Back In The Day

Back in the day, the days were good.

You were a kid.

You were secure.

You were powerful.

You were the athlete.

You were the soldier.

You were the doctor.

You were the villain.

You were the mother. To your mother.

You were the lion.

You were the alien.

You were the man who kicked the dog.

You were the woman who snatched the dessert.

You were the man who ran.

You were the woman who made imaginary tea.

You were what you wanted.

You were.



Back in the day,

Today was not, what today is.


You are just that guy,

Reading this, and ruing.

Ruing what you have done.

To be where you are.

To be who you are.

To be how you are.



Back in the day,

You never rued. 


Plucked, successfully.

To think what could’ve been.

Layers of lies that I’d live in a moment. All the love I’d give in a silver basket on rent.

Just a bed. And you. And wine. And new.

A heartless man lies about his heartlessness.

Like, he had a choice.

Okay Cradle.

Faces of the new in illegitimate setups,

Glisten in the sun.

Fresh sweat drips.


Finesse curls into pungent humor.

A grimace fades in on the faces of belittled convicts.


Benches of the now lay rusted on grass,

As the picnickers run astray looking for elevated rest.

Mean boys bully their cousins.

It’s a lesson in life. The lonely life.


Give a lecture that’s true.

Hold on to anger. For the who.

Breathe the dust. Taste.

Suffocate. Overcome. Repeat.

Liaison Words

Solid. Compoundable. Deranged.

The simplicity of love, oft misunderstood.
A smile is not a measure.
A bed, not just pleasure.

The grievance of void, peaked and plateaued.
While the words of life, bleak and subdued.
Dwelling is for the weak. And ranting, for the blued.

Leash in the path. Redo the math.

Sordid for life.
The wish for a knife.
To bottle the wine.
And all that is mine.


The pinkish plight.
Over the silver line.
Rainbows of grey.
A colourful lament and disarray.

A frantic rush to escape the swell.
Placed on a glory-box and thrown in a well.
Eleven hours of fear. The diabetic.
Even the paper cut, severe.

Treason with reason is a crime undone.

The Other Pale Truth

It’s taken a toll.
Has no choice but to sell her soul. But he just had to have her.


The lies of a virgin seep through his veins.
Love basks in the glory of all of his chains.
Mirage of smiles pepper the stained.
But no more surprises.
No attention gained.

Blessings of the burdened, pious men,
Realms of reason attack the failure,
It’s all just a bait.
No season for loveless stories.
No season for the mirth nor the whimsical worries.

Just a step. Then two.
Pick a leader.

Manifesto Of A Raver

Our emotional state of choice is Ecstasy. Our nourishment of choice is Love. Our addiction of choice is technology. Our religion of choice is music. Our currency of choice is knowledge. Our politics of choice is none. Our society of choice is utopian though we know it will never be. You may hate us. You may dismiss us. You may misunderstand us. You may be unaware of our existence. We can only hope you do not care to judge us, because we would never judge you.

We are not criminals. We are not disillusioned. We are not drug addicts. We are not naive children… We are one massive, global, itself. We are The Massive. One Massive. We were first drawn by the sound. From far away, the thunderous, muffled, echoing beat was comparable to a mother’s heart soothing a child in her womb of concrete, steel, and electrical wiring. We were drawn back into this womb, and there, in the heat, dampness, and darkness of it, We came to accept that we are all equal. Not only to the darkness, and to ourselves, but to the very music slamming into us and passing through our souls: we are all equal. And somewhere around 35 Hz we could feel the hand of God at our backs, pushing us forward, pushing us to push ourselves to strengthen our minds, our bodies, and our spirits., Pushing us to turn to the person beside us to join hands and uplift them by sharing the uncontrollable joy we felt from creating this magical bubble that can, for one evening, protect us from the horrors, atrocities, and pollution of the outside world. It is in that very instant, with these initial realizations that each of us was truly born.

We continue to pack our bodies into clubs, or warehouses, or buildings you’ve abandoned and left for naught, and we bring life to them for one night. Strong, throbbing, vibrant life in it’s purest, most intense, most hedonistic form. In these makeshift spaces, we seek to shed ourselves of the burden of uncertainty for a future you have been unable to stabilize and secure for us. We seek to relinquish our inhibitions, and free ourselves from the shackle’s and restraints you’ve put on us for your own peace of mind. We seek to re-write the programming that you have tried to indoctrinate us with since the moment we were born. Programming that tells us to hate, that tells us to judge, that tells us to stuff ourselves into the nearest and most convenient pigeon hole possible. Programming that even tells us to climb ladders for you, jump through hoops, and run through mazes and on hamster wheels. Programming that tells us to eat from the shiny silver spoon you are trying to feed us with, instead of nourish ourselves with our own capable hands. Programming that tells us to close our minds, instead of open them. Until the sun rises to burn our eyes by revealing the dis-utopian reality of a world you’ve created for us, we dance fiercely with our brothers and sisters in celebration of our life, of our culture, and of the values we believe in: Peace, Love, Freedom, Tolerance, Unity, Harmony, Expression, Responsibility and Respect. Our enemy of choice is ignorance. Our weapon of choice is information. Our crime of choice is breaking and challenging whatever laws you feel you need to put in place to stop us from celebrating our existence. But know that while you may shut down any given party, on any given night, in any given city, in any given country or continent on this beautiful planet, you can never shut down the entire party. You don’t have access to that switch, no matter what you may think. The music will never stop. The heartbeat will never fade. The party will never end. I am a raver, and this is my manifesto.



