the history of the world is written in sex.
walk on the old earth, and
we see intense copulation.
that kept their naked bodies warm
and their races alive.

walk with the prophets and mad men,
born of divine libido
and archaic chastity-
lost somewhere in the dictionary of time,
spilling blood and white on rocks, gardens, and chessboard rooms, of grey shadows.

walk in battlefields,
and we see spies traipsing through dead bodies,
and seducing men of wounds and hurt,
lonely and drunk, and eager to spill.
kissing generations with the blessing of death.

walk in brothels of the ages
in filthy whores and barren paintings.
we see broken men of tears and flatulence,
of pity and shame,
prostituting happiness and children.

walk in adultery.
young love in cold and hot barns.
fear and love and soiled shirts.
eloped villages and immaturity,
who lived to tell?

walk in marriage,
carnal duties, and bad poetry.
taunting mockery and sanctioned ties.
songs, and shocks and muffled shrieks.
dimpled embarrassment on blood-white sheets.

walk in the speculation of Alois Hitler’s sex life,
walk in Picasso’s will, dedicated to his million muses,
walk in Neruda’s affair with clean houses,
walk in the history of men
and we see that we carry each other around in our pockets.

– Shakya



I just want to be petty for once.

Turn around and spin you around

and clutch away your time.

Each second your eyes shine silver

and glisten, lustful under the

parasols of those time-grown lashes,

I want to claw them out. The

time you give the mirror, is mine. Your

breaths, your words, they are

mine. Your hands with sweat softened,

swollen fingers, the time they

spend patting the flyaway hair in place,

each minute each second my

heart beats in yellow bruised bile resurgence,

my ribs constricting in their own

spineless reptilian imitations. Petty, I know. I don’t

want much else. Throw away your

combs, throw them out of Rapunzel’s tower, and hide

your manners in the households

governed by ivy, convened in sun-cracked stone. Just

give me your time, your words

and intent. Give me your patience and hours and seconds.

Give her your heart and gift him

your love. Just throw me your stopped watch today.

– Her

Love’s Lullaby

and kiss me, quick,
the night turns black
green. Kiss me
you can’t see
face can’t touch
hopes and dreams.
me in the
like clouds that
now past my
Hold me in
blankets of your songs.
Kiss me before
forget that you
you’d be mine
kiss me before
think it’s already 1.
me like the
soon will touch
my black-green
Just close my
and kiss me, because.
– Upasruti


There are times
when I realise, that
after all, I am not made
to be a writer. There are so
many things I want to say at times
and the more things I have to say, the
more they twist and tumble and stick to my
throat. I think them through and above and under
till the words tear and can’t be used anyway and I’m left
with just a few pictures in my head of all I ever wanted to say.
I cannot show you those pictures. And flashing them around I realise
even more the need to articulate to spew forth the thoughts that are denying
me peace in my own territory and then I think that there is no such thing as territory
because what I own, she owns too, he owns as well you do so where do they all go and
where do they meet again and I get so tired trying to run after fleeting disobedience that won’t
be caught that must dart around till I despair of ever filling in a center of sensible jam in my spindle
full of nonsense and…I wish I could, but I can’t.
Do you understand the frustration though? The intent behind it all? Sometimes when my words play
hide and seek with me I feel more vulnerable than I would naked on a street at midday. There
seems to a wall a protection I cannot break down that my very words put up so that I may not
find them and I am left fumbling, searching hunting through flash cards made my own mem-
ory in some moment of pity on its keeper, its keeper who often has to physically clutch her
head to keep the words in keep them safe because they are there, forever scratching at
the back of her eyes, running out her ears and memory, what can it do but look in
horrified sympathy?
– Upasruti

Pablo’s Love

Pablo sees love in shadows of the day.
In twilights,
Within the boney fingers of pines,
Under the circle of light and darkness,
That is blue and orange
As it pleases.
Love is in white shame
And crevices of the wine glass
And the whining bends of it.

And in streets and unknown silences
In strange places
Where people walk with lyres
Full of blood and songs
And stories about spring
That fall in yellow
And bloom in every season.
It’s beautiful, and bright, and warm.

Why then
Is my love cold and grey?

– Shakya

Liars, All of Them

love poems,
they confuse me.
hyperbole leaks out of letters,
and she walks with an epic ambition.
in love poems, they say the kisses taste like yesterday, and tomorrow and the past, and the future, and some other time that doesn’t exist..
but really, kisses taste like nothing.
the only thing i have ever tasted in a kiss, is the strawberry smell of a lip balm.
and that’s rare.
it would seem that i have only loved and kissed misers!
sometimes, i have smelled piss
in a kiss.
(that was an unintended rhyme.)

the breasts are hardly firm and soft and symmetrical white;
don’t always believe what they say.
the cherry is soft and sour and sharp in taste,
while the honey was lost in translation.
they tell lies, those romantics.

and the kisses-
well, they are wet and sloppy and nosey
unless the hair interferes.
then it’s a battlefield, and
believe me,
men have lost lives.

the best i have ever seen in someone’s eyes
is the darkness of my face.
and i am not one for unflattering euphemisms.
(but i guess, it’s in the definition itself.)
the small smiles are smirks-
because my lips are softer,
and the laughs are apologies-
because my teeth are sharper;
the only blood in love is not the virgin blood on stone…

lost you are in love,
but very literal is the loss:
the way to her house
is a labyrinth
and you are dream and desire in search of destiny’s garden.
and the destination is an embarrassment,
hidden in a thousand excuses.
the daring lost under cruel adult stares.

love poems,
they confuse me,
the hyperbole leaks out of letters
and she walks with an epic ambition.
but they are liars, all of them.

i have smelled piss
in a kiss,
i tell you!
i still kiss…

– Shakya