Archive for September, 2008


i have a problem titling stuff.

Well, I seem to have a terrible time titling my poems. So if anyone has suggestions of titles for any of the poems, then please feel free to suggest away. I would really appreciate it.


more untitled and one titled.


you were my first lover

the man who watched me silently

exhale my post-coital cigarette.

and whose cum had the meaningless

childhood taste of a lemon tart.

who dripped sweat into lotus pads at his armpits

and smelt like an old book.


on hand-made paper

we write letters

with liberal cursive strokes

(my stringy curls etched into words)

and paragraphs bleeding with spanish words,

a language you learnt

while I was re-arranging my life.

and tonight,

i want to sms you this poem

and you’ve got no cell phone.

bastard, you always did know

how to get to me.


trampled tar heaving with rose water

and muslim blood

burning through my nostrils,

but i was back in your arms

licking and kicking

and tasting the sweat

of your thread,

my brahmin.


what does his butt look like?

i don’t know.

i’ve never walked behind him.

nor have my tongue or finger.


sometimes the kohl-eyed devadasi

will fart and spit,

but makes sure that only

her alluring beauty will

slide-show through his head,

not by forcing it,

but by becoming a earworm,

that gets trapped in his mind

and bounces from his tongue.


friend, you wonder about the

strange sounds at night,

it is because my man is from

the place with hives of humans,

trains that look like resting pythons

the gaudiness of sequinned outfits

and at night he plays me like a saxophone

reminding himself of Rang Sharda

and looking over the reclaimation.


i want to incubate between your skin

lay dormant

suddenly burst out into rashes

and hope

that you will think of me each time

you itch.

7. Stringed Orgasm

Your skin so dark that the silver around your throat shimmers
Hanging in Its balance is the first sound of the universe
The light strikes, constantly echoing the sound aum
In those times the entire universe resounds on your throat
Neelakantha swallowed the poison but
Did you swallow the first utterance?
Did you capture Parvathi’s Climax and string it on to your throat?
If such feats are yours
What name should we give you?


four untitled and one titled.


Stop looking at me


I’m not writing sonnets but

I’m being bolder than you,

my Mercutio is gay and my

Portia is an F2M transgender.

Antonio is a sugar daddy and Bassanio,

his twink.

But maybe, just maybe I’m

not like you Shakespeare, not

clever enough to hide

my limp wrist.


The way you hunger to hear words

trickle out of people’s mouths

and hope they string into a story.

The way you look

at patches of red, peacock blue

and pink and know who

can wear it.

The way you tilt your head

to the right so we can’t see

your crooked jaw,

but the most

tender thing about you

besides your lips is you

will cry when you hear

about a ganja-smoking man who

writes with a blue Reynold’s on the walls

and paints swoosh marks on un-nike shoes.


Richmond Town never has traffic jams except

during Moharram.

The diverted trucks from Hosur Road heavy

with ash granite blocks and holey white sacks

of sand will clog the streets and their horns

will sound like ten thousand kindergartens – this is

how my body felt when it whispered,

‘I love you’.


I have always wanted to be


the left-handed can draw.

Then, I wouldn’t have to

write you little notes, a plum

could’ve meant sex, an avocado

would mean shopping and peaches


But I think I’ll just write because

we live in a city, not an orchard.

The poem below was written after hearing this def jam poetry session on Youtube, by Frenchie Fucking Ain’t Conscious. She uses these stereotypical black images and apologizes for them because she won’t be using them in her rendition. Well, I do no such thing except repeat the phrase, I apologize. But since that refrain was inspired I am giving credit where credit is due.

5. I apologize.

I apologize,

in this poem you will not

see red, warm blood oozing

from slit wrists because

my lover has left me.

I apologize,

in this poem you will not

see blue, clear tears slipping

down stung cheeks because

my lover has not returned.

I apologize,

in this poem you will not

see white, uncrumpled sheets pouring

down stocky beds because

my lover has stopped coming.

I apologize,

because in this poem you will see

red, warm blood spouting from

lips bitten till they are raw.

I apologize,

because in this poem you will see

blue, clear tears slipping from

the confusion of is pain really pleasure?

I apologize,

because in this poem you will see

white, uncrumpled sheets pouring

because the wall is our bed.

I apologize, in this poem you will see

me waiting because the

line between colour and pain is

drawn in dashes across a map.


seven untitled and one titled.


I try not to write about boys and men lovers.

I want to write about

the tinkling whisper of her hair,

the heavy sway of her sculpted hips,

the raw silk texture of her brown skin,

the soft jiggle of her dimpled buttocks.

And I want to imagine

my fingers mapping her breasts,

my tongue exciting her clitoris,

my head resting on her soft belly,

and my toes exploring her thighs.

But your broad, foliaged chest,

your tongue that knows its power,

your pubes peeping from your jeans,

strong arms, warm mouth, knowing touch

and trap-like thighs are on my mind.

So, how am I to write and imagine her?



