Sunday, December 25, 2016

I exist, that is all, and I find it nauseating.

At some point during the last couple of weeks I made a realization that changed my life. It was when I reached enlightenment; my ‘Nirvana’ moment. Although I brushed it off as merely another ‘fact’ about my life the more time I spent thinking about it, the more I realized that it completely changes everything I know about myself.

So this great revelation was the fact that I am a character in a story.

Now at base value, this is not as complicated a situation as you might think it is - and yes, I addressed ‘YOU’, whoever is reading this - because everyone is a character of many people's stories, including their own. I mean how many times have we all acted a part, or been our ‘true’ self in front of someone, or pretended to be someone we are not, or pretended to be someone that we are. To quote Shakespeare, “All the world’s a stage and all the men and women merely players.” Right?

But I think my problem runs a bit deeper than that.

If I am merely a character in a story, everything about me is in someone’s head. I mean sure, I may have been based on some ‘real’ person or I may resemble several people in his ‘story’, but who I really am is just a figment of his imagination. Everything I know, everything I see, everyone I meet, everything I eat or drink, or every thought that crosses my mind are controlled by this ‘creator’.

So this whole revelation itself is his own plan.

Now this begs a few questions on my part. I do not understand why he wanted me to know this fact or why he made me think he is indeed a ‘he’ and not a she. Like why did he make me biased towards a male. He could easily have been a she and I would have said he/she everytime I referred to him. But no, he made me say he every single time.

That is precisely what I do not think I can understand. Why does he let me realize particular things about myself and not tell everything. Why is he playing these games with me. I could easily have been a happy Andalusian shepherd boy named Santiago, but I am here barely knowing anything about myself except the fact that I am just a character in a story; his story.  

I guess my existential crisis IS his story.

And that makes me question my ‘realness’. If we were to go the Descartes route and say ‘I think, therefore I am’, I am real for sure. But having some sort of a consciousness can’t be enough to determine whether I am real or not right? Like for example, my conscience is completely based on his thoughts when he wrote the story. I can’t really comprehend a world before or after that moment. Like this conversation I am having with you is not a conversation but an internal monologue on my part because I can’t get any feedback from you. Is a one sided conversation still a conversation?

Does the fact that you are reading this story make me real? If that is the case, am I only real because of your perception of who I am. If that is the case if nobody ever reads this, am I still real? If the guy who writes the story never wrote it? A classic case of what if a tree falls in the woods.

But then again, if I question my existence, if I have the ability to question my existence, why should I not be real. Isn’t it this knowledge that we are thinking minds that make us who we are? We are who we are because we are. Right?

You and I both live in an absurd world. Maybe two different ones, but they are both absurd.

What meaning do we have other than what we give them? Everything that happens, just happens. In my case it all originated in some guy’s head and he kept writing it and I have to deal with whatever he decides to write and in your case, you have to deal with whatever is happening as a result of every single decision every single one of your ancestors took; whether you trace that back to Lucy’s australopithecus afarensis family or Adam and Eve.

But what makes him more real than me is the biggest issue that is bothering me.

If all my world is just his thoughts and everything about me is in his head, how is he - or you for that matter - not in someone else's story. Someone else’s dream. Or your own. How do you know anything you know about anything you think you know? What gives you the assurance that what you are experiencing is reality?

How do you know all your thoughts are your own?

My despair stems from the fact that my whole existence is stuck between the beginning of this story and the end. I didn’t exist before and I don’t exist after. But maybe I will. Maybe you will think of me and maybe who I am in your head will be as real as I am in mine. Maybe you will think thoughts for me. Maybe there will be multiple ‘you’s and there will be multiple existences for me after.

Or maybe there will be none.

Regardless I’d like to believe it when Sartre said “Man is not the sum of what he has already, but rather the sum of what he does not yet have, of what he could have.” I am not sure if ‘the creator’ is getting any point across from his story, but I have a life to look forward to. I have a life full of free will. Or at least the illusion of it. Either of which I don’t mind taking.

Everything about my life carries this inherent nothingness. This absence of a right or a wrong. This absence of a greater good. Everything I know is either a social construct or something that just came up in 'his’ mind. I guess it creates one more thing that we have in common. We are just passive followers. I follow him and you follow what society decides for you.

