Your Sister, The Whore

For Nithya

Because we bear the same cross,
Of wanting to love and be loved-

Like Carbon atoms shifting
With new attachments every day.

Organic are our bonds-
They disintegrate everyday.

They say we are special
And want us all for themselves.

I love them truly,
And so do you.

But who loves us
The way we want to be loved?

Bear a Torch to the Toilet

The Greatest Thinkers were born in the loos-
An Archimedean "Eureka" speaks Volumes for their thoughts.
But to a toilet frequented by the country's brightest young minds,
Their heads illuminated by dreams and virgin knowledge-
A Torch needs to be borne.

The floor underfoot is watered twice a day,
It shines emerald when the top layer is skimmed.
Universal truths are deciphered on the walls
Where the delicate pink tile makes patterns in the grime.

The Intelligentsia prance in their night-wear,
All beauty and brain-
Ballerinas leaping over fallen hair.

The Pricklers in the Nether region
Turn a blind eye to their performance
And remain indifferent
To the drains constipated
By the Black mesh of Keratin
And over-flowing codes of Red.

In the toilets congregate
The heavy Recta
And their last meal behind clamped mouths.
The ceilings blink down mournfully at them and die.
The taps snort dryly.
The pleasures of a rear in mid-air
Is plunged in dry darkness.

I step down from my brown ceramic pedestal.
My heels slap the floor below.
I'm at a moss for words.