I feel worse than you

I feel worse than that night.

I’m pining for that cigarette, the first one I ever smoked.

I’m in that tunnel again.

No reception, no one cares.

It’s ok, I don’t care either.

Want me to prove it? I don’t even know your name

And I’m not even listening to you

I’m too self involved and

my pain is too great.

© A.R. Minhas 2017

Novel: Confessions of an Abortion Addict – Excerpt – Part 1

This is an excerpt from the novel “Confessions of an Abortion Addict.” This excerpt might not be sequential and will be subject to additional editing. Thank you!


          It’s been 27 years since I’ve been trapped in my own head. I went to walk on the streets that were familiar, but it’s been too long since I can remember what it was like to transcend. Everything I can remember has been stained by time and memory. Altered by it and ultimately become indifferent too; it was always like that. I look at people as objects in a petri dish. I observe them— the way they laugh, hold conversations, the stares that linger too long and hands that get rebutted ever so softly. I do this because of my craft; I want to be an amazing actress. I’m sitting in a great Hall with other travelers who are waiting for their trains, to go elsewhere, somewhere they were destined to go.

            I see the hug of close friends, lovers and how they are so easily replaced by other people on the waiting bench who too are waiting for the same relationships to enter through that platform. The great Hall has a large dome-shaped ceiling, the lights on the scaffolding provide a mauving effect, smell of recent construction— sawdust floating in the spotlight of the sun… a clanging of metal that has a strange blue ring. Suitcases half the weight of their carriers. Men who look like they have been war torn by life, women who carry themselves with litheness. Shopping bags, hair curled buns and the little wheels making sounds like small locomotives. The voices reverberate, and the pool of conversation gathers into a flood that spills everywhere.

             I go out to smoke. The corner is unlittered with cigarette butts, and I leave one behind with my red lipstick marks, showing that I was there. There are large faces of buildings that look down on me; it’s the feeling of being looked down upon that gets you. Bloated with empathy, my feet yellow-calloused from walking around in these white flats, I hobble around the block, the cars rush by me… Doppler Effect in transit. Pedestrians, jaywalk with deftness that I’ve never possessed and the homeless sit on corners—peripheral curiosities, becoming a part of the city landscape rather than living, breathing organisms. I feel guilty of that thought, but I let myself off with a slap-on-the-wrist. I detach myself walking upwards, and then I catch a glimpse of myself in the green-tinged reflective glass windows of the I-trade building; I can’t help but look. The black flowery blouse, my tight jeans billowing with my body and finally hair untethered in pristine spring weather and the ever so slight curls caressing my face; skin unblemished and proportionately tanned. ‘There were a lot of reasons to smile’ I tell myself to provide excuses for my unearthly grin. As I get closer, the sun dips at that angle which gives life the color of fading polaroid pictures.

“Lady, get some info,” this tall, dark-skinned man said. He was waving flyers with crescent shapes stepping in and out of my path. He was wearing glasses that blind men wear and his scarred white stubble, made him look even more malnourished.

“No, thanks,” I said in my barely audible speaking voice, but my open arm wrist protest along with my head bobble should be more than enough disinterest. I’ve learned to ignore men with flyers. You might think they’re giving you ‘info,’ but they only waste your time. I’m beginning to realize the city, surrounded by a mass of people does make you a little cold and callous but at the same time perceptive of people’s naked interests.

             Getting closer to Dundas, I walk avoiding the subway grates; I might also be avoiding them because I fear falling down further… there is a lingering smell of baked bread floating through the open windows, the steam howls from the belly …the raging of the union southbound line, trembling with unrestrained ferocity. If you look at the pavement closely you can see the small shoot of grass jutting out of the corners. I’m getting a little woozy because I’m also noticing the bubble-gum carcasses and bird-droppings forming small bulbous protrusions infecting the street… like diseased skin. I retrieve a cigarette from my purse, and now it’s dangling on my lips…. I’m going pass the theatre near Wellington Street; I’m not sure if I should do theatre? Nonsense my agent would say and she would berate me about thinking too small. She isn’t with me today; she might’ve finally been satiated by my victory to not show up. Sppt! The lighter fidgets like a fire-dancer near the square, I hear the four toned announcement: ‘Walksignisonforallcrossings’. There was a certain buzz in the ear as if everyone was excited that I was finally meeting, Sly. She was insisting to meet up after our audition and I guess I finally had a reason to celebrate. I wonder now if I were to celebrate my accomplishments, do those accomplishments diminish as I celebrate them, I wonder if everything becomes much of the same. Everything eventually becomes old. I hail a cab.

“90 Ossington”, I say depositing my purse on the other seat. The driver moves with a sense of reckless preciseness; moving his head supernaturally, as if to have an omniscient view of the streets. He was darting across traffic manoeuvring around logjams barely avoiding the cyclists, pedestrians that were unlucky enough to find him in the way of his path— I was sure he had at least grazed many of his would-be victims. In that 30 minute drive I saw my life pass by several times.

Please read the original short story:

Confessions of an Abortion Addict


© A.R. Minhas 2017

And it gets Weirder


Don’t you think it’s weird?

That the color is red

And its redness depends on how you see it?


Weirdness                              Compounds

(Entropy of life)



I have found that facts don’t surprise me anymore

I believe that anything is possible

And no one is genuinely concerned about anything



Your pretend outrage


When I held your hand



Like a defanged snake

The thighs were another matter


And the kiss between them

“Made you blue didn’t I?”


