Being Free from Narcissus

That night,
Narcissus left his last kiss on my forehead,
like Anna Sergeyevna kissed Bazarov
Sensual pleasures are like a butcher’s knife
and a chopping block.
I held my own vigil
till my heart was buried deep

I am not a Sri Lankan

For crossing passages
I have a visa
as Israelis passport
in the hands of Palestinians.

For going past the ‘Checkpoints
I possess an identity card


Rajans’ little boy
Every evening
Grasping the sky with his naked eyes
Calling the moon
Waving his tiny hands
"Nilaa Nilaa oodi waa


Night’s darkness surfs - sleepless
A star’s brightness breaks darkness
Singing fish - your name they sing
Tarakie, it’s your voice pleasing

No, no, they aren’t sweet
those songs make ears bleed

The Killing of Shambukas*

Jim Crow segregated hostel rooms.
Ceiling fans bear a strange fruit,
Blood on the books
and blood on the papers,

Black body swinging in mute silence,
Strange fruit hanging from tridents.

The Small Cell

His silver and gold are corroded.
His lungs beget a fungus .

I was a neglected sperm; this Small Cell, already a cell
which makes his alveoli become the galls in a dried leaf,

The Black January

That day, the house where his body was lying,
was abandoned like a graveyard
The last sip of the tea served for a sleepless sigh,
had also gone cold.
An ant that was behind time


Journalists for Democracy in Sri Lanka

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