Me and Me Too. Even You

Pepé Le Pew.svg

Source: Wikipedia

That moment when the penny finally drops about misogyny:

Me and Me Too. Even You

Signals saturate the spectrum
But now the noise is clearing
We can hear what we’ve been taught

The brooding dripping man film
Blade Runner. Deckard demanding
Rachel’s compliance
It’s OK she isn’t human

Bond, being James Bond
And we all wanted that
Magnetic watch
It’s all about the gadget
Not the girl. Listen

Today. Searching for the perfect gif
My cleverness and wit
I hear at last
The true lesson taught
At our mother’s teat
No never means no
You, Pepe le Pew. Even You

Ruswa Fatehpuri 2018

I wrote this while thinking of the perfect gif with which to respond to a friend on facebook – she had posted something about a hair colour change. Pepe losing his stripe or Penelope gaining one is a frequent plot device in the cartoons. It was going to be hilarious. Then I really saw what I was looking at.

Oh, and the fact that I masquerade in poet guise as Ruswa Fatehpuri is a poorly kept and entirely uninteresting secret. Was.

And if you are going to dive into a Blade Runner rabbit hole that involves Deckard really being a replicant you’ve pretty well missed the point.


Find out more about my writing here.

There is a Ruswa Fatehpuri chapbook out there too





The Lay of the Last Jedi

To celebrate the new Star Wars movie, which I am properly excited about, here is a Luke and Vader shaggy dog story for you.

Spoilers from episodes 1-6, but I’m not seeing the new film til Christmas Eve.

Stick with it, that’s the point of a shaggy dog story! And feel free to reblog, if like me you have no sense of self respect 🙂


The Lay of the Last Jedi


Listen. Here’s a tale well loved and often told

Of a young man filled with woe and righteous fire

Who finds his home a ruined smoking pyre

Young walker of the sky, Luke the bold

Brave but oft times reckless, our hero faces

His nemesis in the story’s fifth or second part

Dread Vader, Darth of name and dark of heart

Master of asteroid sized bases


With all his pomp and power Darth Vader tries

To turn the will of this untempered boy

He lures and bends his mind with every ploy

To make Luke join the path of dark and lies

Mismatched: bare youth, cold machine man

They battle fiercely with the humming blade

Both Jedis fearless Obi Wan had made

One schooled by the Emperor, one by Han


But Vader is the master of sabre and the Force

Luke’s still fledgling skill cannot compare

To the power that Darth Vader brings to bear

Strength fails, he cannot last the course

Yet when at last the lad is on his knees

His sabre lost, and whooped his sorry arse

Vader does not land the coup de grace

But asks instead without a pretty please


“Join me, Skywalker, Jedi, Flying Ace

Why bind yourself to the weakness of the light

You see in me the dark’s o’erweening might

Accept what comes to pass with poise and grace.”

“Never,” Luke claims his sabre and replies

“You killed my gentle mentor Obi Wan

I will not lose myself to what you plan

Nor will I listen to your evil lies.”


Still Vader tries to tempt Luke to his side

For he sees in him the Force runs wild and strong

And winning Luke would right an ancient wrong

The hubris that lost Annakin his bride

“Luke, I am your father, you know this in your heart”

Luke howls his proud denial to this cold truth

But knows the claim requires no further proof

It pierces him, as if a poisoned dart


Luke’s sabre droops as doubt now fills his mind

Vader senses that he may have won

He purrs, “Join me, my lost beloved son

I will make you Prince o’er all living kind

We will stride the cosmos you and I

Our power unfettered, desires one

All that we do will never be undone

Nor will any dare our mastery to deny.”


But a face rises in young Luke’s inner eye

The princess he knows not as his long lost sister

(We hope because we know for sure he kissed her)

Which fills him with the strength to rise and cry

“I deny you as my father or my friend

You are the monster that consumed him from within

Enough with all your talking, let’s begin

To fight again so I may bring your end.”


Luke finds his strength renewed and battles hard

Vader feels the chill of fear is seeping in

For the boy is pressing close and may yet win

Desperate he plays his final card

“Luke, you cannot know the power of the dark,

Yoda and Obi Wan hid much from you

They feared you and the things that you may do

Let me show you now the merest spark.”


Before his son can voice his negative reply,

Vader presses onward with his suit.

“The future is to me not blind or mute

Beyond the veil all my senses still apply

I have cast my power and I tell you true

This Christmas all the gifts you will receive

And when I say the words you will believe

What the future holds in store for you.”


Luke’s Christmases had never brought elation

In the home of Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru

The moisture farm on which this young man grew

Was too poor a place for lavish celebration

The hardship he endured had cut him deep

An orphan who longed to hear a father say

“Here are precious things to mark the day

And bring you joy that will be yours to keep”


But Time and Fate heal all wounds and rifts

A princess and a smuggler are now his friends

This year he thought that he would see amends

And be hip deep in piles of wondrous gifts.

“Luke, there is a tree and gifts galore for you

A bike of BMX and three sixty Xbox One.

Three pairs of socks and stolen blaster gun

My words will echo in your power, you know them true.”


“How come, how come, what sorcery is this?

What fell and foul enchantment have you wrought

How did you pay, how was this knowledge bought

‘Tis true, ‘tis true your words I can’t dismiss.”

Vader takes his chance with an attack

The distracted Luke unable to resist

There is debris all around and in its midst

He falls helpless and prone onto his back


“Tell me,” he begs, now careless of his fate.

Darth Vader’s light sabre slowly descends,

Luke’s long and brave resistance surely ends

His father confidently lets him wait


The blade marks Luke’s face with scalding crescents

His smooth and beardless cheek is burned and marred

As in defeat his soul will soon be scarred

Vader fills with joy, for he has won

He shares his secret with his foundling son

“Luke, last symbol of my darling Padme’s love.

