Low BP

When your blood pressure drops,
your head hurts
from the inside.

It is an alarm to eat

When you eat something,
the pain stops.

Though it is not really
a halt.

The pain simply starts
biting into your food
in place of
into your head.


Our dead taught us to hold the fork.
After dinner, handing us a bar of soap,

they showed us how to produce white,
foamy lather over the sink
they accompanied us to in the dark

backyard, and to wring the washed
hands—that our skin is porous, and water
needs to be squeezed out.

Perhaps that is why we buried them
when they died, to decompose
their pale faces out of our reminiscence.

Had we dropped them into the river,
their bloated carrion would have floated
in our minds forever, like burial sand’s

each yard was cramped with multiple
limbs already, like there was no more land
left to dig.


You would think love is
beautiful. It is not.
It is ugly.
It is not you liking the long,
smooth hair of your partner.
It is you not cringing
at the same hair clogging
the bathroom drain.


I came across a poem that was
not for sensitive audience.

Those bloody insensitive bastards.
They can sleep with lights on,
read under loud music, or not
read at all; never fall sick
from street food, sit in any posture
and their backs just wouldn’t hurt.

They cover their heads with horns & yak
hair, and leave their chests bare,
like they were the only ones that followed
the party dress code. You ask them
the party’s theme; they just smash
your windows. When you draw
your gun, they call their cousins
who are younger because they are
the eldest sibling even though
they themselves are so little.
And that’s just so darn cute.


There used to be a guitarist who would strap
a metal bucket to his head while strumming.

One day after he mysteriously disappeared
from the stage, everyone realised no one had

ever seen him doff his hat off. He even went
to the barber only to get the stubble below

his chin shaved. When he had been gone long
enough to grow a flowing beard the length of a

chord he could wrap around the hooks of the
guitar and make new tunes, ears began to expect

the reflection of his echo like a bucket waiting
to be pulled out of a dried up well piled with nothing

but fallen leaves & flung pebbles, the light of his
memory just enough to enclose the lonely vat in its yellow-

orange palms, illuminating equally the rust spirals
down which his music would take the listeners,

and the sliver of his metal that was still shiny,
still not, or was back from, corroded.  


It rains & rains,
the road broken
deep as mug,
muddy brown
water filling in

like clouds pouring
god his evening

Before he can sip,
a speeding wheel
dunks into the pothole,
spilling the beverage.

What other option
does he have,
the caffeine addict
that he is.

He licks the splashed
pedestrians like
they were popsicles,

flopping their hair
with saliva, tonguing
their canvas jackets
black to glistening



A little girl asks
if I have seen
two little girls

She does not
pick up
my words too
heavy for her

but walks in
the direction
my finger

a bag of polythene
in her tiny fist
containing all
the things

that are smaller
than her.
All but those
two little girls.