Maybe this despair I am going through is my creator’s. Or maybe he doesn’t give a fuck.

I mean at the end of the day, I guess all I can do is quote Sartre again.

“Life is a useless passion.”


PS: I guess this is the hollywood style happy ending:

“Believe me there is no such thing as great suffering, great regret, great memory....everything is forgotten, even a great love. That's what's sad about life, and also what's wonderful about it. There is only a way of looking at things, a way that comes to you every once in a while. That's why it's good to have had love in your life after all, to have had an unhappy passion- it gives you an alibi for the vague despairs we all suffer from.”
- Camus

Saturday, December 24, 2016

Sunday, December 18, 2016

Memories - 1

She asked me to dance with her. 

We were in front of the giant mirror in the atrium. It must have been around 3AM. I had an exam in a few hours. I was panicking. My depression had hit a new peak at that point. I couldn't study. My mind was going everywhere. My head was full of chaos.

She calmly asked me to dance. 

There was an immense amount of tranquility in her eyes. She pulled her phone out and played a song and started dancing. She and I were the only people anywhere close by. Her music killed the loud shrieks of unbearable silence that surrounded us. 

And then we talked. We must have talked for hours. At least it felt like it. She told me that she dances whenever she isn't feeling well. That was her outlet. 

I guess this is mine. I wish I knew that at that point. Literally a year ago. 

But maybe not. If I didn't panic, she and I would not have had that moment. 

That was all we ever had. 

PS: That was the only exam I passed that semester. That was the only 'long' conversation I had with her. 

කෝපි (Can't come up with a title. So settled down for the first word.)

කෝපි කෝප්පය අතැතිව, කෝමල සිනහව මුවැතිව, ඇය සඳැල්ල මත ට වී සිටියා ය. මම තවම මගේ කෝප්පය ට කෝපි වත්කරමින් සිටි මි. ඇය දොර කවුළුවෙන් ම දෙස බලා සිනහසෙ යි. ඈ සිනාසෙන විට ඈ ගත ප්‍රීතියෙන් නලිය යි. ඈ දෑස් පොපිය යි. අන් කිසිවෙකු කෙරෙන් මා නොදුටු පරිද්දෙනි. තෘප්තකර ය.

මම ද ඈ දෙස බලා සිනහසෙ මි. ඒ දෙනෙත් මා ඒ සඳලුතලය ට කැඳව යි. මා එදෙස ට ඇදී යන්නේ නිතැතිනි. මා සඳැල්ල ට බසින විට ඈ ගත වෙලා තිබූ පොරෝනය යටට පැමිණෙන ලෙසට ඇරයුමකි. මම ඒ ඇරයුම පිළිගනි මි. හිරි ගඩු පුබුද්දන අරුණෝද පවනැල්ල නිසා ම පමණක් නොවේ.

හාත්පස වෙලා ඇති දරුණු වූ නිහඬ බවකි. ඇය කෝපි බිඳක් උගුරට හලා ගැන්මෙන් ඒ පාරිසරික දැහැනේ සම නො බිඳේ. මම පළමු උගුර ට පෙරාතුව දුම් දමන කෝපි කෝප්පය ට තම වෙහෙස නිවා ගැන්මට ඉඩ හරි මි. පොරෝනාවට මත්තෙන් ඈ වමත මා සුරතෙහි දැවටෙනු මට දැනේ. මා අතැඟිලි ද ඒ සමඟ නර්තනයක පැටලී ඇතිවාක් මෙනි.

එනමුදු ඈ දෙනෙත් මා සමඟ වූ සංවාදය අවසන් කර ඇති සෙයකි. ඈත ක්ෂිතිජයට බිඳක් මෙපිටින් වූ කඳු පන්තිය සෙවිලි කළ පාටලාකාශය මා ප්‍රතිස්ථාපනය කර ඇත. විමතිය ට කරුණක් නොවේ. සැබැවින් ම ඒ ගගනත මනස්කාන්ත ය. ඒ ගිරිතර ය පසුපස සැඟවී හිඳින හිරු ප්‍රතිභාපූර්ණ සිත්තරෙකි. මුළු ගුවන ම කැන්වසයක් බඳු ය.

"ඇයි ඔයා එයාට තාම එච්චර ම ආදරේ?"

