bumpingoff buses and cars and subway stations and trains overflowing with the dead.


cowering behind shadows,


like the stench of battery acid,

consuming the night sky


Kolkata, tall and uneven,

filthy under its colours

spicy and sweet,


under a swarm of bloodsuckers and flies.

My city collapses on itself:

looser than rubber band stretched for three hundred years,

tight as a virgin arsehole.

Now emerging from beneath,

spilling through the cracks and grills,

like liquid tar, burning cold


by and by,

slowly slipping into my veins now

s l  o   w    l     y

drowning me alive, one with the dead.

Fear not,

I whisper to myself every single morning

it is almost over.


(I’m so sorry about the half assed title, I never really think them through)


2.46 AM

my mind is coaxed awake from a particularly long train of thought, not yet asleep not fully awake, it seems as if sweet dreams were being brought on

because I woke up in a million years—my soul floating up to the stars—my lips forming contentment in all its lazy, luxuriant glory,

my hair soft—even after ages in the sun—healing in the shade of night—my eyes heavy with the weight of your dreams and my senses are filled to the brim

my eyes are closing—i’m floating back down into sleep’s folding embrace and my mind is full of your soft peach lips and your sun warmed skin and your raven hair thick and curling between my fingers,

and I’m back again in your deep blue room and wind blown white curtains, your tumbling pile of books your unmade bed where your lips touched mine for the first time, your stack of records and films strewn around without a care because—because I’m full of you, you with your well-worn shorts and laughter bouncing off the walls, the evening sunlight turning you golden and Edward Sharpe singing Home.

And I am, I am. I am truly, truly, home.

After I killed you

It’s odd.
When I leave behind
the confinement of
the cold, conditioned
Subway train
And the smell of rain,
fresh on the pavement
arouse my senses,
dormant otherwise.
I think of you
lying down,
the green of the grass
so filled with life
beneath, mocking you.
The blood curling in
the clarity of the greenery
Like a crimson spell, opaque.

It’s odd
My hands are washed
I feel no guilt

Another Arrival

23 : 59

Sixty Seconds.

She watched,
An outline of sorts materializing into him.
He watched,
An outline of sorts materializing into her.

The line separating their dimensions evaporating.

00 : 00

’31st December’, his greeting was curt, almost stoic.
‘1st January’ she acknowledged, equally toneless.

But the hands that held, held a tension palpable.
Two pairs of eyes searched and looked away,
Eyes heavy with words never communicated,
Eyes, tired with long dried tears.

Sixty Seconds was all the time they’d ever get.

‘Sixty Seconds’ , came a murmur in unison.

Hands held tighter

And eyes locked.

Sixty Seconds.

00 : 01

‘until next time’, a disembodied whisper was all that carried over.

Sixty seconds later all was quiet.


Some would say 31st December moved forward for him,

Some would deduce 1st January moved behind for her.

Chauvinists, all, and none the wiser.

Only they know the truth,
they are transcendents who merge along the seams of time.
And those sixty seconds will forever hold that a secret.


Just a little something I posted during New Years. Its real fun, personifying time.