song of silence

There’s a song in this silence,
A proud melody of defiance,
When our eyes meet,
There are no words like this soundless sound.

I want to wring out the entirety of this eternal melody,
From the voice of your gaze.
To imprison this heaven in my atmosphere,
And take a deep breath.

A life without sound would be bearable,
if we stayed like this,
feasting on silence.

Featured image by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

Her self.

It is she,
the one who hovers in the delicate space between power and pain.
Swaying, falling, then flying.
She does not stand on anyone’s legs,
She balances on her head.
Abounded with courage,
She glides buoyantly despite our clumsy gait.
And yet how easy it is to dismiss her elegance,
her refinement,
her ease.
To deny her an introduction.
She warns,
She will no longer allow the assumptions.
The invisibility you have foisted on her,
Her ambiguity too is concrete.
And yet she is at the mercy of your acknowledgment.
It is her only fuel.
She wants you to call her by her name,
Whatever it may be.
Because even though she exists on her own realm,
her own planet filled with her own life-forms,
She depends on the force of your gravity,
To grip her,
Tether her lightly,
That she may never stray too far away,
Though she may wander,
perhaps even eternally.
If you must,
spit on her face,
then plant flowers on her grave.
But do not stab her with this apathy,
this intolerant indifference.
That will not kill her,
rather it’ll erase her.

the silent activist

In the staid calmness of my reality,
I notice the fabricated solitude,
The peacefulness I have gifted myself.
Stolen goods.
I admit,
It is serene.
And yet the noise shamelessly cuts through.
It is not a thing I can point out,
But it is all around me, wrapping me like the sky.
It nauseates, like an overdue pregnancy.
I feel the internal pull it creates.
Invisible cramps and convulsions.
I allow it only my foot.
A sacrifice to this unseen force.
My foot taps gently at first,
Then furiously.
It infects my wholeness like a cancer.
My body is wracked with the terrible rhythm.
I am feverish with a righteous desire.
My mind rapt with horrible images,
Images moving in uniform discontent.
Flashing widely before me,
A mental prison I can not turn away from.
My oasis of peacefulness is flattened and I am lifted.
And the desert reveals itself.
The famines of justice,
The cavernous poverty,
The plunder.
My fish-like eyes gobble the devastation,
They flick around directionless and ravenous.
A painful feast.
Determinedly, I lunge back into my reality,
Safely awakening into my dream.
I am back on the green surface.
The peace is restored,
I no longer see the desert.
The noise is no more.
Only a subtle shiver in my foot that I no longer allow.
I still myself and sigh a sigh of relief.
I exclaim cathartically, “At least it is not me”.
The pain is at its end.
Now I can finally return to my distractions.

a thousand different skies

Almost a billion pupils,

flickering like a faulty switch,

looked up,

And collided with the vast vastness.


The doctor saw cotton,

large ,clean, unused cotton swabs,

strewn across an azure floor.


The student decided it was like the swirling sea was lit up,

from a curved orange point,

Like the  hurricane lamp she used at night.

It sent dissipating ripples of lavender, navy, sea-green to far off places.

Like sentries,

to study the earth as she studied her books.


The soldier, as he lay dying,

thought it seemed like varying degrees of an untreated bruise.

With a concentrated yellow pus,

draining away into the horizon.


The artist could barely trace the bleary outline,

on the sheer minimalist painting.

A calming mix of dreamy blues and milky whites.

And when the rain threatened,

it seemed an eternal child up above,

had been commissioned,

to color into the whites carefully,

an angry grey.


The villager was certain it was a death,

Perhaps, a personage of sorts,

A politician or a businessman.

For he was domiciled in smoke,

Properly enclosed by the formless ceiling,

surely sent by funereal embers.

If not here,




 Photo by Donald Tong

like a seahorse

I want to wake to a blue morning, like a seahorse.

And sit at my vanity of coral,

Before my watery mirror, and do my make-up.

I want to slip on my pearl studs, the ones I keep under the seabed.

