The storied house of Horror

There once lived a story
In a two storey house.
It was slightly gory
To use or arouse.
And one day he wanted
To add a new floor
For that he consulted,
A writer of yore!
The writer was cranky,
And blind as a bat,
He sneezed in a hanky,
And spoke like a cat.
He looked at the story,
And wondered aloud:
‘As serves my memory,
You once were thrown out.
The macabre and horror,
Did not serve them well.
One day you discover
“Evicted” in mail.’
The story was sorry
And sorrowful sobbed,
‘It was a new worry
My home had been robbed.
But then they all saw me,
And saw me they well.
They read me and bade me
And saw how I sell.
Now rich and happy,
I want a new floor.
Please do make it snappy,
Can’t wait anymore.’
The writer, a fighter
Looked at him perhaps,
His eyes, each and neither,
Were too good with chaps.
And wrote him a new one,
He wrote him a floor,
A floor of post modern
Takes on old folklores.
The story was happy
With one complete house.
A few rooms were crappy,
But some rooms aroused.
Thus endeth this story,
In one, two, three act.
A gory old story,
Told complete, intact.
-Shakya Bose


There are some fights
That don’t matter.
The ones that make you smile beneath a scorn
And make you think of an early Christmas,
Or a prolonged winter,
With the character of an English spring:
The fights you would rather have,
The fights that make memories
To be reminisced on summer days with the city under your feet;
Conflict reconciled in beds,
Making fervent war,
And perhaps a smile.

And there are fights that are woven from silence,
Named disquiet
By the Gods of sorrow.
Fights that sting deep under the skin,
And leave visible bruises,
Shaped in randomness,
The size of oceans and continents.
Fights that make nightmares;
The thread of dreams burn your mind’s fibre,

They are fights I would rather have,
To reconcile
On long walks home,
Or away;
Winning smiles in distant battlefields.


How to hate everything in life

It is just so very easy

As one two and three,

But you have always hated similes,

And missing commas where there are needs,

Grammatical mistakes come from bad seeds!

And genes don’t really grow on those trees.

And, of course, you hate genetics too,

Your daddy’s mistakes will now be you.

Oh come, oh come, get down on your knees…

But you hate teachers, and punished little kids!

An anal fixation is all that he needs.

To hell with correct political policies!

Now that you say that, it reminds me now:

Oh my God, i hate repetition, wow!

Remember to mention your hatred of bees.

And honey, hate honey and everything sweet!

Except when all that is coated on meat;

But meat is good only when not paid in fees.

Do you know what bugs me in reality most?

Titles that always have fake things to boast…

-The one who hates everything


Poems are not for you.
You are a poem,
Writing yourself one sentence at a time,
Or one word,
Or the next plausible conclusion.
Perhaps you are the comma,
The pretension of a halt,
That submerges in the need to go on,
and go on,
and go on,
Or a full stop.
A full stop, self sufficient, and self explanatory.
Perhaps a bit unpoetic.
But what’s a poem without a rhythm break?
Are you a question mark?
An exclamation!
You exclaim sometimes,
Your breasts nodding in imperfect unison,
And i feed my unhealthy obsession with your naked flesh.
Perhaps you are a semi colon;
Introspection in black strokes.
Or you are just an introduction
In mistaken tenderness,
Colonized in dots and bad puns.
Perhaps you are just that:
A colon.
But you never begin and never end,
And all i see is the refrain in you,
Repeating in variations over an age of sorrow,
And chance,
And love,
And mourning,
And mornings smelling of stale whiskey.
And once i wake, i know the refrain has changed,
Or i did.
But it still smells like a lullaby.
You are a poem,
Or perhaps not.
But it never mattered.

A portrait in blue

So you think you’re an emotional black hole? I’ll tell you what you are: a survivalist. I know that description pleases you more than it should. You are wrong, though. I’ve known you since you were four. You were a fairly unusual child. More often than not, I’d see you look at old books with remorse in your eyes. I know you read the front covers, and wondered about their previous owners who’d left a few lines along the spine. What frightened me, though, was the way you looked at people you liked. You never seemed to realize that they were alive. Or maybe they didn’t. You never seemed to be able to feel what was ordinary. So, late at night, when the screams of the only person you cared for in the world pierced the stillness, you never went to her side. You were afraid to, I know. Hence, you just let your heart break, and your fingers, write. You always said that befriending objects reaped richer rewards than befriending people. You were right. Those words you always read flowed onto paper through your pen, and you succeeded in killing the human being inside of you. There was a surprise! People seemed to like what you wrote! Soon enough, people fell hard for the world in your words, and you found a sinister new side. You cannot deny, though, that you cried tears one night! Looking from my balcony into pouring rains, I saw you at the piano that night. When no one knew where you were, I know you were singing in a voice soft with passion, “I dream of Paradise”. I know you left the piano to the rains that night. You were attractive though, kid! Impaired by inhumanity, you had beauty to compensate for it. You had still, that perfect profile. Clothed in blue, sitting still in an old, stuffy room, there was no one that could look you in the eyes! Those chameleon eyes. Good looking and ever innocent, the onlooker could never tell that what lay behind was contemplation of their undoing. You had charm, though. Women loved you, and you attracted all the wrong kinds. Needless to say, you left the place in ruins. Some time later, you were quavering. You had found frightening new direction, and had lost good friends. One more delusion, you thought you never could sleep at night. There was too much pent up grief. To evade the crushing familiarity, you sought out the ones as broken as you. In this new place. And one night, you swore you saw sparks in the sky that were blue. Never fear, I knew you were always here. I knew who you were from the day the old women saw spirits on the streets. A lot of other people saw them too. You were the one who claimed they were your friends, you were not alone. They say spirits communicate with us through unprovoked writing. Maybe there was a reason that the only unprovoked sentence you wrote was “I am Sin. I am the Devil. Steeped in ruin, blue on blue”. Maybe there is a reason behind someone’s thoughts always speaking to them in the second person. But on silent evenings, across the road from towering lights, I’ve seen you quicken into flight. Do not even you, run for your life?

