The mirror looked good today,
It’s not supposed to, when I watch.
I have not been beautiful in a long time,
Not that I am supposed to be.
I am supposed to be handsome.
But today, the mirror looked good,
The reflection smiled and waved,
And brushed back stray hairs into conformity,
It looked like the son of people,
Instead of an unfinished doll on a wooden floor.
The reflection didn’t suffocate,
Didn’t hate, much.
Its smile faded,
But it was still beautiful.






Some songs are windy evenings,
And some evenings are songs.
The age of giving up and giving in is here,
And I can’t tell which is which.
Suppose what I have written, useless and facile,
Could be collected in baskets
And tossed into the fire like the makings of a dadaist masterpiece;
How long would it burn?
How long do dried poems burn?
Or do they whimper into ashes,
Like the memories of old songs that are just old now?
Wishes are such violent things.
But I still wish sometimes,
Just as I write on evenings that might as well be
Beautiful, windy songs.



We are skyscrapers,
Built with bricks without mortar…

So when they inevitably fall,
What are we?
An abundance of bricks?
Or a lack of mortar?




The picture belongs to me, as does the poem; so be discreet… Thank you

Angry little man

I am an angry little man.
Anger is an heirloom, inherited from my father,
and his father before,
and so on, perhaps.
But my anger is different.
The heirloom has been deformed over time.
The edges have smoothed,
ashes have collected in heavy breathes
over its last few leaves.
It flows like a little stream, approaching the valley;
almost not there.
But I am still
an angry little man.


We get progressively more lost in a world that grows half alive after sun set.
The darker alleys of the city are all brightly lit
and the places where we hid, before,
have all been suddenly killed.
The ground shakes after orange footsteps
parade around in unison.
The last throes of the sun invite an early autumn.
All the lanes that used to belong to lovers and drunks and thieves
have been overtaken.
They are all lit under divine lights;
divine providence reigning on the minds of sinners.
We search for little spaces of darkness, remaining within the unfurled wings of the city,
places where sin is still welcome.
The city seems to be tired of divinity.
It’s waiting to fly.
The shadow of its wings will lift
and we will remain buried under the burning lights,
orange, and obscure.


I was reading a poem last night, when the moon disappeared.
The entire world felt emptier for a while.
But the streets
were still lit.
And the ground forever shook under the weight of an absence.
The invisibles marched, the dead marched, the dying marched.
The deformed, the detached, the dejected marched.
We marched.
The city, before it took flight,
came alive for a while.
The half life of the dying sun held up the flying city.
We mourned the loss of the moon.
The moon mourned the loss of the earth,
and sin.


If the world doesn’t starve
and people still make love
making forgetful people that run and play and forget.
And steal from each other and themselves.
If the moon returns and the tides begin, again
and the darkness of blind alleys emerge from under the dull glows of night lamps,
where poets drink and drunks write,
and divinity sits,
watching over the city, nesting over a new world.
If the seasons walk back
and fall into haphazard patterns
that never and always make sense;
songs will be written again.




Write me about things

Ask me how I feel about you,
And I don’t know.
Everything goes blank;
Minds working feverishly fast.
You come in slowly, from beyond rainbows, unicorns and plucky nightmares.
When you look at yourself in the mirror, you must only see the fat?
And it is visible.
The little shadows that fall over each other, darkening your chocolate skin
Move like oceans on your body.
The breasts move like little cups of liquid flesh
And after a thousand hours together,
In a strange room,
I don’t notice you.
When you write,
Borrowing metaphors from the city,
You make me run the length of tram lines,
Smelling fruits a season before,
Imbuing all your little spices In the space between your lines.
You make everyone else
A little less beautiful, in embrace.
I haven’t seen you cook,
But I imagine you concentrate,
Without creasing your brows,
Humming songs of the old man.
I imagine the chaos of the kitchen patiently balancing
Your organised mind.
There’s a thin film of whiskers above your upper lip,
One you are proud of,
One that tastes a little like stale cherries in the refrigerator.
You must be tired of analogies.
I imagine you
Sitting patiently
At the bus stop,
Content in arriving early;
As always.
When you pick up the bill in restaurants,
I enjoy the odd glances
Measuring you in straight lines.
But you, little lady,
Are all curves.

