Regular Evening(Poem)

Sunset—hoped eyes
woke up like a spilt secret
in a state of scepticism.

Barefooted
I walked on the rotten time
and sang with the biscuit-ed moods.

Alexaaaaa!!!!
Play “Beats of life”

The Athenian cat
did what he does—
ignore the petty mortals.

Nazi birds on the poles
were thinking without a bannister.

With stooped shoulders,
Poetic pyjamas and
Marxist beard
I serviced the civilization
by reading newspapers.

Milked the pen
to give caffeinated thoughts
did the moonwalk part
Yet
(—)

Next time
I’ll try clean-shaven.

—Drunken bread

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
nah—
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.

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

However,
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
Tap
Tap on these worn-out soul.

—Drunken ghost.

Desking

This IKEA table
with wooden bones
and metal legs
Settled here
like the old skull
of a museum.

it was not cut for fashion
though it can sit patiently
like a bald psychiatrist
or a daily newspaper.

Has some tea marks
with inky fingerprints
and great embroidered writings
of boredom.

Bronze Buddha sleeps sideways
books have fossil viola
and some provisions
to fill my regular dark appetites.

Past sins have cleaved the surface
bolts have become loose
like the bodies affected by blight.

edges are sharp
as sharp as fishing lures
or as steep as a glen.

The bard doesn’t care.


In the Living Room

I am a native of sofa land
the cushions hold
the petty pelf of the pockets
who come out
of the dark caves
When unearthed by
month-end archaeologists
with tight finances.

The velvet fabrics
flog the oval bodies
which were moulded
by the slothy sittings.

Thick pillows form
the cradle of liberty
with some butt perfume
coming out at the crossroads
of division.

—Drunken wood.


Wintering(Poem)

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
dubious
so
too
were the guests
of late night tv talk show
so
too
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

and
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.

Probability(Poem)

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
croaking
croaking
croaking
croaking.

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

The end.

—Drunken Monk




Sea world(Poem)

Tossing the pebble of pain
aside
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.