The hooligan danced in circles,

He was free.
Like the cactus,
Untamed and dry
He stopped still, mid-twirl as sand filled the gaps in his feet.
He always turned a few times shorter, the hooligan-
As he stood on his tiptoes and the top of his toes sunk into the grains-
He always stands on his tiptoes,
To be able to touch the backyard sun-
The sun he left at home but found at the end of the journeyman’s tale
The same sun melting at different borders-
By the hooligan,
For his freedom lay not in places but in time.

June, 2017.


On warfare and doodles.

There’s a little, long extinguished notebook at the back of my bottom shelf. I still keep shoving stray notes and slightly well mannered doodles between its pages, compulsively, unaware really of the reason why. And somehow, when I flip through it.. Amongst the variable handwriting and confused spellings I find the wall-less boundaries of my mind in serious trouble. Barbed wires have been wrung and troops deployed at the line of action time and again, in the sweet fear of uncertainty, in the eager watch for entropic frequencies. Most recently, right where the boundary vanishes, there’s a watch tower that my pencil drew up, on preemption.. Something is coming to stay. I wonder if it’s a wild storm or a trespassing monster. It’s not scary or exciting really. All I know is the notebook has caught a damp and I’m unsure of its survival. I’m on the lookout for a new hideout, some place made of an infinite horizon and sunny subterfuge.


Yesterday, during the fall of evening, light in conversation with the wall, expressed great distress at the whimsical antics and moody impulses of shadows. The wall listened, patiently, and replied in indifference. The room, soaked in the weeping, fading light of dusk, lay still while only the shadows danced from wall to wall. It looked beautiful.

Mornings of severed finger-spaces

I could stay up all night and talk to you about cheap thrills and expensive shoes,
I could make you some breakfast, and tell you how much fun it is to hear things frying in a hot pan,
I could ask you to tell me what you thought of my collage on the wall,
I could take a walk with you on late afternoons,
I could show you a photograph that I took,
I could whisper private jokes in your ear, with every body around,
I could make faces at you,
I could scream and shout at you,
I could write overly sentimental verses to you,

I could, and I would
But would you still love me in the morning?


When December turned to January, and the clouds had no colour, the strangest thing happened to me. I realised I was a thousand years old, but I knew way too little. So i decided to go on a balloon ride across star paths. Not only did I meet the watery Neptune who gave me my tears and the stormy Jupiter who tempered my blood, but I also happened to meet the fiery Mars. Whilst I was floating by, Mars stopped me, asked to converse with me. I told Mars about my dead flowers and my semi-precious fish bowl. Mars took me on a little tour of his sphere and gave me a hammock beneath one of his red, rocky dunes. It’s April now- one solar eclipse and two months later. I’m back home, but there’s red dust still stuck to my hair ends. I’m back home now, it’s all the same- the earthy skies, the aging soil, all except me. I will never be the same again, because i chalked no maps, but let the wind carry me across chance, you know, of the cosmic kind.


You live silently,
You breathe in rumbles,
You scream in numbers
And you leave in waves,

And often,
On evenings
You draw the curtains and a smile carves out my favourite face on you.