Head Fuck

My mind has a mind of its own.
It rarely listens to me.

One minute I am in a client
meeting, next I am in a strip
club in a Vancouver watching a lap dance
that I watched more than a decade
back, until someone taps me
and I am looking at table full
of heads staring at me.

It’s embarrassing.

It’s also terrifying.

Especially when I come back
to my senses at the wheel
and don’t recall
the last few kilometres.

I quit driving a few years back.

Out of consideration for fellow
human beings and a healthy
terror of serious jail time.

My mind has a way of
coming up with the funniest jokes
in funerals and smart comebacks
when I am receiving genuine advice.

I tried meditation.

It’s like trying to tie a tiger down
with rubber bands.

Useless.

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Hippy

The only time I get
jealous 
of people is
when they  
post pictures
of themselves 
in Goa. 

Nowhere else.
Just Goa. 

It’s a short, sharp burn.
Like watching your first crush
smile at another guy. 

I don’t know why I
love it 
so much. 

May be because I was born
in the summer of ’69. 
Condemned to be a hippy.

There are prettier beaches,
lovelier seas but I don’t care. 
You can have them.

I guess it’s the only thing I’m
still possessive about.

Because I know it’s
the only love of
mine
that will last. 


Morning Person

Seven a.m.

He strides past
the dozing watchman,
leaps over the curled up cat,
bounds up the stairs,
two steps at a time,
reaching her door a little
out of breath and picks up the
packet of milk and the
newspaper smelling of fresh ink
and stale news and rings her
door
bell and winks at her gossipy
old neighbour with a
permanent scowl, as her door cracks
open 
revealing a pair of startled eyes,
wide open in surprise and pleasure
and he pushes 
past her
kicking the door 
shut behind him,
covering her mouth in his,
as they blindly stumble
towards her bedroom,
clutching at walls
and doors. 

She pulls away
long enough to whisper,
“My maid comes in at eight!” 

There is so much
more you pack into
your day when you
wake up early. 


A birthday

She’s having a quiet birthday.
For the first time in years,
not partying.

A thousand friends,
but all she wants today
is to be alone. 

It’s pouring outside.
It always pours on her birthday.
The heavens never forget
to throw her a party. 

She probably gonna roll one
and watch the happy emerald
leaves dance in the rain
outside her window
in the sea scented
breeze. 

And smile back
at the gods. 


Cloudburst

It began pouring at 8am sharp. 

Anarchist rain.

Throwing watery spanners
in the works of capitalism.

Making everyone equal
in their need for deep fried pakoras and hot tea.

Making office goers slip on
the treadmill of the 9 to 5.

Stealing the thunder from
the rush hour.

Make this dirty, whore
of a town laugh in its
puddles like a little girl. 

Giving the teeming robots
on its streets a bit of their
soul back. 

This is baby making weather.

Fuck presentations. 


All that is unsaid

‘ You know, I am a fan of
your poems, right?’ She asked,
her bright eyes glinting.

I am a fan of your existence,
I wanted to tell her.

Of your bipolar conversations,
your dyslexic plans,
your warm honey voice,
your young-boy hips.

Of  the way
you care too much
or not at all 

Of the way you kiss
and the way
you walk away.

Of your fierce gypsy spirit
and your ability to conjure
flowers and butterflies and
lush green things.

Of your love for animals and
your distaste for people,
your funny feet,
and your easy laughter. 

But all I managed was
‘Thank you so much’


Turbulence

Disembodied recorded
instructions float to me
over the pressurised cabin air
to put the seatbelt on
as black monsoon clouds
gather outside my window like
a gang of hoodlums.

And then the
roller coaster starts.

Panic knots itself
into a tight fist in
the pit of my stomach
as the plane leaps
around like a startled frog.

I glance at my neighbour.

He’s gripping the
hand rest with his
eyes shut, mumbling
the Hanuman Chalisa.

As if the monkey god
will save him if this
tin can falls from
the sky.

What if this tin can really falls?

What about the books
I haven’t gotten
around to writing because I
am such a lazy fuck?
What about the places I haven’t visited?
Women I haven’t loved yet?

Will I be missed or forgotten
in a year?
And who’ll miss me?

A turbulence in my own
head as thoughts bounce
around in my head.

I open my eyes to a ‘ting’.

The seatbelt sign is off.
The worst is over.
We will all live.

How boring.