Thursday, October 25


when patience runs out on patience
pride descends into your heart
the end of lines you try to bend
brings closure to a start.


If dewdrops could kiss my ears
it'd feel like your voice
if there's a sound i could drown in
your laughter would be my choice
But i'm drowning in you,
you are the quicksand sea
and also the lifeguard
promising to rescue me.
You're gravity to my free fall
my reason to jump and see,
and the safest rope i ever had
my favourite bungee.
But i fear drowning
and i fear the snapping rope
the only friend i have betrayed,
is someone called Hope.

Wednesday, October 17

Frost and thaw

I was wondering in the blankness of the evening on what is a good time to write. Sometimes being busy lets you forget. About a lot of things. Everything. And then you when you slowly step outside the workplace, with every step taken towards home, you start draining away the busy-ness. And the other world, the one with your people starts trickling in, drop by drop into your head. Today you're going to be tossed around by providence, but you don't know it yet. You return to find an empty home, unwind with some good old Neil Young and just when you think you're sorted, sorted with the decisions you've taken for yourself, the choices you have made, just then, something that's hopelessly innocuous blows up into the space it finds. The space you give it. Solitude. You know you're indulging yourself, you can just walk out of the door and get back to the world. Make a call. Switch on the TV, or just step downstairs and meet up with people who're willing and waiting. But you being you, want to find out what is a good time to write an honest post. So, you let your heart feel the tickle of a pinch. It's some strange feeling of loss over something you never really had. Just thought you could, now you can't. Well, let's just say, you feel that God is playing wicked games with you. Just because you refuse his best laid plans, he refuses your's. Gives you the euphoria of something promising and then even without any conceit or sleight of hand, he whisks away the possibility. Sweeps it under the carpet. And so, you decide, it's okay. Promising things are different from promises. God doesn't really make any promises does he? He's legally well advised. You smile. You've found out what is a good time to write an honest post with abstract references.You are done wanting to feel disappointed any longer, so you change the music. Get some Motorhead on. Take a shower, and head out for the world that's waiting. You've been a good man. You've given you're blues their due.

And then next morning when you're wondering what all of this was, but about to post it anyway, the poker player lays out another set of promising cards. Cards with possibilites. But everytime you buy his promise of possibilities, it's a gamble isn't it? Hoping that the dealer hasn't dealt a hard deal again.

Wednesday, October 10

to do.

sit back and sip
old monk and coke.
light up another smoke.
blow rings in thin air.
write with long lost flair.
stop measuring the fall.
play flowing football.
swim into the night tide
deep into the sea
or run till i break free.
make some money
buy some time
add more rhythm
reduce the rhyme
wake up to dawn
before you do,
and see day
break into you.
relive the mush
hear songs of thrush
when it's over,
remember to flush.

Tuesday, October 9

If i had some clue about what i've lost,
perhaps it'd be a lot easier to find it.

Sunday, October 7


why post a bad one, when you know it's bad when drafting it?
such a waste of time. writing it. reading it. deleting it.
like this one.