Tuesday, December 10, 2013

Sammy Said, "Go Little Girl, Hide"

starting with corners that fate keeps
faxes and hollow calves that wade deep
build your army
build your God
build your treeflames
build your block

in my own home there works the fist
under my own bed there is the beast
that swirls like the dust on apolitical things
that burns like rust off political beings

working your day math and day dream
Open your kitchens and fairness face creams
build your army
build your God
build your hunters
build your block

my hands will know the window screens
my knees will level the carpet, clean
but what will you do with all your time?
Yours is that poor soul with the selfish lime.

our life is a lie and will always remain
no motor cars, films or long distance trains
build your army
build your fraud
build your treeflames
build your block


Friday, December 6, 2013

That Poem

you see them warm
and scuttle like pins on a closure
bobbing heads and knee-deeep doom
in their bloom

the fate of windmills tied to their arms
like ciphers in the chest of navy seals
and falmingoes
going to Siberia

if i ever live my death
dont bury my stars under the water of sorrow
or any nostalgia
that was found in my skirt

bury me insane
with my indignation
written underneath my eyelids
taking gasps of immortality in
the hells of God's gardens

Sunday, July 21, 2013

The 4th Rib


Your chest

holds flowers and tattoos

near the skin.

Bold long feet

and ascetic hands

that were made to

cook shyly.


that never wander

the lengths

of a woman's body

and lips

of a Botticelli

smoker saint.

Your clothes

never smelt

like any other man.

Not like lovers

or fathers

or brothers.

The last time

I folded them,

they blossomed

in my hands

as if your own threads

rubbed their scent

onto these palms.

Neither are you sex.

Nor a wild slash of the wrist.

You are a quiet sweat.

Between my breasts.

A way of silent

bedside goodbyes

each time we meet.

I always did want to answer

the question

on your calf

with my tongue,

But then I was grieving.

A mad widow takes no former lovers.

You were meant

to be hung

by those lips

on my wall to touch.


I never told you

how you were

an earlier lover

and will always be.

Tuesday, May 14, 2013


While men
cheat on beautiful women
The sky is still blue.
And tooth-aches still
come to children

What omens did you see last night?
What language in its bloom?
Some untruth
or the mad woman's
run across the temple
with her child-lover?

In some of the holy nooks,
erections rise like magnets and yeast
while in your own hair, lies air
and the fragments of a strange place.

What do you do
with yourself and
this man's tungsten breath?
Except spreading it like a prism
over your body.
Each ray-

When the sun has left the eyelids
only in the cadavers
of your tides
that flutter swallows in the womb
will you find them.

answers that were strangled young.

Sunday, March 17, 2013


Always left the streets with poets
no wait
there was a dancer too

but love
never finds its way
through these streets

Always we sit
that one over there with her five-timer smoke
screaming break up and blood
to anyone who cares to fuck

there is a sad way of things
deception in the breadth and lengths of history
a hospitality in our beds
as if we could
shut ourselves
to the horror of unlove

because this is what happens
when you hang words
on the window
in the closet
between you and space
on some God forsaken drunk night
or non drunk night (for those of us who cannot afford it)

between the breasts of a woman
and in the boy's pocket
my boy

does it matter
if we run our fingers over his
familiar body?
If we moan like all the others
or bite like all the others
but never cum the same
or NOT AT ALL (Let me scream it clearly)

does it matter
if i kiss you kiss him he kisses her she kisses me to kiss her?


the lovers form,
a halo,
a wreath,
a cuff,
the ring of a condom,
(or lack thereof for those of you who like it that way)
and exchange beds,
shirts, (with buttons to undo or rub)
and merge into each other like bad stories
that i could never see with my eyes open to accidents of the anatomically correct heart.

To let a clam spread over your back,
like the wings of an angel, dead to the world
is a wonderful thing.
To sit without floods in your eyes,
and still soft lips,
is too.

I was not calm when all those words
died like semen in my hands or mouth
(Take my picture, I'm your grrl or maybe his)

The taste will fade eventually.
So will the face.

I wish I was raised differently,

and taught to spit.

Monday, February 11, 2013

Legend of a Suicide

Sun pools of light
under the eyes
and nose-beaks
made of untruth
yes you are human
Yes you are flesh
but no ordinary man?

What mortal creature
created you
My man
That you cannot even stand tall
Taller than the rose-bushes in your
London domes
Taller than your see sickness
Taller than your red hills
at night
scattered with pots of ghosts
taller than your father's Kashmiri village
so hateful
and mersmerising with

I saw you
I saw you
army boots
in a poultry farm
singing colour

I wanted to touch you

(in dreams even i run,
to hide from your poems)

and wipe on my
belly gravel
esessences of lips
curling angrily

My lover is
not mine
none will be
I lost you
I lost all

and have
since only wanted to lose more
someone says
i fear too many things
And I lie and say yes, I do.

The thing is, i still only fear


Come back in flash floods
in Tsunamis
Let me shiver
in the horror of your old love
let me write dead letters
let me be lonely as I always was
a virgin, a holy mother grail
a moonless light with soft blood
a tired tree with five thousand nights

All these that i am not anymore.

Let me be
let me be
let me be
let me be
let me beletmebe let me be
let me be

please leave me
I cannot even kiss
with a mind that has
demons with your sounds.

I want to die
before I see you

I was a hero
my man
Will always be
a coward.