.

I hope you live to
be hundred
and die of
boredom!

Cunt!


Muchas Gracias

Like two fighters
we face each other
warily across the table,
smiling, bloodshot
eyes locked.
Looking for a grip,
a good place to hold,
to bring the other
down in a flash.

Which is pointless
considering we are
already on the mat.
Swept off our feet.

We are drunk
on rum and cola.
On each other.
On our insane plans
of becoming billionaires,
going for space travel and
buying villas in Tuscany.

And why not?
Isn’t love the place
of the possible?

The waiter looks
nervous as we order
more drinks.
He needn’t bother.
We can’t get
any higher
than we
already
are.

‘Are you possessive
about me?’ She asks
with a smile.

No baby, possessive, no.
No one can be possessive
about sunshine,
sweet breeze,
happiness and
extreme
good fortune.

Grateful, yes!
Very.


Everyday

Everyday I write.

I can’t stand
around being a
lightening rod
for inspiration.
Waiting for it
to strike me.

And ‘getting
into the mood’ is
a such a load of crap.

Being alive is
inspiring enough.
I don’t remember
a single day when I haven’t
felt like feeling.

Everyday I live.
I love, I miss, I despair,
I hope, I hope against hope,
I am wronged,
I go mad, I fail,
I win, I get a hard on,
I get an epiphany.
I remember you,

Every day I write
so that someday
When you’ll read me,
my love,
You’ll know how
I lived each day
without you.