මම තිගැස්සී යමි. ම සිත ක්ෂිතිජය අසල අතරමන් වන විට ඇය ඇගේ දෘෂ්ඨිය නැවත ම දෙස ට හෙලා ඇත.

"ඇයි ඒ ප්‍රශ්නෙට ඔච්චර බය වුනේ? මමවත් ඔයාවත් නොදන්න දෙයක් ගැන නෙවෙයි නේ ඇහුවේ."

ඇය ඔච්චම ට මෙන් සිනහසෙ යි. ඇගේ දෑස් ද ම දෙස බලනුයේ සරදම ට මෙනි. කෙලිදෙළෙනි. පිළිතුරු නො බැඳ පලා යාමට ඉඩ නැති සෙයකි.

"බය වුනා නෙවෙයි. ඇයි එහෙම දෙයක් දැන් ඇහුවේ කියලා පුදුම වුනා විතරයි."

"ඇයි ඉතින් එහෙනම් උත්තර නොදී ප්‍රශ්නේ මඟ අරින්නේ?"

"ඔයා අහන හැම ප්‍රශ්නේට ම උත්තර දෙන්න ඕනේ නැති නිසා."

මම ඇගේ වල ගැහුනු වම් කොපුලට ඇඟිල්ලෙන් අනි මි. කෝපි කෝප්පය බිම තබන ඈ සුරතින් මා රැළි ගැහුණු හිසකේ අවුස්ස යි. මම එය වැළැක්වීම ට යත්න නො දර මි. ඈ පැතුම් මට වැළැක්විය නො හැකි නිසාවෙනි. ඇගේ කොමළ නෝක්කාඩු අසා සිටීම විනෝදාංශයක් බවට පත් ව තිබේ.

"අපේ ගෙදර එන්නත් පුළුවන්. මයෙත් එක්ක බුදියගන්නත් පුළුවන්. මගේ බැල්කනියට වෙලා මගේ කෝපි බිබී මගේම බ්ලැන්කට් එක යට මගෙත් එක්කම ඉර උදාව බලන්නත් පුළුවන්. මං අහන ප්‍රශ්නේකට උත්තර දෙන්න තමා මේ දාර්ශනික බබාට බැරි."

"හරි හරි. උත්තර දෙන්නම්. කොණ්ඩේ අල්ලන්නෑ කියලා පොරොන්දු වෙන්න ඕනේ."

"කොණ්ඩේ අල්ලන්නේ උත්තර නොදෙනවට දඬුවමක් විදියට. ඉතින් ඔයා මෙතන කොන්දේසි දාන්න පුළුවන් තත්වෙක නෙවෙයි ඉන්නේ. අනික ඔච්චර අගේ කරාට ඔයා මං අහපු ප්‍රශ්නේට උත්තරයක් දන්නෙත් නෑ. ආදරේ කියන්නේ මොකද්ද කියලා දන්නෙත් නෑ. එයාට ඔයා හිතන තරම් ඔයා ආදරේත් නෑ."

"ඇයි එහෙම කියන්නේ?"

"මොකද මම ඔයාව දන්න නිසා. ඔයා දිව පිච්චෙනවට බයේ පළවෙනි උගුර බොන්නෙත් නෑ. කෝපි වලට ආස නැති නිසා පස්සේ බොන්නෙත් නෑ. නොබී ඉන්න එක හොඳ නැති නිසා හොඳටම ඇල් වුනාට පස්සෙ එක උගුරට බීලා දානවා. පස්සේ ඒක මම දැක්කා කියලා දැනුනම ඒක ගැන මොකක් හරි කතාවක් කියලා බේරෙන්න හදනවා."

"ඔයා මං ගැන ඔච්චර දන්නවනම් ඇයි ප්‍රශ්න අහන්නේ?"

"ඔයා ඔයා ගැන දන්නේ මොනවද බලන්න."

"මොකුත්ම නෑ. මොකුත් නැත්තෙත් නෑ. පොඩ්ඩක් දන්නවා. ඉස්සෙල්ලා රෝස පාටට අර කන්ද උඩින් තිබුණු අහස දැන් දම් පාට වුනු එකට ආසයි කියලා දන්නවා. තව ටිකකින් ඒ කන්ද අස්සෙන් ඉර එලියට එද්දි මුළු අහසම රත්තරන් පාට වෙනවට ආසයි කියලා දන්නවා. ඒ අහස දිහා මෙතනට වෙලා ඔයා එක්ක බලන් ඉන්න ආසයි කියලා දන්නවා. ඔයා එක්ක ඕනේ තැනක ඕනේ දෙයක් දිහා බලන් ඉන්න ආසයි කියලත් දන්නවා."

