Archive for the ‘ Poetry ’ Category

Death of a Season

Drizzling onto the slippery roads,
Frozen powder covering the cars.
Plows push the ice day and night,
Vehicles push past the plows.
Careen and crash do they so,
Rent unto them more misery than before.

Should they have listened, I think,
Perhaps the shoppers would know well,
That tires cannot grip the ice.
They cannot grip even, the prices they seek.
Windows glow through the misty air,
Shops open early near and far,
September through December,
Black as night, but the price is right.

As the worker we toil,
To bring a happy end to a tiring day.
Customers wail and complain,
They constantly force their way.
Policies are torn asunder,
Because the customer is always right.
It can be said, they are neither gracious,
Nor would it seem they are bright.

My town become a tundra,
As a waste it is frozen and white.
To work I walk to and fro,
Risking frostbite to earn my penny.
All the while they complain,
Because my hard work does not compel,
What should I care, when I am not paid proper?
They are never right, nor are they bright.

Standing from where I am,
To the customer I shout:
Stop shopping in the Blackest of Sales,
Boycott the ridicule and torment!
Were it not for you, I would be safe,
For now I fear contagion and scars,
Because I must crawl tooth and nail,
To empty your coffers,
For my endless toil.

Where has the giving ended?

The season of X-Mas is dead.
Commodity and returns have taken the stead.
Charity and glee no longer thrills the masses,
But rather the masses shop for their thrills.
For the risk of injury or death,
Do these shoppers continue to buy,
January comes for us to return our gifts,
Because the Gift of Christmas…

Matters no more.


Declaiming My Turf

This is a direct response to various Dudes and their collaborators who have made it clear that groping, touching me without consent is a compliment in their eyes. In their flawed logic, they think if I managed to give some Dude a boner, it is their moral duty to assert their power over my body. Or at least help them get off. Who cares what happens to my consent or choice? Many say, “Choice is overrated” and sometimes even unnecessary. Before I could fume my LadyBrain into bursting various capillaries, I realised most of these Dudes have no idea what it feels to be groped, manhandled, touched or experience more than just touching. It’s a part of the privilege their dangly appendage yields, “Ye shall always grab, but never be grabbed yerselves”. Probably the biggest ironies of the human race. Or maybe just about relatively bigger than the “How do so many people speak through their thighs with their head jammed so far up their arse?” question. Feel free to answer any one.

Without further ado, here is a poem I recently wrote after being groped complimented so hard that the bruises still hurt. Hopefully, this will be my last time explaining just why I don’t like such complimenting.


You may have forgotten me
Since that day,
Not so long ago when You
Said touching me was
in Your opinion a
‘Compliment’, ‘Sign of
Fucking respect’ and a
Gesture that You said I
Must learn to love.
Even if I didn’t, that wouldn’t
Make you stop anyway.

I seem to have to lost
My body the moment you
Ordained I’m lucky to be
Prodded, torn apart, broken
Handled in the way You see
Fit; which is worse than
than a grave covered with
Fine spit.

Out walks this fickle Lady,
Barefoot, untethered and crazy
To reclaim what’s left of her heart,
soul, breast, vagina and mind.
She will even take every little
Unglued part that you disposed off,
For it has become her mission to
Re-seek, Re-join and Re-fine(d).

I walked out on the road,
Not too far from my house
I found my womb set out loose.
I picked it up, saw its transparent Eye
Warm and silently accusing,
So I decided to just keep the plastic one
In its place, full of red and blue dye.

My breasts lay a little farther away,
The right mangled and slayed
Reminding me of a tortoise
Sans the shell,
to You it seemed akin
to your own personal hell.
I decided to leave the left one
to you, when You clearly derive
Much more pleasure than I do
Out of a glob of flesh.
Or perhaps two.

Those two adjacent lips
Were walking all by themselves
When I approached them, they
Said, “After He threw us away,
We’ve managed to become but one.
Wafting everywhere is the only way
we feel like we did once before
All this shoddy business was done”.
Though those unspeaking lips
Meant much to me,
I let them drift ashore.

My body stripped, bare, lonely
Seems to have lost its reason to
Ever feel alive or even remotely brave
Ever since that day,
You took it on yourself
To label, play and crave
This corpse that knows now
Only pain.

Not that you will ever know,
You can carry on living and touching
Wildly unaware that my skin got
Up and left after you did too
Leaving shards of sinew to cover
My heart’s eternal dew.

Collective Sea

Here we are all gathered,
In a collective sea of minds.
One rises from the endless ocean,
And is where all can see.
There I will watch you,
Rising above us all.

Through the waves and masses,
I wander towards you.
Beneath you, I see your feet.
Your eyes are closed,
And your body is naked.

All the ocean looks upon you,
And you open your eyes to see.
But you do not see me.
You see but an endless sea.
Yet you never see just me.
As I see only you above.

Beneath you I walk away,
To leave the endless sea
Of collective minds are we,
So I may leave this place.
I leave my heart behind,
So that you may yet see.

During my tempest of escape,
I turn towards you.
For a moment, your eyes are on me.
A glance, then you look away.
All the while I wonder,
If you ever saw just me.

Near the edge I take a look,
One last look at you.
You are above us all.
You are above me.
My heart is below you,
In a sea of collective minds.