Clocks have stopped but time has not

For time knows no dust, it barely sits still

And is impatient,

Like a little girl at the sound of the ice cream truck.

Time is gone, like sifted sand through my fingers, better yet

Tap water, treated with chlorine

Like days in your lover’s arms, like hours

Gazing at the sea. I

Sit impatient, legs swinging

Hitting the sideboard with a dull thud-thudding

An irritating awakening.

Life had been pushed into suitcases, bundled up

Like dirty laundry, tangled and misshapen, I am

Forced to run, run once again

Passport shoved in hand, I protest

I never asked for this. But

Does it ever occur to you that all you get in life are what

You didn’t really ask for anyway?

Morning falls like a burden upon one’s back, yet

Another weight for you to trudge along with, I crack

And bend, but groan and push on

Because we all are donkeys. Donkeys of time.

Nothing less. Nothing more.


Perfection reeks, coils around

Serpentine fake smiles

Hiss. Hollow words

Drop. Emotionless eyes

Devour. They

Seek to lure. A mind

Perches on a leafless branch

Barren. And wonders

Where have all the flowers gone

Empty words

Resonating through the ears,comforts

Provokes that first angry word

Directed at a sincere heart,a poisoned dart

First dazes,then paralyzes

Finally kills.Painful death

As one dart follows another

And yet

Another.Once one escapes,the others

Easily slip through.Murder!

A mind gathers moss on a barren dying branch

Withers,shrinks,becomes a mere twig

Serpentine fake smiles shine

Emotionless eyes,they glitter


Puppet land

Someone twitches a string and we

Raise a hand,scratch our heads, smile

Right on cue, tick

The appropriate box,elect

The best puppeteers to pull

Our strings, nod

The empty wooden heads together,perfect unison,bend

over backwards when they yank and pull

Seeing the unbending ones break

Under the weight.

Once in a while a puppet breaks free,does not

Move when the strings are pulled

Labelled dis functional,no longer of any use

To anyone. Disappears

All of  a sudden,only to be found

In a garbage bin or a nearby ditch,dismembered

Joints twisted,never to move again.

Life is simple when you only move

At a simple yank at your wooden limbs

You no longer have to think

Thinking is tiresome you see.

Once in a while a puppeteer retires and we

The lifeless dolls wait

for yet another puppeteer

To pull at our strings again.

No windows, no doors

Trapped inside, a room with four walls

No doors nor windows, I sketched on the walls

My future, as I liked it to be

The white washed walls soon filled up with glee

A cosy little cottage, in the beautiful sea side

Wide open spaces where wind flows nigh

Wings to fly, soar up high

Descend through the clouds, scour the night sky

I sketched all these on four blank walls

And realized there was no more room to draw

And looked around for a place to let flow

My numerous dreams, my sketches longed to soar

But realized that there was no means to escape so

I was trapped in a room with doodled four walls

Trapped in a room with no windows nor doors


Pushing out from the inside

A being wailing to get out,to be


And screaming, scratching

The insides of a conscience that once was the monarch

Of the being in the good old days

When hypocrisy was not a religion,

Merely a word to be despised.

I tear at my skin,desperate

to let loose. The skins

Hold on tight, the socially forged skins cling

Like cling film,

Handy and convenient, guaranteed protection

From wear and tear of  a conscience

That nags and pesters,cries out

For justice.

This modern society I tell you,

Finds solutions for everything, even a leaking conscience

Can be fixed.I run

The risk of being trapped within myself

For fool-hardy cling film skins leaks nothing

Including streams of consciousness

Compassion or guilt. The inner me wouldn’t last

An hour without the skin

Convenience is the new trend it seems

Cling film that clings and

Leaks nothing.Does not disintegrate

Like all good things should.

[Thank you so much for the award. I nominate Jesse Mitchell ]

The Original sin


There is no fate,there is

No destiny,maybe

It’s something that we

The stubborn ones had invented,true

To our headstrong,stupid nature,like the time

We went ahead and plucked apples

Off forbidden trees,got chased

Off Eden.Remember

The Original Sin?

We now roam the earth

Forlorn,pick random people

Random chances,quite stupidly

And stubbornly of course

Call it fate,call it

Destiny whatever bat shit

That we have invented as excuse

To not accept one’s mistakes,and linger on

Suffering,in sickness till death

Does it’s part,cursed

So as no son of Adam shall offer a helping hand,a word

Of kindness in moments

Of pain.I’d say

Eve was daring but Adam

Was a coward who blamed

His woman for showing the way

Shame on thee you shameless man!

But I’d blame both

For sickness and death that plagues us today

For their “original stupidity”

That bite off the wisdom apple didn’t do much it seems.

A tale for my daughter

Someone should invent a fairy tale

Where fairies are myths and crooks are real

Where a young girl sets out all alone

Frightened and hungry,still she must be strong

Unfriended,deceived,duped and ensnared

Robbed,raped and battered,not to mention scarred

Heart broken,too many times

Crushed and trampled,still she continues strong

She shall not be too pretty,nor fragile

Sturdy and smart shall be her style

No prince Charming shall come in search

To rescue her from an evil curse

Nor dragons,nor step mothers,evil and strong

Not even ugly old Ogres,she shall brave it all alone

No kiss of true love shall wake her from sleep

No kiss of true love shall rid her of poison steep

No Cinderellas,sleeping beauties,no blond snow whites

And certainly none of those dwarf types

Most definitely,Prince Charmings shall be banned

Those clowns just appear and complicate plans

She shall conquer it all alone

Without a proverbial “prince” know-it-all

And that’s the tale that I’ll tell my little girl

And that’s the tale she shall remember at every turn

I shall call it “reality” a brand new form

Where stranded little girls make it on their own

No deceptive fairy tales shall ever brush her years

Where girls mop floors till P.Charming appears…