"මෙතන මම වෙනුවට එයා හිටියනම් ඊට වඩා ආසයි කියලා දන්නව ද?"

"ඇයි ඔයා හැමදේම ඔයා සහ එයාගේ අතර ප්‍රශ්නයක් කරගන්නේ?"

"එහෙම කරගන්නේ නෑ. මට එයාව අදාලත් නෑ. ඒත් ඔයා එක තැන හිර වෙලා ඉන්නවා දකින්න දුකයි. එයා ඔය අපිට පේන ඉර දිහාම ඔයාගෙම යාලුවා එක්ක එයාගේ ගෙදරට වෙලා බලාගෙන ඉන්නවා ඇති. සමහරවිට නැතුව ඇති. ඒත් එයා ඔයා අතෑරලා වෙන තැනකට යද්දි ඔයා ඔයා අතෑරලා එයා දිහා බලන් ඉන්න එක ගැනයි මට දුක."

මම ඊට පිළිතුරු නොබඳි මි. සිතිවිලි පස් හය ලක්ෂයක් මසිත නන්නත්තාර කරව යි. නිවුනු කෝපි කොප්පය එක හුස්මට බීගෙන බීගෙන ය මි. ඉනික්බිති ඊයේ රැයෙන් ඉතිරි බීඩියක් දල්වා ගනි මි. ඇගේ ලයිටරයෙනි.

ඈ දකුණතට ඇදී අතැඟිලි තුඩු වලින් දොර වසා දම යි. දුම ගෙතුලට යනවා ට අකමැති විය යුතු ය. මම ඒ ගැන නො සිතුවේ මන්දැයි නොදනි මි. ඇය ද ඇගේ මිල අධික වූ පන්දමක් දල්වා ගනී. සූර්යාලෝකය දෑස් මතට වඩින තෙක් පන්දම් අග වූ රඹැති එලිය සඳැල්ල අලෝකමත් කරව යි.

ඇය මගේ දකුණු කොපුල සිප ගනි යි.

"ඔයා දන්නවා නේද කවුරු නැති වුනත් ඔයාට මම ඉන්නවා කියලා?"

"ඔව්. මමත්.."

"ශ්හ්හ්හ්.... අන්න ඉර හෙමින් අපි දිහා එබිලා බලනවා."

ඇය මා ලවනත සිප ගනි යි. මම ද ඇය සිප ගනි මි. මම ම විසින් ම සිත්තම් කළ සිතිවිලි සිතියම් මැද අතරමන් වෙ මි. ඇය මට ප්‍රේම නො කරන බව නිරතුරුව පවසයි. මම ද ඇය ට ප්‍රේම නොකර මි. ආදරය යනු කුමක්දැ යි මට නො වැටහේ. කිසිදින නො දැන සිටියා යැයි හැඟී ය යි. ඇය ට තුටු විට මට ද තුටු නම්, ඇය හඬන විට මට ද දුක නම්, ප්‍රේමය ට තව අවැසි කොන්දේසි කිමදැ යි මම නො දනිමි.

"ඇයි මොකද වුනේ?"

ඇය අසයි. ඇගේ ඇස් මගේ ඇසිනුත් එසේම අසනු මට ඇසේ.

"මොකුත් නෑ."

මම නැවත ඈ සිපගනි මි.

haiku (12)

Breaths getting longer
Lungs can no longer adapt
You are pollution

Monday, December 12, 2016

මේ නත්තලෙ හි

මේ නත්තලෙ හි
හිම නැත

අර්ධගෝලයෙහි නිසා
විය යුතුය

ඔබ ට හිම
අවැසි නැත

සිසිල පතුරවන


හදවත් වලට

දරු කැක්කුම?

පැන් උගුරු
හිස් මොළේ ගිය විට
ළය නතර වන

වෙඩි උණ්ඩ
හදවතේ රැඳෙන විට
ඉවතකට හැරී
පැන් බොති

නොපෙනීම. The Lack of Sight.

