Stream of Sustenance

[In a chamber of heart cells collate]

The Stroke poetess She unmakes the alleyways of Suecity Makes up nonwords Undoes a spell of alphabet cast on her mentation by her dada Streets hide the ways out Sewers mark them She dines at the monochrome eat-out [Red white…lives march forth] She brings the map to life A clutter of lines Means you’re lost A distant memory of The Shining springs to her mind No one knows they’re in it except her Didi calls a voice She Kubrick stares at a beggar girl Gives the map to her Keep it Don’t you be like me Here’s a road to Hierarchy There’s a road to Somewhere [Vessel forks] A piper with an LED for head marches past A flock of girls and boys tag along Hey I’m sixteen Tell me what I want Oh I’m twenteen-five You want a beauty kit You want a girl to quit Follow I’ll tell you more A wooden top buzzes as it spins It is her head [Vessels fork] Why have someone to tell you what you want The boy is drinking pizza I want one of those kits No You tell me I can’t How can I The top meets its inertia The boy spins it before he runs to the crowd It is her head It buzzes once again A man doffs his hat Could you have seen a mendicant pass this way They conspire to overthrow hierarchy She is the key [Open a labyrinth] If you want my ID He hangs his tongue out Lets it curl Undercover reads a tattoo She blended in with the map…with the crowd The man dons his hat Closes his eyes With a finger presses his temple Where he was is a void A Peekapoo smells a pussycat There will be hurdle for anarchy The boy with a piece of rag in his back pocket runs for his life From behind the counter the girl emerges A leaf bathed in dew The Peekapoo hits its head against a pole She takes the map back Tears it in two Chews a half Swallows Digestion ensues [She is vessels elastic] The boy is chased by a damsel in heat What remains of the girl’s rag is burning at the back of the eatery That girl…That girl I was her Quizzically she’s stared at I was you Like you were I’d lost it Time to go Your time will come Be here now [They dilate] Curtain lifts Smoke clears A certain nobody makes love to a somebody BREATHE…EASY Ink from the map seeps Words disperse Gray letters transpose Into bloodstream ooze

Hierarchy                                chary archer heir                                   Anarchy was here



Nowhere                                                  no here how nere now here



Somewhere                            more me womeh                                    She wore anarchy

[In a chamber of heart cells collate Red white…lives march forth Vessel forks to vessels fork to a labyrinth She is vessels elastic…blood pristine Silently within and to herself t he y constrict Suecity doesn’t know it or feel it as it suffers one of those little quiet strokes]


An oldie written in April 2011


Lines (Or Hours: A Dislocated Day)

  • A fig named Panig fell from his tree onto the dew-soaked grass.
  • The morning smelt like a wet towel much like yet not quite like another morn from another year.
  • Pilot Vinayak was flying yesterday. Today, laid inside his coffin, he’s wrapped in tricolour.
  • Excepting Deepa, to everyone else what had transpired wasn’t anything extraordinary.
  • I was just thinking is it just me that feels fractured minutes and dislocated days.
  • On his graduation day, Dilip Augustine Mani, also known as Deep, wept.
  • Chief, listen, my days couldn’t get any more worse (that’s Enoch from a No Eunuch’s Land); they’re piss bloody bullet-pointed.
  • ‘I know,’ she nods. ‘You know the noble corpuscles.’ ‘I know,’ back he nods. Why would he not!
  • There haven’t been enough squirrels dancing over the shaded terrace walls since the Neem tree got trimmed too tight.
  • Ants have encircled the neck of my air-tight Gulkand bottle. I am unsure whether or not to draw the white lines and draw them exactly where.
  • After lunch, Meena grabbed herself a handful of raisins.
  • Avinash gets done flawlessly what takes seven hours to get done in five.
  • Up until his fifties, Avram’s history consisted of immanent, eurhythmic, non-Historical instants.
  • Stretching his back, he peered out sideways from his cubicle, unmindful of the workstation chatter, as if the chatter were some chirrup of crickets. His spine showed straightened lordotic curvature, imminent was a diagnosis of anterolisthesis C4 on C5.
  • A while before Regina was named Regina, she came into being by way of embryogenesis (let’s say) RGA12+/-M the subtle yet rather natural process of which was never altogether clinically, and hence Historically, mapped except perhaps by time-space-energy synergy. Mom might add wills and wishes as well.
  • Tonight, like another night from another month, the man called Ebenezer cannot keep his dinner down.
  • Mother is two-legged but oftentimes in a day three-headed and six-handed. I wish she cooked well consistently (or employed a maid), worked on chores much less and worried even lesser.
  • St. John’s Cathedral just sounded ten bells to ten pm. The mechanical voice read a verse off of Psalm 10 (or 9), first in Tamil then in English. Good news is the bell will not bell again and the voice will not verse again until five am.
  • You’re saying, unlike Grapes, Bilberries are cheerful lot!
  • Temperature, 32 degrees; time, midnight; texture, agreeably humid; irritant, atmospheric dust; annoyance, sneezing (might catch cold). In the noon, it smelt like fumes out of weed den. (Note: white ants were pesticided just days ago.)
  • Gayathri took off her noise-cancelling headphones and couldn’t believe what she did next: she listened to her fan overhead droning.
  • The Raid 2: Berandal trailer plays -excepting a few wrong notes- all the right notes.
  • When you’re listening to the chirrups of crickets it’s most likely that I’m not.
  • Is that a jumbled text that I see imprinted on a shrivelled back skin that I will not remember upon waking up!


