There is benign strength 

In my poet’s legs

To keep my words

From falling off in a dishonest dance routine

Noted among people

Who even served worms 

in gourmet,

With candlelight.                               


I pity 

the words stuck like phlegm 

in their throats

Dying in the purpose of throne-making 

for a self in state of decline,

Reciprocal to

Each bite in the name of ‘taste’.         

Then in death

There is always a radioactivity. 

The charged words bump against the glass

Like a moth or a housefly

Like a lover or a businessman 

And at last

The mind breaks with its own ambition. 


Children of the mind


Come close
Come closer,
No more.

Do you know when they opened up the children’s park,
they had a war
with little children running in circles–
trick’o treat!
Do you know,
I have those little children
Running over my forehead
bleeding away

What a Syrian war–
trick’o treat!

I usually write slow songs
Otherwise my fingers pluck themselves away
And I’ve to look for them over the ceilings

‘Ugh you are so dramatic!’

Bang Bang I go
into the moon
my hands fly, so does my words
Vis-a-vis my temple,
where little–
monstrous children play,
the writer and his muse.

The Shedding season


I told you to lay bare
With all your skin down your shins
And you told me
I am hollow
And you told me
I have no past,
Just tomorrow.

But I kept on filling you up with dark lakes
With fishes made of pointed wings
And you told me
That is just too deep
And you told me
That you never even held people
Let alone a single breath.

Then I became an insurgent storm
Your skin flew away like lunar waves.

And I told you
You sit on a deserted throne
And I told you
You are so cold for a sun to hide
In somebody’s bones.



I have these strings tied so deep

I break my hands just to reach

Past an ocean that held my tides

With an island made of threads and fabrics.

I am rowing silently

I see a lighthouse near my home

But is it really my home.

Where is my home?

So I etched a boat upon these tides

For there will be never a home till I ride,

these mountain-like magical seas.

And should I loose my way again,

I’ll untie these strings

all over again.

Metallic Taste

I am taped to the wall

With my old-lanky legs wrestling with the bees

Eyes: gushy

Mouth: brandy

And, am I now, popping up a heaven-song?

It must be dunk of the ice

it must be the slush, rushing beneath my tongue.

I wear lockets with smiley faces

and yet happiness is the most lousy chamber of my heart

Then this flu–It copulates with anxiety

and lead my livers towards their foundation banks



Then, I study faces.

Empathizing with human insanity

Delivering reprobation to my virtue:

The irrevocable sadness.

Let’s study again then,

Happiness. Anxiety. Sadness.

All three elements like temples of Dionysius in my vessel

But what is elemental of these elements is:


Staring-at-the-never-dying-clunk-clunk-moth, Sadness.