i bathe with insects, young brittle, black, brown. the beetle’s wing shimmers in the soviet fluorescent light. the dragon sits on my left earlobe, a light flower, a couple of words. an exchange of human pollen. as it rests on my body, it doesn’t forget that the light exists. but it seems to question it. why do you need that light, when you can bathe your body in the darkness, when your eyes are already blind in today’s farming. you don’t know it yet, institutions hate insects more than you.
the lizard rehearses gravity, skating on the grey plastic door. it sticks its tongue out. its tail is cut off. it will grow again. we won’t. the housefly is an acrobat. it balances itself on my shoulders as the cold water polishes my skin. oasis to a desert. first the drops tiptoe, and then gravity plays the instrument. then clarity. they hide in the walls. the walls have porous holes. like cicadas in Leicester. water drizzles across my bones, skin and organs. the gecko stares at the hair on my chest and then flops to my right shoulder. the water glides past its ochre body. is it elastic? like our morals. keep sticking to the same thing and the thing becomes ethical. the water doesn’t affect it at all.
you can never truly undress yourself. like atoms, like conscience. like water. the insects do not leave. they stay hidden. the gecko and i share a moment of understanding, a brief nod. a moment of freedom. its body glides on water and my retina loses sight of the lights. a brief nod, another splash of water. a room of 20 square feet and a thousand organisms. they do not suffocate you. a world of about eight billion humans. where does life draw the line? they come out of their holes and lick the lights. they have entered their prison. i have entered mine. we are all being farmed but there are no fruits.
Mar 2
Mar 2, 2026 at 9:37 AM UTC
like the bits of pieces,
of choco chip cookies,
sluggishly sticking to the edge
of your molars.
like the flashes of eyes,
across the sea, staring at you
wondering why you blacked out
in a garden that only tends weeds.
like the faint baby blue
in the evening sky, botched
with the runny yolk of ochre.
they stare at you, in condolence
as you give up on your life.
like the bits of pieces of cookies
that ferment your gums,
cavities taking shelter.
a safe abode, but not for you.
we all come and go. rise and return.
air sinking into the roots of earth,
liquid dissolving your bones.
is that why death always comes in bits and pieces,
while your last breath is the final nail
on the coffin of life.
father death, mother life,
is this what we have come back to?
the autumn in your eyes says yes,
the winter in your lips says no.
what do you say?
you don't really say anything.
because death comes in bits and pieces,
or alternatively bits of pieces.
is there a difference? there is.
mother life, father death,
answer me.
if we are all bits and pieces,
where do we really go?
when we are alive.
bits and pieces of life's nest,
bits of pieces in death's coffin.
because a mother always nurtures
and a father always claims.
Feb 15
Feb 15, 2026 at 7:10 AM UTC
bodies, naked, unfurled?
flesh, skin, bones,
marbled eyes, pain, screams,
blinding sand, spread across the collarbone.
smiling faces, licking lips,
ecstasy dancing with conviction
bills, paper bills mostly, thrown
across the turquoise floor.
bed sheets speak volumes,
the notes differ in light, colors and timezone.
the morning light tiptoes in,
the bags are already packed,
the passport, an omega speedmaster, a bunch of chnargers,
all arranged neatly on the mahogany table.
the bills are handed to the concierge,
the dress is ironed, checkout is at 11am.
he leaves at 10.50am in the morning.
the cleaners tell her to move out fast.
the absence is stronger than the presence.
he is waiting in line for a taxi,
and suddenly there is only a single soul in the room.
there was always a single soul in the room.
the girl arranges the ends of her hair neatly,
she puts on her blush and cherry red lipstick.
there wasn't really two souls in the room.
it was always one. the other was just a silhoutee.
she realises this as she sees brown scratch marks on her neck,
the blood dried out.
her feet hurt, is it a splinter?
she looks for splinters there is none.
his soul hasn't left her body,
but her body has left her soul.
Feb 8
Feb 8, 2026 at 3:42 AM UTC
a heavy chest is is not the answer
to fleeting memories, unlocked doors,
smell of sichuan peppercorn,
the broth reflects the faces,
glum, dry,
if love is the only answer,
then life is the only question.
a heavy chest, and stale breath is not the answer
garlic stuck between your incisors,
your hands sticky, your fingers mushy.
leave the tip at the door,
if death is the only question,
can memories on a splintered leaf
be the answer?
Feb 7
Feb 7, 2026 at 12:44 PM UTC
your mind is running on asphalt,
that you have created for yourself.
you chose this, sticks of memories
that keep crawling, scratching your skin.
hair falls, nails grow out, you voice deepens.
listen close enough and even your racing heart has a static voice.
the adam's apple camouflages itself.
the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence,
but is there really any fence?
or have you created it in your bones and arteries?
if you did, is there really any substance
in looking over your shoulder
and all you see, is wet moss and sticky soil.
while seasons bend over the gold plated sky.
keep your arms to your chest
and answer the question.
do you have an answer?
all tributaries do not lead to the sea.
all roads do not lead to rome.
but that again, is the question,
do you want to go home?
or do you want to get lost?
when you look at it,
both the question and the answer do not fit themselves.
a third person plural needs 3 things not 2.
similar to the fence in your head.
you are captured, enslaved and freed.
so, where do you even go?
where is this fifth direction?