උපැස් යුවල
බිඳී විසිරුණි 

අඩි හතරකට පහකට
වඩා දුර සියලු දෑ
දිය සායම් සිත්තමක් වැන්න

ඔබ ඊට වඩා
හුඟාක් දුර ය.

The glasses
got shattered

further than a couple of feet
seems like
an oil painting

are much


දිය වෙවී
නිශාචර පෘතුවිය ට
ඇද හැලෙන 

ලිය නොවී
ඔබේ ඔය සතන් මත

Tuesday, December 6, 2016


අන්න අර සිත්තරා
ඔන්න ඔය සිත් හොරා
ගෙන ගියේ
සිල්ලරට විකිණුනු
මම ම සිත්තම් කළ
සිතිවිලි සිතියමක්
නිසා ම ද?

haiku (11)

Spring is far away
Winter is not very dark
Summer is long gone


මම ලියන කව්
මට මිස
ඔබට නොව

ඔබ කියවන කව්
ඔබට මිස
මට නොව

haiku (10)

Disappearing memories

Monday, December 5, 2016

haiku (9)

Drowning within you
there is no air to fill lungs
Death is not sudden

haiku (8)

Beautiful snowflakes
dancing outside my window
disappear with touch

haiku (7)

History is gone
All that's left are the ruins
You are gone with it

haiku (6)

Love is a deep sea
Courage is diving to death
Life is for cowards

haiku (5)

Happy beginnings
always have to meet their ends

haiku (4)

Did you truly die?
Was it I who killed you there?
I guess I'm sorry.

haiku (3)

This winter is cold
Just like how your heart is now
I miss your warm body

haiku (2)

You spoke no words, as
you gazed into the abyss
Quietness is loud

haiku (1)

Beautiful-eyed you,
painted my heart without care
The canvas is lost

You Are the Kind of Girl

You are the kind of girl
I want to get lost in the wild with

Instead of trying to find
How to get back to civilization
You would explore the wilderness
And take me with you in your journey

You would teach me how to
Breathe the clean - fresh air
And how to get rid of my
Material addictions

You would show me stars
That we haven’t seen before,
Paths untrodden and flora undiscovered
And you would make me
Fall in love with the smooth
Calming rays of the moon at night

You would show me how to live

You would show me how to love

But you and I got lost
In this suburban nightmare


දෙනෙත් අග්ගිස්සෙන්
මකරන්ද ඉහිරෙන
කිරිගරුඬ පිළිරුවකි

මතුපිට පමණක්ම
කිරිගරුඬ බැවින්
මඟ තොට යනෙන
කලුගල් කැබලිති
බොල් පිළිමයට

එබැවින් දෙනෙත්

ඒ ප්‍රතිමාවෙහි අගය
බොල් බවෙහි නොව
කිරිගරුඬ මතුපිට ද නොව

මකරන්ද ඉහිරෙන
දෑස් අභියසම වෙන.

කිසිම කිසිවකු

Wednesday, November 30, 2016

මා ඔබ සමඟ

මා ඔබ සමඟ ප්‍රේමයෙන් වෙලී
ඔබ මා සමඟ ප්‍රේමයෙන් වෙලී
මහත් වූ තෘප්තියෙන් සිටින යුගයක
මා ඈ පිළිබඳව ලියූ කව්
ඔබ ඔහු කෙරේ ප්‍රේමයෙන් වෙලෙන්න ට
ඔහු ඔබ කෙරේ ප්‍රේමයෙන් වෙලෙන්න ට
ඔබ මා දමා ඔහු වෙතට යවන්න ට
මා ඔබ කෙරේ මේ විලස බලන්න ට
කෙසේ නම් සමත් වී ද...
මා නැති ලොවක
ඔබ සතුට
දුකකි - සතුටකි
දෙකින් එකකි

ආත්මාර්ථයෙහි ද
ප්‍රේමයෙහි ද
එකම උල්පතෙකි.


