History—Sober Past(Poem)

Generously compensated bards
sing the wickedness of old kings.
Peace covenants make the cold battles holy,
chaining the truth to victor penmanship.

Stitching the narratives in comfort
whitewashing the colonies
in the name of civilization.

Hagiographies sanctifying the myths
sidelining the subalterns
and de-constructing the lines of palm
only to tighten the perspectives.

one-sided mutinies, uprisings, revolutions, coups
exiling the gutters of night.

free-men slaving the free-men of distant geographies
painting poetry in place of hard prose
is what history did, does, and will do.

they say history often repeats
only sins do.

In the end,
only graves, not tombs know what happened.

—Drunken Diplomat.

Notes from a grave(Poem)

On the 2nd of April, 1875
I, Alexander Wendt
descended beneath
after a mild cardiac arrest.

For a few years,
some came to see me
with blue iris and calla lily.

Then, the old bones
were forgotten.
I was erased from the love of family,
like a blackboard after a long lecture.

There are no great deeds on my name
no philosophies or creeds to carry my name
like Marx or Mao
Thus the spirit is forever erased from
the future remembrance.

The grave became anonymous
and was abandoned in the ocean of graves.

One Alex came by in 1923
i never know why
probably to trace old fuckers of the family tree
or just confused.

What am I writing anyway?
the old grave is leaky
raindrops fell down
Tap on these worn-out soul.

—Drunken ghost.


Without sun—
colored sweaters
were flavorless
and very neutral
like an old diplomat.

the hibernal moods
were suit-cased
and hand-gloved.

spirit was
an old octogenarian
dragging on a long staircase.

the imagery
of a paused butterfly
for a candid shot
was missing.

fingerprints of a bee
on the nectared flowers
were long gone.

the lava of snow and solitude
slowly filling in.
the deserted sky
slowly filling in
like an unholy cowboy
coming to a village.

polar lights with
chameleon morals
masked the brightness
of a starry night.

poems too
have become
were the guests
of late night tv talk show
were the swirling coffee cups.

—Drunken dragon with
a drunken tummy.

Before, The Morning(Poem)

At 3 A.M.
a quiet pissy feeling
woke me up or
a thirsty throat.

the wormholes of the universe
were wide open
no one was there to melt into it
no, not even the gods
for they were too busy
in auditing the spreadsheet of
vices and virtues.

productivity games of man
did not start
air was not yet wet
with the sweat of joggers.
the birds, the dogs, the cats
the coffee cups, the babies
and the karma has not woken up

were still in their erstwhile positions
like a Spartan army, disciplined and tamed.
but the cockroaches were moving.

The nothingness of 3 A.M.
was blissful not yet intruded
by mechanical and robotic 5 A.M.’s of the man.

3 A.M.
it’s the time
you are utterly alone with the stars
and the darkness
in a state of true living.

the only moment
I hear the time
slipping by.

only the watcher remains
with no mind
to explore the geometries.

—Drunken Monk.


May be—
there’s a beatific life behind death
a lotus that’s dirty and sinking
U-force that pulls up
a stoic teenager
sunny moonlight
a clock that doesn’t count
river running back to the source
a camel preying on a lion
a wise man who listens
father earth
finished poem or a painting
a mortal who comforted the gods
a dutiful cat
a meditator with skin in the game
an idiot with a question mark
a heart that listens to the head
a head that talks to the heart
a hand that bonds both.

—Drunken Monk

Rainy Day(Poem)

The smell of the sky
is no more earth-ly
but man-ly
like sewer
Sulphated—with shit
very stale.

I took the usual
blue dotted umbrella
my neighbor Cathy gave me for my
mom’s anniversary.
What a strange gift!
who gives an umbrella as a gift?

The day was old
like a 3000 year old Egyptian mummy.
men and women were beefy
in their big bevvy of coats
with mundane shoes/boats
painted with brown mud.

The windows blew in their
same temporal space
the noses had flu
the larynx had lust
the rosy tongue had cravings for a
steaming tea
and lips biting in shady romances.

the man in front of me
had a goat face and his wife
had pores like small crannies on rock
with little makeup.

the whole civilization of umbrellas
And the trauma filled hats
got the glory for a brief time.

while I search for similes
bards were hemming words
with whisky
with dyed hands
sneezing solitude and insolvent words.

everyone went under the tree
for false protection
under a phalanx of emotions
and I lighted a cigarette
to subdue the sinews of regret
and devour the last dareness, darting in my soul.

some lost in cell-phones
others in debts, deceits, and culture of sinning
all under a wet mask.

the frogs

pixels of the eye disturbed
lighting struck the tree
people died.

The end.

—Drunken Monk

Sea world(Poem)

Tossing the pebble of pain
I drown in the gathering wave
like a floating womb.

The neural workers went on a strike
as soon as
I ate nautical emptiness
with the fellow reefs
and the kelp forests.

The heights of eros were
as raw as the Bull shark
as down as the trenches
as up as the ridges.

Fat seagulls chasing
the Juve fish
With a banality of evil
and the blue whales
whistling the winds
with their blowholes
while cleaning up
the food chains.

And the
national geographic
diver is cruising through
the salty waters
with a dry lens.

—Drunken Monk.

4:30 AM

Long before
the yellow star
rise up
the winds of hope
crack the sleep wide open.

Long before
the motor of the scooter
danced around
the cells were jolted
by the china tea.

The unwillingness of the darkness
to give way to the morning light.
The unopened cans of milk
oil the spirit of cafeterias.
The unyielding toughness of the rusks
to get wet in the oceans of coffees.

The aridity of the eyelids
Dozy bones
And the
sad face of the blanket to get folded
forever pull me down
into the concave pillows.

—Drunken Monk


The son of the soil
The daughter of the sickle
placed the bet
on the slaughtered lands
on the mercurial monsoons
on the sleepy seeds.

Pack of pests
patiently waiting
to prey on the pain.

The rhythm of debts
The tunes of prices
play a sad melody of suicides.

Meanwhile, the cows
cry in the clutches
of corporates and
the Goblin of globalization.

Adding to the ironies,
the past sins of man
come to the farm
in the form
of cyclones, droughts
to make late memories
and bleach the
colors of cracked earth.

—Drunken Monk.

Examined Life?

The legends of philosophy and spirituality have one thing in common apart from their weirdly grown long white beards. They recommend an examined life. To savour the infinity in the present moment and live in deep reflections and ruminations.

But even a 5-minute meditation done over an app or contemplating about life’s purpose while having your coffee reveals the beauty and the beast, the sun and the moon, the light and the darkness of it all. It holds a yin-yang that delights us with a sense of calmness and dazzles us with the ugly dissatisfaction of life.

Conscious living is hard. It reveals the hallowed nature of life and makes us scratch our heads on the “Whole point” of this existence. This is fine and we can tolerate it.

However, past the 5-minute timer, the examination uncovers our own life’s shortcomings. The insecurities, anxieties, emotions all come for a ballet dance and play on the tunes of “pity” streaming in the neurons of our mind.

It’s like walking on a hotbed of coal or get repeatedly stung by a hornet. Why go after these musings? Just for a temporary soothing?

That turns us into the woods of unconscious living. This too has its shortcomings. It’s easy to get by in this mode but after a while, it becomes robotic and repetitive. You become a passive boat wandering in the waters of weariness. One eventually becomes a bystander and a nodding machine to the choices of life.

There is no juice left in the fruity life. Just counting seconds in a zombie state.

In the end, both states are hard thorny roads to make a living. The way ahead could be a conscious-unconscious or unconscious-conscious mode. But then—()