Miss Senpai’s Art Class

Miss Senpai deserves to die.

Cuddling the furry toy cat, she curses young Catherine

(Under her breath, of course) for her preferring

That her windows be sized larger than her doors.

She flings a piece of chalk towards Billy, who with malice

She no doubt thinks, spilled his poster colour on the floor.

At the back of the room, Lilly fidgets with her feet;

Trying her best to hold off the call of nature

Till Miss here gives her permission to excrete.

“You’re so stupid!” Ms. Senpai confidently exclaims

As she passes Gabriela by, for evidently she did not possess

The skills needed to accurately colour the picture of a vase;

“You’ll all amount to nothing!” she continues, making her case.

Meanwhile, with moist eyes Lilly, nauseous now, asks again

“Please mam, I really need to pee. May I go?”

To which the matriarch replies politely: “No”.


Monologue #1: WHO ART THOU?

July, 2096.

It’s your 100th birthday but barring some extraordinary luck, you are dead. Most likely you’ve been dead for thirty-forty years already; ten-twenty years if you’re lucky. Your remains, if one might use the word ‘your’, have been converted into a million different chemicals. Of course, you never had any fixed set of atoms anyway, your body had been replacing its atoms every x months (details don’t matter anyway, you’re dead). So who were you?? Who the hell were you??

One would be tempted to start answering the question by first narrowing down the range of possibilities, that is to say by first eliminating stuff which is definitely NOT you. Start with the limbs – oh so important, yet practically useless (in today’s day anyhow) appendages for survival, unless you belong to one of the few hunter gatherer tribes left. Remember, we’re trying to find a definition for ‘you’, so one might go ahead and claim, without much controversy that your hands and feet definitely don’t define you. You’d still be the same (or would you??) being if you had a hook instead of a right hand.

Similar logic would lead any logical person to conclude the same is true for hair, eyes, kidneys, liver, blood, heart, genitals, nails, etc. Though some of them are vital for your survival, strictly speaking they’re not necessary in the sense that a replacement from a proper donor would get the job done as well. Continuing, one would ultimately be left with the few cubic inches of space inside your skull.

So, now we’re left with the brain. One would be tempted to proceed further with the same principle. So let’s start taking apart bits of your brain little by little. Now though, it’s no longer obvious what effects one might observe – they would invariably depend on the part of the brain chosen and the effects would also vary depending on the individual. However, some insight into the effects can be found by construing the impact of Alzheimer upon its patients. In the first day, once the symptoms start appearing, most people will agree that by and large the patients are still themselves. But fast forward a few years to the time when they can no longer remember their loved ones, and it would be debatable if they are really ‘them’ in a colloquial sense of the word. This observation hints that there is a spectrum in the development of the disease. At the beginning you really were you, almost everyone would agree. On the other end your Alzheimer has progressed so far that you barely recognize your daughter/son. Somewhere in between you’ve ceased to be you.

That hypothetical point (say, D Day) HAS to be arbitrary and subjective. For one day before the point, one would conclude you are yourself while one day later you are no longer you. This seems, and most definitely IS absurd because it is certain that most people would not be able to recognize you in D Day from D+1 or D-1. The above reasoning shows that any attempt at defining who YOU are is certain to fail, for any such definition would be arbitrary and worse, subjective. And all that is before asking questions about the legitimacy of taking a person’s ability to recognize his loved ones as the basis of defining him/her.

The Dark Forest

The forest whispers, trees sway in stupor in a northerly breeze;

Twinkling butterflies, now gone, leave it to the stars to try and please

The frightened boy, crouched beneath a mango tree.

He shivers, scared mute by a beastly spectre which scurries above,

Seeking its prey, leaping from tree to tree in the porous canopy.


Days drag on, weeks linger by, months pass and years fly.

A man now stands beneath the mango tree, staring at a moonless sky.

The stars twinkle in his pupils and as he sets off to scale the tree,

A twig snaps, the ground quivers, the breeze drops dead; in the distance

Beasts, never seen nor heard by any living soul, growl in glee.

Though startled, he keeps inching up, even as the air around

Thickens into a cloud, with dust, ash and lightning raining down.

A man ascends to confront his spectre with a will to be free,

But no beasts with murderous eyes wait at the top, nor any fairy or ghoul;

Only a glittering golden mirror, with the inscription: “Jump, my fowl!”

Lovely Lucy

Lovely Lucy

Lovely Lucy, tired of pretending to be asleep

Crawls out and lingers about her bed;

Indulging for a moment in a reverie where sheep,

Donning colourful garments made of human flesh forget

The point of it all and decide to play a game

In which they follow Mr. Red  (‘The fat one’)  in a file

As he circles the big sundial, marked nine to five,

In a proud gait – evidently aware of his fame.

Here, the chance ringing of a neighbour’s doorbell

Jerks Lucy out of the dream, into the congested beehive

Of her block and leaves her stranded before the sink,

Where Lucy brushes her lovely teeth in her nightgown pretty pink.



Mr. Stranger

Mr. Stranger

Dearest stranger, how long have you been sitting here,

Sipping stale coffee, listening to others’ songs clawing out

Of the dilapidated jukebox; whilst you, enlightened one, keep living in fear

Of the imagined aliens and all-knowing almighty, and shout

Slogans gently whispered in your ear by well dressed sheep?

Tell me, Mr. Stranger, how long till you figure out that the price

Of not resisting the piper as he makes fake promises and weeps

Crocodile tears into his velvet handkerchief, sending the flock into cries

And inconsolable shrieks of grief, is more than what you have to pay

If you listen to your mind and start to think for yourself what you want to say?


A Wonderful Evening

A Wonderful Evening

I was drifting up above my mortal remains beneath a mango tree,
Surrounded by a promising void in an empty virtual reality.
Muffled voices laughed when I claimed to have figured it all,
Beholding the freak caught amongst the hypnotised lot at the mall;
Little knowing you had slipped me all the answers back in the hall.

My consciousness became conscious of its existence,
And decrying its having to reside inside the narrow fence
Of my stale imagination, it battered against the insides my skull,
Dreaming of the illusion that was the universe outside the wall.

Somewhere entwined among the tangled vibrations in the air:

A man audibly perturbed by her woman’s claim of knowing
What it was like to not be.

The abrupt cacophony of the muffled voices as I flew, flapping
The vaporous set of wings you had lent me.

The spuriously sensual beating of the clock, its slowed ticking
Signalling I was far removed from home, free.

​Johnny Boy

Johnny Boy

Poor little Johnny boy loves monkeys and Shakespeare.

He sits and taps the tattered typewriter glued to his chair;

When he is not hiding under the polka-dot blanket in fear

Of the bogeyman that his ex-wife left for him to deal with.

It’s tea-time now, and through a broken kitchen shutter

Johnny sees a young couple in the park beside McLaren’s bar,

Kissing passionately upon the glossy green grass underneath.

He sips his coffee more sensually than the lover smooches his date

And duly returns back to typing, oblivious that the cake he just ate

Was licked by good ol’ Marley, his Capuchin pet;

And so Johnny types on in search of his Shakespearean sonnet.