Monthly Archives: December 2014


(An outpouring of grief and outrage over the unspeakable violence and heartbreaking massacre of over 120 children in Peshawar’s Military School on 16th December, 2014)
#IndiawithPakistan #PeshawarAttacks
Sob #1

I walk under a canopy
of hatred
and on a carpet of bodies.
The songs I hear
are the screams
of children,
and dead.

We live amongst beasts
and everyday is
I could lay down
with lions
and feel safer.

There is no merciful god.
There is mythology.
In different tongues
and forms
and faiths
all expounding one essential lie —
that you don’t matter,
that your existence is not valid
if you are not one of them,
and therefore,
you don’t deserve to live.

The human condition
is putrid.
the Earth
is oozing blood
from all its pores
and there are empty,
sobbing wombs
lying about in disarray.
The sky bleeds
and the rivers hide
as ugly beasts
thump their chests
and howl at the weeping stars,
dancing around the bodies
of massacred innocents.
first loves,
and life-dreams
snuffed out
in this macabre reality show
called life.

And what of us?
We are wounded zombies
glued to the images
being played out in front of us.
We’ve lost our voices.
We’ve lost our senses.
We’ve lost the remote.

Sob #2

Knock, knock.

I don’t know where You live,
it’s in Mount Kailash
or Vaishnodevi
or Jerusalem,
the Vatican City
or in this wonderful sounding place
I don’t know
if I’ll find you in my mother’s
puja room
or simply inside my heart,
because that’s a bit difficult to believe
since my
have been at war
for as long as I remember…

You see,
my head sometimes says
that Your time on Earth
is up
and You had to move on to Mars now,
and then You’ll go
to Jupiter
and Saturn
and so on and so forth.
If that’s true,
I’ve gotta say,
Your timing kinda sucks.
at other times,
my head says
You’ve gone back to
where we got unicorns,
tooth fairies
and hobbits from.
Then in that case,
this won’t matter…

just in case You are there,
that tiny,
infinitesimal chance,
that You are indeed
the Harbinger of day,
the Maker of moons,
the Grand Perfumer,
the Master Builder,
just in case You are all that
the screaming multitudes
say You are,

I would like to,
very respectfully ask,
what the fuck just happened?

Sob #3

Shhh! Little child!
Be quiet,
don’t say a word!
Just lower your eyes
and whisper the great names of God.

No little child,
don’t ask me questions!
I can’t answer them,
knowledge is not your right.
Just lower your eyes
and whisper the great names of God.

ABC’s are not for you
and you can’t play with numbers,
you can’t play with toys.
You can’t love your neighbours,
and must never ever sing!
Dancing is for the devil.
Just lower your eyes
and whisper the great names of God.

You mustn’t reach for the stars
or stare at the moon,
the grass is not meant to be played on.
Don’t listen to the birds
or feed stray pups.
Just lower your eyes
and whisper the great names of God.

And when you are shot
in the back of your head
or right in the middle of your chest,
the stars you quietly wished upon
will fade,
the grass you secretly touched
will soak your blood,

and your eyes will be closed,
your voices stilled.

Sob #4

The silence in my house
this morning
after I sent my boys to school
was not of the usual
The shouts of
‘I love you!’
‘Have an awesome day!’
hung about in the air longer
than usual,
and yet the silence
was deafening,
almost oppressive.
My daily desire
for a cup of tea
and the newspaper
was lying comatose
under the knowledge
that across the border,
my sisters’
wombs are bleeding
and they are thrashing about
in pain
at the forever silences
that now hang from
every corner
of every room,
resting on windowsills
and living in beautiful faces
frozen in photographs.

Their pain
cripples me.
The stilled voices
deafen me.
And the handfuls of Earth
are a burden
on my soul.


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All Mine, Never Yours

These are my tits,
that’s my ass
and this —
this is my cunt.

No no!
Oh no you don’t!
Don’t you dare look away
when I use these words!
My mouth is
what needs washing.


Look me in the eye
as I say these words aloud
and use them
to label pieces of myself;
these bit parts
that your eyes
have undressed
and invaded
and over
and again.
These parts which
you have ogled,
and manhandled
for centuries
as if by some divine right
accorded you
by your gender.

Your gender.
That little ugly appendage
that hangs between your legs
and controls your eyes
your hands
and worst of all
your thoughts
and actions.
Your gender.
Which makes you better than us.
Your gender.

My gender.
My bit parts.
My tits my ass my cunt.

The power we carry in our bit parts.
Your penis has crowned you king
since time immemorial.
It has made you lord and master.
The almighty
and all-powerful.
El Supremo.
Your penis has allowed you
your superiority.
It has allowed you
to lay down laws,
pass judgement
and declare ownership.
Ownership of me,
my mothers,
my sisters,
my daughters,
the world.

So smallandugly,

And what about my bit parts?
My tits,
my ass,
my cunt?
Parts that have been used
to make
and birth nations.
Parts that have been used
to feed generations.
Parts upon which I have rested
my tired
weary soul
while silently cradling
the weight of the world
in my arms.

My bit parts.
These pieces
of my anatomy.
My biology.

These parts
which have started wars
launched ships
inspired poets
and painters
and songwriters,
and given glorious pleasure
to a few
        chosen ones,
have returned the sexy favour
to me too.

The trouble started
when I gave them a voice
and they started to speak.

And today they voice their protest,
growl out war cries
and sing battle songs.

No more
will they be virgin territories
by conquering marauders;
no more the spoils of war;
no more the only things about me
that you see.

My tits.
My ass.
My cunt.

All mine.
Not yours.

Not yours to stare at.
Not yours to sniff at.
Not yours to touch,
or grab at.

Only mine.
Never yours.

My tits.
My ass.
My cunt.


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