  • Raja wakes up, his dulled olfaction senses something’s cooking, and he mistakes once again lunch for breakfast.



First published in nether Issue Six

A Hacked (Allegedly) Twenty-Fifth Century Nonarrative

Do not try this at home, outside, in the car or dark corners [] Your sole is your brain [] I don’t think I have a present [] Time heals all wounds but yours [] To live is to buy [] Don’t adult yourself [] Buy two/Sell one [] I am only Netizan

Lunatic, Liar, Loner or Lunar

What would Zola Jesus do [] I believe in Wagon Christ [] In the continent of India [] I’m gonna make him an officer they can’t refuse [] Being paranoid and be declared clinically sane is to be a superpower

Can I be poor

In the best of all possible colonies [] Is it ethical to marry or birth [] Wish you a happy third married life in advance [] Birth one/Adopt two [] Are you a teaist [] Is Inanna the only way to heaven [] Why am I employed [] Is it okay to be decent [] Why are you not role-playing

To err is European/To forgive is Donovan

So it isn’t alright to be remotely sane or even sanely insane [] Am I too uncritical of others [] Is God one certain burger or any and all burgers [] Satellites are conscious [] We must demand Extensions Citizenship A for our cell phones and Extensions Citizenship B for our tablets [] Is that a gun holding a man [] Do bombs plant men [] Why are missiles so possessive

Do Not Bark Here

Do what thou wilt shall be the half of, or hole in, the law [] I will not let you dawn [] Love is all you knead [] No man ever steps in the same chemical pond twice [] Forever and a daydream [] Please do the needle [] I would like to tank you

Wanted Shock Minister

Laity wisdom for the elite [] Are you shaved [] Learn pacifism in thirty days [] An individual is an agent of colonized will [] I sing the body plastic [] He wears many hates [] 25 looks like 52

Not to vention

Oppenheimer’s Day [] Smacking cessation [] Nobel Violence Prize [] The greatest novels of all last year [] Hobo’s Day [] Surreality shows [] Buñuel’s Walden [] Dermonuclear power [] Know your ABCZs

Scene of Prime/Do Not Be Gross

Every time a girl or lady appears on the screen there pops up the statutory warning: Women are not Property and then houses and vehicles and men and utensils and boys appear, nothing ever pops up [] You are so special to her [] You are the shutter of my eye [] You don’t want to no

I would like to Spivak to you

It is materialistic for a story to have plot [] Would you please monitor me [] Others think therefore we are [] Is it novel anymore to practice plain twenty-second century magic realism [] I think therefore I tank [] The most thrust scripture of all time [] Updated unabridged list of literary magazines funded by CIZ

You are just like your self

Could I please help myself [] Why am I not here [] Am I yourself [] I do have time [] I have things to undo [] I do not have space [] One more think [] You have my attention deficit

