The Politics of Losing

[One and a half year ago]

You sit on the dusky couch, tugging at your tie every now and then, trying to empty your mind despite the nagging heartbeat. You are waiting for an interview. You have no money. The only person you ever opened up to had completely trashed your soul and left for a cheating simplicity, and you are lost. You are desperate. If you can’t score this, all your future hopes will remain where they belong, along with your shattered soul.

The secretary calls your name. You fumble up and go.


[Four years ago]

You sit on the cheap folding chair, extremely pissed off. This fucking asshat of a village boy is making a scene again and nobody in this fucking class is any wiser to call it off. So you do. You start a fight. Just as he approaches you, your deft brain is already racking up with the consequences. You will get summoned into the authority’s office. This fucking asshat will sue you for assault. They will call your parents. But you’ll win. You’ll win, even if you had to lose everything.

The bell rings. You smirk and calmly walk to the meeting point.


[Eleven months ago]

You are standing small below a thousand skyscrapers, haplessly following their lead, the rich jerk-offs to whom you leech. It is the way you have always been living. And you are getting close enough to this girl. All that needs to be taken care of is her possessive boyfriend. Which is also, sadly, the way you have always been living.

So is her next move as she walks away and proceeds to erase your existence from her precious life.


[A few times, half-remembered, half-lived]

You are almost in a trance. Almost. The lights are way too bright. Your guitar amp is way too harsh. Their fucking tempo is way too high. Your throat, man, your throat could really use some water right now. What are you even after? The faint applause from pity and courtesy? The relieved sighs of the MCs? The long way home with nothing to fucking bring? The trance that never seems to grace your act? Almost? Fuck you.


[A few months ago]

You fix your eyes at the disappointment on his face. He’s not even trying to hide it anymore—and you are not in your fucking manner anyway. He has taken you in, trusted you. You can’t even trust yourself. Not after losing so many friends and dreams and fights. So you just stare back at him, wishing that he’s at least man enough to do something that you have deserved for so long and yet never got, never got because everyone else is such a fucking moral-bound pussy. Well, except for her.

You stare back at him, wishing that he would destroy your life.



You are in love with a married woman. A religious, rich, married woman. Though she still loves all those worldly things like everybody does. Well, except you, maybe, but you’ve never been rich, never been normal—so how could you know? Everybody tells you to fuck off—she told you too, you think, though with great effort not to hurt your feelings—but you are, of course, an idiot. It’s engraved into the very fabric of your being. Only this time there is no way you can spin it into a win.

You are beginning to think that you love this. Being utterly, embarrassingly lost and broken. The suspicion gnaws on you—


[Seventeen years ago]

You are a little boy, eyes wide open, smiling, dangling his legs on the backseat of a cab. You haven’t taken a bath. You haven’t changed your clothes. Your grandpa suddenly had the whims to go shopping and so off you go. Your curious mind overanalyzes every towering building along the precision of the highway, while multitasking with the plan to buy toys and English books once you arrive at the megamall.

You wonder if you would have an amazing adventure there, like you read in the detective comics.



You open your eyes.

It takes some moments to remember why you are here. With an empty bottle of gin in your hand. A bargain paperback lies next to your pillow. You check your phone. Nobody had liked your post in the last twenty hours after it went up. No other notifications, nothing. Only a text from your mother. They ran out of gas. And electricity. And your siblings’ allowance. You have nothing.

Except your soul.

See, the problem is, you never took up the Devil’s offer. And your whole existence is suffering because of it.

But you win.

Even if you had to lose everything.



31 December 2016


Loving You Is a Losing Game (The Dig, Part 3.)

