Writing came so easily,
without song or sorrow.
Writing came in the still of the night,
in the calm of the day,
in darkness and in light.

Writing came when no one looked,
when the lovers spoke,
when the silent shook.
Writing came in straight lines and curves,
in hurried time,
in hurting prose.

Writing was as easy
as ink on smoothened sheets.
Writing left me,
on my two feet.


The Mosquito

I toss about the room like a broken machine. Thirsty.
My throat is dry. My tongue is parched. My mind is in pieces.
There’s a pounding pain in my temples.
I cannot see straight. Or crooked. Or curves.
It’s a long way to travel,
It’s a hard road to take,
It’s a far journey that I must make.
For me.

Good friends and a bottle.

Food friends and a bottle.

A rose from Rose.

At Muse Lounge with the sweetheart and the extended family.


Look at me breathing,

this incessant rise and fall of my belly

that I have no control over.

Stretching doesn’t help.

Holding it in doesn’t either.

Forcing it out doesn’t at all.

I’ll use it sparingly –

just to whisper whispers,

just to sing songs,

softly in your ears;

till you close your eyes and fall asleep

so that you have no control over

this incessant rise and fall of your belly.

Then, I’ll watch you breathing.


Dear Tangeraine…

You spoke of dew and this morning.. 
it isn’t so new to me. 
to remove myself from what i am and hold me up to see
how i falter.. 
Wrap me up in coloured paper. 
I like to be born again.


How many alter-egos do you have?

The Head

Aggressive, passionate and spontaneous, it is the decider. If The Head makes up her mind, the mind must do nothing but comply. Decisions taken by The Head are usually impulse-driven and rash – the stronghold, the ticking clock, the time bomb of imperfection. It keeps hungry, unsatisfied and reckless in behavior, letting the instincts take over where social submission fails. It is the keeper of personality, the harbinger of pain, the root of the soul – tangled and twisted, strong and life-giving, powerful with emotion. Repressed.


Fun-loving, kind, generous and good-humoured, Joos is the play that Jack needs. It is the balance, the Yang, the White, the partner, the feminine half the makes the whole in a day. Joos is a free spirit, bound to nothing, answerable to no one. Joos is a friend, a confidante, a comrade, a partner in pleasure and crime. Joos is the wind, the ocean, the loosened tie, the bottle of rum to ease the rough road and calm the mind. Joos is the spirit.

The Virgin

The unconditional lover, the reader of temperaments, the passions of desire, they all blend into The Virgin. The Virgin doesn’t conform to social etiquette; it plays the game of hearts. It teases, caresses, worships, and weeps uncontrollable at the loss of love. It is attention seeking and quick on its feet. It wants to provide but doesn’t want to belong. It needs to fly but wants the string attached – to be tugged on gently, occasionally, to let it know it is loved. It turns and twists, like a wreath of smoke, surrounding you, but never really there. Listening only to the whims of the faintest winds.


That ocean of imagination that the mind dips into for help during turmoil, Ink is the provider of distraction. It is the warmth of idea, the giver of strength, the spark behind the glazed eye that sees beyond the purple visions of dreams. It is the prayer that is answered in art – feeding inspiration, creating worlds that have never been seen, living lives that have never been lived. It is a strive towards perfection, it is obsessed with flaw, it is the light at the end of the tunnel you see every time you die that little death in the heart. It is the storm in the brain. It is the storyteller.

The Hermit

The Hermit is the darkness around the flame. Recluse and ascetic, it meditates on the possibility of potential and life in a different whirlpool of possibilities. It speaks in whispers and walks on all fours. It is savage and heavy, and hangs dead over the threshold of the mind. It knows no people, speaks no tongue, holds no possession. It belongs to no one. It just sits there, lights dim, moving back and forth, pupils dilated, waiting for the cloud to rain down and the moment to pass. It is the escape.


Little is the neglected child peering through the eyes of a lost dream. It scampers though crowds, searching for a way out, or a way in, or both. It is the guardian of tears, the fire of carelessness, and the victim of disregard. Little is the compulsion of inborn habit, the instinct of existence, the virtue of being. It fusses to have its way, it breaks down at insult, and it fights against dejection. It sits there, woozy with confusion, empty of understanding, caught in the headlights as others give in to norm. Little is the space joining dots. Little is the cry.

How many alter-egos do you have?


Imagine a husky voice.

4 a.m.

The steady tick of a clock. Close range. Maybe it’s a bomb, about to expload, tearing you into a hundred pieces. Or more.

You feel puffy; swollen on the eye-lid and lips; swollen on the cheek and hips; swollen.

A lightbulb shines on your face. Close range. Maybe it’s divine, calling you, luring you into a lullaby trance.

You quiver an eyelid, in the effort to see. It remains shut. Just that bright dot in the otherwise dark underbelly of your eye. Just one big, bright, bloody dot.

And then it moves, the dot. Twists its middle as if struggling for space. Like a blob, floating in the air. Like a bubble, riding a breeze. And plonk, it breaks; right in its belly. As if ripped apart on purpose.

The light flickers off.


The light flickers on.


And off.

And on.



And then it slaps you, the light. Brighter than before. Stronger than before. Pulsating in its shine – In tune with the clock, or bomb, or both. Echoing through the room. Ticking like inevitable doom.


Imagine a husky voice.