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.

2 Responses to “seven untitled and one titled.”

  1. September 22, 2008 at 5:37 pm

    You write like a dancer 🙂

  2. 2 ash
    September 26, 2008 at 6:06 am

    dear dripink

    i read it all today…..u r lovely…

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September 2008

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