This week,
somewhere in Pakistan
a bomb exploded
leaving a trail of
melted toys and severed limbs
– ripping apart lives and
splintering souls,
painting the horizon
a violent red.

While I cursed
a too-slow computer
people mutely watched
three men on a beach
beat a boy.
They watched as his
thin arms
were raised in plea
and still watched as
the blue-grey waters
claimed him for their own
(they said
he was mentally unsound.
As if that changed
anything at all)

A train has derailed elsewhere.
Bodies trapped
in mangled metal,
the pungent smell of charred flesh
pervading the air
as a sari
blotted with blood
quivers in the breeze.

Over the sound
of a fan whirring,
Louis Armstrong croons
of rainbows and red roses,
and tells me that
we live in a wonderful world.

Lunch Room


‘Machan, the sooner this ends, the better’
Digs teeth
‘Personally, I think it’ll last only a few more months’
Purses lips
‘They wont go down passively though’
Nods impressively
‘After so many years? Of course not’
Shifts bottom

A soldier rubs the sores on his shoulder
And trudges on
That his fate is being decided
By armchair revolutionaries
In white collar shirts
Over rice and curry