I felt your petals soft as melting ice cream

“It’s the thirst after, that gets in the way.”


The bite pressure has to be just right

A mold for a dangerous mouth

Belching fire and blood


Gums giving up because of a recession

The longing for unrequited Vitamin C


“I can make my fingers dance.”

Inverting them in the right places.


So you see them in the mirror

And it gets weirder

I do a very good impression of me.


Scratch marks and all

Eyes in the opposite direction

            I’m still

It’s getting weirder

                                                                     And I can still surprise myself.


It gets weirder


and I feel myself changing


And I’m still motionless


Ear Cartilages drooping on foreshortened peaks of wisdom

Ballooning Belly Button

And an ironic short temper


It’s a strange day


Just to be alive

Like always.





© A.R. Minhas 2016

That Moment

There is a moment of



You just have to find it

For a moment or two




Just                  have               to…





I’m obsessed with

That moment


Where we hold onto each other


For a moment or two


Just hold onto





No one is around

And here is the moment


Barely             grasping           onto


The gentle slip of it


                                                                                                  A  Subtle Capture



And I never hear  about that moment again



That moment







© A.R. Minhas 2016


I used to sing love songs

I used to sing love songs


And now there is no urgency anymore

I’m fine without it

Like a second cigarette


There is no need for it anymore


I used to write poems of love

But now death is more comfortable

Its silence making it easier to breathe


I have no intention of giving you that

I have no intention of being sentimental anymore


I used to blame the world

And then you


But I have no need for that anymore

I would like forgiveness for my naiveté

My childlike passion


I have no right to sing love songs

And neither do you from hearing them out loud



I used to sing love songs

And now whatever is left will be



© A.R. Minhas 2016

Kill me, Beloved!

I have ruined the self

It was to you I owed that debt

& it was to you that I held onto


“Kill me, Beloved!”

My self doesn’t trust you


It has been lost



In the blue overtures of night crawlers

Reminding you of their eternal blindness


The self                       finds itself a starry night to behold

& smoke dangling on its own

Freckled with                                                                spidery legs



The    Ether                             a   container   of   forgotten      scents

&         the self       can’t stare at you long enough



It grows tired

& it bends


I have ruined the self

& I can’t trust it anymore



“Kill me, Beloved!”



Maybe my Yellowed bones

Gave it away


The kiss I drew on you that night

& displayed for fortuities sake


The love that was borrowed

The love that was taken by no one

& it is no ones…


It is for Myself

& only to Myself


& it is not owed to

Nor does is it belong to


So kill me

If you’d like it back


© A.R. Minhas 2016

Arousing Bitter Unions

My hirsute heart has a slit                &

I regurgitated these words from the depths of my nausea

                                               That’s why they leave a bitter taste in your mouth


Please…     Please…  Gather these caked tears

                                                    Inside my cubic Dreams,

O! Dear goddess of my eye

So swallow or spit                     Or extend below my…


My only escape…

   From the fetus inside the blanketed cocoon

    Which Curls…                                                 Gestating with Green Idols

Grow to be trees of dissatisfaction

Pouring the White bitter sap

                                    A window to a hollow bed

An invitation for sleep deprivation and horniness

And I’m the random speck of nicotine…



From                    this                      Endless sleep

Walking                                    Throbbing




Fully                                     erect.



© A.R. Minhas 2016

Love Chirp 

She strokes in this hour

Fertitillating grace

Night of lovers chirp
In erotic trance

She begins to fret

“I’m lost in you”
She says from the scaffolding

I           spread.             My.        Arms.       Out.

Yet she falls short of
Maybe the tint of gravity has defeated me

Maybe  love has overcome me
I love your gentle possibilities

If there was friction it was orange like a spark
Maybe if we could stand each other
Maybe if I stole your plasticine idol

The serene waves,
A hallajian nightmare
If I was destroyed, and you existed

Neon turmeric has blinded you

“Cover up the love bites”
No one saw anything

There wasn’t a smile

And there wasn’t a spark

© A.R. Minhas 2016

“Dream Persephone”

“Dream Persephone”                                       “Shower us all with your Screams.”

“So scrambled”


“And Waltzing…”


“It consumes hearts”                                       “Devouring those colored eyes”


“And you live”

“And you run”

“And you fly”

“And you touch.”           “pretend you care”

“Which allows a feeling…”

“To Plunge”



“Crying”                                                                     “Insane whispers!”

“Floating on a flash of silver…”

…“Swing it to sleep”

“Dissolve into me”


“My dear sweet Persephone.”

© A.R. Minhas

Paper Trails

There was a trail of death

I left behind…                                                                Enchanted by you

          Strung along those ashes,

                                On briny strings

                    Bludgeon this meat

                                                                                                 “A Drink, my love made.”

                              Squeezed out through pulpy liver,

Bathed our heavy heart

Drip this pure melancholy

          The sulfur on your lips

                                         Is mine to behold

And I spread it on your feet

My toxins, your deformities


Beloved! There isn’t a verse

Without your name on it

Beloved! There isn’t a yellow stain

That isn’t shaped like you



The fog succumbed

Your hips have descended

This Earth is too monotonous

                                                       For you, for me

                                         I’m leaving

                                         These dead planets


else where

         Will you come?

            With me




                Where we don’t linger into each other?


© A.R. Minhas 2016