Kid. It’s What We’re Good At

Battles waged in a city of dreams
Vengeance is the flavor of my whipped cream
A dessert of sugarless bullets and haste,
Left a residue of fear as an aftertaste.

“Hey waiter, there’s blood in my gravy..
Can you bring me another plate?
I shall eat it and you shall call it my bravery.
The orgasm of bullshit from political cunts
Ill lap it all up and you shall call me resilient…
As the camera watches me dine and orchestrates a quip,
The blood splatter on your shirt shall earn you a heavy tip”

The world offers kerchiefs to my mourning city,
With shades of second handed sleaze and pity.
Like it’s a widowed slut
Being readied for another fuck.

Train Of Taint

The monolithic majesty of an immediate madness lies in the vandalism of idleness. I am doing nothing while I sit here in a coffee shop, drinking away my little left money in different forms of beverages. As I sit here, I realise that I quite love the presence of this abundance of idleness in my life. Yeah, sometimes, when am low on money, or out of it, I spend a couple of minutes thinking what if I worked harder. Yes, life would have been better then. There’s no doubting it. But then, two minutes later, am back to doing what I do best. Chill. I kiss her and I know everything is just fine. No, not because I kissed her. But that kiss is like the cherry on top, you know? A nice, red cherry without the tooth breaking seed. Ironic.

There is this train of thought that runs through me. A train, so fucking fast, that it refuses to let the thoughts gather themselves and disembark on a clear sheet of paper (Read: Word doc). It’s like; my mind feels that these thoughts are too precious to be worded in actuality. Their magnificence cannot be tainted if there is no chance for anyone to see them. It’s like a city of gold, never found. Ha! So much for mental masturbation. It’s like each thought of mine is a hoity socialite that will never step foot in the slums of authenticity.

The effectiveness of any feeling stems from a culmination of the past and the surprise element. If you already know how to tackle it, it will not really do much harm to you. Or good, for that matter. But, if it’s even remotely unknown, the intensity with which a feeling will punch you is tenfold. But it’s the same kind of damage that will do you good, if you’re me. Because, I really don’t give a fuck. See, when you don’t give a fuck about most people and situations in life, all of it can’t come around and fuck with you.

One of those things that do make sense in my life has to be music. Laugh, but the first thing that kick starts in my mind after something happens, is a song and not an emotion. That comes later. Maybe. Whether or not it relates to the song, is a matter of debate. Fight with an old friend? Wake Up – Rage Against The Machine. Aunt fucking my mind, Mermaid Blues – Tom McRae. Boring client meeting, The Importance of Being Idle – Oasis. Motivational, goose-bumpy moment, Zindagi Se Darte Ho – Indian Ocean. So on, and so forth. It’s an elaborate labyrinth of vile notions that induce such a phenomenon, really.

On some days when visions of incoherence rule the mind, in hindsight, it all makes sense. It is the defence mechanism of my mind, I believe, to keep me away from the frightening reality of fucked up fanaticism.  Peons of a daily routine fascinate me. Sometimes, they seem so surreal, and superficial. But then, some times, I really envy them. As fucked up as it may be, at least they have a routine to look forward to, every, single, day.

A ravishing realm of reminiscence is not the food for thought that I had in mind. Recollection of the golden age seldom does any good to man. I have never understood how looking back and envying one’s own past makes one feel good about the lack of it. If it does, man there’s something so wrong with you. Just like me.


Fluid motions of this wicked world,
Bind my hands in shackles of shame.
As soon as I break free to let love unfurl,
I am staring at the face of a brand new sham.

Pieces of filth and your famous fangs,
Potions of magic by your musical gang..
You reap the seeds you sow in me,
Relishing in me, is your rampant poison ivy.

Paper seekers of the paradise birth
Wallow in dirt with humour and mirth..
I revenge the ink with the ancient stand
A poet whose vengeance is all but grand.


I’m in a wide open space, I’m standing.

I dug deep within. I opened up the bandaged wound. I let it bleed. I let it clot. I let hell break lose in the mind. I am amidst a storm. I see myself grounded firmly as the surroundings are in a disarray. There is this strange sense of calm in watching all the violence.

“You lock the door. You throw away the keys. There’s someone in my head, but it’s not me” .. But, it is me. And no, you will not throw away the keys. I will snatch MY keys back. You will leave and shut the door behind you. Just like they taught you in school.

This may be a calm before or after the storm. I couldn’t care less. For your sake, hope it’s the one after. There is so much rage that I can see you bleed and it makes me happy. More blood, I say. I can feel a warm laughter rising from within the back of my head. I am reclaiming my land.

Run my child back to your orphanage
For now is the change of season.
Turn the page.
Raven riots ravage your demeanor.
All that’s coming off, all that veneer.
Go away and dance.