THE SILLY LITTLE
POETRY COLLECTION.
The AlkaSalka Series · Volume 36
Updated Weekly.
One of the publications for sure.
© 2026
Hospital Room, Cold (October 2023)
he walks in
thin red rivers on his ankle
thinner than that silly smirk
bursting
exploding
forming anew in another minute or so
crusty
old
rough and uncomfortable
blood now on the red tiles i think
he’d rather stay
Other Things (8th February 2025)
there are so many things
and
this is one of them
there are so many things
and
this is one of them
Anything and everything that took place
happened in those two weeks.
Tiny, white daisies sprouted a day right after it
had been raining for a week straight,
the wild mushroom that had been growing on
the bottom of that tree was removed.
Fungus is always bad, even if it looks like the
shining top of a newborn’s head.
The wind was seen shifting its course.
Snow leopards came downstream in July.
A woman was sighted walking the thin line
between mental turmoil and calm.
We heard that she then walked straight into the
white light of the sun and also that nobody
was held accountable.
We were told a lot of tales, and unfortunately
we believed them all
for all of us were tied by familial love.
Everything that took place happened right
then. In those last two weeks.
This was always about
something important, and
always about something
that sounded shy.
This has always been about things
that are warm to the touch
and about those people that
remain silent when asked
questions.
Everything that happened
in those two weeks has
happened before.
Rain has been known to
shift direction before and
wind has turned its way
many times. Fruit has been
corrupted from the inside
out and the mynas have fed
on it. This purple fruit has
turned them into stranger,
wilder creatures that feed
on freedom.
Everything in those two
weeks felt like two weeks.
Nothing lasted more than it
should’ve, and that made
everything either
perfect
or the exact opposite of it.
something important, and
always about something
that sounded shy.
This has always been about things
that are warm to the touch
and about those people that
remain silent when asked
questions.
Everything that happened
in those two weeks has
happened before.
Rain has been known to
shift direction before and
wind has turned its way
many times. Fruit has been
corrupted from the inside
out and the mynas have fed
on it. This purple fruit has
turned them into stranger,
wilder creatures that feed
on freedom.
Everything in those two
weeks felt like two weeks.
Nothing lasted more than it
should’ve, and that made
everything either
perfect
or the exact opposite of it.
Seed (February 2024)
Apricot seeds run in circles
never tiring
screaming for fun
poisonous
you have no idea!
but hey relax there is
cold summer breeze
dressed in it are you
shush, deep breath
you are full of a poison
but since you don't know it
it does not exist
and never has.
Bye! (June 2024)
Don't be clumsy.
Characterless goodbyes make for clean exits and yellow stains on new white shirts.
The pools of clarity that have formed on the very corners of your eyes,
take heed of them, for they have been serving you well and unconditionally, ever since you came here.
You just never knew them well enough.
Set them free, play your part.
Hug him ever so tightly, hold her for another thirty seconds,
tell them you'll see them when they come your way.
Cling tight to the brown in her eyes and study her face as if for an exam.
You don't know if you'd ever be back.
Beautiful, isn't it?
So, so beautiful.
Everything becomes so beautiful in the close.
Mere tears seem like pools of clarity, and all relationships feel like they've lasted lifetimes.
You've never looked up at the stars here before, but in the close, you just can't help but see how beautiful everything is.
You'll hear it all,
and you'll smell it all. You'll even see it all.
But only if you just remember to
not be clumsy.
Phir? (2023)
Till this Friday?
Till tomorrow, then.
But just look at that shine!
You can’t miss it.
Everything so new, so clean and
even if you say
this is just the surface
I will tell you that you are so wrong and also that
the river is getting better
the streets are
cleaner
and the Fridays are
much quieter.
Your little shy protests mean nothing and
nobody will listen for
the shine is transforming and you must
must
must
you must
stay here and look.
How have you been
Coming to me in my dreams?
my fault.
Your hair runs through my fingers
threads itself between my teeth I
apologise.
Where are you?
With this torch in my hand the brook
is a planet
coddling storms that stretch for miles.
Put your head down
let me take the blame because
underneath this savage town
where the water runs
I was who lost you,
and not once made amends.