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[squeak3ater]

Stronger apart: 06/27

I called you and it rained right after

A pleasant day without a trace of ailment

I called you but I overlooked

The first time my mother called.

This evening, the sky’s blending

Charcoal and cobalt blue, dimming

Pink flashes of spontaneity

Yet reproducing the same

Dead grey like clockwork.

Petrichor, overpowered

By burning egg cartons

And random spoilage

Or perhaps the methane fumes

From the fields of fire, everlasting:

In the biggest dumpyard the city’s seen.

I live closer to the airport now

And I remember my mother going away

For work, as work necessitated

To boston, for a month.

I cried, as a child does at 7

And she didn’t come back.

And when she did

There was tension still

I’d say it was better than a birthday gift.

Years. And years.

A domestic trip set off a trajectory unforeseen

And yet all the more necessary.

You don’t fully grow up

Till you kill the child

Murder solemnised my spirit

And married me off to shared baggage.

You wish the best for your kids

And if that doesn’t work

You wish them the best.

Now half of me lives a better life,

For a better half but we’re out of time.

So I wear my clothes and fake my smiles

As I’m getting hooked to SSRIs.

[squeak3ater]

Clean slate, cliché: 04/21

The void has perhaps claimed us both

Time has managed to render me cold

Stories apart, secrets untold

Maybe I don’t miss you anymore.

Matching calendars, stress toys

Dream within a dream to hear your voice

But you’re hung up on newer boys

As if I don’t miss you anymore.

Every year’s a brand new day

We ran out of things to say

You and I couldn’t have our way

And still I missed you all the more.

Bitter frost, blistering heat

Everything is the same to me

Forthcoming monsoons call us home

Somehow I trip, there’s blood and gore

My tongue slips, and flesh unfolds

I say I’ll miss you all the more.

Say we’re lost and spinning

In limbo, our hands are sticking

Out for each other

No, in opposite directions

As I’m starting to see your side of things

Growing apart is a better fit

Than holding on and tracing dreams

While we scream I miss you amour.

I would love to believe

And to admit

Everything I want to mean

In a heartbeat

If, if, only if

I was sure

That I’ll never think of you anymore.

[squeak3ater]

Warped, without: 03/20

Some days sweeten up come sundown.

And when gold fades to muddy brown,

And pitch black with spots of bronze,

When you take a knife to it while

You stuff your pillow in your face,

You come to see how they all bleed the same.

It’s murky red and melancholic,

No quiet when the day breaks,

Flocks of birds that coo your name,

And I wonder what could go wrong again.

I wish you think of me more often,

Given how forgotten I’m destined to be.

An afterthought, a wish

Or a whisper in your sleep,

But only if it’s meant to be.

[squeak3ater]

Begin, Again: 03/08

Light travels faster than sound, so

I hope you’ll read this before I speak a word.

I haven’t grown on you yet

Two months, two weekends

And you shone on me

Bright as a summer afternoon

This biting February

In a hamlet home to both of us.

And what if we were alone

I could still bide this loneliness

Without ash and spirits

If it meant you called me

By a name I might detest

Because it dilutes who I am

And yet your voice would

Make it full of all it could.

Seldom sobriety graces poets

In their moments of madness

Or is it the other way around

If I come to senses come morning

And dwell on the backspace key,

Also guilt that’s hardly newfound.

And like any woman

I’ve laid my eyes on

You too want to be left alone

Or is it me that’s a wrong fit

As it has been these past eons.

I’ll still stick around

Like gum to gum rubber soles

Lint tucked away in folds

Mold growing under floorboards

Until you rip me from my core.

So when eventually

I’m drowning in work

In this universe

Where we don’t work

I’ll think of you alone

And not spare a minute

For anyone else.

And when I leave

I’ll still be attached

Lest you forget

We’re only an hour apart

I’m willing to prove it

Time and time again

I think I was doomed

Right from the start.

The muse has changed

My vices, the same

So let me want

All over again

My dream in slumber

For my numbered days.

[squeak3ater]

An essay for an aphorism: 02/22

I’m beholden to

A few bad habits

I put them on display

I say I’ll leave it

Now or then, and

I do it all again.

Spring comes bearing

Unwanted gifts

Like a distant uncle

With self-help books

So show me what is

Too little, too much

And going too far,

A poem that’s yours,

Or a lingering scent.

How about your name

On a shooting star,

Or is it something

That you would resent.

I’ll show my hand

To someone new,

I’ll mount this cross

Too much too few,

As many hits as it’ll take

Make it quick and hit the head.

If only I said what I meant,

I’m tired and famished all the same,

Someone to hold up half the sky

And breach my perfect poker face.

