Being an
Autochthonic cave…
I lie dangling like
A swinging pendulum
What am I?
Just a sewer bum
An eclectic bastard
With scant verses
That melody the
Beauty of the universe…
Have I become morose?
Strangled with the rope
Of death that deafens
My pleas…
Am I alone in the Universe?
A silent colossal dinosaur.
Poetry is death ringing in
Voices, s subdued contraption
Of bouquet’s requiem….
There’s silence left in me
A body cumbersome as
Kafka’s gigantic insect….
I am bound in Chains
By the lack of opportunity…
I am Camus Sisyphus
Doomed by the Gods…
I am crushed, defeated
and broken….
Is there a God that will
Mend by broken clay …
I dream of becoming
A perfect vessel for him …
Is there truth in the WORD
That will sustain the yoke
Of my fragmented imbroglio…
I face all odds against me
With stoic courage


Oct 1st 2017

Words on the pen drown into a sea of letters. Petals of thoughts are stoned into angst. Dear Mig, why have I compromised on your loyalty? My heart bleeds to be in Philippines to be with you. Will a job in the Philippines materialize? I have applied to scores of places. As a writer I m a wounded Kafka, a gigantic insect of his metamorphosis. How can I say sorry to your aching and bleeding heart? As a body you have bloomed a petal in me. I don’t have a stable job or a stable income? Dread empowers me like a wounded dragon. I am in nervous anxiety of being broken as a metaphor. From where do I write? Am I fearful of life? Yes, I think I can come to the Philippines if I get a job. I seek solace in garden of silence. Rilke’s words comfort me. Buddha is a tranquil metaphor of contemplation. Even though I take sleeping pills I am not able to sleep. Had a dream where Christ spoke to me. He told me to read the contemporary Bible that I have at home. He showed me a lot of unknown words. And I woke up. I watch a lizard crawl on the wall as picturesque art. Philippines, I long to settle down there. When I am dead and gone, I won’t recollect the life I have lived. A Christian school in Cambodia proclaimed my death after scrutinizing my resume saying that my experience and qualifications don’t match their teaching expectations. Are whites who have majored in English Literature better than me? I have wounded her soul and I am dreadfully sorry for it. When does writing become literary? Yes, when words are married to it in figures of speech. Sometimes I dream of winning an International Jackpot. I can travel, booze and make love to women. Dear God, will that foster the writer in me? I am tranquilized by the lack of ideas. I suffer from existential dread. It is my agony that I am brown and I have to write an English that was colonized and handed to me in bastard platter. Marxism you are a God that is dead. Even Che Guevara had the finances to travel all over Latin America on a motor cycle. Communism in Kerala preaches dead ideals. The irony of Kerala is that it is ruled by the flag of the Hammer and Sickle and it is soft on market friendly politics. Che, was your effort worth it in being a martyr. Is the world a conspiracy of secret societies? Why does America become a blabbering hammer every time North Korea goes nuke? I have a debit card that has zero balance and my bank account has been suspended. I carry the 1$ Bill the All Seeing Eye and the Unfinished Pyramid as a talisman in my purse. Why isn’t luck falling in my purse?


You poetic flower…
you have awakened….
feelings of love….
I feel passion soaring
like a bird….
Fall into my arms,
and gently float kisses
on my lips….
My lips are full of
tender kisses for you…
My beloved come
to me quick….
The dusk is settling
and the dark night
of passion is waking…..