A single dictator deciding to go to war and millions of followers okaying it is the peak of stupidity. Every life lost is gone forever and cannot be brought back by ideologies and nationalism.
Look around. The universe we have thus far explored hasn’t got any real sign of life. Life is a rare probability event that somehow happened here on this tiny pale blue dot. And we are killing each other for petty reasons.

End (Poem)

Image by 愚木混株 Cdd20 from Pixabay

The finished page
has no awe.
the last smoke
has no life
to burn the lungs.

The Peak
ends the hike.
The wheel
ends the ride.
But then
we miss the life’s cruelty.

Truth closes off
the investigation.
the climax
reveals the baddie.
the act concludes
the thought.

the finale
is all we want
but the closure
is cold with
a decorated period.

Is that so? (Poem)

Image by Bianca Van Dijk from Pixabay

Someone said
your love is like unbought clothes.
tried, used, and left in the
hangers of the trial room by strangers.
But love is like a public bench in the park
tried and used
no doubt
but leaves memories, laughs and
few icy truths.
It won’t drop you off in
as told by bards
but completes your void voyage
in pitiless prisons
and motionless solitudes.

Visitor-ing (Poem)

The Bukowski bee
came in
and sprinted away
like the Sunday joy.

Careful in
thought, action, deed
like the new immigrant.

it’s either drunk
or desperate
hard to tell
with the sinful antennas
and treacherous steps.

the railway movement
of the legs
and the weapon-ed wings
with party-bouncer eyes
are hard to miss.

but then
it teleported into
the wormholes
of the switchboard.

Probably to write
notes from underground
like Dostoevsky.

it won’t see me
becoming Nietzsche’s Ubermensch.

In the Park (Poem)

A scourge of mosquitoes
formed a clean Bombay circus
above the head.

Lunar legs
teased the dew
of grasses.

The hands, as if they’re cursed
yet tranquil
were telescoping the currents of the earth.

The mind
which was in “Hmm” mood
briskly went to
“Emoji” way.

While the middle-class ants
were too cautious
in treading the pheromones filled paths.

— Drunken Bench.


Capitalism made us more aware of the time than need be. The squeezing out of everything that one can within the stipulated time to give profits to corporations made us to be more urgent in everything and at all times.
Not doing it gifts us guilt and a mental discipline to avoid it and further trapping us in this clock race.
The hourly pay tied to the time successfully removed life from work and has put a conscience in us to be more resourceful as time is now a resource that needs careful management and prioritization, even inviting the evil of multitasking into our lives that’s killing away our attention without any mercy.
Time has become extremely valuable now to an extent that even we have to beg time for more time, probably at the end of the week.

Monday night under a lamp (Poem)

I sat down
with a shaved pencil or
a pilot pen, I don’t remember much.
Tried Ancient music
medieval notes and
modern melodies
to spark my creativity.
yeah, I even scratched the
dried paint on the wall
like a mad scientist or
failed philosopher.
The celebrated weather
did not cooperate with me
neither the scrambled eggs.
words flowed like a
slow fingernail or a snail
between the magnetic north
of productivity
and the magnetic south
of procrastination.
I took some antibiotics
to cure the lazy infection
and some soybeans, with some,
coffee beans.
finally, I painted the A-6 book
but it was like that flavourless mint
and savoury dark chocolate.
faced with a temporary setback
I watched the starry night
and the cosmic juice stirring up
through a telescope.
and yeah, even the bald eagle is
preying on earthly worms across the street.
I crossed the calendar date
and took the rusted sharpener
to shave the pencil again
but the blanket crawled up
and put me into sleep
with its cotton-silky-woolly touch.
thus, the end came upon me
on that Monday.