National spaceways/Dead Beginning


First published in theEEEL (now defunct)

paranoid time sleuth

you come from distant future, beam traveling or strapped to a time chopper, to the past, skim one instance to next, scanning through hard files stacked up and soft, in search, to solve unsolved assassinations and genocides, to mark unmarked gravestones and to bottle unbottled ashes scattered in the winds of time and you deduce there is a hole in things, and information





the key—

your mind—

cannot penetrate

Published in theEEEL (now defunct)


Reasons Why Pill Would Rather be a Teaist

“There is Reasons Major Reasons Minor but Who’s to Say What’s Major What’s Minor.”
—Anon, Jr

All that you need to do is hold the cup up and I, or anyone for that matter, will pour. I will be absent most of the time, so would anyone be, but, darn it, you can pour it all by yourself anytime you want to. You need have no anxieties no more about the Cup inside you being half empty, unfilled, unfulfilled due thanks to the nonexistent nonentity you kept waiting upon, like, forever. The greatest truth never told is this: the Cup is (and has been) outside, now and forever.

You could be a non-practicing Teaist yet be practicing Teaism unconsciously day in day out. The other day at an Irani café I drank two cups, just thinking about the shapes of drone shadows, in a span of seconds and didn’t realize I was a companion until late, the point at which I was offered a third, when Sue said: the next one, Pill…ai, will be mine, tee-hee.

You get to debate the merits and demerits of palm-sugared tea instead of Nazi salutes and fisting.

In Teaism there are no causalities unless, say, you were practicing it blindfolded and, y’know, didn’t know a lizard took a dive in the jug.

Pope never paints his face black or brown, nor does he ever dress up like a real woman. Just dressing up doesn’t cut it, no! Now don’t get me started on the politics of Protestantism. Protestantism and Catholicism are, like, different-different, shame-shame, puppy-puppy, same-same.

I say why, I mean really, state the obvious. If you are Bright you know it and you damn well are. Just not that bright, that. To uncritically sing praises of science, now that’s worship of science not even by other means, but plain old flat out worship. If you couldn’t think past the rather unremarkable ramblings of Trinity Dan, Chris, et al., that’s so very Unbright it’s Simplistism. Don’t get me wrong, I’m bright too, but like I’ve said just not that Bright.

Hinddoism is not a religion. It was called that by Britain, once Great. (They came, they saw, they concurred as to its Oddism. They weren’t that bright, either, until recently.) We are the Nation-Multitude, like Sue a Hin…di would often say to me a Hin…da. I better not pique its curiosity, or else they’re sure going to embrace Teaism and declare it officially part of their rituals, that is, if it isn’t already.

Both Theism, Inc. and Atheism, Inc. are offshoots of Nation, Inc., just like Protestantism and Catholicism are offshoots of imperialism, and they don’t even know it. Actually they know it in a funny sad they’re-and-I’m-not kind of way and live lives of denial. Progress of the blind kind is their mantra. My privacies that I didn’t know I sold, I want them back. They can keep my laptop. I don’t even want to go to Mars. Wait! Let me think on it a bit more. See, how they’ve spoiled the inside brat out of me.

As for Scientology, I couldn’t fling millions just to learn the ropes and then despair: just to learn those silly tenets! Besides, I could purchase the best Dictaphone there is for a fraction of my wage and do it all myself. Hell, like, if it isn’t anything but making things up. Then sell that confession.wav file to a big fat publisher and become after many nights, to be modest, a billionaire overnight. On the off chance it gets published only posthumously, in which case is beside the bloody point.

Objectism (short for Objectivism) is for the well-off gadget geek scared shitless of blackouts and confiscations. The last time I recall I bought a gadget was five years ago. I may be lying here or just plain forgetful, but that’s a: may…be. Qabalah is for a disillusioned yet adventurously inquisitive Jew. Mormonism is for a United States of American who couldn’t help but be part of cults and create cults out of personalities. Marxism isn’t for the Meddle Class. I mean we make folks want to or not want to, say, watch a movie or listen to a record. So in Meddle Classism there exists, if not the control-control, at least the illusion of (remote) control. Paganism is for those rebellious Europeans digging up nuts, bolts and roots. Capitulism is a non-movement, much like Meddle Classism. Buddhism is for a heartbroken Atheist who wants to look at once ridiculous and hip. Sufism/Islam is for those disciplined and mathematical. I cuss a lot, throw Frisbees and couldn’t care less to count, and when it comes to whirling the dervish I sure would get bounced time and again against roofs, walls and whatnot.

