The Blackhole Theory

In life, there's one truth, in love there's none
You ask why?
Because, death is real, but ghosts are fiction
And yet, skeletons in the closet of your skin
Do they ever stop haunting?

In life, there's one truth, in love there's none
You ask why?
Beacuse, birth is real, but beginnings are fables
And yet, stories in the novel of your skin
Do they ever find closures?

In life, there's one truth, in love there's none
You ask why?
Because, existences are real, but happily ever afters are make-beliefs
And yet, the goosebumps in the imagined spaces of your skin
Do you ever stop chasing?

In a life of beings, we've been drowning to the love of stories
And stories are not about truths; stories are about climaxes
And you are the climax of your own story and the anticlimax elsewhere; for the rest you are but a mere chapter or a stanza maybe

And what do you get when you weigh truths, life against love?
And what do you get when you divide one by none?

Frankenstein Fear

What is more dangerous?

The demons that they say lurk inside you
The monster you make of you knowing their perceptions of you
Or
The idea that it's all odds and evens; that it's all black or white

Could you ever tell?

Your Beard Smells of Old Smoke

"Your beard smells of old smoke", you'd once said.


I wish I could have told you of all the times, every time I rewound the poetry in the skin of a singular sentence
I wish I could have told you, how your hair smells of night jasmine; how a man of orchids had given in to the essence of a night jasmine's flourish
I wish I could have told you of the monochrome desires bleeding in the heart of the neon citylights and pastel lives; pastels have always been exaggerated, monochromes misunderstood


Beyond glass existences and pretended conversations, lies an entirety of restless unsettling essays; unpenned scribbles that made nightmares look lullabies
Beyond plastic flesh and ceramic bones, lies the whole of faceless demons and nameless fears; skeletons lurk in dark, blank spaces


In a war of similars and congruents, differences drew first blood
Between candids and corpses, second chances hung from semicolons


I could have resurrected and called it Renaissance
I could have scripted good mornings in goodnight kisses



But, this time, I'll let it all out, at a full stop

I am tired of beginnings that end

What's In a Name

Where had she come from
Where was she leaving to

What did she call herself in the silences

Who was she beyond and beneath her


I knew nothing; none of it at all



And yet, the eyes met
No comets fell
No meteors rose
And yet, the rains lashed the feeble city lives
And yet, the silences thundered the voices in the head
Not a moment stood still
Not a word was spilled

And yet, there was poetry in the blood and in the bones
And yet, there was life and there was death, wrapped in the skin

Where'd the Stories Go

Where do you think the stories go, at the end of it all

Dawns always make good mornings
Dusks often are buried alive in obituaries

But then, what happens to the stories when the lives in them leave them for dead

Are they buried, burnt, or, just sprinkled in the blank spaces, between pretended existences
Who tells the tales of the stories

The Goodnight Lullaby

The length of an entirety, the entirety you call home, wrapped in four fragile failing walls
And yet, I can feel myself choking on the dead air, as if sinking to the very entrails of a filthy ocean
The whole of a crowd, thick and filling, somewhat like a never-ending horde of blood-thirsty locusts
And yet, I can feel myself strangulated, my windpipe left for dead, in a loveless foreplay, with the comfortably unsettling silences of a ransacked cemetery


I still remember the night
It was a usual night with an unusual sky, patches of pale crimson and a tinge of beige smothered right across the ribs
It was the night I had freed my wife
I had freed my wife from the woman living in her bones
For, my wife was in love with me while the woman inside had rented out her flesh
And I couldn't watch her tear apart my love, gradually, inches by the skin
So, I held the woman, firm by the throat
And dug my fingers in
Fingers don't cut through; fingers dig deep and blunt
She blushed as if shot in blood as I felt her neck break and wilt like a spineless invertebrate nightcrawler
And then, I cut her equal, right between the breasts, all the way down, till the very end
The woman bled as my wife watched it all, in assuring stoic silence
But, the woman still had my wife's face on her
And, I had to conclude what I had begun
So I sat down to work, yet again
And as I carved her out and chiselled through the thinning lumps of flesh
I watched my wife's face disappear, bit by bit, somewhat like the setting sun across the fading horizon


My wife. My mother. My father.
I freed them all
One by one, one at a time

The idea of singulars is beautiful


But, what do I do of these lives
A pistol to his head, a bullet in mine
A knife to her mouth, a blade in mine
How do I free them all

Too many dead to be put to rest
Too few hour hands on the wall clock to cleanse them all



Tonight, let me lose another night's sleep as I put to sleep another goodnight

The Last Love Letter

Have you ever looked up the midnight sky wondering if the star-crossed love ballads have made their way beyond the cursed clouds?
Have you ever lost your very existence in the midst of a nowhere cramped up for blanks, pondering over the scent of possibilities in a singular fragrance?

Have you ever woken off a tender slumber, fingers losing their way in the abyss beneath the thighs, the canopy of hair eclipsing the contoured terrains across the ribs, minutes away from what remained of the umbilicus, mauling the very idea of outlines as you breathed my poetry in your skin?


If you have, you'd know where to find me.