Life is this, here. (Poem)

Photo:iStock

We have numbers and
statistical specimens
in urban islands.
Not people
with shadows and foreshadowing(s)

Here
each is a
continental plate
but they don’t converge or diverge
thus the love lava
doesn’t ooze out from ID cards.

No
No
they’ve identities.
There’s no existential crisis.
There’s maybe a crisis in existence.
whatever.

Neither grandmothers
nor gadflies can subsist here.
People survive
in the loudness of sound installations.
seriously!

they smoothly forget your name.
they have finger bowls
and frozen foods. (yes, dead
eating dead)
and they’ve your number
added as fact
not flesh.
Don’t try to call.

Hondas rule
the city.
obey them and you’ll do just fine.


May be a fight(Poem)

Photo:iStock

I was humming
some chill track.
At least that’s what
Spotify says so.

the bald guy
with coca-cola hat
was eying me.
ready to pull
senior citizen card
and rest his velvet ass.

He made the move
but so did the Khadi saree woman
with edge-of-the-world eyeglasses
and Doordarshan’s face.

The two began moral and
talking boxing
on why their particular bum
should make a reunion with the pressed seat.

I sat like a dead mummy
without a greedy gaze at
my own goddamn seat.

Then came the blind guy
with his samurai stick
I rose and offered the jounced
justice painted
equity coloured seat.

Now their conscientious bargaining
or blackmailing is dead.
They thought
they did the Rosa Parks act.


Lunch hour(Poem)

Photo:iStock

It’s noon.
Ice-creams
and face-creams
weak.
Paper bags
nude.
Chalks put aside.
Blackboards
white
with high school trigonometry.

Now
is the sin-time
after sine-time
and cosine-time.

To be the Heisenberg
not the Walter white.
To make some sweat
and chills
in the foothills of back-benches
and the Kuiper belts of front-benches.

For 25 minutes
we own the time stone.
For 24 minutes
we are the waves
not the fake particles.

But when the bell rings
the end credits
rolls in.
the 911 time for us
sets in.


Free for a will(Poem)

Photo:iStock

Taped attention
Glued chi
and a favourite season
do not matter anymore.

Now I decide
the zen moment
to fill the essence
in the existence.

Either an Apollonian
or Dionysian.
Either a Frisbee
or an Elves tree.

Solid or Sixth matter
I decide on the form
and the perfect arc of pointlessness.
to possess the will to power
or will to be a mountain
unmoved.

To connect the dots
a lot
or not.

To blossom
or (**).
To exist
as a being-in-itself or being-for-itself
or being-for-others.


Holy, please!(Poem)

Photo: iStock

After 89 years
7months
2days
Bodhi with
Dumbledore beard
onion skin
and vampire thirst
went to Varanasi.

Met Aghoris
weavers
first-class saints
priests
Upanishadic silences
Japamala minds
and Kantian cows and
Heidegger dogs.

He was late
to spiritual ghazals
and wasn’t invited
to mystical gangs
and Himalayan soap operas.

Sat on the banks of the Ganges river
he saw a crocodile chanting Om
free from fear and grief.

When it opened the earthquake-ed eyes
Bodhi saw the reptilian truth
and became the disciple
and the guru.

9 hours later
he went to a shiva temple
and joined the bhajans.


Cement(Poem)

Photo:iStock

The hands from the slum
and the un-pencil-ed minds
wove the crust and mantle
on which the motherboards
and circuits could build
an urban legend.
{Unacknowledged}


People with neckties and apps
crushed the rickshaws
and the dabbawala hopes.

The vaseline balm-ed bodies
visit dreams
but the public transport bodies
return to nightmares.

Pink slip-ed scorpions
stung by EMI venoms
roam the skyscraper deserts.

Covid-ed
crawled
cornered
in a circus of no-breakfast life.

Some performed the last rites
to their efforts
and went back to villages
to rely on
N
P
K.
(Fertilisers)


How to dig? (Poem)

Photo: iStock

One writes
to dig oneself.
But you can’t
step into the same thought
twice
or thrice.

The observer effect
in quantum physics
needs no proof
other than your baby thoughts.

and they continue to metamorphose
forever.
ready to drink the blood of fiction.
let’s call it the “caterpillar effect”
in dream-physics.

And in a twist of fate
even I’m not
allowed to pass through
the Freudian subconscious.
then why breathe in my grey matter?
using my existence for a living?
that’s some high-level capitalism
something the dead Marx can’t handle.

and for the record,
they need to know the actual purpose of their life.
{Albert Camus’s absurdism
got even more absurd.}

Can God access this storeroom?
“?”
Marcel Proust did it
with senses travelling.
So
in search of lost time
what shall I do?


Gulf of Mexico(Poem)

Photo: iStock

Oil spill in the sea
a man’s or a machine’s
mistake.

A black carpet of death.
A black spectre’s haunting
and the hunting began.

The writer went back
unable to find a muse
in a black dream.

Tunas poisoned
by the 007 trickery
of killer-sapiens.

Sensing the fossil sickness
with their magnetism
birds skipped
toxic pregnancies and births.

Benzene
Toluene
Sulphur
in the kid’s lunchbox.
(Perhaps a ‘crude’ love)

Oyster
making a
Xylene pearl?
<><><><><><>

and the devilish rainbows
starting the nemesis.

and the Romeo and Juliet
never met in the black fumes.


I need sometime(Poem)

Photo: iStock

Bodhi
fearless
faceless
with factualness
took the pen
to wake up masses
from their
solid sleeps.

He thought
he was the
last matchstick
to ignite the ribs
of men.

The piece was bold
not blurred
by adjectives and
liquored lies.

Editor
loaded by busyness
didn’t even axe a word.
With the power
of untimely thoughts
he danced.

Morn came.
Millions of crusty eyes
saw the piece.
Even the shadows
talked about it
for 4 days.
Hideouts
held
debates and dialogues.

Candles were ready
to kindle something big.

Everybody waited for a call.
they waited for a signal.
they waited for a move.
they waited for a moment.
they waited for a siren.

As the truth expired with time
it was tossed away.
But
Bodhi fed the sparrows
combed his curly hair
lit the dying candle
and tried again
with his middle-class
neurons.


Trigger-happy?(Poem)

Photo: iStock

It’s no sweat
to shoot a sinner.
And
quite
cheap to buy
a clean chit
for the conscience.

but the sin
still has a Lub-Dub.
still takes a breath
in the land of the living.

In the tale of crime and punishment
the criminal
is found guilty
and gets the revenge of society.
but the crime
slips away
in between the hands of newspaper readers
journalists
and robes.

Felon has a short shelf life
immediately cut off
like a crossword puzzle
while the felony
waits
sleeps
hides
in the collective consciousness
in the celebration crackers
in the happy tweets and retweets.

Pistol out.
Peace in.
it ain’t the pill.

It ain’t book vs bullet
…………
…………
…………
…………
…………
Hold the smoke.