Glory gave the king
a statue with Diogenes pity
and some bird shit
and the patience
to stare at strangers
who don’t salute.
the sold-out bards
wrote good songs
and valorized the sword
and the sweat of greed
with light
and moral-fight.
The load of a hero
and the clicks of camera
could not put aside
the ungodly silence
and the hours
when the truth was ghettoed
for spoils.
None can
hang the lord
now
except for the skulls
6ft beneath the
history.
Nothing matters for a public bus
not even the goodbyes and the hellos
the monkish machine barks with
a horn which sounds like
I don’t care, just move away
your dead language and luggage.
On a Friday night
it is more busy than a god
and pissy than a waiting woman.
the master morality of the commoner
cannot mine moral salts from it.
it shows off a it is what it is
attitude and waves at time with old boy stoicism.
Going from A to B should be about
A to B
not seeing murders on the road,
not interviewing 1998 thoughts,
not smoking political cigarettes,
not flirting with 6.5% inflation,
and
not multiplying the debt of your nostalgic debt
while tasting Gaza news in the BBC market.
The tumbling down of the sun
assembled a dark emptiness
on which the moon was mourning.
the night was pregnant with
defiant stars and holy comets.
the winds, untamed by cliffs
were snoring in the sky.
the graveyards weary of
field notes of the ghosts and
un-cared flowers
called the cold caravans
for sweet lullabies.
the silence was too loud
to let the body rest.
and the turmoil was too silent
to let the pillow fall.
the blanket was too unruly
to let the thoughts settle.
And the plants
were worn out after
pumping oxygen all day long
from their brittle lungs.
the mist and fog
to thick to cover the wildness of passions
the clouds
too thin to dress the shades of the sky.
-the language of the night
dreams a reality within a reality
till the toilet disturbs your soul.
The clayey peasantry
and
the ceramic urbanites
gathered around
a lean fire
to take a break
from the alienation.
Only
the unemployed time
and such died attentions
seem to kindle the lulled lavas
lying in the nucleus of the hearts and minds.
The numberless tabs
opened in the browser
and the overlong wish-list
halted in the Amazon cart
makes life
a cartoon.
We never trust the sugars
but
surrender the five senses
even the 6th, 7th, 8th and the Nth
to the candied companies.
What a pity!
I forget this, again.
What a pity!
I will remember this, again.
What a pity!
such meditations are lost in the figures of speech.
Back to the Psychedelics and NFTs
to complicate the matrix.
I skipped the Ad and life. Did I ?
Infinity dies
when you stop counting.
Dreams sneeze
when a neuron gets candy.
Chaos is a cover that
simplicity uses to play tricks.
Deja vu is a dropped memory
of the cosmos.
Solitude is a dream
of no-mind and a scream of
all-mind.
I’m just a meme made by god.
I piss off Yin
with a spin
of the sin.
I and the holy ghost
shall find the yang
with a pistol and good TV.
At a highway motel,
I read a fortune cookie.
It said —
“Imitation is the highest
form of self-deception.”
I defied it,
and stepped into society.
as a result,
I guillotined the self,
in a choreographed civilisation,
and baptised barbarism.
turning vibrant skeleton,
into the lifeless soul.
____________________
On a rainy day,
I met a tropical cyclone.
It said —
“You cannot change,
the scripted foreheads,
and,
palmistry cannot undo,
mystic miscarriages.”
of course, I ignored it,
and walked into the traps of,
hopes, vows, wishes, and wills,
crossing fingers in,
the myth of salvation.
____________________
In a writers meet,
when my,
gums were bleeding with guilt,
knuckles cracking with knavery,
and yawning tides of sleep,
were trying to make me,
A domicile in dreams,
one young fellow,
gave away his flunkey wisdom —
“Moneyed angles created poverty,
and moneyed demons created the charity.”
I dismissed it,
and still believed in the,
Lord — Adam smith,
the un-read, misunderstood,
god of capitalism.
____________________
On a who-gives-a-damn day,
I met a monk,
He said —
after perspiring silence from his empty eyes,
“Open your mind, and,
walk alone,
without,
rules, ideals, ideologies,
and dogmas.”
I think,
He also said —
adjusting his robes,
“walk without sticks,
run without guilt,
and fly without faith.”
well,
my beard murmured,
solitude is a prelude to sanity,
or insanity.
and I went home,
to cater, the conscience.
or whatever it is called these days.
____________________
-Fooling the self.
(Muse- Soren Kierkegaard)
The drama unfolded,
as the un-finished memories woke up.
writer wears the robes of rejuvenation,
resurrecting after the night sins.
he sidelines,
the sweet aroma of wet earth,
the dreams, that ruined the buzz of silence.
the,
cellist of creativity,
rushes into un-looked empty pages,
to fan-out a poem from fear,
while melting under a cold candy.
thoughts,
however,
slipped away like a desert reptile,
pulled down by the “g” force of neurons,
or by the salty emotions,
into the pockets of a foreclosed denim jacket.
writer,
still, stretches the defeat,
and travels the highways of procrastinated paths,
into the netherworld of monologues.
little did he know,
the strength of ionic and the covalent bonds of,
the null and void.
spiraling up again,
he strips the petals of the pen,
yet,
the drowned poem,
could not come out of the bottomless buoyancy,
despite,
the cranking horn of lazy breadth and the,
formatting of un-saved memory files.
probably,
it’s trapped in the tropospheric timidness.
thus,
I ended the show,
as the cyclonic heart was tired of latent passivity,
I retract,
into,
the condolence of pillows.
-Slipping into soberity.
Water was watered down
flow arrested and molecules
could not romance
with the banks, plains,
and marshes anymore.
The native man was
asked to wear the hat
of larger good
and give up land,
little animals,
rock cultures and so on
and stand for the hydro-power
that darkens their valley forever.
Sure, they were shifted or “Rehabilitated”
skeletons progressed to new homes
but the spirits keep on rocking back
to and fro like a pendulum.
Turbines gave a new life
project reports
gave a dose of concrete morals
to fishes
and the economists
called it a “Renaissance”
— Drunken Salmon in a fish ladder.
The legal — black inked
yellowish inert pages of the constitution
sitting in a lotus posture
inside
national museums
could not catch
sight of —
kaki lathis on the roads
bullets jaywalking
on the sinful skins of people.
Citizens mutilating
flesh on earth
in the name of the holy-spirit
on some — nebula world.
Tongues that chant mantras
but
cancels the dignity
of the genders.
Paper bureaucrats
with loaned power
from people
never paying back the interest.
State
with
a veil of silence
a baton of arrogance
and
a flag of violence.
— Drunken citizen.
O’ Reader
pick the pain, not the plot.
rub the wounds, not the words.
take the walk, not the paths.
lick the pages, not the passions.
feel the perceptions, not the reflections.
copy the chemistry, not the characters.
cook the lies, not the truths.
feel the tears, not the trash.
lose in love, not in lust.
carry the wisdom, not the weights of wit.
drink the absence, not the amusements.
open the doors, not the damnations.
make the trouble, not the noise.
swim the sands, no the salts.
ring the bells, not the betrayal.
yell at the page, not at the painting.
cross the bridges, not the tunnels.
sing the melody, not the song.
Fly. Float. Fade.
Thy Vox 