Archive Page 2


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.

April 2020