Against Will

The sun pours its light on unwanted dreams

Scorching it, withering its sweet bloom

The scents of the dream slowly recede

To oblivion, or withdrawn by gods in charge of scents

Always – always – against one’s will

Nothing New

 What's new under the sun?

Isn't what you consider new 

existed thousands years ago?

Isn't you new love someone's ex?

Or a person he or she grew tired being around 

So tired that their breathing irritated them

Nothing is new, 

Not you, not me 

We are all second hand goods 

whether we like or not 

Because someone like you has existed in the course of time

Live your life - it was preordained 

Live Again

 When chicken go home to roost

We will rise to raise our cocks 

And let them crow the entire night 

Or take off in debauched flights 

So What

 What does it mean to me?

Even when it feels the whole world to you

It can't be you, you can't be 

We can't see the world with the same eyes 

Unless I poke yours 

The Eff Up Artist

I knead headaches like a seasoned chef

I marinate disappointment as if it was chicken

I serve cocktails of frustrations

Because, somehow, I have learnt the art

Of not giving a damn

And when history of ‘effing’ is finally written

All my names shall occupy the first four places

Because, when you serve me my poison

I become an artiste –

An ‘effing’ greatest ‘eff’ up artistes

I just can’t help – I have tried a thousand times

The artiste in me looms like a colossus

I can’t ignore him 

Disjointed

 And, 

for the love of things, 

frowned upon things, 

things of the world, 

a man smiles at oblivion 

And, 

for the price of dreaming is too high, 

and the lazy bones creak under its weight, 

dreams demand more than one can give

the slow ebb of time passes by. 

before you bring me a cup of poison 

look at the disjointed bones 

disjointed dreams, 

and worry not about why I am who I am 

The Bleak Existence

 the essence of life wanes 

as the clock ticks - 

a silent diabolic tick. 

A signal to an impending doom 

Where are the crevices, 

nooks and crannies 

to hide a weary soul 

from the vagaries of living

The toils. 

The frustrations. 

The debauchery. 

and bars set set too high 

let me sit on the sina taabu 

and ruminate, one more time, 

for the thousandth time, 

of this bleak existence