every night burns like a fire
asking me to do it
to be among the stars
to write my way to glory
and it couldn’t be more clearer
one has decided
then one must do it
and its that simple…

until the day comes
people come
and all that determination
and all that fire within
burns lesser
falls to the ground ( almost)
and all you can do is wait for the day
when you will burn brighter than the day.


the touch of something afar

its strange
how someone
a long way from you
can be felt
in the company of people,
things and
letters acquainted to them
a name
or a secret
once whispered
years ago
hits you
reminds you
of them
and of the thousand things that you had,
until reality takes over
and you drive away

where dreams survive

it’s become a habit now
To sleep at 3 or 4 or 5 am
they say it’s not too good for the body
and they may very well be right

people with good and bad jobs
with nothing and all to do
Staying up all night
Doing something
Or nothing
it may
be bad
But not worse
than all the happenings of the day
all the jobs that suck you dry
all the things that you don’t want to do
all the things that you are forced to do
but in the night
you escape
and in the night
You dream
and it’s a nice place to escape
when the day is not enough
to play with your dreams.

it’s the night that homes me
For now

being cultured

pooled into subsistence wouldn’t be the right word,
but it conveys the message
we were all pooled in
, into society
into family
into love
to hone
to shape ourselves
according to the sculptors of society
fathers mothers
god men
who taught us it is wrong to hate
and it is wrong to speak
it is wrong to cough
and fart
and sneeze
so we stopped coughing in public places
and stopped farting
and stopped sneezing
stopped playing cricket
stopped breaking glasses
stopped building forts
because it was incovenience.

locking up all our poetry
with their shaping
and becoming afraid
living a secure life
unable to ease into existence.

we were all pooled into subsistence
my father
my son
and many more to come
who do we blame?.

Why bukowski?

of the writers that i have read, i think he is the only one that tells me its okay to be this abnormal thing in society. The others were high collared, classic poets who wrote about beauty and love and nature while he wrote about all the gutters and the shitstorms that a person goes through. It was only natural that someone spoke about these things. It is not the key to writing , maybe. It is not the key to beautiful poetry, maybe. But I think he brings out the most essential parts of a poem, more survival like. Elemental. That is what hit me. That is why I like his poems so much. Because i feel okay, knowing that i am not one of the classic high serving poets and that i can write about the gutters that i feel inside my head just the same.

you are choking
read a sign ;
all the poems
hurled inside you,
they dont make for a good living.

dusty books in dark rooms
surviving for years
not read
not touched
eaten by bugs
dont make for good reading.

you are choking,
right down on the base
of existential desperation
doing things in a hurry
not living
surviving ,
in this life
that is meant to be lived.
-Anirudh Shankaran