Stars do what they can do
hence the light.
Poets do what they can do
hence the rhyme.
Chairs do what they can do
hence the wobble.
Drunkards do what they can do
hence the truth.
Cancers do what they can do
hence the remembrance.
Conjunctions do what they can do
hence the fusion.
Cigarettes do what they can do
hence the cravings.
Tea bags do what they can do
hence the baggage.
You do what you can do
hence the best.
May be —
there’s a beatific life behind death
a lotus that’s dirty and sinking
U-force that pulls up
a morning that’s as wild as the night
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 understands
a finished poem or a painting
a mortal who comforted gods
a dutiful cat
instant enlightenment
an idiot who doubts
a heart that listens to the head
a head that talks to the heart
a hand that could bond both
a prayer that can break the silence of the cosmos.
— Drunken Monk
Unhinged hair
from the halted window
and the dancing earphones
semi-plugged to the phone
caught the eyeballs.
the rural heart
couldn’t
resist the taxied fingers
moving across the hair.
Metallic skin
with the thickness
of one-horned rhino
could feel the warmth
of the half-moon
snacking
a few feet away from mine.
the glass eyes
reflected the guts
of a kinetic kite
or a hopping hat
lost in the Polar easterlies.
The discoing flip flops
sending
a seismic shock
touching only
the escalators
of my zen heart.
breathe in.
cough out
the weird neat talk.
When the hunger
kindled
belly-revolutions
the world
didn’t feel like Maya(illusion).
I had to agree with Charvakas.
Yet
when the buds were
touched by Samosa
I was reminded of
Frank Mccourt’s
“After a full belly,
all is poetry.”
words.
So
I had to agree with Plato.
There exists
a realm of forms
with perfect Samosa-ness
untouched by chef’s
imperfections and flies.
When the belly’s happy
all philosophies die away.
If not
we get
Marxists
Existentialists
and sold-out poets.
On the tar road,
In the augmented reality
of villainy
we see torn clothes
and second-hand souls.
In the homes
we see ruined wombs
and censured morals.
On the soil
we see the hanged hopes
and the
pesticide-ed suicides.
In the romance
we see the kiss
of caste
and the sting of power.
On the screen
we see the Mahatmas
and the statements
that can petrify the ossification
of the norms or the worms of the traditions.
Yet
In the life
we see brethren
who cannot take a joke.
Yet
In the life
we see the sistren
who worship the son
and not the moon
with the leather leggings
after 8 pm.
Patients who
hold fast to life
on their cancerous beds
are the worthy philosophers.
Artists who give away
little pieces of themselves
to every canvas
with an ignorant heart
are the worthy creators.
Teachers who
labour to raise
the wise flowers
even in the poverty of attention
are the worthy dream keepers.
Soldiers who
hold the heartless lands
with a solitary mind
and a pregnant heart
with a belly full of pain and love
are the worthy poets.
Monks who eat away
the “I”‘s
in a rock cave
with a candle of innocence
are the worthy moralists.
Doctors who
drug us for a surgery
and wound the soul
under the surgical lights
are the worthy lovers
with a radioactive smile.
There came
a boiling wind
with a torrid truth —
it’s over lad.
There came
a bush fire
with a traumatic truth —
it’s over lad.
There came
a carnivorous sea
with a trenching truth —
it’s over lad.
There came
a solitary ice cube
with a tilled truth —
it’s over lad.
— Drunken Thermometer.
The
“Having” society(Eric Fromm)
prices
what we have under our name.
The
psychedelic-spiritual society
holds
drunkenness
dear and near.
The
Asimov(science) society
have their
meta verse hunger
quantum jokes
and dark matter dialectics.
The cranium society
is lost in
Freudian slips
synthetic archetypes
and sleepwalking.
The DNA/RNA society
is neck deep in
selfish gene games
and genomic greed.
And the Socratic world is
in their typical
butterfly dreams(Chuang-Tzu)
metaphysical matrix mess
and either/or dualities.
The lazy lord
started to drive
to dust off the mental rut.
collected plenty of miles,
burned barrels of carbon,
meters of melancholy,
and some time.
songs were played in a loop
like tragedies in the movie.
roads meandered
and motels lulled the legs.
every billboard, town,
a deer on-road and snake on a sideway
were eager to tell a story,
to complete the silence of
conversations.
but the engine and the rubber Tyre
gave up on me, like we give up,
on our dreams,
under foggy fear.
The drive rejuvenated me
only for a while,
but,
eventually became a tasteless gum
which lost its flavour.
And — the ass retired,
the navigation of car and life
stopped
to a red-light of the eternal rat race,
horse-powering hurricanes
of silence,
again.
There was a time
when I could
cut land,
amend stones,
flow over
the mountains.
And no fish ever dared
to catch my speed.
I was never still
always twisting
and turning the
earth’s crust,
cities and civilizations.
Swimmers were cautious
of my flow and gust.
The hills and valleys
sang songs of my glory.
And many tributaries
were eager to join my conquest.
Now the time has flown by.
I’m wrinkled.
I’ve grown muddy.
Brothers left me away.
All the treasures departing
for the younger ones.
Resting at the mercy of land.
And the ocean is calling me
for a silent death,
as I was called a bad omen.
But I’m firm and still now.
Nothing to prove.
Ready to start
a 2.0.
A new sail
into the salty waters
with a locked heart
and cold thoughts,
Taking off to meet
The colourful corals.
(Life cycle)
Thy Vox 