I try to sing

I wax and wane

My words are starting

To fade again

I miss her touch

Forget her face

Rinse and repeat

In a fugue state.

[squeak3ater]

The loved and the limp: 01/23

I drag myself across states

To see 25 years of togetherness.

Arranged, chosen;

Some differences persist,

Some relations fray,

Others co-exist.

I see families together

And happy reminiscing

One woman moved to tears,

I watched with a hollow heart

Others kept their sights clear.

It could’ve been me

In my friends’ stead;

I can’t count their years though

It’s too late to ask him that

A secret that is better kept.

I saw a fight, same old same old

I was drunk, my high was squashed

They wouldn’t listen to me

I felt like a helpless child again.

I’ve done things I shouldn’t have rather

I didn’t think I’d stick to my father

Time springs on you unexpected

People change and along we’re swept.

I probably won’t have kids

Or something of a 25th

I’ll scramble my eggs

And toss the basket they’re in

Because happiness only comes from within?

That’s unlikely, so I’ll drink a fifth.

I’m sorry for letting anyone down,

It’s exhausting seeing a crying dog

And nobody stepping up to put it down.

I make my way back, anxious and uncertain

Let down a friend, and another after

Life goes on like a broken record

And if true love exists,

It’s likely pathological.

So I pop two pills, I’ll find my place

To while away my numbered days.

[squeak3ater]

Presents under shedded trees: 12/24

It was a Christmas eve miracle

You hadn’t aged a day

I fit my Levi’s 28

You weren’t alien to drinking

And my streak was just beginning.

I came bearing gifts, some I held

Onto for a year, and forever

All ‘cause you’d show up

Seeing you was reason enough.

Something old, get over it

Someone new, get on with it

My love’s borrowed,

Come morrow I’ll return it.

And my heart is blue,

I’ve eyes for you,

My teeth, your skin

I pine for you

But if that’s what you want

I’m all smiles for you.

I hope you call in time despite

This never being the same again.

The 4 of them and 2 of us,

How’s it Christmas if it doesn’t suck.

[squeak3ater]

Love in the time of common cold and covid: 11/13

Love perseveres

Or dies a dog’s death

It’s a fickle thing to fret about.

My love for mountains

Fights an uphill battle

With strep throat,

And homesickness.

My changing outfits receive

Unbecoming glares

From my dwindling storage.

My love for a jacket

Makes me never wear it

In the first place.

My love for lights and

How I sleep in pitch black

And how I missed the decor

Ironically this festival

Of sound and lights

Has bred for me rancour.

I avoid home like the plague.

I settle again in a foreign place.

My north star, my anchor

My maiden, I thank her

For showing me how much

I could still bother to love,

And how without her

I became amorphous,

Like some twisted prophecy

I beckoned myself.

She was ushered in

As monsoons died

And I was waiting

Since summertime

Spanning years,

Going back in time,

Should this dream end

I should be fine.

Love manoeuvres,

Or crashes into

An oncoming car

It dies but a dog’s death.

[squeak3ater]

Meds have failed me: 10/01

I need a change of meds perhaps

They’ve bottled me up well

Just as the website said they would

And they’ve harnessed what I thought

A tide, an ebb , a disarray of chemicals.

The doctor will teach me next year

A subject mostly slept on, like how

I’ve slept through this year and half.

The hospital is a stone’s throw away

Sure it needs some pitching power

But I’ve a trusty single thumper

And that’ll get me there.

The blistering heat gone

The nonsensical torrents drying out

It is easier to just do a pop in now

But I feel like it’s fine

I feel like this is as good as it can get.

I trusted life to be sweet, so

Saccharine it was for two years almost

And it can’t be that great again

If I just tweaked some chemicals, so

I say perhaps these doldrums

Are the pinnacle of medical science.

Maybe something to get me to study

But what if it gives me a voice in the head

What about something that knocks me out

And I never happen to be awake again

And morph into an all-seeing mute

Watching life happen to him

As if I’m radically different from it now.

Therapy is medical science to me

Because if it were social science

It would try harder than to nod along

As I listed everything I hate about

My current existence and sorry surroundings.

And take a detour before telling me

That I can suck it up or fuck right off.

I’m not an isolated system

But I seek help so lay it on me

I don’t ask what you would do

If your family went up in flames

Or they detached, died a slow death

Because, sure, this is about me.

It’s all about me they say

When I’m a speck of dust

In this whirlwind, this hurricane.

Ebb and flow, I dally and lo

I’m moping around in my own mess.

My mind is a prison

And they sold me the iron

And it’s my fault I didn’t

Milk lemonade out of it.

So I swallow my meds

Because shrinks won’t help

I’m walling away what bothers me.

