Ape Meat

The best meal of 

China and the most

Expensive-

As claimed by my 

Friend, Hoooli Foook.

Cost him a fortune.

But he arranged it

For free, as a

Goodwill gesture.

The waitress who

Looked like a Midwife,

In the deep sea

Exotic hotel-

Served the hot

Omniotic soup first,

Followed by the 

Air-Fried-Umbilical 

Nachos.

Apes in this part 

Of the town, taste 

Better, said the 

Mermaid-faced Manager, 

While he instructed 

His crew to serve 

The main course.

The hype for 

The big reveal was 

Intimidating when

The waitress who 

Looked like she just

Got out of labour,

Announced "Fresh 

Out of my womb"

There were limbs,

An open head of a

Foetus garnished

With little fingers.

Took a minute to

Realize the pun in

'Best ape' but 

Snapped out of it 

To get along-

When Foook said

"What happens in 

China remains in China"

"Except for viruses"

I said to myself, 

Before I shifted my

My full focus on 

The delicacy.

DiiiiDiii

Bibliophile, Pluviophile.

She/her. Lowkey writer.

Full-time depressed.

Loud, upbeat. 

Swears a lot to look 

Cool among her affluent 

Peers.

Dogs and cats are

Didi's first love but hates

Men, like that's gonna

Up her game against 

Other ultra-feminists.

Goth look. Dark humor.

Body positivity and

'Go slay gurrrl' with overuse

Of vowels to highlight 

Her over-the-top emotions.

Upon that, an opinion on

Palestine is a must.

Gender fluidity is a

Newfound fetish and

Bisexualism is a

Compulsive dessert

Beside the other 

Delicacies of her big

Fat meal of pretense.

Mom's love is never 

Enough. Her brother 

Is always an asshole.

And of course Didi's 

Got daddy issues 

That are stacked even 

From a past life.

The food-lover,

Party animal, wanderlust.

The exotic places in

India aren't enough.

Didi has perpetual plans

To tick off ten more 

Countries before she 

Turns twenty.

High on self-awareness.

High on information.

She thinks she has 

Figured it all out by 

Being condescending

On boys who are 

Petty simps in the name

Of BFFs.

But maybe a rich-ass 

Dude, of whom she

Always dreams of-

Seems to be the only 

Solution for her delusions.

When he confines her 

To the commands of 

His mother to mass 

Produce Gol-rotis in

The kitchen-

The sweat off her brow

Would scream

How the Good dude, 

Vignesh, would have 

At least extended his 

Help to do the dishes.

To a Baddie

She lights cigerettes

To burn matches.

Kills doves to invoke 

Desire. She's an overused 

UNO reverse.

She's obsession on 

Steroids... Bukowski minus 

The beers and whores.

But the dick still intact.

She's prayers yapped 

Backwards.

Satan seeks her mercy 

To doze off at night.

Jinnxed blood and 

Marrow. Crows mourn in 

Her shadow- she's doused 

Hope of tomorrow.

Every soothsayer's refuge

Before they went terribly

Wrong. She is till today 

Shukracharya's daily riaz.

Tamraj Kilwish once said

"Aditi Kayam Rahe" to

The dark and the mangal 

In Lord Shani's horoscope 

Got misaligned.

So this is a wake-up call.

There's a new force in town,

God/Demon as pronouns.

Pray or cuss- it's your choice.

But be careful while you

Open your mouth-

Stupid is allowed but not 

Boring. Roar/ cry but

No pretense.

Smut or dirt-

You'll be killed if you'd

Be cliche or cringe.

Baba of Undies

My friend left his underwear 

In my penthouse.

I'd to use it to clean my bike.

He cracked a good deal 

At his company after that 

And got sponsored for 

A free Bangkok trip.

After a year, another friend 

Did the same. I'd put

The cloth to some use.

His business boomed too.

The word got around and

Suddenly all my friends 

And their friends paid a visit 

To leave their undies in

My house and everyone's 

Fortune turned.

Did I just become an

Underwear baba? 

Beats me but

People started visiting.