I want to apply my sandy foundation,

To match my look with the beach’s face,

for when we’ll kiss at the shoreline.

After the high-tide has escorted me to her.

I want to use sponges on my scaly skin and even out my complexion.

I want to tame the waves in my hair by letting the teeth of cowries bite into it,

pinning it.

I want to wear my seashell brassiere and jellyfish skirt,

And twirl in my ballooning outfit.

Showing off my pectoral muscles that will look even better,

Because I am holding my breath.

I just want to wake to a blue morning, like a seahorse.





son of night

Watch as the sun crouches low,

sinking below the horizon,

she is crowning.

Once again, it is time for her silent delivery,

time to birth the night.

Watch closely and see the fleeting erumption,

all around yet invisible.

The black amnion spills upwards,

look how fast it covers the sky.

Now the blueness of  day has died.

Yet in the cool darkness, fresh palpitations whisper into the tree’s ears.

A life for a life,

the earth decreed.


a baby as black as night has arrived.




the chord that struck

I swear every single time i hear this song I cry like a baby.

I found out about it from Renee Carlino’s new book, Blind Kiss. The character in the scene going through a divorce, losing her best friend whom she also loves because he is going away to France to live with his pregnant girlfriend, her genius son leaving home for university at 14 while she grapples with the fact that she is 34 and never had achieved much in her life.

She plays it and says its the saddest song she could think of and she is painfully correct. It makes think of my own death and being aware of it in my final moments while i think of all the deaths i have mourned over all at once.

I mean. I am listening to it right now and crying. This chord has definitely struck. I swear the man sounds like he is somehow crying while singing it too.

When the night comes, don’t be afraid. You’re only dreaming.

What does sex tell us about life?

He did not consult us when he invented sex.

Mere Christianity, C.S.Lewis.

I will start with a disclaimer that no. I do not revel or make it a habit to disagree with Lewis, who I truly think is the greatest Christian apologist that ever lived and I am not even a Christian. That should tell you something.

Just for today though, I will disagree with him.

The first phrase on this post is from his book where he discusses how we should be prepared for sex to be odd, repulsive and sometimes downright degenerate. How much of it we want, how we want to it. All of that. He advises us to welcome the oddity because rationale may be truly inadequate to explain the ins and out of the whole thing.

He says God did not consult us when he invented it so we should come prepared to deal with that.

I mean it’s true that God, the Higher Power or whatever you choose to believe didn’t consult us. I mean. he didn’t consult us about anything, but I think in that phrase Lewis was using the phrase more to mean ‘consider’ or maybe I’m just imposing my Freudian slip to his work because I really can’t stop interchanging ‘consider’ with ‘consult’ whenever I say it.

If that was the case though. I disagree.

I think God considered us particularly. So much so that he created a pocket called sexuality for us and us alone. Where our choice interacts with sex and sex interacts with our unconscious needs. Animals can’t have sexuality, in fact I think sex is the wrong word for what animals do. What they do is more or less just reproduction and what does reproduction tell us about them? That they live to die another day and further that cause.

So what does sex tell us about us? About our lives, how much we want it and why we want it at all, especially when it has nothing to do with reproduction. I mean to live to die another day is the obvious reason but that’s only part of it. What about the craving we have for it, the insatiability we have even after years of copulation. What does that tell us about our lives?

I think it tells us there is a great amount of loneliness in the world and it is as if this strange phenomenon of ‘horniness’ is the alert that we have more of it than we can handle at any one moment. By it, I mean loneliness.

In fact for me the physical desire for the act of sex is such a huge metaphor for the loneliness we feel and the true magnitude of it. The need to literally have someone hurtle into your body or you to theirs and I’m not talking about just the physical act even just kissing, it’s quite literal there too. I think in many ways sex is a comfort for the intense loneliness life has to offer us.

