Someone said that
sentiments are prison cells.
As one cannot run away
to a Kantian Noumenonal world
or escape to a Maya temporarily
at least for a minute or so.
Like a satellite
one keeps orbiting around them
funded by latent heat of remorses.
They die only with the dead
and live only with the living.
Nirvana can censor them
but not erase from the drawers
of neurons.
Ultimately we are
what our circuits do
day in and day out.
In this fight club
the member cannot fight.
I could sense
a gravitational wave
amending the space and time
when the village light
hit the edge of Sufi eyes.
An officer crow
orbiting around
and a dutiful horizon
painting the cowboy sky.
Warrior fishes
slaving the chaotic tone
of the river
and the bears
muscling up
to edit the food chains and webs.
Local vegetation
stand like the saints
in the Jain monastery
forever grateful to the origins.
Spiritual air
here
can make
even the emperors
wear robes
and cleanse the bloody history.
Under the load
of wisdom
we miss insights.
Under the load
of solitude
we miss love.
Under the load
of illumination
we miss the now.
Under the load
of driving
we miss moving.
Under the load
of deadlines
we miss the divine.
Under the load
of water
we miss the waves.
—Thus spoke the drunken monk.
Earth in tectonic walking
Pigeons in paragliding
Ants in their pious pilgrimages.
Earphones arrested to
the solitary moods
and introvert chats
of urban-horses.
Station swelling
like a soda can
with time hungry zombies
and pre-mature chuck Taylor all stars.
Sapiens carrying philosopher stones
called iPhones
turning their lives
caged and combed
to baser chords of life.
trains move by
with their somber
easter songs
and carbon noises.
Far from the gaze of the sky
the de-oxygenated fishes
rush up to climb up
and take in the brown gases.
Bags glued to the
shoulder blades
or some anatomical stuff.
up-down
side-side
down-up
is the motion of civic legs
like a troubling tractor
in Smallville.
All rushing to spread
their sticky legs
like a lava
like a snooping state
or some Australorp rooster.
— Drunken escalator.
Either
I have choice-less control
or
control-less choice.
—Drunken Monk.
Is enslaved to the roaring winds of wisdom
Forever
obliging to
The king of all virtues: truth
and
the queen of all virtues: justice.
A daring doubter
wrecking past, present, future
with thunderbolts of insight.
They interrogate
the flickering moral compass of mountebank
and make defiance their default state.
their heart can combat the vices of moral world
with bold silences.
kickstart rebellions in people’s hearts and minds
with nameless pen names and common sense.
you can find them in coffee houses, unknown gutters
or even in high castles
anywhere
everywhere
scavenging the glaciated, deceased opinions of society
and
lighting the cigar of uncertainty
and brewing the bonfire of the gospel
and forging
a new antithesis out of an aged synthesis.
—Drunken Lamp.
The jammed traffic
in the cosmic
mind was terrific.
The crowd in the neurons
were radioing in little secrets
to fuel the talk.
Dental wisdom and itching
dances of tongue were mum…
the life we lived was fast movin’
breezes reminded the bad days…
the algal blooms weaved hidden pain
and untold shivers….
What can one talk when
he knows that the time’s romance
will soon end… Is there something
that one needs to be told?
does it matter any way…
At 80
to whom should one pray?
With only a spoonful of energy each moment…
how many goodbyes can one say?
At this age..
how can one know the difference between a dream and reality…
no matter how many times one pinches..
the answer is vague and one is a vagabond….
Marvellous madness
and a skater’s fastness
lifted me off with a gladness
after some progress.
I thought
I have overcome the sadness of
the baldness of the paper.
With few steps into the paper
I felt
I crossed thousand miles and tides.
The sounds of
the car washes
the temple masses
and the silent wishes
didn’t bother me.
the mesolithic and the
specific wisdom was just few Neurons away…
I was onto something…
…in this time frame without
any limits limiting me…
…like a Batman…
but then came an
uninvited knock to wake me up from the flow state…
….People don’t know that
sometimes thoughts do need a closure…
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.
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
no-man’s-land
as told by bards
but completes your void voyage
in pitiless prisons
and motionless solitudes.
Thy Vox 