Dear Readers

I’m having problems because of a stalker. I’ve traced his IP to Newfoundland Canada. I have an inkling of who he might be. This person creates email addresses using my name and then sends me hateful or sarcastic messages. So, if you get any weird comments on your blog, know that it’s not me. I…

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The land of the free

I moved to the West becauseI wanted freedom fromsaffron-robed false prophetsand heresy spewing monks,I no longer wanted to walksqualid streets littered withdrunk, paunched, corruptpolicemen and starved mongrels,I no longer wanted to hagglewith auto drivers who lookedat women like they’d never seenthem before,I no longer wanted the dust fromthe construction site coupled withthe stench of the…

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Caged

The day we broke up, the dying Sun was a blackish crimson like the color of menstrual blood. The only sounds heard were the incessant cawing of crows that sounded like the noises a lunatic in unendurable, emotional throes makes. There was a slight drizzle, but it wasn’t like the soft healing rain that people…

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Withered

After we made love the other night, I looked at you, lying naked, silhouetted against the moonlight that crept into our apartment like a voyeur. I traced my calloused fingers against the outline of your body – the curves and the arched back, speaking a language of fiery oranges and whispered reds. I then looked…

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The whisper and the drizzle

I’ve always dreamt ofliving in the mountainswith you; in a quaint,little cottage with itsfireplace, and high,vaulted ceiling. I’vedreamt of the two dogswe’d own and the longwalks we’d take whenthe mist kisses the pinesand the twilight caressesthe steeple of the oldcathedral with its delicate,orange fingers. But latelywe’ve found ourselves ina cul-de-sac of melancholycircumscribed byramshackle huts,trash bins…

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The patchwork man

There’s a threadbare, patchwork carpet in this motel room reeking of stale cigarettes where I spend my days. I stare at its once lurid details now aged and coated with dust. I’m naked and lying on crumpled sheets next to a girl I picked up at a greasy spoon. The patchwork fascinates me in so…

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Same old, same old

So, Nitin, I see that you’ve deleted your blog again. What possesses you time and again to land on the obsidian shore of madness where the sky is sickly green, and the air is pungent? Actually, don’t answer that, because if you even attempt to, you’ll once again play a discordant chord in your mind…

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