I shrivel.

Swallow my dreams,

the art of acceptance.

You don’t lose poetry. It runs in your veins. It’s the valve you use to leak out poison. It’s a waste basket.

In the silliness of ladders,

I killed my will to climb.

My legs froze and the ladder fell

And I landed on four legs.

Transform, blow on your tears

and turn them to ice.

Freeze your insides too.

Look at the letters and, realize

You are a creator.



flowed along the stream

pickled with your flowers

floated in collective isolation

(round and round)

my waters turning brown,


my soul steals

your yellow smell

while we rush and race


and fall with a roar

over rocks

my liquid skirts, dripping

with petals

stuck to my limbs

and you



The drop of a feather from

the mouth of a predator, in a stretching

seething way, a grand escape

while the prey is digested


defiant ink on paper, living on its own, with that mighty quill

the difference of hand and print

hurried emotions translated to squiggles

scrawny bits of hiccuping thoughts

and a skippy skating mind.


[ you participate in that rarity of looking beneath the lid,

slowly lifting that lid, your eyelid,

and looking, actually seeing those stars,

in a dreamer’s eyes and believing in their shine, 

the act of mirroring those stars in one shiny moment. 


the bulb like a Christmas light, before the wheels take you 

behind those swinging double doors, 

to the mercy of sharp alien knives, you sigh 

and let go of the sweaty hand of a loved one, 

your stomach doing back-flips and your eyelids closing…]


nothing in fact, has changed,

after that tree got uprooted from your ground, the Earth breathes,

the birds still sing, and zooming out into the cosmos,

see your same tiny self, a feather that escaped,

while the prey was digested.

Krishna at Sattarbuksh


This is a follow-up to one of my older poems ‘Christ at Starbucks’ ( It is set in “Sattarbuksh” a cafe in Karachi, Pakistan ( It is only meant to be an imaginary scene and not intended to offend any religious group or individual. 

His peacock feather quivers

He steps in from the dusty Karachi lane.

Words rolled like bottle-caps… halted.

Eyes devoured his yellow robes.
Eyes narrow, like serpentine mouths.

flowery Urdu music.
smell of Masala Chai.

He sauntered to a table.

“Ya Allah!” Crash!

His amused smile.

The girl in the abaya eyed his flute. A glimpse… then back at her cheesecake.

“Kya chahiye?”
“Ek glass paani milega?”



Psychedelic spirals on the city walls
Whisper beats and numb chants
Like that non-emotive song in a club
Arms that merge and colors that spin
And edges that blink and disappear
And Boom! I’m in the terrible center!
With whirling waves in my bones
And I am this spiral on the city wall
That goes around but gets nowhere.
And I am this color, this yellow that grins
And meets the green in a minute
While turquoise awaits us at the next bend.
And I am this music that I hear in my head
That the spiral arms DJ in my brain.
And they later ask the Sun to see
The frivolous nature of my identity
And I breathe, starry-eyed and let it all sink in.