And I should say ‘correct sex’ that is just to mean, the kind of sex that fills the void, if only for a time. Any other kind of sex is incomplete in its goal thus more or less null and void, with the side effect of only increasing the hankering for ‘correct sex.’ The insatiability I was talking about earlier

Although, this void filling isn’t just about sex. I think sex is just a complex form of communication and more on the extreme side when you have had as much loneliness as you can take. ‘Horniness’ is not the alarm when the fire breaks out, it is the literal phone call to the firefighters when the heat is unbearable. There are plenty of remedies before we get to that level, not to say that those who do not want sex are not lonely because we all are and the physical desire has its roots in our biology too. But the desire coupled with the heightened intent to act on it usually points to the apex of loneliness.

As such this is why I think children have less inclination to want sex, usually. There is a kind of loneliness reserved only for the matured, when you no longer have your parents within that close reach.

In fact I think sex is the adult equivalent of bonding between babies and their mothers. When we are born we are truly vulnerable and saddled with our new individuality, I think we experience a profuse amount of loneliness. Enter mom. She provides the solace we need to encounter this new world we are now in away from uterine comfort.

When we want sex, we really just need to bond, badly, as the loneliness bites and thanks to our heightened awareness being adults the loneliness can be torturous. Unfortunately at that point bonding with our mothers like we used to, chest to chest, nipple to mouth is much less of an option.

I think this is why a mother dying in childbirth or a closed adoption is usually such a traumatic event. When the one person who could ease your new found loneliness is the one person you will never meet.





Not you or me, us. Society is a person. A complete third.

My idea of a relationship is one plus one equals three.

These are the words of Shan. A sex educator. I heard them on a clip on Youtube which you can find here. A conversation about monogamy versus polyamory, actually a conversation I would really suggest you watch. Anyway, I heard her words and this idea that society lives finally clicked in me.

At minute 18:40 in the video, they pose a question in the group for discussion. The question is, ‘I would feel incomplete without my partner?’ And Shan disagrees, enthusiastically, I assume that’s how she does everything.

She says she doesn’t connect with that. She imagines at the end of a relationship she would feel a number of ways, sad, disadvantaged and I might even add relieved. But what she can’t connect with is the complete loss of self.

You see, to Shan relationships are one plus one equals three. Where two complete people meet and through their interaction, a third springs up. A third complete person.

And it occurred to me. This is what happens whenever people interact, not just relationships. Whatever it is. The office, school, a date, church, every single interaction, there is always an imaginary third that lives.

I think this third is a paradox because in a sense they are at once the most powerful and fleeting person in the interaction. This is why people act so different in groups than they do when alone. It is the third, the presence of the third alone is so potent it changes the behaviour of the individuals.

But then again, when the interaction stops. It is the third that gets the axe. The first axe. So in a way the third is both the strongest and the weakest link. It is this third we are changing when we say society has indeed improved because in a sense the rest of us remain as we were.

I find this an interesting notion especially since we are always talking about changing the world and how that connotes with changing ourselves. And while I do not disagree with that. I think perhaps changing the third is just a tad bit more efficient. The whisper of the third does a lot more than the example of one of us. It’s the difference between using an elevator to lift something to a top floor of a sky scraper as opposed to having someone take the stairs with it in hand, in fact I think the difference is much more drastic than that.

The next question is, ‘So, who is the third?’ The law. Religion. The Internet. Our conscience or what. This I must admit I cannot answer but it would certainly be wonderful if this mystical third could be adequately isolated and truly utilized to ‘change the world,’ as we all so often proclaim.


The Christmas I turned 12, my uncles slaughtered a cow,

At the back of the house, where I was not allowed to go.

I peered through a nook in the kitchen, and through one eye watched fixedly,


I morbidly wanted to touch the squirted blood, to feel its pulse.

I was not allowed any closer.

Because women are afraid of blood and pain.

My younger brother was there.

You need to understand the butcher’s role when the time comes.

He shuddered, frightened by the dying beast.

Writhing in agony,

Exhaling life, Inhaling death.

I watched intently, unflinchingly.

Entranced by the rapidity and violence of death.

But it was only till i went to the toilet that I realized why.

I too was being slaughtered