This poem is a work in progress

all right reserved@tikuli

1 (i)

This poem is naked.
The words, at the edge
of the paper, are dressed in
nothing but their own shadows,
tender and fragile, and yet,
bearing the strength of  its private pain.
This poem is seductive in its

1 (ii)

This poem is seductive
in its vulnerability
tender and fragile,
it bear my pain

1 (iii)

This poem is the shadow of words
at the edge of the page, writing,
the pen attempts to dress them
but they remain naked and fragile


This poem is a two-way portal
between the traditional
and the contemporary,
a passage to and from
numberless states and stories.



This poem is a flashback,

 a portal to the past,

 a river stone content

and patiently watching

 the world from the water.

This poem is dependable

and enduring,

faithful as my bones,

 indestructible as my love



this poem is a ruin 
or maybe a rune 
or both 
or neither
this poem is not just a pile of stones 
it is a repository for a thousand stories.



This poem is a stitch
that will unravel it all.



This poem is a work in progress,

perpetually evolving, adapting,

refining, improving and enhancing.

This poem is courageous in change.

Its possibilities are endless.




Six Poems


This poem is an imagination,
a fleeting thought,
a broken dream,
an unmet desire.
It is a conjurer,
a fortune-teller.
It knows only what
it needs to know
and tells only what
you need to hear.
This poem is created
from ecstasy and agony.


This poem is traffucked between
heat, sweat and fumes.
The tarmac burning in its eyes.
The pregnant sky is ready
to deliver, the parched crow
is waiting.


This poem is lingering
in a sanitized silence
between the meeting
and parting of life.
It crossed over,
then returned again to this world,
to see its body lying on a bed
controlled by a network
of tubes hanging from it.
The dark pierced into the light,
the light dissolved into the dark,
in a perplexing contradiction.
In a place of altered time,
somewhere between fear and reason,
words adrift from their sentences
are less and less coherent –
and yet so full of meaning.

This poem is in a state of fugue.


This poem is a vaporous toy,
a creäture of imagination.
It rolls its
slender frame
between my fingers,
Translucent, veiled thoughts
wrap me in a smoky warmth.
I watch its ethereal circle of light,
rings of smoke, their perfect seam
tinged blue, rising flawlessly
and mingling into
the misty night air.
Blue vapors of memory
float like an aching song
they rise ,take shapes and
break like waves on ocean shore.
Purple threads of maroon
fill my mind with marijuana dreams.
(originally written for The Smoking Book in 2009. Made some changes.)


this poem tiptoes barefoot on
cold wooden floorboards of emptiness
spooning you in its mind filled with
scents of sex, love and spices

This poem is a mosaic of razor-sharp words
designed for a purpose, an intention,
collected over the time from your
cleverly crafted conversations.