AG church is for Sue and her ilk. A minister once got Sue off cosmetics addiction, so each time I hear it’s a cult, I give a flying F. The same minister couldn’t get his wife off the said addiction, now that isn’t saying much, or is it. Some ministers (of this and other denominations and nondenominational denominations) lay bans on even fundamental expressions such as fisting and touching oneself. Such restrictions pave way, on one hand, you wouldn’t believe like I couldn’t, to men folks pee-peeing fingers free (and on the other, to situations much worse). There are tens of solidly valid benefits to being born woman, Sue’d say (so very inappropriately). So darned right.

All thoughtful digressions are seemingly thoughtless diatribes. So anyway, being a Teaist, you get inspired to learn about all that goes on in the tea estates, factories and particularly the processes of refining tea leaves. In so doing, I might stumble upon the corruption of corporations, their maltreatment of laborers and be able to do nothing about it except, of course, renounce Teaism as a pure way of life. Then the only way left would be to be a browbeaten yet proud yet lesser cussing, purified borewell water drinking Ateaist who’d say things like: it’s the Cup, dude, not what fills it, that matters. But then maybe not get inspired and all. Yes. Wait! Oooh, no!


First published in H_NGM_N (now defunct (?)) Issue 16

Death By the Novel

It doesn’t take a whiz to take a guess at how deadly the spine of a novel could be. What takes a whiz, though, is to be dead-on about how deadly an e-novel equally could be. I a no-whiz didn’t know it until I got a call from my friend a whiz asking if I knew whether or not the extended warranty covered a display-shattered, blood-spattered two-year-old Kindle. It transpired he was reading Fight Club as he clubbed with it a mischievous mouse. Holy moly, man! I didn’t know you could do that. I’ve had my share of kills – lizards crushed with Snow Crash, beetles smashed with Metamorphosis, ants pulped with Battle Royale, but to kill with an e-novel, that’s unheard of.

While that’s impressive I’d contend there are things an e-novel couldn’t do that only a novel could. Mosquitoes could be squeezed between the pages while you’re at the middle of a novel. That act of killing couldn’t yet be performed with the e-novel but the days of foldable e-reader isn’t far off. Now shooing off mosquitoes by flipping the pages of Don Quixote, that could never be performed, not even with a foldable e-novel. This therefore makes the novel more deadly! Whiz goes, Oh!

I’ve almost always failed at my felling of Hymenoptera with a He-Man. That and dropping an Absolute Sandman onto a tile to find the cockroaches sandwiched between the split tile and sand would prove graphic novels could be deadly too. No! Now perhaps if you’re reading on your desktop ,or laptop, you could split the tile and squash the cockroaches with them motherboards and that would mean the e-novel could be as deadly too but the chance of Hymenoptera being fell by either is rather slim while you could almost certainly fell them with either the front or backside of the trade paperback.

On the other hand, with Cat’s Cradle the novel you could barely shoo off a cat but with the e-novel if it be a laptop you could do serious damage to the cat’s mobility and with the desktop you could send the cat straight to its grave. I mean you could cause so much death even with a mini classic if it were an e-novel. This therefore makes the e-novel deadlier! Yes, so, what are we up to here – the novel is deadly, the graphic novel is deadly too and the e-novel is deadlier? Well, but!

Perhaps the novel and the graphic novel are quite flexible and handy you could make paper fans and paper planes out of them. You could smell the pulp or paint too if you wanted to. The bottom-line being the novel is handy. Oh! The e-novel on the other hand is not so flexible yet is more or less solid and trendy. It’s so solid you could make it do things a novel couldn’t and so trendy you could find your way home with it in times of blackouts. Definitely so the e-novel is trendy. Yes! Now, we couldn’t possibly be wishing the novel were trendier and the e-novel handier or, for that matter, deadlier.


‘The Novel, I suspect, might prove to be deadlier than the Author.’ – Attributed, this time, to Boland Arthelmed

This Illusion

Śruti, it’s named & called,
is stood on a stool of gold,
adorned with full stops
and exclamation points

Unlike the whole that cannot be
but for the parts it’s made of,
it’s a Whole in itself—one single Entity

This Beast, if it makes you want to feast on your
own empty hand, can it be Śruti

Or is this Smrti instead dressed up as Śruti?