Of sunsets and pain in paradise 

The sun is burning anyway;

it doesn’t need more pain.

Earthly love

is hardly ever a bargain.


Everything hurts but tomorrow

when you like glossy covers

with pictures that cause a slow gnawing 

from the heights of paradise complex.  


Life cuts

as often as it wets our hearts

with soft clouds

dipped in orange dyed lagoon sunsets.

And we are left beating

with the fish washed fresh

off the warm waters

at some faraway paradise bay.


Image by Andy Moine


To the little Southern girl on the beach: Part two

It’s alright, catch your breath.

You’ve run so far, she can’t see your pain;

Your little friend- the prettier one

with scar-less skin

and a face that peaked too soon to kill

a human heart.


Babe, have you ever heard of the tale

of a little, ugly duckling that lived by a lake?

It’s true.

I’ve seen it living, breathing by a convent wall,

at a dancing class, a high school fair, and at last

growing between two little girls in the seaside South.


You know babe,

legends are made from truth,

flesh and clay.

How do you think

I know your story

so well?


Don’t worry little duck, you’ll do fine,

because pain teaches delicate things.

But, her…she’ll die a slow death in her heart.


In warped time and place

I’ve seen her married to an idea’s face and boredom,

because she never knew beauty’s labour.



Image – Dayanita Singh, Gayle and sister, Goa 2000/2005. Deutsche Bank Collection ©


To the little Southern girl on the beach: Part one

I see you rolling in sand wearing only a swim bottom.

I envy your bare brown freedom

because my chest is too old to be brazenly sunburnt

and to be removed of the sex that has grown all over.

Wait little babe

they’ll soon crown you too, with chains.


I see you chase her across the beach- your other little friend,

the prettier one with lighter skin

and better hung baby meat.

She’d let you chase her but never touch,

and dropping your hands on knees you stopped,



There was boundary on the sand –

the dusky part that the ocean wet

and the crisp white half that it could never get.

She was on the other side-

the one that stayed untouched by salt tears.

She laughed and laughed because…


You know babe,

she will break your heart one day.

It’ll either be,

that boy who’ll look at her right through you,

or the world that breaks you with its blind love young beauts.

She’ll take down your stars.


Babe, it’s alright,

let your knees crash to the ground.

You’ll survive.


But, let me tell you a secret;

a shortcut,

a little byway to no pain.


Next time you run up to her

let her eyes shine for a moment

but, turn around,

throw your chest in the Southern wind

to run laughing.

Babe, don’t even think about turning.


Wickedness is just a game that we are playing.


Image by Arthur Morris


Night of February twenty sixth of two thousand sixteen


Absolutely nothing.

Is it terrifying like a new graveyard

– beating pangs across spilt clouds?

Or is it really just a shattered glass

in the sky’s Sahara blue heart?

Only one thing alive to see

beauty being just to be;




Image – unknown



As in his arms

love dappled down south.

A quake in the valley

is breaking dams when I see

new rain streaming down him.

And oh, the taste-

lacing the taste of his name

and the urge in his weight,

it’s all southbound

now, with Alain.


Image by Lionel Wendt

Image by Lionel Wendt


Ugly mirror

All you wanted to be

was one those girls;

the ones whose lips hang

pouting from their lovely

pointed chins-

ever ready to kiss;

and their hairs always tangled

in midnight wind

calling them astray and hearts to disarray,

but gladly forgiven

because their cheeks burn too red;

whose bodies so delicate,

tight and cherished,

and made only to

be loved and buried;

whose tales haunted

every mirror you were reflected in.

You wanted so bad, to be one

of those girls who

tragically never knew

how beautiful she is;

but in the reflection

between the carefully arranged perfection

you still see

the wide-eyed, staring,

clumsy faced thing.


Image by Vasya Kolotusha

Image by Vasya Kolotusha


What is it about the ocean?

What is it about the ocean,

the log stretched wood,

the everlasting plains-

that stills like glass,




gravity undone,

lifting to a cloud?


Picture -

Picture –