He has figured out the intimacies of the body
How do I tell this man
Who has fucked so many
The pleasures of conversation?
He knows I lie.
Sleeping with someone
Is conversations without condoms
Without reading a word
You wake up mid-book
Chapters later, character revealed.

He wants me, I know that
The unopened novella
But for how long, how long?
Soon I may have to join his library
My words don’t have the music
Of body print.

I try to paint patterns of the future
He listens like listening to life insurance
Yawning with discreet boredom
He baits me with interest threatening to fly.

Yet, I will preserve
This middle-class pride
Of being fully read
His amusement is grating
He wins either ways
There will be other authors
Willing to spread their legs.

I may still have my revenge
With this bookworm
When we are both so old
Our bodies become our minds
Then I will fuck him
Like he wanted to, yesterday
And lust will be an alphabet soup
Slurped nosily
Praying for sense
In every mouthful.



Stripes fall apart
Because they can’t cross themselves
They lie in parallels
Long, endless, unmeeting souls
Conformists not knowing how to rebel
Their tears don’t run to their
Neighbours, who spring their own stream
Of bullet headed sorrow, heading straight
Towards an infinity
Of seemless boredom.

A Black and White Photograph

An insomniac drenched with sleep
Stumbled on to the awake highway
Blurry-eyed victims tailgate his thoughts
Swirling sweet slumber edge clarity

He lay down on the tar
His eyes refused to close
The ankles begun to snore
But the knees wanted to jig

Caught in opposite poles of desire
The lower half of him jump started
Quivering, jerking pieces of flesh
Half him, half an idea.


In offices of Others
I’ll find my corner
And then in a moment
Of uncertainity
I’ll leave to find Others
In other corners
Always seeking place
In Places
I tread a weary route
As my roots struggle to place
In shadows of a soil
I once planned to leave.


Two toasts of warm, brown, burnt-at-the-edge memories
A pot of trouble, brewed to perfection
Three slices of love, one pierced by a fork
A shallow, chipped bowl of sorrow
Slightly stale, thought not yet hard
A glass of travel, a twist of fate
A basket of giggles, laughs and scorn
Freshly baked flirting puffs of heaven
A sprinkling of anger, a dab of mischief
A crunch of healthy ego on the side
Half a plate of rusty talent
And of course, eggs swimming towards sperms
Quite well done, indeed.


Glistening yellow talons
At the edge of brown
Wrinkled, gnarled skin
My long nails will
Stroke your back
Not drawing blood, not yet
But leaving patterns
Of love and passion
Bumps of redness
Clawing out neutrality
And while you writhe
My nails will laugh
They have tasted your skin
And will be back
For seconds, thirds, fourths
Till they break
Declawed, opportunist, flesh-drunks.