Tag Archives: heartbreak

It’s just words.

This was supposed to be a mea culpa. Of sorts.

Now, it’s just words.

My poem, “Cannibal 2,” is in Subliminal Interiors. You can read it here.

This is the “after” version of my “before”.

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Attachment is Bondage. – Rumi

Art by Jacquie Boyd.

And, what a sweet, sweet bondage it is. I would be nothing without this bondage, this pain.

The same pain that drives the narrative of my novel. Not just words, or whole sentences, but pages of writing. Reams and reams of it. Yes, it’s the kind of bondage a writer dreams of.

The same pain that made me write a poem before I had typhoid last April (and nearly didn’t make it) and then revise it after I recovered. Sort of the “before” and “after” phenomenon.

The “before” version is a bunch of suppressed longing. “If you only knew” seems to rule. The “after” version is more about screw this suppression. Here is my heart. Bloody. Sinewy. Pulsating. Take it or ignore it till it stops beating, and turns black and blue with rigor mortis.

Now, I am not even sure if it’s the same poem anymore.

The “before” version titled, “Cannibal,” along with two other poems, is in Danse Macabre. Read them here.

The “after” version titled, “Cannibal 2,” is forthcoming in Subliminal Interiors next month. Watch this space.

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Ghazal of Desire

I told myself I won’t write a ghazal.

And then, I thought of you.

And then, I had to write.

My poem, “Ghazal of Desire,” is in Dr. Hurley’s Snake-Oil Cure. You can read it here.

P.S. This is my first poem that flirts with poetic structure.

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A Dreamer’s Dream

Dreams are for dreamers. Sometimes, they don’t come true.

My shortest short fiction to date (it’s exactly 3 lines long!), “Dreamer,” is now in One Forty Fiction. Read it here.

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A sip or a spoonful won’t do/ No, I want it all.*

You did.

*Poison Cup by M. Ward.

You meet a stranger for coffee. It’s not a date.

Coffee leads to dinner.

Dinner leads to Saturday night plans.

Saturday night leads to Sunday morning.

And a few more meetings.

And then, you say your goodbyes. You fly off to another country. A month later, he will be gone too.

There are six months to kill.

There are no promises made. No commitments. Zilch expectations.

But you guys keep in touch. Talk often (He doesn’t want you for a pen pal). Skype for hours and stare at each other’s faces.

Then he says something and messes up. Makes you angry  (and breaks your heart). You slip up just to prove a point (and end up hurting him).

Then you guys become strangers. Formal and superficial.

You miss him. But you seal your lips (and try and seal your heart too).

There are four more months to kill.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

Two of my (love) poems, “In Transit” and “Respectable,” are in the February issue of Red River Review (To read, click on February 2012 issue, and check out #73 and #78).

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The Love Game

DISCLAIMER: If you are expecting gooey declarations of undying love, mush, butterflies in your stomach or happy endings, this is not it.

Love is cheap. As disposable as toilet paper. Even underwear has a longer shelf life.

Everyone wants to be in love. Liars, all. What they are really after is the idea of being in love. It’s a game, really. The Love Game.

My flash fiction, “The Love Game,” was published by Daily Love today (you can read it here). I don’t know why. There is nothing love(ly) about it.

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Eenie Meenie Minie Mo

When I was a child and couldn’t make up my mind, I would close my eyes and resort to the popular eenie meenie minie mo. It was easy for my pre-adolescent self to let chance decide for me.

Of course, these days, even grown ups indulge in the occasional eenie meenie minie mo.

My flash fiction, “Options,” is now in Crack the Spine. Read it here (I am on pages 21 and 22).

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