Thanks to lonappen for the first line.

Your eyes have their own mouths
Tongue tender blink-licks
That run along my spine
Drying my now forever parched throat.

They devour me with their hunger
Piercing through made-up shields of reason
Nothing remains clothed in their look
Not even I.

There is no room for words
Or emotions or other time wasters
Theirs is a language of passion
Raw, unsatisfied and seeking greed.

Your eyes are so needy
You’ll eat me with them
While I lay out the spoon and fork
You’ll suck my bone with your hands.



Gnarled, old and hobble-shuffly
Veined hands clutch familiarity
Opaque mute eyes stare through yesterday
Suddenly, a mouth crease, hello.

Smudgy, iron dress, spilling flowers
Toes retract, slipper-cased shy-terrified
Pearls on parchment clumsy powdered skin
Counting breaths, it’s now numbered.

Surprising coiffured hair, no pepper on salt
Ear lobes sagging, miniature breast mirrors
Once more virginal, untouched frailty
Waiting to break, neatly.

No name is offered, I ask for none
She lives in the middle of a fullstop
Where every pause is an intrusion to the end
And every new face is one more to forget.


The gnawing worms in my head
Have gotten so fat they can’t move
They don’t even eat anymore
But lie there, giant ropes of fear.

Mostly I forget about them
That dim weight I now effortlessly carry
But sometimes, when one of them burps
My head shatters, fragments laced with pain.

Collecting the pieces is a slow process
And happiness isn’t an easy jigsaw
The questions that wedge in are always stubborn
And it takes all of me, to throw them out.

Slowly, when it all comes together
I can begin to forget again
Till the next worm scratches a leg
Or blinks, at a passing thought.


Today, I don’t want to be nice to the pixies
I want to poke their eyes with twigs
Clump their hair with sticky glue
Twist-turn their ears upside down.

They seem mean and horrible and smelly
So titchy trample-ably small
I think I’ll burn their toes too
To make them yelp, yowl and smoke.

They always shuffle their small mouths
Squeal, squeal through tiny throat quivers
And when I play carrom with their bums
They fly to the sun, leaving me behind

Quite alone.