nothing wakes
the ocean is another failed suicide
or almost.
touching takes
too much work to grammatise
our sorrow.
crashing pans
and picnic blankets laid out
all awry.
shaven heads
offer god a sacrifice she
doesn’t want
but can’t deny.


Could keep past the humectant sleeves of old coarse bitterness
That reach across the seams and blur the miseries we found in each other’s
Happy eyes.
But how do we survive when the cold wind was all that kept our hearts beating?

The coast of generations, pile upon pile, hurry the waves to moan:
‘Don’t take too much but what can pass for common nightmares that tear
The starry sky
And then leave what you can for those that seek their fortunes told in reverse.’

Here, withdraw, hold still before the sea breeze blows you away
Along the lines of derelict moonshine that occupies what it cannot own.
Here, come stand with me tonight and I’ll tell you all the dreams
I’ve never had.


In crossword cities
The rituals of the beat
And weary
Conjoined at square
And street
Spell of rain.

Careworn and fraught
With the wrinkles
Of their family lines,
Forgetting how
To read the
Subway sign

Shambles in the
Warpath of
Streetlamps and
Outstretched palms
The ritual must
Go on.

The knees they
Rattle like
The restless door
In old wheezing
Monsoon winds,
And give in.


This town waits for the crescent bloom, the nightfall poultice that forgets us:

In slow grooves we circle our graves.

It secrets the cracks in our walls and sits by the fireside and listens to the ticking clock

And carries with it, its moss and damp breath,

Lumbering through the streets

Like a dog forlorn and drags the fog behind it.


This town once crooned to midsummer night

And rung church bells,

But now it droops and rests at a bus stop.

When on window panes were speckled drowsy  raindrops

And children in tiny rivulets

Flowed up the hill

This town was eavesdropping.


Maybe we have grown too old to see the monster

And now we keep it at our bedside chained

So our secrets will stay there to rot

But the town scratches at the leg,

Implores the rain to come visit again

But knows the rain was never its friend.

come calling

Why’d you rattle the windows

When you weren’t coming in?

The grey underneath my nails

Was finally turning pink

And I thought I could melt myself

Into candle wax

And pour my blue soul into a mould

To rise with the fumes.

But you’re here again,

Might as well stay for tea,

Continue reading “come calling”

Diary entry #1

Maybe I should write a diary. I’ve always hated the idea of one but now it seems like I can do something with the form that aligns it more with how my memories structure themselves within the contexts they occupy. In a way, they are limited by the fact that most of them are irrelevant except as a means of the continual generation and regeneration of the illusion my identity but then again, for the same reason, they are also freed of the conventions of fact-based entries and reflections that are so utterly boring that it would probably be no more taxing to read them in binary code. I can’t write if I can’t enjoy discovering what my writing reveals to me.

Continue reading “Diary entry #1”



Autumn is the tragedy of fruit;
The theatre of bulbous bearing
And wreaths bound by lazy vines
Where all the daze swivels about
The honey-dipped cotton clouds;
The satin sky that seeds the clay
With the sagging boughs of yesterday,
The maze of trees tiring to weigh
The burden of the thunderclouds,
Plop! The waft of o’er sweet cherry-red
Slipping across the nodding grass,
Across the garden overgrown and
Towards the forgotten water-pipe.
Then the branches come to bare,
And the prankster waits his turn
To nip the buds and children’s noses
But for now sits across the garden wall
Licking moonbeams off his fingertips.
Autumn is the hero of excess,
The damsel in distress;
Autumn cracks and autumn sighs,
Autumn’s boon is autumn’s cry;
Autumn is the weight of childless homes,
Autumn waits till autumn turns cold.



Political Correctness: An Ideological Polemic

Let me begin with an incision into one of my favourite TV shows simply to assure myself of my impartiality or lack thereof. I still believe, even at the end of my reading of the ideology that operates within the bounds of the cultural production and its relation to political correctness, that Scrubs remains one of my favourite TV shows simply for thematic and  formal reasons. The problem for Scrubs, in the first decade of the new millennium, was that it had to come to terms with the increasing social pressures of diversity mediated through production houses and a form of comedy that is, in its accents and style, a product of a dominantly white industry. My argument is that even when Scrubs successfully navigates through these ideological oppositions (in fact, especially when it does) it fails to attain that elusive tag of cultural multiplicity for me even as we fallaciously attach it to certain TV shows in the current decade. It is all the more troubling that cultural representation in American Television has not really received the impetus we think it has in the last seventeen years. Continue reading “Political Correctness: An Ideological Polemic”

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