-Ratula Bannerjee

The Chance of an Afterlife

Words swimming in your head can be painful. Unless you give them an escape route, they torment you; make you pronounce them over and over again. And then when you stare out of the back seat window into the orange vapour lights, the wind whipping your hair about your face feels like your failure in expressions slapping you around. You recoil, until the fragrance of the night jasmines remind you of the mute girl with eloquent eyes looking out of her second floor window, waiting for you to come home. She traces starry paths with her fingers, painting the route you searched for so desperately in your dreams, the stairway to heaven.

You throw your head back and laugh at this thought. Heaven, for you, there existed none. You didn’t believe in an afterlife. You knew that if there was a Hell, you’d be the queen of that place. With a bittersweet sneer on your face, you fish out the blood red lipstick out of your clutch, and apply it, pouting at your reflection. Your face glows in the orange light flooding in through the window. You look down at yourself. The lithe body wrapped in the sequined dress glitters like a million little stars. She loves the colour red on you. Her face lights up when you wear red just for her. Maybe she felt as if you were fire, burning everyone that came your way. Maybe you should tell her sometime that you feel pacified when she clings to you in the blue sweatshirt. She is the water that calms your fiery self.

You think in disparate words again. You know why they are relevant to you. Could you call yourself a poet? What was a poet who had no poem to write? Did words, just words in your head make you one? You sneer openly, making the cab driver start. You were no poet. You were a whore, the mute girl’s darling whore who tore lives apart. Did she know yet that you were only toying with her? Would she ever know?

The cab pulls into a halt. You walk out, realizing that your destination is on the opposite side of the road. Somehow, even in you late twenties, the fear of crossing the road alone never really went away. It was late at night; the road was vacant except for a random car now and then. You stepped forward on your pointed heels, waiting for the approaching pair of headlights to pass by. That is when you see a whitish figure on the opposite side of the road, approaching you. It is her, of course. She saw you hesitating from her window, and ran out to take you home. She smiles shyly as she threads her fingers through yours and guides you. You sigh. Why is it that the touch of a girl who is a mere pastime for you, feels like nothing can go wrong anymore? You were not thinking of her when the blond muscular man stroked your thigh while nipping at your neck at the bar tonight. You were not thinking of her when you let him explore you. Then why, why does her touch have this effect when you know that sooner or later, you would break her heart?

Her room is dimly lit with fairy lights. The music system plays violin instrumentals, and she turns around to look into your eyes. You look at anywhere but, knowing that is one slip you cannot dare to make. Even when she lies spent beneath you, even when you kiss the little mole beneath her lower lip, you avoid looking into her eyes. It has been six months, and you never allowed yourself to remember what hue her eyes were, not after the first time you made the mistake of looking.

She turns your face at her by the chin, and you sigh again. There is not enough light to reveal the whites of her eyes, and you, reassured, follow her wish.


The sunlight streams in through the skylight, falling on your eyelids. Your slowly open your eyes, conscious of the melody in your mind. It frightens you out of your wits. You never let your words come out in sentences, much less in music. You turn your face and find a pair of blue eyes fixed on your face. The sand colored hair makes a halo around her face, and you know your downfall has begun. You sit up and pull your phone out of the clutch on the night-table. Some contracts need to be cancelled.

– EvePunk95

The man

There was once this man,

Who was not.
He wasn’t what he was,
And he wasn’t what he thought.
What he thought was all
But true.
And the truth was as elusive as all else in his life.
There was confusion, yes,
But the lies in it were greater than what he knew to be true.
His confusion lied,
Just as much as him.
His verdict on mankind,
Was bitterness of a thousand old concepts living within.
His retort was the retort of the ages
Falling, unfailing,
On the deserving and the undeserving
And it made him lonely,
Sitting alone on a rooftop somewhere.

Then he met her.

– Shakya