Saturday, July 26, 2008

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

at 17 and a little more

at 17 and healthy,
life tight around my heart-
i thought i had repressed all memories of shoelaces
tight round my wrists.


in the middle of the night when
i wake up to the stinging dark, ceiling fan
sounding like my mother's
bangles -not really sleep walking, coming for me

i feel in my mouth- the gag's
in place it coudntve been a nightmare
.i feel between
my legs and i remember sobbing in the toilet.i remember
pieces of me in the backyard.the draining
of everything in the bathtub. drying my eyes into a
solar eclipse and
my empty bed tells me its
just the sound of blades cutting

through air.


i was celebrating my forgetfulness when it leaked through
the letters.pity crawling into my life via holes and fault
lines that was me in a red dress being
uncle so-and-so's doll. that was me in his bed that was me
purpled by father that was me shivers running up my

downside that was me rancid, changed.


that was me-
soft toys sick of me eating them
out classmates sick of me in my corner
going off on tangents when asked about the
ink on skin which wasnt really so. i sat on my hands
for days as if it could save my ass and when none of
these helped that was me in hate. sweet love
was always a transferred epithet, and impossible.


my mother is an indian and foolish.she thinks its
the Gods im angering, its the Gods in plural
that take it out on her through my clobbering father

and the failing me.
i show her how tiny my ears are and she says a silent
prayer like indians who know people with tiny ears die father thinks im too young to have a lover,
and too bruised. he's a happy man.


at 17 and healthy i still sit
in the bathtub all day on national
holiday number 2- that was me making peace
with his body, i think, hiding the SOS sign forever
under my eyelids (this is me recalling a death).
eyes closed, i see it now

in the bathtub, and yell at mother saying- we all have a
lost and found chamber somewhere in our bodies. 'stop being a
scream' , she yells back- and there's a leak again.

that was me not knowing what i had had until a few

months ago that was me with a mirror trying to
look inside me thinking about it, that was me
finding nothing but fluid white
lies that was me being a molested child.


my heart has left to play with the
children and i begged it to never return.i let go of the time
i realized that my mother is more patient
with her sewing machine than with
her child's panic attacks i let go of
SOS sign only i could see i let
go of the panic attacks.

at 17 and a half this
is me a long-ago adult, spread across red river
with the last red ribbon i've ever had, and
the last letters i'd ever hidden under my
bed beyond all memory under my thighs.
one says 'dear mother i think im leaking
am i going to die?' that was me too young
to ask.
but oh God, i think its leaking
and its about time.


er. this is me writing on one of those topics i'd usually avoid because i cant do justice, really. but it wasnt forced, even if it seems so in some bits. er. forgive me.
also, this is fiction.

Sunday, July 20, 2008

look at THIS:

done last evening at her(sneha's) place, right under her nose :P
and she didnt seem to mind! we laughed our asses off, i tellew.funfun

Monday, July 7, 2008

After the collision

but first
you make sure there is one. we have our ventricles
folded, faulted and over-thrust, before they cave
in. not letting up until a change
brings us down the same

old relief.we're gunshots
at the firmament, defying gravity we're lovers
at His door like creepers each a
parasite to the other.and then

we're Russian dolls- you inside
me inside you encasing my music, separated
from my own darkness by our burning
skins,I'm in dithers but you
remind me how our scars keep us

fluid with swallows of ourselves we
keep losing into each other.when i have
fear sticking tight behind my knees you bend,toss
a smile,a touch and watch them
dismantle terror as if

they're children taking turns at
blowing a dandelion clock. switching
roles between a museum guide, a highway map, a mugger
you fritter away until i ask you to leave to

run.speed off like a blind guide.I'm
coming for you don't stay
still we aren't fit to
stand another big

bang we run like thieves leaving behind
all but blades and snares and when we trip

i fall, there's a blackout.but that is because
you're pressed underneath me-

transcending topography like the molten insides of
our planet, the magic carpet
of my 6 year old dreams. no final
tremors.there's a blackout and you're
right here-
too beautiful for consciousness.

its my first piece of shit in over a month i guess, and it sucks and its a love poem and omg i dont beleive this. :/

Wednesday, July 2, 2008


so i'm back. the laptop is still dead, desktop's back after around 9 months no it wasnt having a baby. or maybe it was, we havnt got back the old one back exactly. its a different one, so yeah.
i feel absolutely uninspired, unmotivated, and other sad depressive things.
was never particularly jumpy about myself and now its getting worse. this being the BOARDYEAR does not help one ounce.

im giving photography(if you will call it so) a rest till i manage to get myself a camera. even if it takes years. enough of borrowing around, its getting very very frustrating, i cant keep pushing my limits.
this is a very random post and im writing it not the way a comeback post is suppossed to be written, cause i dont know what that is suppossed to be like.