Sometimes, I had to 

Symbolically clean stuff with 

Their undies and they did

Well in life after that.

Then came the skeptics

A professor, a journalist,  

A man with a clipboard.  

They left nothing behind,  

To check my validity.  

Their stocks plummeted.  

Their lovers left.

One man misplaced  

His entire career.  

Now they, too, return,  

Sheepish, contrite,  

Holding their offerings  

Like wilted flowers.  

I nod. Accept the fabric 

Fate has woven.  

At this point,  

Who am I to question it?  

When divinity passes

Through you to lead a creed.

You accept the prophecy

To happily become a 

Baba of Undies.

Zara

Zara

(Love Your Curves)

If you pedal through the passes 

Of Himalayas. Curve after curve 

The mountains unfurl their

Wilderness.

And if you could reach Hanle in

Ladakh and ready for more curves. 

You would find Umling La-

The highest motorable road in the world.

Adorable wilderness.

The bare mountains oozing elgance-

We wish we could cloth them all.

But we can clothe you.

We 'Love Your Curves' too.

Visit the nearest Zara store soon.

Time Traveller

The time traveller moves 

A stone. I wake up in

My New York apartment 

With Ana de Armas 

Asking what I want for 

Breakfast.

The time traveller moves

A chair. En route to 

Colonised Mars.

They ask me to be an

Interim president there.

Hands down. 

No complains.

Time traveller does 

Nothing this time.

He had a chance to do

Something but bored,

Tired, procrastinates

And sleeps.

I end up in misery here.

Broke, ugly, single

And still choking on 

Poems.

The third one is me.

Haven't realised it yet but 

I've travelled to the 

Present of this timeline 

For nothing.

Life is 10th class

One more year of struggle 

And life would be set-

The preparatory exam is

Due tomorrow and you 

Haven't read anything yet.

Teachers say you should 

Study hard. 

The principal says yours 

Is the worst batch.

You try to put yourself into 

Blinders to stay focused 

But Neha keeps coming 

To mind.

There's still a lot of syllabus 

To cover but all your

Head can muster is ways to

Wish her "all the best".

Unable to recall the value

Of Sin 30 and Cos 60..

Unable to understand 

What's "Quite India" all about..

Somewhere you're still that

Teen of class 10.

Secretly praying for grace

Marks, you still believe that

Choosing humanities would 

Make your life easy.

But you don't know yet,

How misery does salsa 

Even there.

Om Mangalam

In my region, everyone's 

Surname is of a distant village.

And if you ask them why-

They'd tell you a story of 

How their ancestors killed 

Someone and fled their 

Original settlement.

My own Lineage goes back 

To a neighboring state. 

My grandfather's 

Great-Grandfather killed

Someone and fled his village.

Everyone has the same story.

Most of them at least.

And I hope it's the same 

Across the country. 

Or maybe across the world.

We're all refugees it seems.

Guilty of crimes. 

Seeking a place to hide. 

Maybe the entire world 

Is an asylum like that.

Maybe that's how the 

Civilizations here began.

Maybe we fled Mars after 

Killing all the trees.

Guilty of doing the same here-

GENES!!!

Maybe be the first man on

Earth was called Bruno Mars

At some point of time.

Or perhaps he was a 

South-Indian named Sreenu.

Aka Mangalam Sreenu.

And maybe that's why 

Mars is always pissed 

In our astro profiles.

Mangalam Sreenu is antagonist 

In the movie Puspa 

Her Superlatives

The way they call her a

Juicy meat-

Dogs must be feeling

Her between their teeth.

Someone said she's a

Cute pussy-cat,

Rats must be terrified of

Her presence at night.

Pristine as primordial fire. 

She saves demigods from 

Conditional hypothermia?

Soothing as breeze.

Light as a bird's feather.

Intoxicating like a flower.

Someone even called her

Soft as a baby's butt.

And the way they touch 

Baby bottoms on live TV..

She must feel abused

Everytime there's a 

Diaper-ad.

Homecoming

My boy doesn't seem
To walk on the ground
These days.
He likes to levitate.

