“Don’t do it”
said
the finished soul.
From the trenches
comes a stench of love.
A dying brother gave a
greased bread and a bloodied bullet.
bread to bury my hunger
and the bullet to hurry his death.
How could I offer mercy
when the gods themselves would not?
I gave him a cigarette.
The peace was not mine to give.
Death took the pit
already dug for it.
<><><><><><><><><><><><>
Primitive breezes
came in a gentlemanly way.
But the dogs and the outlaw frogs
already knew the climax.
Clouds found another slope
to dump hope. Whatever!
I was about to kiss the abyss or bliss
All I got was a homeless rage with no edge.
Spirit spilled a splash of blood like in that Dexter show
ready to join some shock- treatment-solitude cult.
Hell,
some moods are never meant to be awakened.
I broke the sublime spacetime
of the 3 p.m dream realm.
I had to.
Flux of the Sunday couldn’t fix
the birth pain of finding a new tv show.
The spicy air orbiting around
fell on me like a bad memory.
400 times more closer was
the bug. Trying to dive into
the hairy woods of ear.
Thoughts split in the
neural prism have been spun into tales
told with soft wax of a candle and dying moths.
This vortex in the cortex
and the hot wind without any psyche
out of diesel generator irritated the
homesick snail crawling on the leaf.
The hill I saw on documentary
had an affair that’s a billion years old
with life itself. Befriending grief to form a reef.
sinking, and shrinking.
yet
out of it born is only love and more love.
I ain’t a qubit with 0 and 1
but one day
I might find both war and peace in me.
The air prints of dragonflies
broke the visual silence of the sky.
Stones in their Shanti mood
were resting on the Chernobyl breath of soil.
Red-headed vulture was scanning the barcode of death
and I saw life soon to be lost to luck under a truck.
It seems god doesn’t play dice but Ludo.
Buddhist cat was meowing something holy and lowly
but the ant bands in their circus rhythm
were digging up old secrets of earth.
Lovers in the end of the world desperation and caution
in their apocalyptic chats gave a look
and shooed me away like a leprosy patient of Calcutta.
Hell is you not being wanted when you are hungry for company, at least from a distance.
the footpaths are colonized by the street vendors
to get their share of Indian dream.
but all dreams are spun by the corporate spiders
to kill the prey when they are busy sipping chai.
there are no roads but only gaps to slip by
and merge into the wilderness of urban madness.
A parade of souls
and a few frightened cows
were busy in their redemption games.
Diyas were lit to clean karma
and whitewash the black lungs.
Caught in these dangerous hopes
the Peepal tree and the hornbills
too joined the parade.
Divine silence was filled with the
graffiti of chants and it grew louder
as the rain romanced with the airy sounds.
City river with the ads of oracles
welcomed the priest and the pilgrims
with its wide forearms and orphaned waterbirds.
A dog and its war buddies
with bad twisted tails
ate rice while the frog
sang something vice.
Dare and die dirty. That will do.
The worms shall come for you one day regardless
as gods kill us for their sport.
Till his final breath
man needs to face fall and filth.
If not the bones, the brains
might dam you. Damn them.
The burn is brief
and the escape of coil
from the thralldom
might be into the pointless samadhi.
who knows?
Life is a helix
uncoiling into nothing anyways.
Street lamps
burning like a Taliban gun
shooed away tanned darkness and
chilli powder emptiness.
The kid stole a muddy carrot
and slipped out into the dying crowd.
eagle with 1:2 eyes
and Zarathustra’s breath
gazed at my thrift store soul.
Colonized psyches
in a Bajaj scooter
and 1 gram gold sweats
were boiling in traffic
with their Falooda tantrums
and stockfish skins.
Comrade
saw a rainbow
in the shadow.
Shakti and Shiva
ready to shock and walk.
but the
skeletons
fed on soda
cannot pop out
when they see choke-out.
they think that
what’s done
cannot be undone.
sure. sure.
but what can be done
must be done.
Pencil fights
and a few bites in the nights
mean nothing.
The old man with a cotton head
and a coffee stain on his pensioned off collar
eyed the young man who cut the line.
One top-down look
and he took out all the gutter
feelings.
Fuming
and rubbing his buttoned beard
he was ready for a crime.
the highways on his forehead
gave the green light for nerves.
No more Advaita and Aham Brahmasmi.
the anger ran like the Krishna’s chariot
in Mahabharata.
The cane and the brain carefully chained
by Prozac went loose.
Dostoevsky was right.
“Trifles, trifles are what matter! It’s just such trifles that always ruin everything . . . ”
Folded collar and a hungry tie
eating time.
Socks
trapped like a matchstick
in a phosphorus box
is longing the Maya of 400 square meters thing
we call home.
People with their data packs
gazing into abyss and bellies
at the edge of the Oort cloud
are comfortable in granitic moods.
The shakes and breaks of metro train
jolt the tobacco dreams of the city of the dead.
Cults of ID cards
beat the drums of samsara
from their Platonic caves.
Thy Vox 