This is to say that

the sheets lie uncrumpled

and the tea set hangs dry

while you were away.

– Me

P.S. The floor is cold.

The ashtray is full.


Sometimes I want to

rush into my man’s arms

like a haggle of construction women

crossing the road

with a mad rush and single mindedness.

But I am corrupted

and I look to the left, right and left again.


Eau de Cologne fucking Pond’s Dreamflower,

waxy Fumes making out with the essence of newly dug mud

and relatives lying languid with shades of black.

Tears that are faked like meaningless moans

and sponatanteous ejaculation of stories to give new meaning.

I hate funerals.


I hate funerals.

When I die

only my lovers who remember the smell of my sweat

the stories that my toes traced on their calves

and whose lips tongue navel and arse-hole I have explored

will be allowed to cry for me.


Shiva loves to rim,

even knows the local Shivajinagar slang for it.

– biriyani khanaji –

Now in Mumbai,

he licks his lips

for the ammonia deposits

rising from the tracks

while on the local train.

He licks, smatters, licks and tastes

thinking of Pasha’s puckering arsehole.


My grandmother had beautiful long hair, as a child I would climb bury myself

and hope to be plaited – my arms my legs – intermingled into the rivers of silver.

And today when your castor oiled body enveloped me – my arms my legs my nose –

Sniffing myself into your chest hair – I cried.


Haiti in Three Parts


As a baby velcroed to my mother’s arms,

I heard her hissing stories

about princesses that used

their hair as ropes and singing midgets.

But she most wanted to shriek ballads

trickling with blood, singed flesh.

The cacophony of Papa Doc, Baby Doc

and The Tong Tong Army.


I will dress in white like

a voodoo trouble shooter,

I will inhale your odour

and scream the future,

I will use your sweat to burn

the night and dance.

Chip and wine to your heartbeat

and whisper our secrets into your hair.


I will smoke ganja breathing

in prophecies of the shamans,

I will lay rock over rock,

brick over brick and sweat with the slaves.

But sugar I will not eat.

Sugar is white,

white after seeing the ghost of dignity

nestled in the slave’s tongue.


eight poems.


I’m not black, my colour is

what aquamarine is to green,

some blue but mostly green.

I’m not black, my colour is

coffee, weak, not crushed beans.

I’m teal, like the tint of steel.

I’m not black, my colour is

the colour of rape, many generations,

the colour of cum on old panties.

I’m not black, my colour is

the light of zero-watt bedroom bulb.

I’m teal, like the tint of steel.

I’m aquamarine, green, coffee, teal,

blue like steel, red like rust, just

not black.


Your skin is the colour of night

when lovers meet, after a long absence,

more ink than black.

Your eyes are the colour of a poet’s cup

of coffee,

more black than brown.

Your voice is heavy ash

balanced on a cigarette

more grey than black.

At times, the sound of your anklets

make me search serpentine streets

for the glint of your nose stud.

I’ve lingered in the flower

Market for days trying to find

the smell of your hair, your thick plait.

But today, I’ll lick coconut

chutney from my fingers

and taste your skin.


My man not big

like Mount Kailasa.

But whispering a secret

in his ear makes me feel like

a Russian ballerina.

My man is a tongue,

so tuned it smells and tastes,

till it tastes of only us.

My Man laughs like a rakshasa, so loud

that mountains flatten themselves.

But tell him ‘his post-office is open’

and his giggle will remind you of Anarkali’s light anklets.


A crow is a beautiful bird,

sheltered in folklore

as the intelligent one,

stamped into our memories

as the soothsayer of fortune

depending on the size of its murder.

crushed into our fairytales to

describe a maiden’s tresses.

But no one will say you sing like me.


Baby, I refuse to be political for you.

I’ll be arm-candy at your rock-shows

and drink free booze in the VIP section.

I’ll come for your protests even if

you don’t come for mine.

But I will wear clashing colours.

I will not drink red bull because

your protest has no vodka.

I will not eat ice-cream

because it’s not between your toes.

I will be political for me.

I’ll do shringar before I watch you

shag, excited that you’re thinking

of her.

I will make out with you when your mouth is

swirling ganja smoke

and you’re playing with my dreads.

But I most political in my tongue

exploring your arsehole,

searching for whiskey.


11.30pm doesn’t stop me from

drinking or dancing

because I have a man who drinks

Blenders’ Pride like water.

He will set music

so there will be progression

Mary J. Blige to our kissing,

the Gundecha Brothers to our fucking

Erik Satie to our post-coital cigarette.

The alcohol never runs dry

because his armpits are my Golden Rose

and I don’t need kannada

to get my bottle of whiskey.


The ashtray is full.

A dog barks.

The streetlight hits your eye.

You shuffle around, nervous,

smoke another cigarette

(your fourth pack)

then try to sleep.

You text the time – 02.48hrs –

and hope he understands.


Well, poor Shiva is blue with penis envy,

holding his breath, willing the blood

to rush there so he won’t blush

when he sees you in Kailasa, my love.

September 2008