පහන් සිළුවෙකි
රිද්මය අමතක ව

මොහොතකට පෙර
සෝබර මසිත
සෝබන සඳින්

එනමුදු අරුණ
කළුවර දෙරණ

ඉතින් පන්සිළු සබඳ
ඔබ නර්තනය
නැවතත් අවැසි

Tuesday, November 29, 2016

This is Definitely Not About The Environment or Animals

This is not a poem about the dead and dying children of Syria;
this is about our Friday night party culture alone

This is not about the ever increasing list of black people shot dead by the police in the States;
this is just about the alcohol induced fun and joy we have on the weekend

This is not about the underpaid third world workers who provide us with almost everything;
this is about all that ‘everything’ that they provide us with

This is not about our fellow humans being treated like trash for their skin colour, sex, accents, disabilities, religion or any differences;
this is about having to wait in line to get into malls on boxing day to get the best deals

This is not about child marriages, wars, epidemics, human cruelty, or destruction plaguing our world;
this is about the lack of clubs we could go to on a Saturday night because this is a boring city

This is not a poem about this dehumanized carbon waste of a generation.
This is about us.


You are a vast

And I
- from ashore -
am mesmerized
by the waves
crashing against
the sandy shore;
rhythmically random

Yet there is
so much
the dark depths
of yours
that I may never

You are
the unreachable
ever present
under which
even the

And my love
for you

Monday, November 28, 2016


within the depths 
of your eyes,
I see stars
- lifeless - 
that once roamed
the universe
mighty and

A beautiful


You can’t be
an imagination
of mine
for I am not capable
of imagining
something so pure
and beautiful

But you can’t be
real either;
this world cannot
bear the weight
of such an exquisite

Mountains melt
in front of your eyes
and oceans
turn into vapour

And I
would love to
die by your feet
just to be born
to die there
again and

Friday, November 25, 2016

සිසිල අමතක වෙලා

උන්මත්ත හේමන්ත ගගන ගිනි අැවිලිලා
සද්ධන්ත වළා ගැබ රඹ රසින් බොඳ වෙලා
අවදාත මිහි මතද කසාවත් අැමිණිලා
විදුලි මිණි පහන් එළි සිසිරයම සරසලා

ගී ගයන සමනල්ලු ටිකෙන් ටික නැති වෙලා
ඉගිල්ලෙන සියොත් කැළ දකුණතට පියඹලා
සීතලට ගල් ගැසුණු ජීවිතය හැඩිවෙලා
පාලුවට එළි සමය සඳැස අතපසු වෙලා

ශෘංගාර මංපාර අතරමඟ පැටලිලා
සංසාර ගංතීරයක අසල නැවතිලා
මන්දාරමක එතුණු තුෂර කැටි දෙස බලා
සන්තානයෙහි ගිලෙමි සිසිල අමතක වෙලා

Wednesday, November 23, 2016


Poetry is.
I am.

සඳ මඩල යට

සඳ මඩල යට තනිවුන
නිදි නොමැති රතු දෙනයන
රඹ අඹර දුර පරයන
මත වෙසෙති වෙල විලසින

සිත අගක හිඳ මතුවෙන
සිට පහණ නොම ලියවෙන
විහ මතදි පිරි ඉතිරෙන
කවි පදක රස අපමන

පුර රුසිර නිස පුරවන
දුර එපිට වුව බබලන
සිත දොවන තම පරදන
දිවි පිඬකි මන සනසන

පිපි කුසුම දෝතට ගෙන
සිඹ විඳිති ධූ විසිරෙන
මළ මලක දිවි තතු ගැන
තව කුමට මේ විවරණ

O Ophelia!

O Ophelia,
what a miserable life you had!
the tragedy of yours
lies not in your death
but in your motherless being…

Wretched are all those souls
who romanticize your
and the circumstances
with which you lived

A single little Daisy
- in a field of Rue, Fennel
and Columbines -
whose strings were pulled by
its own father,
its own brother,
and its own lover;
made use of
for their own little schemes

O you wilted Violet,
- even the one you loved,
who claim to have loved you back!
what is the use of
when your life is no more?

Do Rosemaries grow near
living in the shadows of
and under the wings of
kings and
men with no titles

A motherless instrument
bound by duty and kinly love
forgetting yourself
for the greater 'good'
driven mad by love and sorrow
and guilt and misery;
a big pawn in a
little game

Wretched are all the
Poloniuses, Laerteses,
all the Hamlets
Gertrudes and Claudiuses
in this world

Wretched are the lives
of all the Ophelias
of our time...

