When something little crawls on your skin,

it somehow threatens your everything within

because you realise that you’re nothing and everything, all at once

—like the dirt we walk upon

—like the great big Earth we live and die on

—like grass blades

—like the vast plains

—like the one breathing open enormity that we won’t make.

When something little crawls on your skin,

pressing its alien intention against your being;

your whole rounded entirety begins to shake with questions

—like how the Earth must feel

—like how a whole other world could exist right in our view

—like the reality of reality.

It’s terrifying.

And, that’s why we scream.

Picture by Madhavan Palanisamy from the series Appa and other animals


The stars are dead

The stars are dead tonight.

Each molecule is wrapped

in a cellophane mist,

and pressing too hard on my skin.

It’s airless down here

– this can’t be healthy.

Our long memories are quiet

and it’s a little too easy to clear our conscience

because consequences of time

are not spelled out,

wordless, in the sky

– this can’t be good.

It’s making my heart beat

too fast to feel sane.

It’s getting mighty cloudy with our defiance

against the nothing,

of ever nothing,

terrifying- this is not right.

The lights won’t shut up,

the beaches are dirty,

the waves are black and crashing,

my lungs are choking,

with too many plastic cups and fast laughs.

I can’t hold on to

our mutual agreement to agree

on what we see.


Somebody, please sing.


Image by Josephine Cardin

Image by Josephine Cardin


People who see ghosts

are those, whose fears caught-up with their world a long time ago.


Picture – Freddie Mercury, BBC


Name calling

Names engraved


on newborn skin

by people afraid;

of dust,

of death,

of free falling,

of not knowing,

of forgetting,

of disintegrating,

of vagabonds,

of night skies,

of closed eyes,

of too wild,

of too dark,

of sadness,

of purposelessness,

of loose holds,

of holes- both black and soul,

of new,

of orphans,

of bad PR,

of empty houses,

of vast plains,

of deep lakes,

of little idle lanes,

of nothing short of paradise;

and of allowing that we never meant more-

or less for that matter.


Picture by Lori Nix

Picture by Lori Nix



When my only fear of you becomes the inevitable loss of us, I suppose we may call it love.

Picture by

Picture by


Stolen bests

In a dream

there is a tree trimmed road

rolling to your door.


It doesn’t even cross my mind to step inside.


There’s a sky growing cold,

ageing  air

with a smell of wild grass

the hovering of beetles

battering through.

Nothing, no one else.


Now I have a stifling fear in my throat;

that everything I love-

stone paved floors,

smokey brick walls,

creeping moss,

heart-wrenching rebel songs-

is nothing but,

a memory of you.

That all of my best is what I stole from you

unwittingly, unknowingy

as I watched you avidly

through the cracks of your face,

as I drank in greedily

your golden rays.




I know from the sand of my bones,

that our script is destruction.

Hard, mind-blowing, life-threatening,

meaningless destruction.

So, there it is;

I just let you go

in a secret told

to air too thick

to carry it away.      

Photo - Hot afternoon in Langano by Chelsea Sullens

Photo – Hot afternoon in Langano by Chelsea Sullens