The Indian Way(Poem)

Shaving head
for the lord
saves the soul
here.

Dipping the dead,
mixing the breath
in the waters
and kissing the horizons
fades away our sins
here.

The insomniac Vedas
and the gods
who taste the blood
in sacrifice
fly
here.

Patriarchs
freed the bodies
of women
yet the shadows are frozen
in the light
of law, scriptures
and curriculum.

Comrades
of forest
and the scavengers of sewers
still standing in the queue
with fire and ice in hands.
here.
here.

bomb
and the boom
in the hungriest
hearts
yet
the finger never
crosses the line
on the E.V.M.

Too shy
for a change.


An empty-tron(Poem)

Who are you?

a puny crack,
an in-between
in the thoughts
that pass by.

I came
as a naked bum
as an illusion
trying to find illumination.

Someone a second ago.
Someone a second after.

From the land of everything
to the sea of nothing
is the short run of my breath.

A smoke that
never left the home.


<End>(Poem)

The finished page
has no awe.
the last smoke
too
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.


Defy(Poem)

So many odds
but
I counted none.


Burn the burdens.

Today is the day
I shall walk
to change the laws.

Today is the day
for the waxen
veins and the dead hands
to strip away the sorries
and sorrows of yesterday.

Today is the day
to charge like a comet.

/To trust and try/
/To run the rough roads/
/To unsettle the currents/


The beginning (Poem)

The suddenness of adulthood
falls into your lap
but there’s no
kick on your knees
to wake you up.

Before the veins see it
the hormones
begin the cruise
past midnights.

the latitudes and longitudes
falling for tidal thrills.

the rebel comes out
with braces on teeth
and voltage-d writings
on the wall, notes.

Bodies itching for trouble
and identity.

And the wild teetering
made on the flat tyre
of a budget cycle.


Ism(Poem)

The Gulags showed
what comes out
from the red barrel.

The bleached bones
of the blue indigo of Bengal
showed
what comes out
from the benevolence of the butcher,
baker and brewer.

Kulaks told
how poor
and penniless the
Siberian tigers were.

Ryots told
how sad
and sorrowful
the crocodiles were.

One left the heads
to horoscope
without overcoat.

One left the legs
to the thorns
without a seditious sole.


The New Marx(Poem)

Fear
/has/ become the new religion
No
not the comfy opium
that cancels away
the sweet prisons.

Jiddu Krishnamurti
says
that
this microbe
is merely a product of
thought-time natak.(Drama)

Whatever
Wherever
the origin might be

Fear /has/ become
the new school anthem.
/has/ become the pimple
on the face of freedom.

None dares to be a soldier now
None daters to gamble their life away now
None dares to be a fakir now.

Dear stranger
count the guns
and the guts of the dungeon
we shall break the bars.

Lit the nerves.


Brief Rumination(Poem)

Mist in the mind
Or the guts in my egg
I eat in the morning

bestow me every day
an apple of regrets
to keep the disease of
certainty
away from spine

I was told
Man is a maker
Always a becoming
never a being
Always a dice
never a done deal

yet the scriptures
the air masses
the fronts
and a sip of a rose tea
want the same song

the bones want the left
and the boredom something else
yet
both manage
to
not enlighten the self

Is this life
meant to
collect just some verbs
in the pocket
and some nouns
for the grave

Why the question now?

this is not the time
Wait for the saline bottle
and the ventilator


Coo(Poem)

The pigeons
didn’t coo
as the sun
in Istanbul
has gone
away
to crack up
the cock
too busy in sleep
on the wind vane.

His secretary
Mr Miles
the dog
has begun to dig
the roots in a sunflower field
and the
Buddhist sky
with the howl
to wake up
the Nihilist bugs on the cattle.

Eggs
mostly drunk
and in Zen mode
didn’t care.

Tractor with
some euro engine
and EMI dirt
all over
was hungry.

The farmer
thought
should I fight again?
when the pests
are ready
to eat the heads
and the bones of
poor monks with petals.