what are we even celebrating

the music was so loud
the emotions were so sleep deprived and high on the future
that all the bright colours and all the hundreds of smiling faces
melted away
and all i could see in front of me
was uncertainty
and guilt
holding guns at my head,
grinning sadistically.
they shot bullets that unravelled into questions at me —
what are we celebrating?
how complicit are you?
is this right?
but before they could even hit me
the questions were shielded
by that fatass — uncertainty
who formed a shield around me,
keeping the questions tightly hovering
around my being.
now
i guess we’ll never know.

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i want you to call

why don’t you call
when the world is ending
when all my thoughts have run dry whilst streaming down my face
when my heart just wants to see your name on my phone screen
when all that my hands itch to do
is dial your name
and hit the green button

why don’t you call
when i need you?
when i don’t want you to know that i need you
but i want you to know that i don’t want you to know that i need you
but that you know that i need you

why can’y you call me
now?

this is so overdone

feeling like this
is so last year
and the year before that
and the year before that
and the year before that.
i’m tired
and bored
of feeling like this
feeling such old feelings
because i thought
i could believe in myself.
but i haven’t changed
not really
not enough
to feel differently
than i did last year
and the year before that
and the year before that
and the year before that.
this feeling
is so fucking overdone
that my poetry sounds the same
and my heart screams the same
and my mind runs the same
and this body that i so desperately want to escape
locks me within
with the same lock and key
that i thought i knew how to work.
turns out i don’t.
this poem sucks
just like the last one
and the one before that
and the one before that
and the one before that.
at what point
do we stop feeling sick of ourselves
and start appreciating every small molecule,
every hair follicle,
every unwanted mark and thought?
or does that never happen?
do we continue to feel the same way,
continue to exist in this blocked rut,
and exist as we did last year
and the year before that
and the year before that
and the year before that?

my home is a multilingual country

amma reads sanskrit from the left hand side page
while appa follows the tamil script on the right
each of them chants out the same words
with the same devotion;
but the shapes of the letters contort differently for each.
they are two opposing poles
who comprehend the world differently
but find middle ground
while expressing themselves out loud.
amma reads sanskrit from the left hand side page
while appa follows the tamil script on the right
both of them hold tightly the strings that bind the book,
keeping intact the multilingual tradition
that holds together our home.
and two ancient languages of india
find solace
in my home,
while outside
they are used as armour
against each other.
if only people saw what i see:
that it isn’t a battle between north and south;
it’s a push and pull,
a give and take compromise —
a marriage —
the left hand sanskrit page
and the right hand tamil one
walk hand-in-hand
to keep the book together.
amma reads sanskrit from the left hand side page
while appa follows the tamil script on the right
and i?
i listen to both;
unable to make out any difference
in what is released into the air
and into my soul.

good people exist

or maybe just good person exists
tucked away in the comfiest room
wrapped up in the familiar scent of comfort
and warmed by the golden haze of light lights
and the sweet taste of jazz lifted us in the air
and i will be forever grateful
for having the chance
to touch the eyes
of good person
and see myself
through them
it was a nice break
from seeing the world
as bad person

frenz

we reflected the constellations
and we could see the stars moving,
speaking to us,
asking to be touched
and picked up
and shared with this unholy earth.
we rearranged them last night,
hoping to rewrite our destinies.
But fate is a bitch
and as morning came,
the sunrays washed away all our progress
as we tried to piece together
each one of our stories,
and draw a fine line connecting each star,
and brushing off the dust
from our freshly drawn
haphazard constellation.

cabaret voltaire

there are live voices, all-around-me well afterlife voices,
encouraging my split emotions,
whispering in my ear
to gather all of them,
dump ’em in a jar
shakeitoutshakeitout
and then pick each chit of emotion,
one by one,
just like in the old days.
and create a mess,
which,
in their terms,
is art.

16 Oct 2017: shiva cafe

my legs have walked away from me
going everywhere i was too
scared of venturing
it has jumped off the mountains
and climbed ladders
the very ladder that holds my eyelids open
even though my eyes
are seeing rainbowed skies while they
have locked themselves in house arrest
prison is for those who have committed crime
the biggest crime i committed
was seeing who i really am
when i left my body
and looked at myself
has any human being
ever been able to do that before?