Don’t Want

Don’t want your harrowed eye-sockets

Don’t want no stuffed pockets

Don’t want that all ‘hey look at me’

Don’t want what you want me to be

Don’t want battered dreams

Don’t want motel-room screams

Don’t want twenty years

Don’t want happy tears

Don’t want life in a veil

Don’t want what you can so easily steal

Don’t want restaurant shows

Don’t want pointless rows

Don’t want to cope

Don’t want the life-saving dope

Don’t want fragility that you’ll mend

Don’t want the postcard love you send

Don’t want to wear a bitch-face

Don’t wanna pretend running the lost race

Don’t want to prove it to you

Don’t want to get validated by a few

Don’t want to tell you won’t fall

Don’t want nothing to do when you walk tall

Don’t want the visions on the hand

Don’t want your castles in the sand

Don’t want Christmas sweaters to smell

Don’t want to stand listening when you yell

Don’t want the false promise of a better dawn

Don’t want anything that makes me yawn

Don’t want you to fear

For I am not falling, I am right here

Don’t want you to think I will run

No, I am not searching for more fun

I only don’t want you to come and take

My solitary moments, of which the most I make

Let me be as I let you be

And we’ll live together happily.


The Sidekick

Can the hero become the writer?

No he cannot, brooding boy

For the hero has to play his part. He has to be the hero. He can act and do and go.

The writer is the sidekick – the one who observes, who sits in cars in April nights, waiting for the hero, waiting for him to drive them out of oblivion.

He tells the hero that the bay is clear, that there is no danger, Ameya, and you can walk out, winning the mission, jumping the roof in the ecstasy of your heroic being.

The sidekick is the one who tells the tale, making men gleam in sheer joy in hotel parking lots.

He is the one who cherishes the past, reminiscing stories and incidents that happened, when the hero and the folks wish to reminisce. He is omnipotent. Present everywhere, recording every move, putting his crude equations of right and wrong and good and bad to test.

He evaluates. He understands. He improvises.

He filters the necessary, letting the dark matter of insignificance wash down the drain.

He walks when he is drawn to walk by the irresistible aura of his best friend, the hero.

He smiles and shakes his head and bends down on the coffee table to write what he understands – to justify the hero’s deeds, to justify his absolute, entire being.

‘He sings and is known through centuries with different names – a bard, a poet and a playwright and a writer.

He is questioned for the obscurity of the hero while the hero sits and listens in silence.

He is the absolute proof of what happened there and it is his word that the listener chooses to have.

For he may not be the hero, and may never have the mettle to be one,

But without a sidekick, every hero ever, would be left unsung.


Why is it that you refuse to look

beyond this field, across the brook?


Why does the beauty of this field

satisfy you, when beyond, the world has a spectacular yield?


What is so special here

that you would not get there?


Why, when there are places full of kicks and fun,

are you looking but only at one?


Is it the bonds that you hate to break?

Is it why you put experiencing the vastness at stake?


Broaden your vision and for once, see

all that there is, all that you can be.


You can chain yourself tomorrow if wish

but look at the creeks today, is that would you want to miss?


Why shackle yourself to four walls and one dome,

When there awaits an entire world you can call home?

The Wandering Whore

There once was a whore

he was not an ordinary, nothing they would tell in lore.


The whore wasn’t your plastic kind;

and yet, solace he could never find.


He wandered from street to street,

looking for that reason to get his heart to beat.


He looked in European joints and he looked in the trash

and he looked until it made him want to crash.


Years of it, looking at the rouge and red,

and he couldn’t find it until he sank in an ill, drunken bed.


And when he then took the pen

it dawned on him, in a moment making him zen.


He wanted to find love – a particular sort

one he could fall back on, making it all abort.


But alas! He could not seek what he had always sought from the core

And yet, he had lived the coveted life – that of a whore.


There is anguish in my heart, and agony too

As I sit here and brood

and see cigarettes after cigarettes after cigarettes burn

In the quest of something crude.

There is agony of what I am doing to myself ;

Blinded by smoke, crying,

and there is agony also of what I seek.

For I put up a facade, a farce

To show them who I am not

To show what I am not.

It hurts me and breaks me for what looks like living is

in its truest essence, nothing but misery – a shallow attempt to feed the sheep what isn’t hay.

To make them believe that there is something better than them that exists,

when reality is sheep and sheep only – their myriad heads flocked and huddled around some men and some women;

and more sheep who are wolves within, who wear the man’s skin – like I do and try to feast on the beliefs of their comrades and die in such beliefs with bald heads and Buddhist shirts and the sheep sing hymns when they die and that is what their life is – endless agony, endless anguish, endless misery – just the kind I bear in my heart.

For I am a wolf, just not the real one.

I am morphed – bits of this and bits of that but whole of none and it hurts me to see what I have collected in these 24 years – twigs and crowns of dried leaves and sad, fallen glory.

But I cannot stop. For like a woman said, it is like a disease. It will take me in its quest, and in which has also risen mine.

And so, even as my hand trembles and my throat hurts, the cigarettes burn.

Soap And Some Chemicals

This poem is based on a fan theory that says Tyler Durden from Fight Club goes on to become The Joker from The Dark Knight.

I remember the day.

“Do you know him? They say he was born in an asylum”, says Bob.

His words come from a distance,

A copy of a copy of a copy.
My ear still hurts.

Pain is liberation.

I smile at Bob.

He knows.
And that’s how it started

They all knew.

And the more they expected it from me,

The more I had to be.
Today if you ask me about it,

I would just smile.

You won’t ask again.

But it will sink in you after a while.
After that project,

The little, fancy antic of mine

I was at peace.

I could even sleep just about fine.
Then you failed me.
What can one fall do to a man? Nothing.

You took my home. Nothing.

You took my job and it in turn took my wife.

And then what? Nothing.

I took three falls and nothing.
Then you robbed me

And left me in the dark.

I stumbled and fell.

One more time.
What can one fall do to a man? That one did.

It bleached me.

The Lazarus Pit.

Did I change? Nonsense!

It just brought me back those lost colors of youth.
And since, I’m trying to do

What I did then.

Only my hair isn’t blonde anymore. It’s green.

Only this time, I do it in Gotham

Which is infested by bats.
I’m just a mischievous boy.

You can ignore me because I won’t kill you.

All I’ll do is hurt you really, really bad.
But you don’t know this story. You don’t know my story.

Why? Because I’m probably talking in my head.

No one knows it.

I myself wouldn’t have either.

But I know it, because Tyler knows it. 


I walk in the wilderness
Of love and lust
And the many million desires
Which attain I must.

And in the quest
Of finding these and such
I stumble and fall
And err too much.

The bruises heal
But the heart never learns
For it is oddly-sickened
And finds peace only when it yearns.

My shoes have worn
My clothes have tattered
For I’ve walked far down this road
To see many of my dreams get shattered.

So sometimes while walking tall
With a goal set in my mind,
I defy the determination
And sit down to see if happiness I can find.

And sometimes indeed I do
With nihilism and all that prose
And like a complete outsider
Look at the world as it grows.

In times as such
A stroll in the woods gives me joy
For in the moment I’m none to none
But just a brooding boy.

And yet some unknown force of belonging
Makes me walk
On the same old road
Which many voices mock.

The road now dusty, now worn
Makes me skeptical of my choice
But when a distant light promises me things
“Go on”, tells me an inner voice.

And so I keep walking
In the wilderness of love and lust
With a secret desire
That someday this bubble may burst.