Shit-talking about random
Girls has stopped.

Looks at earrings in
Thrift shops than
Window-shopping
Second-hand bikes.

He doesn't stone the
Mating dogs these days.
Talks about the nostalgia
Of Kishore Kumar songs.

Oils his hair and wears
Better bright shirts and
Wonders why his shit
Stinks after he shits.

My boy has become a
'Bwoy' it seems.

The other day he cleaned
His own puke and swore
Upon his mom to give up
Drinking.

He was a good goddamn
Cement-Wall with shards of
Glass to insulate himself
With feminine curses.

But somehow a witch has
Gotten to him bad, like
Periwinkles leaving cracks.

We're taking counter
Measures though..

Confident, his sailed ship's
Gonna capsize in about
Six months. Or maybe less.

We're getting ready on the
Otherside to relish a
Drunk night full of his rants
About her betrayal.

We know he's gonna sing
English songs after the 4th peg.
His homecoming has to
Happen with an orchestra.

So we're busy tuning our
Instruments now.

Fart to Spirituality

Big entrance exam day,
Four puris in the morning
Fall heavy on your stomach.
The stomach growls.

What seemed like a harmless
Fart, seems to tease with
A Serendipitous act.
Your denial earlier grows

Thin and you gotta search
For a toilet. But the
College premises didn't
Bother to build any.

You gotta walk searching
For one. But the only hope
You got is Two kilometres away
In the bus stand.

And you walk and walk
Clenching your
Embarrassment in the ass
That wants to cry.

A five-rupee coin in hand
To pay for the toilet and
An old woman on the way
Asks you for alms.

You don't know what to
Do with the idea that
Flutters in your mind but
You gotta prioritize other
Important things in hand.

There's no gratitude
Bigger in life than your legs
Getting you a toilet in time.
And you're thankful-

The relief with which you
Return. You pay that
Old-woman purposefully.
That day you were more

Closer to God that
Anytime ever in life.

Narcissism

Sleeping with myself to 

Test my narcissism.

Guess I got an erection.

I saw my face and 

The bare-ugly-chest.

Drooled all over to 

Quench my fetish.

I was my own king

And my own queen.

Orgasm after orgasm 

After the self-admiration.

Finding no one better 

Than the two of me-

The goldy manifestation 

I am, and the others,

High on the voyeurism of

My pious sins-

Should try me. Try us. 

We can gaslight you

At will and feed you to

Your own guilt, so that 

You can come in praise 

Of my wit later on.

Till then, lemme 

Sharpen my tongue for 

My next attack.

War against Cancer

Me and cousin urinated

In the empty bottles,

Stashed by my grandfather.

Hampering his intentions

Of selling them to buy

Himself packs of Beedi.

Guess who were the

Earliest fighters of cancers

By weaponizing weenies.

Maybe we should take up

The task again to raise

Funds for a campaign to

Piss on the balance sheets

Of cigarette companies.

"Cocks against cigars"-

Such a metaphor for 

What kills and what can 

Give birth.

What can ooze out life

And what sucks it in.

Carrot Halwa

I hope you say my name

In your sleep. 

I hope your kid asks you 

Repeatedly about the one 

You seek in your dreams.

I hope you've fumbled 

Everytime they all wanted an 

Explanation and I hope

You had decided to never 

Talk about the past.

But not today.

Not on on this gloom ladden 

Sunday of late December.

But how are you gonna 

Say it aloud? 

How are you gonna scream 

An ex lover's name in

Everyone's presence?

You decide to prepare 

Halwa with carrots from 

Backwaters of Kerala-

The one you had prepared me

When we had first met.

Everyone enjoys it to 

The last bit. 

Your in-laws say it's the best 

They ever tasted.

That's the closure everyone 

In the family wanted. Well,

That's what you thought.

But your kid still goes on 

Aking about me and you never 

Realise when he started 

Referring to me as papa.

What shocks you more

Is why the hell is he referring

To your husband as mama.

Two Chairs

At the end of the world,

Against a fiery sky that's

Dying. There are two 

Plastic chairs.

