NO HORSES. NO EXCHANGE. NO RETURN.


Consecrations buried firm faithed
This is not to be, this should never be,
Wrapped and loc’ed against everyday paranoia.
Was it true? Was I lying? Did I know?
Was I blind?

Endless turning warming water
The water calm, the breeze
A pleased woman trying to pretend
And underneath, restless stirrings
Don’t shake, don’t rattle. I am lying.
I am trying.

Boisterous indifference, what lies
On the other side of this wall
Of course I care,
For all that I want to care for, for all that I want
A caring man am I.

In the dark you kick, you turn,
The grass greener even before you are
Whose fingers will you grasp
When you know it all, everything.
Vain, imperfect, happy fool,
Tear in my eye.

written June 2006
(un)swerve
stuff i wrote just after the BJP led NDA was voted out of government in the summer of 2004 took on a new perspective as 2009 drew to a close and 2010 began in Hyderabad.


Sunday silent not yet hot afternoon, the shining drug of near-affluence you want to think
Ripening, juices running down dripping fingers wrist forearm elbow,
Longitudinal curiosity laying bare new districts at every turn,
Banishing the nights of sloth, stirring daylight alive, riding February she comes
Stirrings in the warming deep waters, it is time, it is time,
The primal calling serpents maize jackdaws jasmine,
In the yard, the whiteness, a million turning fans, rock throwing powdered sun
Into air, somewhere someone plays or (likely) listens to stride.

Fathers cross and uncross (exceedingly) media mannered, legs and numbers,
Keep the heat away, proclaim selfless servitude, and then some
The river broadens and dries to a halt, no longer coursing through its veins
Fish seeking higher ground, things shall be stilled for some time, for some time to come,
Ferocious nights under moonlit skies, ferocious, the contrapuntal battle
Of the master and his discovery remains consigned to memory, wait,
The searing winds, like a curse seeking its victim, must first flood
Our unwillingness with longing and our indifference with thirst.

Sound of children in playful war, the mothers sit at the back of the lot,
Their whisperings like the sloshing of water tankers taking a tight turn,
One must strain, or know their lives well, to know if it is their lives
Or those of soap opera families that they slice up, taste and screw their faces at,
Behind the bushes, the horrors carried over into the future,
Under the gleaming serene clean green the corpselike cracked earth,
The clouds gather, wash our sins away, wash our sins away,
Wash our sins away, wash our sins away.

The people have spoken, it is time, it is time, the people have.
That done with, it is time for fete and fair and food and wine, come
Stuff your pockets, stuff your mouths, think winter, the people have.
But now it is time. The people can wait, we were away too long…
Like a cold dog, the earth turns, where did we go wrong, (just) where did we
Shed it all? Are we the people? Are we the right? Or left? Or middle, safe and warm?
Oh come, don’t fret, our superheros are at work, the kids all right, now it is time
To fat our calves, sun our backs, and to hell with if the world is mine.

Struck Thursday




I struck work on Thursday, early since I was always the first to reach
The kids were setting up wickets on the asphalt, I tipped my hat and
Walked on down the hall, my allegiances firm and centered all right.
Nations are made of the people. Nations win if the people do.

I hold fast my sobriety like a baby as I watch the tires burn high and black
I hold fast my newborn conviction that thy kingdom will come to those who
Pray to dissent and resistance. That the way sold as the way is but
Phoenician bauble at the gates of dawn. I slash. I burn.

Friday night, they told me I was free to go, free to protest, free to speak my mind.
Together we stepped into the night, the cold air like a sword at our throats,
Dreaming of daughters and wives and hot dinners and weeping mothers
Ahead of us, the night waited with her bullets and her justly red blood.

I reached early to work on the weekend. The Directors lots were full by then.
The trolleys were heavier than ever, the canteen was more silent.
What was wrong was what we said, how we said it, and why we did.
In our tongues lay our being. Sold out, the news channels lead you..

I don’t have time, not this Sunday, no, not even the next. Next month is good though.
By then tears would have dried, all anger dissipated compensation commemorated
By then our north would have realigned with the convenience stores of tomorrow
Where our souls sell without our knowing, and language is only media.
The Senility Prayer

Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to
change the things I cannot accept, and the wisdom to hide the bodies of
those people I had to kill today because they pissed me off.

And also, help me to be careful of the toes I step on today as they may be
connected to the ass that I may have to kiss tomorrow.

Help me to always give 100% at work....12% on Monday, 23% on Tuesday, 40%
on Wednesday, 20% on Thursday, 5% on Fridays and help me to remember.....

When I'm having a really bad day, and it seems that people are trying to
piss me off, that it takes 42 muscles to frown and only 4 to extend my
middle finger and tell them to bite me.
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