My father sleeps at the edge of the bed adjacent to a chair. Upon that chair, there sits a man with a dark horse-shoe jawline. His collars have little lilies, scattered across the cloth in some harmony. Whenever I visit the room to take out one cold water-bottle from the fridge—cool water is the lady of the night—I see this man with his inhuman straight back, staring right at me. I freeze for a second and then look at his unblinking eyes in the shimmering yellow light of the fridge. You may ask, what is new here? If you were to sleep next to an old shoddy window; sure you’ll see the nearby tree growing out a hand in the beating wind, too.

The difference between you and me, however, is that you get under the covers and say oh, but it is the mere wind, oh, it is the mere rain. I on the other hand, invite the monsters in. I move the refrigerator door just enough to let that tall man’s eye glint in the dark as he sit like he’s been sitting there from the beginning of time. There is an art in conjuring monsters from the nothing. After all the man in my father’s chair is nothing but my dead grandmother’s handbag—not there for sentimental purposes but mostly because things move around in my house with certain amnesia. And in the society we live in, I have become interested in things.

Either people eat them up or some nook drag them down where house-objects retire and dream till their owners are left to do the same in the graves until after all, someone new develops a fancy to these ghosts. Or worst, being munched into paper mache is one way to go. If your things are you, then you better hope you’re not getting picked up for that.

I do that sometimes. I imagine the life of objects fast forward to hundred years. What if there are more survivors than just cockroaches. All these inanimate things that have a sacred river in which they all flow, sometimes caressing each other or other times, singing campfire songs with joined hands. A blue handkerchief wiping off the sweat off a red wallet. Their masters despised each other when they were alive, but here we are.

Rivers into a sea.

A plethora of dead people’s objects. Enough to keep me awake in the dark.




When a star glides off an old cat’s whiskers

I think of the flowering moon; like a stray pup

Lying meek on my door

I say, Will you be my comrade?


They walk upon the scattered clothes of velvet men

They shine like boot polish

And I whisper to the wind

The day has come, I mourn you not


There were two sets of men:

One ate words

The other wobbled with alphabets in his liver


He ate; he took sleep upon his pill-plough

And dreamt till his collars bled

And left my mouth with a hint of rose-petals

Glamorous things thus, die young.



Sea songs

Art: Arnold Böcklin, Villa am Meer

In a sea

Larking in Lurking

Melancholia—my sea song

So many subtle screeches

Pluck the weeds out of my hair

I have to be somewhere else

A place with no-one else

Perhaps under the sea

I no longer want to be me


I put a hand inside my lungs

Give it a saviour plunge

Let the sorrow leak

Death is a water-imagery


Why one must cry, if they should?

To whom they must cry, if indeed they should?

When I cry to a star

The stars don’t see me

They have eyes for million other babies


Sucking sweat

Bloody hands and a homeless bed


So I said

So I sung

Like the letter ‘S’

I’m an unfinished



Only sea must–

if it should

Only sea must–

if it could


dissolve me.


The dismantled me

The day she sat upon midnight,
The dreaming knights growled in pain
Like one female crickets,
breathing in the warm shadows.

The moment when they cease to be her name
On the fields of soot
enamored by
Lost shoes and cacti,
The night she broke the day.

I have seen her smirk through the windows
A singer of a thousand nights
With glassy eyes
As if a pool of midnight
is violet
but with refrain.

I thought about the entity
My heart sighing,
It was but Keats’s pale throat
French as it suits the occasion

And Voila
As they say,
I found that someone
who could then devour my muse
Along with the