more and more poems.


I want to share secrets

like two boys stooping to

tie their laces

imagining that in doing so

we will become as

tight as the knot.



this wild need to run endlessly,

away from you and your arms – but – pausing –

for a moment,

to kiss you, to eat you like one gummy bear at a time,

to smell you – but John Legend

begs me to save a little for him.



My man is greater than

your G_D.

He has a million names.

I have named each strand of hair

on his body and baptised them

with my tongue.



You promised,

you would come back

when it rained,

So, I ran out

when I heard the sound of thunder,

but it was only two men

dragging a steel barricade

across the road.



i constantly have an itching feeling,

a mad rush to push fifteen digits

that translate into your voice,

though technology has made it weird,

i don’t get the lust of pushing,

of fingering, of thrusting,

instead I settle for the sterile scrolling.



My man is a statistician.

He will tell you the frequency of

the orgasms he gives you.

He will put numbers to the times

he has made you roll your eyes.

He will tell you permutations required

so he can carry you and fuck you against the wall.


But then, he will ask you to smoke weed

to see the images in the songs he wrote for you.


Dump the dumb fuck.

Move on.



Haven’t you always wanted to date a rock star?

What if the rockstar rhymes only in a b a b?

What if he thinks your angst lives in a gun’s barrel?

What if he thinks that his music makes you want to fuck?


Seven minutes later,

You have decided you want to date a banker.


Thank god.

Atleast you’ll get investment advice for free.



Baby, you’ve stopped making sense to me.

Your words have become hands

penetrating my ears.

I promise to roll you on my tongue

like smoke and not exhale – not bitterly.


We tried fucking – it was all sweat and cum.

But no play.


But I do understand you when I shag,

somehow you are prettier and

more tangible in my smoke breaks. 

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November 2008

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