When my hair’s gone

And I’m through my degrees

You’ll find me under the shade of some tree.

I look forward to getting some sleep.

[squeak3ater]

Letters for V: 08/26

In this week of downpour

I’m carrying a letter

It has no address

No date numbered

Because we don’t make

False promises.

It’s cased in a clear bag

Shoved in my backpack

With my meds, my plushie

My keys my notebook and

Other things I’m afraid of losing.

If I give it

I don’t get to keep it

Once it’s gifted

It’s no longer mine

It carries a trace

Of my humour and scent

Like some creepy ghost

Too shy to admit

That it’s haunting someone

Because you know

It’s not that serious.

I catch this train

Time and again

Because it feels forever

Till we speak of the same.

August is yours to remember

It’s mine to wait for

My loss to miss it once again.

[squeak3ater]

July rained well: 07/31

Inches away from a heart attack

Minding the gap

Making sure I don’t lose a digit

Before I touch the weight rack.

Secondhand courage

Dying engines

Clotted arteries

A wheezing liver

A weighted lung

Secondhand spirit

Elbow grease cos

Who showers daily.

Broken roads

Near misses

Splashes of warm water

An ever-beating sun

You’d think earth

Split up on hell’s command

To swallow an anomaly

A bastard child of

Ambition and a lack of options,

This place I call second home.

Same meds same time

Killing time like clockwork

Well languishing must feel

Better than falling apart

For what it’s worth

What if I amount to nothing

Will asking for help

Be worth it then.

And many such other

Conundrums is it?

Plague me at the end

Of the month

A poem drops in

Unnoticed and

Nobody gets to read it before.

It falls out of the sky

And out of my mouth

I’ve swallowed whole

Night skies trying

Trying to think of

Something else to say.

Nothing comes to mind

Except wailing

Quiet wailing

In this emptiness.

[squeak3ater]

Summer swansong: 06/19

I’ve circled around to June.

Dirty pink skies,

Blurry lights and

A blacked out moon.

This night I ramble on

Feels like an evening in winter;

The kind that’s almost dead,

Soon to be remembered,

Late to be missed yet.

Muddy patches between

Tiny stretches of concrete,

3000rpm and nascent whirring

Of a small single, well on its way.

Bank right, lean left

Swerve right, lean left

Puff, breathe, exhale,

Cough blood, refrain.

Ultraviolet silver linings,

Speckled band of clouds

Spell a shroud of mystery;

Is the sky a portal to abyss,

Limitless, or just a puddle,

Dirty grey watercolour,

Blood and scum,

Bricks and mortar,

Something other than itself.

I’m a child of destiny,

My roaring 20s died in silence,

Never born, never here,

Twenty two now seems severe.

I’m still not done yet

Being 19 all over again.

[squeak3ater]

The summer I’d cherish: 05/23

I circle back to you

You in your lavender top

In your early twenties

Three days I couldn’t stand

To stretch out over 6 months.

I think I like you better

In streetlights, when it’s dark out

The sun takes its leave

By the time I come home

And it gets no darker

Not that I’d notice

I’m in no hurry

And it always feels rushed.

This summer could

Be mine to cherish

And could’ve been one

I wouldn’t have seen.

But you say it’s no fun

To be hammered alone

I can’t stay sober

If I stay on my own.

My rose quartz

My four leaf clover

I long for night

But our horizon hangs lower

I promise you I’m holding on

Maybe I stopped this curtain call

But we did it together I guess

I prayed to god, you hoped for best.

I tell myself how

There’s still time

For you I’ll live

Till I’m 25.

[squeak3ater]

Undone shoes, worn-out soles: 04/19

Different year

A larger, tortuous rooftop

Two corridors, and

An empty space betwixt.

Different people,

Their sunken, similar faces,

A façade, now layered

With varied shades of red.

My pockmarked face,

Its fading glow,

Sun-dried tears

Trace a newer flow.

Not much changed

As it was then

The rooftops when

They seemed as one.

I can hold my liquor

And cradle a stick.

I changed for the better

And crumbled as the bricks

Which might’ve fell

From this storied six.

I’ve lied but twice

When honest, was jinxed.

Fences stand naked,

Rusted gate uprooted,

Streetlights traded for

A single orange glow,

Comforting, ominous

I see it two-faced,

Trust what’s in store,

I call it misplaced.

This year around

Sleep has eluded me

All the same in this single bed.

The older one

Well far, far away

I can’t sleep in that again.

Walls turn colours,

Once baby pink

Now powder blue.

Trees now grow

Where grass never did,

I remember it wrong

Perhaps I blinked,

Perhaps this dream

Was never lived.