I don’t notice anything new.
Just texts of my broken pieces glued back together
At midnight.
You look pretty in that little top
I always call black,
And a little dense mascara on your eyes.
But I don’t care.
When I walk up to you,
Late and wet
And hoping for an escape,
I just see you.
You must be very broken too;
I get glimpses sometimes,
When you ask me insecure questions.
But there are other times,
When you skip from country to country,
Tying mythologies on a string,
Winking proudly at your knowledge of kinks,
And being wistful about bad dates.
When you narrate world histories,
While role playing in crowded book stores
And refusing cigarettes
After every peg of rum,
You become a giant person.
And I wonder how you fit In your little frame.






Some day again it will rain,
Like all that repeats
Because nothing eventually is
Different enough to surprise,
But take for instance this
Pleasant because we know it, and because we know what it does and what it needs.
It won’t be exact in its replication oh no,
And that is what I live for.
For next time, in a car with rain-smoked-bacon-streaked windows,
Breathing in festering leather and relived metal,
The world outside aesthetically blurred, like they say it’s supposed to be in dreams,
But never is in mine,
The water rising back from the street that gave up long before any of us even began-
In spiral whorls such that from inside,
I don’t know if it’s rain fresh from the sky,
Or rain’s own puddle twin, attempting a vain restoration of position.
This next time then,
I won’t be alone,
Feverishly touching
My neck,
My throat
My cheeks
My breasts,
Next time, in the confused darkness lit up by the out-of place innocence of crystal rain drips,
Next time, I will have you.
– Piko


– Years have gone by and I haven’t written a good poem…
– What is a good poem?
– What is it? A good poem is one that transcends age.
– A poem that transcends age is an accident…
– Is it?
           – After all, what people remember is just as accidental as what they forget.
– It is not easy to forget.
– Is it easier to remember?
– What do people remember?
– What hurts, what tortures, what burns, what rips; what eatsandshitsandcutsandbleeds!
People remember the bad things.
– Just the bad?
– Perhaps not.
                          But just the good?
– Perhaps not.
– Why remember? Why be remembered?
                                                                             A need?
– A want.
– Desire?
– Expectation.
– And here I thought…
                                          – I didn’t expect?
– You didn’t expect. Do you want success?
– Yes!
                    – No?
– Yes, and no…
– What do you want?
– A poem. A good poem, A great poem…. A poem. Worth the ages.
– Is that a good poem, Just the adoration of the ages?
– What else then? What else can it be?
– Just being.
                     Be a poem, will you? Complete; Talkative, or silent. Or both. At different point, or the same. Be a poem, will you? Flawed; incomprehensible; moving.
– Pointless.
– Yes,
                                           Yes! Pointless.
                                                                      You are a poem; not you. Not engaged in imperial war against yourself, not bruising your feet to success. You are not the divisions of time, a story arc, a crescendo, a circle being drawn. You are a poem. You were completed.
                                                                                                                                                  Long, Long before you were born.
– Shakya

Post Script

Just after sex,
You lie on your side
Retiring yourself.
The mop of hair is a little chaotic,
Which suits the talkative smile
That looks a little unhinged from here.
The air is full of sweat
And sour pickles.
You tap your toes to some unknown tune.
The discussion we have-
Are having-
Is sexual.
We discuss tongues in odd places
And censored fluids.
It’s sexual.
You giggle in your irritating way
While I think of witty reprisals.
It feels like an epistolary novel.
A conversation full of long monologues,
Disjointed in its edges; falling apart, if not for the wonderful prose.
Our replies are hidden within our letters;
They are simply expressions of repressed conversations
That weren’t allowed.
– Shakya
(The picture belongs to me, along with the rest of the post… :3 )