Rose gold iPhone Fingerprints of feather Haiku they wrote. The bowels jettison Smokes of pot noodle Dawn, noon and dusk. Grumbling in the groin The brooding, wet cistern Agrees and sprays. Young eves frolic In the pale light of the…
Category: Uncorked Angst
The Silence of the Scrolls
It’s been a while since the nightingales sang in the darkness, fidgeting on boughs swaying in the night-wind. It’s been a while since the fingers splattered on the keyboard like an impromptu rain. There is this dike thin as rice…
A Pony in a Carousel
Like a pony fettered to a carousel, I’ve been travelling miles after circular miles and yet not have moved a millimetre from the pole I am suspended. I am not in charge of this motion, nor do I control this…
A Hunger Game of Books
I have taken a vow of abstinence from the book market, which since the advent of blogging has begun resembling a fish market where everyone is hollering to sell his dreams and nightmares alike. The social media is bursting at…
The Ungolden Ball
As Argentine football hung by a tenuous gossamer, clinging to the last few blinks of life, he stooped over the ball before the free-kick, aware of the cosmic weight of the moment. ‘It’s now or it’s never,’ intoned the commentator,…
He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Known
As I hover metaphysically over Estádio Nacional de Brasília, along with the cameras that keep criss-crossing and snooping in the field, my daughter asks me a question in the middle of the simmering knockout fixture between La Albiceleste and Les…
A Country Hanged
“The vices of mankind are active and able ministers of depopulation.” ~ Thomas Malthus I look at the sun and it is not the same. How does it look to those hanging in a tree, trampled and trudged, ploughed and…
A Glass of Ice Water
‘It's like giving a glass of ice water to somebody in hell.’ ~Steve Jobs, about iTunes on Windows computers. Perhaps you missed me in my period of quiet, or shall I say disquiet? Allow me to explain, though I may…
Shakespeare’s Email
'The evening is still, the birds silent, the wind dead like a tramp, flopped on a footpath. The sky is dressed in dust and dusk.' (From my short story: End of Dusk) I look at my face in the mirror…
The Song of Jar Jar Binks
I can smell the diction Taliban just beyond my window. I can hear the rat-a-tat of their words, its robotic monotony, rattle of Kalashnikov. Peeking out the pane, I see skyscrapers raised on cacophony of flakes and wafers; buzz and…
Sam Was Sad
It was a sultry summer morning when I first met Sam twenty five years ago. My roommate was groveling for an omelet, sprawled in his bed. He had been missing his turn at cooking breakfast for the fourth day in…
A Mélange of Monologues
I was young when my family pulled out of a city to the backwaters of the country. Of the many heartbreaks I weathered, the loss of my small book club was the most debilitating. The civilisation I was uprooted from…
One Grain Amongst the Storm 