Wretched is myself
who pity you
for being born in
this wretched world

Tuesday, November 22, 2016


- like every other
a human feels -

And the

Monday, November 21, 2016

The skies are orange again

Orange skies and snow
Tall buildings and streetlights
Frozen fingers and sex
People - people - people
Empty cars and busy streets
Busy cars and empty streets
Solitude and romance
Heaters and open windows
Blankets and cold wind
Quietness and endless orange clouds
Stars - death - decay
You and me

Sunday, November 20, 2016


Lines on a table and twenty dollar bills rolled into rolls
spec by spec the dust disappearing into the night sky
magicians given their powers and singers given voices
I see the best minds of my generation dancing on their knees

Adult torsos in suits with whiskey on ice in their hands
sitting around on tables adjacent to the centre stage
chatting with their nonexistent heads about political correctness
I see the best minds of my generation up and down the pole

Waiting in line for the receptionist to call your name at some point
reading random magazines on the table top looking at death on TV
talking to doctors, therapists, counselors about daily dosages of whatever
I see the best minds of my generation masking their minds with pills

Between the pages of textbooks and notes taken with bad handwriting
spending nights at libraries and in front of computers at labs
chugging caffeine all day, all night, all life for the brain to not shut down
I see the best minds of my generation numbing themselves in front of screens

In the wrong side of history because those with power said so
physics and chemistry and engineering and applied math
in factories and underpaid or in prisons or their faith is the wage
I see the best minds of my generation dissolving into numbers

At rallies and protests and hunger strikes under tear gas
in front of rubber bullets and pain and intense passion
behind bars for weeping about dead brothers and sisters
I see the best minds of my generation bound and whipped and broken to pieces

At bars, on rooftops, on empty pools, on the road, on parks and benches
on alcohol, on weed, on adderall, on molly, on morphine, on heroin, on life,
at parties, at clubs, at school, at lectures, at home, in jail, in rehab, at work
I see the best minds of my generation losing their minds

Saturday, November 12, 2016


සිතිවිලි දැහැනක්

බැලු බැල්මට ම
පුංචි ම පුංචි

අෑතට අෑතට
එ් පුංචි තිත
දෝතට ගන්න

එ් සිතිවිල්ලෙහි
නිදහස් නීලාවකාශයට ම මිස
මගේ දෝතට

පාව යන්නට ඉඩ හරිමි
මට අත වන වනා

Sunday, November 6, 2016


You are a still lake
at midnight
on which
the full moon shines
bright and beautiful

and I am
a blind corpse
floating on it.

Saturday, November 5, 2016


You are an
unfinished can of beer
left over at a party
that the host
has to get rid of
the next morning.

Friday, November 4, 2016


මම උත්ථානය

මේ කව්
මෝක්ෂගත වීමට පෙර
වූ අවසන්

ඔබ තවම
උකුත් වී ද



අතරමං ළමෝ


නටඹුන් වූ;
අතැර යාහැකි
මඟහල නොහැකි

Monday, October 31, 2016


It makes me very sad
that the you
who I used to adore
is not worth a single tear
that I fail to shed right now

Oh my dear sweet mistake

Oh my dear sweet mistake,
please erupt
like the massive volcano
you are

The masochist in me
is enjoying the pain
from all these burns

Molten chocolate
flowing in all directions;
engulf me in the
boiling air bubbles
and let me float away
into territories

The air is cold
almost as if it is winter
here, all year..
this warmth is a blessing
to my internals
and I care not
about my dirty
already dead skin

So please erupt
and let me immerse
in the deliquescing

Hey Babe

Hey babe,
how is your new lover?

does he put the smile
I so incessantly failed
to put on your face, there?

does he give you chills
when he kisses you
like the ones you used to give me
once upon a time
whenever you kissed me?

does he take you
to musical shows,
to see buskers,
to his favourite places in the city,
and on walks
holding your hand
like I once did and
slowly failed to do so
with decaying time?

does he love you
whole heartedly
like how you said
I never did?

and do you love him
like how you loved me
once upon a time?

Hey babe,
how are you?