Skywalker, destined to rise above

Luke, my son, I have felt your presents.”



More of my writing here

Clair by Ruswa Fatehpuri


by Ruswa Fatehpuri

We make a seamless join
From knee to hip, shoulder, armpit
Your fragrant herbal hair
Against my cradling arm
A buttress arch reaching
To clasp a window frame
As we seek warmth and comfort
Upon the chapel pew

A romance in G minor
Orchestra chasing violin
In acrobatic leaps from wall to wall
Flirtation, conversation
Without words. Illuminating
Thoughts unspoken

Light scatters on the shadows
Where the buttress meets the window
Where the music lifts and leaps
Your knee. Your crossed, your uncrossed knee.
Your hand, my hand, our ungloved hands
The dancing strings;
The ringing chapel walls

A line where our lives meet;
An unforgiving pew
Your ear upon my heart
Tympanic, inarticulate.
The join, the perpendicular,
The buttress to the window frame.
Shadows reclaim the corners.
An exchange of warmth unvoiced

You can find more of Ruswa Fatehpuri here

If you are interested in my storytelling look here

More memories from college collated here

The Million Words

The Million Words

A sestina on word use


There may be as many as a million words 
In English – lingua franca of the world 
Which sponge like soaks up other tongues 
And claims all new inventions as its own 
Despite this fruitful garden we still choose 
To limit the range of language that we use 
Is it abuse to not put into use 
The full breadth of the lexicon of words 
To slam shut the brace of Oxfords and to choose 
To constrain ourselves into a smaller world 
Do we forsake the very thing we own 
By shackling the freedom of our tongues 
Or is it that we fear speaking in tongues 
Turning phrases others do no use 
If we claim the rare and complex for our own 
Always ready with les mots justes, perfect words 
Do we depart from the rest of the speaking world 
Is true erudition something we can really choose? 


So, fearful of ridicule, we choose
To lay conforming yokes upon our tongues
Denominate ourselves low in the world
Demote to the demotic what we use
To the commonest and easiest of words
We bind the cadences of what we own


But what if there was more that we could own
What if we were truly free to choose
From that list of nigh a million words
Free to twist and stretch our willing tongues
Bring the forgotten and obscure back into use
To enlighten and enrapture the whole world


Will we deal a recumbenitiban blow to the world
As we autohagiography the expressions that we own
And manifest what could be put to use
Or,  revealed as philosophunculists by what we choose
Will we trip upon our hamartithic tongues
As we dentiloquently squeeze out words


The world I fear will judge by what we choose
Nor are we free to unfetter our own tongues
We will never use that million list of words




Monsoon IV

Monsoon IV

by Ruswa Fatehpuri


It does not rain in Singapore

The heavens weap single tears

Four miles wide, six miles deep

The pavements that we thought so even

Hide inch deep pools to soak your feet

As I once washed your mother’s

Before the thought of you


Small hand in my hand, ice cream sticky

Humid, wet as we splash puddles

Bath water warm, spring water clear

You learn what it is to love the rain

And I learn again

It does not rain in Singapore

And this small hand in my hand is not love

But something deeper, wider, something more


You can find more of Ruswa Fatehpuri here


Leisurely Payme…

Leisurely Payment

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare?

No time to plumb the handbag dark,
And choose the card that hits the mark

No time to rummage diligent
Despite the queuing time we spent

No time to see, with groceries packed
The line behind grow long and stacked

No time to turn at Anger’s glare
White knuckles on its cash prepared

No time to make its face go red
With our refusal to think ahead

A poor life this if, fill of care
We have no time to stand and stare

With apologies to WH Davies

In response to DP: Game of Groans

To Bury Shakespeare

A little something to celebrate the birth of uncle Bill, and knocking on the door of a weekly writing challenge:

To Bury Shakespeare


Shall I compare you to a bag of douche?
You speak more smugly and knowing it all
Before your erudition we seem louche
The leering, unendowed, intellect small
And even when you get too grandiose
Calling the sun and moon to witness bear
You carry it with such nonchalant pose
That women swoon and call your poesy fair
We steal your words between our gritted teeth
Become the plagiarist to lift a skirt
They may succumb, but we know underneath
We are your students in the art of flirt
So long as women want romantic words
You are the Jock and we are but the Nerds


Ali Abbas


My books are available here, please rate, review and recommend.


DP: Turn Back Time – A Question of Moments by Ruswa Fatehpuri

A Question of Moments

by Ruswa Fatehpuri


In a life made up of moments
Of which I was but one
What will you remember
When I am dust and gone?

Will the page on which I met you
The page on which we kissed
Be well thumbed and worn
Or passed over and missed?

Will you ever turn to us
And plot the path we took?
Will you smile or will you weep
Or will you never look?

Will you tell your children
Of all that we forsook?
Or will we be forgotten
And torn out of the book?


In response to the turn back time prompt

My Do Over post is also of some relevance

You can find more of Ruswa Fatehpuri here

Autumn by Ruswa Fatehpuri


At the dizzy end of Fall

Disoriented. Winter coat, summer shoes

Leaves wet in heavy piles, the smell

Your shawls retreived from plastic

Memories preserved in aspic

Quiet streets, the afternoon

Christmas lights and cloudless skies

I finger spines of all the books I will not give

Wind whispers in the branches, who and who?

Did you leave her? Did she leave you?

Ruswa Fatehpuri

from Sold and Bartered

Thematically related Post:

And as Autumn rolls around again, so does this poem, reblogged at re-linked…