Feb 4
Feb 4, 2026 at 1:47 PM UTC
small little dots, inkblots, pieces of papers called maps.
latitudes and longitudes, creases across shoes and skin.
sweat across the forehead, humid waters in summer.
a jump here, and the maps create lines.
lines that create walls, walls that create boundaries,
boundaries that create culture, culture that creates perception.
what are we anyway?
Feb 4
Feb 4, 2026 at 1:38 PM UTC
how can you tell if your mind is tired? the pale blue sky, frosted in silence, all these lights in the distance all a mourning for what could have been. how can you tell if your mind is tired. is it when you cannot breathe through your mouth but your nasal passage clears as molecules of smoke from the cremated grounds fill your lungs chamber. every billow of smoke draws a line and beyond that line is birth and creation, death and destruction.
how can you tell if your mind is tired? when the faces you see every day only become symbols in tarot cards, buried in sand. when the glass in your hand holds a few milliliters of water and you star looking at the individual molecules. carbonation is history, reality is grim. when the stimulated pain in your left temple becomes as spasm. even lying down becomes a task for the body, a bed of thorns and needles drawing blood from your body. how can you tell if your mind is tired? is it when the yellow lights in your backyard become fluorescent. when the faces aren’t reflected anymore. when the world seems a little too lonely, a piece of bread stale in efforts and lies. the toaster doesn’t work anymore because society doesn’t have no fuel at all, let alone organic fuel. remember? carbonation is history. breath becomes a series of short circuits, heart pummeled with a hammer. gravity weighs everything down except the scents write a line, draw a picture, compose a song of your empty childhood. pages and pages of white paper yellowing with every movement of the plastic quartz clock.
what do you do if your mind is tired? why does the world tell you to sleep? how will sleep solve anything? run your fingers around across the foggy window, make those shapes that have dissolved with your childhood. there is nothing that medicine can heal, there is nothing to heal. take three short breaths and look around you. there is no coffin or firewood around here. should you sigh in relief or rub away your saline tears? what is your view? How do you want to not be tired? Complete execution or complete dissociation?
Oct 24, 2025
Oct 24, 2025 at 6:41 PM UTC
i press the buttons, i carve out the map.
i water the flowers, i mix the soil.
the buttons don’t work, the map doesn’t show me the direction.
the flowers haven’t bloomed this season, the plant is still not humid.
we have becomes a voiceless society.
the most manpower and the most technology,
the loss of energy, creativity and spirit.
the voice has faded like a semi permanent tattoo etched in the previous edicts of time.
the stones of civilisation had been laid, but the water tests our depth.
the reef of originality used to tease us,
oxygen; a valuable life currency.
even more valuable than time.
because without it, you cannot experience time.
now it’s one foot in, and you’ve reached the depth.
shallow shadows, clear paths.
this machine patented clarity is a loss for all.
clarity that has brushed away the wild ways of tracing fingers across life’s board.
we have all the power in the world.
and yet, we do not have a voice anymore.
we have all the resources in the world.
and yet we do not have any purpose to use these resources.
life has becomes a dead garden,
where everything does bloom with fifteen fertilisers,
but what role do we assume,
when all we do is just manufacture them?
when will the sunrise and the sunsets
ever be human again?
what does it even mean to be human anymore?
does this poem even have its own voice,
in the galaxy of big data, machines and algorithmic nosebleeds?
that is for you, the reader to decide.
the poet’s job is over.
Sep 8, 2025
Sep 8, 2025 at 10:14 PM UTC
what makes us beautiful? printed notes sanctioned by the government? three layers of plastic that attaches to the skin. electricity that runs in your spines, blue rays invading your lonely night. a night where jasmine’s weep because you’ve lost sight of their existence.what makes us beautiful? pixelated rays emitting diodes of dopamine. colours and colours of chrome attached to screens. what makes us beautiful, then? 360 degree surveillance across borders and borders of human civilisations. what makes us beautiful then? maybe a solitary ray of sun as it wraps around your face at dawn? but how would you know that, as you’re doused from the pixels of yesterday, making you numb enough to make sleep through the morning.
Aug 27, 2024
Aug 27, 2024 at 12:17 AM UTC
we all have our stories.
stored in cafes, empty beer bottles,
soaked clothes, tattered floppy disks.
old film cameras, b/w reels.
we keep these memories with us,
and displace them as well.
their cytotoxicity travels
throught terminals of life's airport.
eventually new souls come and go.
terminals change, destinations flicker
on digital screens.
we delay our feelings, fall in love
with the impossibility of circumstance.
we all have our stories,
maybe in poems like these, or
photographs like the screenshot i would take to share this poem.
we all have our stories,
and not all stories are as happy
as the plants kept beside me while
i sit and write this poem down.
Aug 26, 2023
Aug 26, 2023 at 7:57 AM UTC