[squeak3ater]

Like Clockwork: 03/24

It’s spring again

And you’re still huddled

By a smouldering flame

A hint of orange buried in ash.

Was it an axis, where

You came for communion,

But the season is past now.

The chain broken,

The flank left open,

Everyone is free to leave

And so they did.

There’s unburnt charcoal still

With traces of malt and rye

Did it feed the fire further

Did it sap the fatigue

Or make time bide sooner?

When did you resort to this.

Won’t you tell me why

You resort to this burning

Once over and time again.

How long has it been winter

Four months? Or four years

And you still keep counting.

Do you not remember the seasons

The same as the rest of us.

The climate is tropical, stagnant

And it’s cool when it rains

It’s cold when it hails,

And it crashes down hard,

Tinkers with shade

And defiles what gives shelter.

Do you swear it’s spring again?

I only shiver at the crack of dawn

When I drift in and out of sleep

With nothing to cover myself with

As the sheets are stacked pretty

And I’m tired of washing them now.

You’ve had your turn of seasons

And your bones rattled throughout

Whose fault is it now

That the sun never rained on you right

If it burned you on a cloudy day

Or missed you once a high-noon.

Well it’s almost summer again,

Maybe the shade, this cave

Will be cooler than outside,

If the wind never picks up

What’s the point.

Why brave the elements

For a heatstroke and blistered feet.

Look no further, stop searching

You’re miles away from the nearest sea.

It’s still spring outside

You have a weekend at least

But you’re out there somewhere

With no fire to tend to

No molasses to melt

Or filter and ferment.

An empty bottle to spin

All alone, and if you smash it,

You lose your only friend,

But you find a way out.

Wait a week or two, won’t you.

Maybe this time it’ll really be spring,

And you’ll find shelter

Between two spells.

You’ll share it with your

Someone else.

[squeak3ater]

Clotted Ink: 02/19

Each standstill drop of a fairy light

And the glow it casts on my bed

Unmade, undone, before I crawl in

And even when I lie in dark.

Each drop of coffee I drink

When it burns my tongue and

I miss the afternoon sun

And sawdust shining through it stark.

Every puppy I cradle

Every kitten that shies from me

The ones that look up to me

Wait for their picture taken

Or succumb to my pets

And if they let me pick them up.

Anyone else I’ve fancied since

I push it upon myself and wince

And crawl away and hold myself

I might’ve done it all in jest.

Every pair of eyes I see

I drown in your familiar brown.

Every puff, every sip

Every thought of making a trip

Every step of taming an engine

Every caress of passing wind.

Each time I steel my nerves

And move towards the driver seat

I try to make it feel like home

And hope that you’d be nested with me.

I’ve longed for long to share something

And for us to rebuild our longing

I wish there’s more I had wished for than

To lose myself in the smoke we’d breathe.

I’ve lived past my silver lining

I stand stoking my final fire

The darkness doesn’t encumber me

The woods that I’ve been bequeathed

I’ve yet to see all of its ire.

Live however you want to be

Live longer for the sake of me

And I’ll live shackled to my truth

That you live in every fibre of my being.

[squeak3ater]

Pondering upon a single bed : 01/31

Unwashed face,

And my unmade bed.

1500 to 5;

I stay groggy

And bide my time.

One of these days

I’ll scrub my face clean,

Remove the unnecessary

Pretences and unfamiliarities.

And I’ll use a scrubber,

Thick and with steel wool

Hidden in its lattices.

Even out the pits and mounds

Till it glows like it once did.

I’ll put away my comforter.

Change the sheets, maybe

Pick one that fits perfectly;

No wider than it need be

And dust it every morning.

Sweep my side once a week,

Give the carpet a good beating

And plant my feet on it gently.

Spring will come late in

This here hamlet.

I miss my ghost town

Of a home bi-weekly,

Where the smoke billows

And lingers on the streets.

What use have I

For clear blue skies,

If I can’t see jet trails

Once in a while.

I’d rather have the smog,

The near desolate haze,

Swan songs at 3 AM,

And the pink of dusk

Which went to dogs.

Not a close brush with chance,

But entangled for two,

Where did the time go,

I grew up a bit late.

Loosened the reins

On this mouth of mine,

I took to the razor

And my youth was dead.

Hollowed cheeks,

Yet a persistent jowl

And filled out eyelids,

A resting scowl.

A spine laid bare

And left untouched

A grip half-made

And all undone.

My family forgets

How I look when I smile,

So they take to pictures

They haven’t yet hung.

I stifle my chuckles,

And bite my tongue.

I count the joys

Of being alive,

And the benefits of being

An unborn child.

Smooth sunken face

And tidied up bed.

2200 to 7,

I await my death.