Loving you is to die at the crucifix of jesters

Who lob the truth at nothing but easy marks

Loving you is to proclaim a prophet to a lost cause

With his word solemnly sealed between the seemly knots of men


(I’ve been thinking a lot about you

And the mundane happiness going everyday in the heaven you’ve made

They say I’m going crazy

Hell, I think you’ve told me that yourself)


Loving you is to run an endless self-experiment

Of waking up and then going back to sleep

(to dream)

To bow to lesser men

And see the shred of lesson amidst their fall

For the sake of a future that will never include you


Loving you is to crave

What I shouldn’t crave

And everything a god should crave


But I love you like a lost part of myself

Innocently bound in the machinery of Her cruel joke

A long game played against me, twelve years far too soon



7:11 AM

The Dig, Part 1

Goodnight, Los Tamara

For our idling by has come to an end

Goodbye, my washed out dreams

The killer has arrived and the scene’s all set out



This ain’t no redemption

Or maybe it is

I’ve lost compass and I’ve lost my feet

Far too late even when I started



My dreams are dilated

I’m a pure state of awakening

And I damn you

Perhaps as strong as I damn myself




Golden Blue (Part I)

I see your eyes, golden blue

Honestly don’t know why I’m calling you

Why I’m looking back at this… fucking spiral…

…spiral of repressed memories

Sunset world of yesteryear


We put everything to the frontline and still they pissed on us.


I see your smile, golden blue

It says la-la-la

Like a fucking lulu


All that glitters is not gold

My sides are dying from your crazy talk

“Maybe this time Fate would be distracted!”

Go sell your shit

to the Jack of Fuckin Lanterns

or any other nutso, I dunno, you’re the professional

My sadness sparkles like the balls of God

Sure they are not gold. They’re golden blue


Like you

My cursed lulu


In dream she carried me into the light.

As elegant as aching darkness, swinging from the heavens. Colors in the sky. Colors of the gods. There were two of them—at least those which I saw correctly.

One was ascendant.

And very close to me in resemblance: he was weary, I was weary; he learnt it the hard way, I learnt it the hard way. She knows this—she used his voice for a while. It doesn’t matter now. Behind the cowl there is only pain.

One was the Other.

“I’ve had some run-ins with his kind before,” I heard my own voice piercing through the clouds. Maddening dreams. Futile dreams.

That one time, however, was not meaningless. I chased her through drunken energy and forced questions, through Brooklyn, through Las Vegas, to a perfect halt in Los Angeles. I made her story, a familiar one—uncannily one and the same.

“Oh, baby,” she spoke behind the curtains of smoke. “You’ve never known a woman like me.”

I had a dream once. Of an affair I had for almost enough time. She wore a green hoodie, she shot corruptors with arrows, she was perfect. Until she fell in love. She did not even know why. It was never love all along. But she fell all the same.

“You talk in riddles.” Was it her?

“I do?” No. It was me. She only smiled. She broke my heart with that smile. “Maybe I’m just pretentious.”

“I think you’re pretty awesome.”

“Why don’t you tell ‘em so?”

She never fired arrows anymore, in the soap opera land. I still love her and it hurts like hell.

“It doesn’t matter.”

I’ve let her go in Los Angeles. It’s what I was supposed to do. And so shall it be this time around.

“I have to go,” her voice was cut all over the wrong places. “I don’t have enough time. And there’s still so much I haven’t said…”

“Oh, but I understand.” I understand you very well.

Smile. “But that’s the thing, Detective. Maybe you’re wrong.”


In dream she carried me into the light.

An aching truth.

She was the one I’ve been waiting for. She was half of the promise, and by God, she tried. I love her. I love her in my hazy recollections. The whole world doesn’t need to know why. They are fragile, full of preconceptions, full of ignorance, and I hate them—I hate them for not loving you as I do. For not even trying to let go. And I hate myself for being so concerned, and yet so bound by the ridiculous implications, that all I can say for your sake is wrapped within a crypt without a key.

I have never known anything like you.

“Am I too soon?”

Not at all, darling. We’ve only been counting on the stars for too long.

I Saw Him at the Great Hall

I saw him at the great hall, a vision of the Overman
So bottled up in his thoughts, he’s unaware of a million souls adoring his very presence
Even without the tingle of those piano keys

I used to envy him, you know, for being able to ensnare such loving attention

But loving is madness.

This I have known, and stopped ignoring by now.

I saw him at the great hall, leading a chorus of beautiful girls singing an evergreen love song
I knew he was in pain, but it was his sacrifice, for I always thought he was this broken Overman, tormentedly unaware of his power and his responsibility

But power corrupts.

This I know for sure now.


So the angels dance and the fairies swing

Upon the madness of love upon a broken Overman at the great hall

We could still save the world

But my whispers are drowned in the adoration of the crowd


April 2015

For the illusion who had everything