I'm sitting on one,

Waiting for you with a

Cold beer.

At the beginning of 

The world. Against rebirth 

Of a new sky- there are

Same two chairs.

Still waiting for you,

The beer is cold still.

And the epochs pass by-

Ice-ages -advent of warmth-

The civilizations and now-

The same chairs against a

Murky sky and skyscrapers.

But you come this time.

Where were you? Doing what? 

Having flings? Kissing hoes?

Tasting betrayals? 

The beer just turned warm 

And the moment is gone.

Saying BFFs for life-

The way you've come now.

The sheer audacity.

Where are the snacks?

Recluse

A Japanese company claims 

It can disappear you. 

Like the woosh of the wind-

Erasing traces from existence.

I'm thinking of erasing me to

Relocate myself elsewhere.

Somewhere low-key, where 

People grow just rice and 

Vegetables for a living and die 

Without fighting the nature when it 

Embraces them with a wound or 

A disease. And maybe when I 

Spend twenty years like that-

Weary enough of the wildness.

Craving for Dosa and Biryani

Getting out of hand-

I would write you a letter,

As I wouldn't have access to

A cell phone or your number. 

It would be scripted in English

But the language would be a

Local tribal slang.

And when you read it out loud,

As per the instructions.

Those fancy-sounding words

Would always mean-

"Fuck you in the ass with a 

Poisoned dart". As you were

The reason I'd to go recluse.

Beyond Reason

Let us hide in the gaps

Of languages. Where our 

Emotions are untouched and 

Undefined.

Life beyond four letters,

Livelihood beyond 

The day-to-day stutter.

If there's a word for a

Yearning for a non-existent 

Home, let's skip it.

And for the smell of rain

After touching scorched soil.

Let's forget it.

There must be some language 

Of the world where,

They might not have confined 

The meaning of love yet.

A longing that isn't limited 

To mortal sensibilities.

Let's outgrow what we can

Speak and read and touch.

Let's outgrow what we can

Feel and express. 

They say, beyond the shackles 

Of logic and reasoning,

There's a marijuana field. 

I'll roll for you, you roll for me. 

We'll smoke up the earth to 

Call it an apocalypse.

Participation Time

You're an incarnation of 

A star that died.

Maybe I'm a misfired bullet 

In an astronomical war.

Perhaps everyone here

Is cosmic-apocalyptic-dust 

Forced with life.

Trees culture us to feed 

Themselves carbon dioxide.

They're CCTVs deployed to 

Monitor us. Mitochondria-

Connected to a giant dictator's 

Mind. Earth sure is a lab.

You and me are 

Test subjects, for an evaluation 

Of side effects of love 

That's wild. 

Come on love..

It's participation time.

Why the Midlife Crisis?

The first time your friends
Mock the bulge of your belly,
You say you ate more.

The next time you find out
A couple of extra KGs,
You land the blame on
The high density of bones.

The denial goes on for a
Few years while the shirt
Size changes and the waist
Goes beyond thirty-two.

Acceptance knocks on
Your door after a while and
You open it- you gotta after

Your hand made countless
Slides down the curves of
This parabolic paunch in
Making.

And when you sit down now,
The folds of this adipose-
Tightens around the waist
To make it's presence felt.

You laugh it off, imagining
The it coming in the line of sight 

Of your weenie while peeing.
And that's a legit catharsis of

Every man in his 40s and
You ask why the midlife crisis?

Meaningless and loud

I like things that are
Meaningless and loud.
Enough imagination
And totally dumb.

A mountain that's ready
To cry. A volcano afraid
Of Butterflies. Petals bearing
The weight of the skies.

I wanting to be you.
You, wanting to be me.
To be parallel lines
Tending to meet at infinity.

Philosophies not afraid
Of math. Spirituality that's
As secure as science.
A villain deriving power

By square root of minus
Nine and a hero defeating
Him by dividing himself
By zero thrice.

Math books felt abused
By listening to this and
The History professor
Turned Pookie to snatch

'The Great' from Alexander,
He's a they/them, now.