Ghost writer

One does not have noon dreams , only day mares, belly fish of fears wrought into heavy-lidded sleep, mares ,not being equine animals of diurnal type but the belly ones where you enact fearful plot lines.

A Caucasian doctor from anywhere appears by your side to diagnose an unnoticed fleshly protuberance ,on the neck, way to a two year death.

Story is scripted by a ghost writer of a random ghoulish department. Everything is so random but stitched neatly together like by a pro hack, a belly fear knotted to a taut plot.



Houseman lives on in a bough. Boughs live in trees of the sky. The sky lives to hang in and hail from whence we will fare aye. We long for our trees to stand not move away to the electric sky or partake of its angry thunder to stand without leaf in bough.

Houseman ,we made a house but we lost our tree in bough, a balcony of hanging to a tree, for a view of the milkman below. Whenever we made our house we would lose our mountains. We would lose sun in its trees to the emptiest of sky whence we all fare.

( referring to A.E.Houseman’s beautiful poem Give me my land of boughs...)


With a distance of time ,what had looked white would turn vague and gray by growing years- our wading knee-deep muddy rain waters in the streets by white walls missing in places,the men who tucked white lungis in the waists,the coins that felt round to fingers in pockets, the rivers dancing round heads of mountains.

The walls stretched interminably to a white sky ,hiding bush and snakes in them gently rising, feet shuffling to rustling sounds of dry leaves. The squirrels had built bridges for man-gods and earned three dark stripes on their backs. Strange birds sang in the sky deaths of lives.

With more distance of time our eyes slowly fell and the body hurried past closing our spaces. The distances are now small, the skyline close.

Read later

Read now or later is a question settled. Afterwards is comfortable with enough provision for sleeping conscience now waking up and now back in the annals of  the recent past history,  lull you sure can.

In the night is a light pouring on words pouring by the dozens from alien spaces. In Singapore certain meat keeps crying. But not right now , I will read this later, in the readability companion of light words. It is a long read for later in the evening and I now go to sleep with conscience at rest.


My eyes at his elbow ,uncle walks by my hand , in doctor’s hallway. His face is marble with a cold eye, glaciated by the old age waterfall. Wife’s eyes too are turned glacial, by a winter’s fog, biting the old body.

It is foggy at night in uncle’s eyes. Wife’s eye has fog spreading to the visible world from a cornea with a dark hole in its center. We have to find a suitable cadaver with an eye to fill.

Come after six months for review, says doctor. Of course we will if eyes are alive.

The Reader

The reader would read but with no lamp but under a lone star burning in the sky .After yesterday’s commotion, the sea no more climbed a sky, to yet another dark night of December.

Now the storm came and the storm went. There is only left this much winter’s blood. The sea would make no hum in the window but only whisper in the silence of the night.

The night whispered onto the window’s translucent glass, with its kiss of cold as rain vapor.

The reader read all night long in its pages of death and cold.

(Reading Wallace Stevens poem “The Reader”)


Girl earns a living ,selling freedom, thing that does not drip like paint and lets girl legs roll to a flash line. Girls have to carry freedom between them and in the  handbags they swing high in air and pout lipsticked lips.

Time drips by like paint found by a boy on a fence just painted white .His feeling of ennui drips in class. The boy sees time drip in his poem test, like old poet’s words by  sea drip at dawn with each orange blush of the sea.

Old man’s sunrise drips with tales, of young girls , little boys in class, as he bides time to dry on the fence.