Tuesday, October 25, 2016

Maybe there is some universe

Maybe there is some universe
where we are still together

A universe
you are still happy
and I can still
kiss you

Where I haven't
stabbed you through your heart
and you haven't
drowned me to death
in your tears

There has to be a universe
all this is not even a

Monday, October 24, 2016


How do you call it a day
when your rusty
heartbroken fingertips
that still smell of steel
are crying, weeping
wanting to spend more time
on the frets board

it has to be
the greatest love story of all time

getting rougher and rougher
the more those corroding strings
cut into the flesh
to create tunes unheard before

but it is 2AM
and my sleepy neighbours
knock on the wall
and I separate two
hopeless lovers
for the sake of the
outside world

it has to be
the greatest tragedy of all time


I want you
to dissipate into thin air
and along with it take
the memories we used to share

I want all the
songs you sang to me
to evaporate under
the scorching sun

I want this book
you once bought me
on which I write this poem
to ignite and turn into ashes
and disperse into the atmosphere

All the photos we took,
all the places we visited
all the books we read
all the poems we wrote
all the sex we had
all the people we met
I want all of that to stop existing

I want myself to get lost
in the static noise of
an endless void

Friday, October 21, 2016

She II

She was a big city girl
in a small world,
a world where everyone
knew everyone else

and for her,
the whole universe
revolved around her
and she lived among the
dying stars and
the nebulae being born

around her
were vivid colours
random luminous matter
unlike anything seen
on Earth,
paused in space-time

she was lucy;
she had kaleidoscope eyes
and she was the girl
with the sun in her eyes

all the trains stopped for her
all the taxis were her personal transport
and she fed on ambiance
three meals a day

she loved crowds
and she commanded the energy
of the masses
ferrying to and from
the opulent gardens of the abyss

But this world was too small for her
there was barely any breathing room

because there was nothing left unsaid
everyone knew everything
and there were no waves on the lake
and the lake itself was too small;
you could see the other shore

and she finally exploded;
it was the most beautiful explosion
the world had ever seen
there were huge flames
that spread across acres and acres
of land turned barren
and those flames were of colours
the world had never imagined before

there was a magic mushroom cloud
seen from galaxies away,
making people who were not yet born
making them hallucinate
her beautiful misty eyes.

That small world was left with white noise.

Monday, October 17, 2016


Bohemian wine
and transcendental betrayals
metaphysical sex
and spiritual orgasms

lucid conversations
and therapeutic analysis
psychedelic sleep
and material awakening

vivid sorrow
and blurry satisfaction
blurry pain
and vivid masochism

lost opportunities
and ungrasped chances
pelvic thrusts
and torrid humps

acidic tea
and pharmaceutical cigars
paralytic daydreams
and parasitic nightmares

corroding generations
and decomposed enlightenment
open showers
and naked jam sessions

weeping guitars
and beating hearts
breathing records
and sarcastic dead artists

dried up canals
and dead fish
bleeding robots
and ancient small talk

movie dates at old theatres
and French kisses on couches
sex on coarse carpets
and 'love' on cloudy skies

rainbow coloured balls
and flowering vines on the ceiling
blood shot eyes
and dancing sea turtles

roofs on fire
and people floating on lakes
inside out coffins
and teenage necrophytes

polluted orange skies
and lonely lonely stars
fading moonlight
and unwanted freedom

useless degrees
and nude graduation gowns
unkempt pubes
and soggy eye sockets

incomplete meals
and solemn hunger strikes
enemies from within
and liberators from outside

cardiovascular graveyards
and alveolus bunkers
toxic blood vessels
and pernicious neurons

unstructured poems
and desultory thoughts
out of beat songs
and very very erratic lives…


She was born
at the age of
and orange skies

Psychedelic pizzas
with double
toppings of lust and
thin crusts of love
with confusion
and tsunamis
of emotional

Twists and turns of
sex and love and
and attraction
with cluster bombs
of cluster fucks
given and taken

Her hair
left on my
and my condoms
left at her
while our
dissipated into
thin air

She was a
vivid blur of
a million
smudged together
on a dirty

A poem
while on

A story
with no
end nor middle

She was a
tangled on a faraway

She was a
half written
and performed
while drunk

She tried to
counsel the
and clear
the skies of

She was ambitious
and she was
with herself

She was an
and I loved the
mess she was

But she was
bigger than just
two people

She was a
and she wanted
to heal the world
of its

She let go
of her
worldly belongings,
her desires
and her

She left the
material world
in search of

where she is,
nobody knows.

People are
still prescribed
and the skies
are still

And I am left