Aged by time
toughened by the curse
the land is more confused
about purpose than the damn universe.
All the revolutions and empty bellies
only gave anaemic moods
and anaerobic songs.
Snow, Vodka,
and the Matryoshka dolls
speak of the Petrograd glory.
The wind of the ballet
and the bony chess players
with toneless jackets move you.
Tipsy cats
and the icy hand
of the Siberia makes
your stay
a riddle.
The book
was put on the embargo.
sentenced to hell
by the leaders of eco-chamber.
Unloved
Uncared
Unquestioned
the labor and
the song became invalid
and behind-the-curtain artist.
Fine was to crush the faith
and knife out
all the tunes
out of the tune
with the melody
of Marxist melodrama.
the last decency
of human rights
was wrapped
and condemned to conformity.
The ego of the state
was high
on the psychedelics
of yes-masters.
the masturbation of morality
to the lust of the law
and the rage of the collective
to the Orwellian originality
and the Camus individuality
was too much to the fragile pay check
and the policing conscience.
(Hope caught in a homicide)
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At 3 A.M.
a quiet pissy feeling,
woke me up or,
a thirsty throat.
_________________________
At 3 A.M.
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.
_________________________
At 3 A.M.
productivity games of man,
did not start, yet —
the air was still not,
wet the sweat of joggers.
the birds, the dogs, the cats,
the coffee cups, the babies,
and the karma has not woken up,
yet —
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.
The soil is sodden
with chemicals.
Air
became monstrous
with particulates,
blackening the blue sky.
Water
is sobbing
not in salts
but with sulfates.
The muscular woods
were pillaged,
the leafiness was lost
to the senile love of sapiens.
Birds,
wounded by antibiotics.
the ocean bottoms
scrapped, reaped,
by the insomniac passion
of imbeciles.
Monastic habitats
turned to urns
and occluding the
cobweb of life.
Glaciers — The immortal ice,
playing
life and death
to the tunes
of Celsius and Fahrenheit.
Oh — the starry nights
are no longer
lit
but
split and hit by
the manly photons.
-The civic sins of the man.
I think, therefore, they are
Clouds without me are just science
I make an art out of them
and give meaning
I catch these nomads
and make them
a one-eyed dragon
using their unfathomable expressions
Without me
they are just pale simpletons
however, I rearrange vapour
and forge a great lost king
Before those wild winds take them away
out of sheer mercy
I took these idle dull not-fit-for-anything creatures
and shaped them into
something great
Mikail says they are just hippies
I agree
but I gave them a spiritual aura
by my imagination
The son of the soil
and
The daughter of the sickle
placed the bet
on the slaughtered lands
on the mercurial monsoons
and
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
colours of cracked earth.
The songster bird
and the Casio
have hit the air
at 5 a.m.
Papa too
woke up
for this disrespectful sounds
followed by mama.
the nescient plant
couldn’t tolerate
this scheduled hell.
Wires hung to walls
have begun
to charge the poor
devices
reeling under
the Victorian electric poverty.
Up, down
Up, down
Up, down
scrolling and rolling
of e-mailbox
and the unquiet notifications.
Only then
I raise a toast
to the sorry-bar of karma.
The mailman’s inky fingers
were shaking like a toddler’s head
when his eyes saw
the tragedy
behind the letters.
How many kisses of death
and the news of hell
can the latter carrier
take with him to the village?
This is no majestic mission.
God decides
yet the messenger takes the blame.
I long to lug the light
and twist the words
so that
the beloved only knows benevolence
and the rumours only
rush to remind a forgotten face
yet the sound
I
deliver is cold.
the memory
I deliver is tainted by time.
the laughter
I deliver is brief
and burdened by blows of
blood.
Locked and locked to the
a load of luck.
The train of thought
was a rumbling one
very close
to great Indian railways.
I left the stations
of Plato, Socrates, Kant,
Hannah Arendt and other
such wise fellows
to burn my engines of the cranium.
Neural obesity of schools
and university did not
give me greener ideas.
All I had was some
colored and copied ones
to entice the unread.
At last, after a few shots of courage
some came up
good enough to start a caffeinated small talk.
The whole process
resembled a Swedish night
waiting for the sun.
For this, we need some iron
to trust our own mental breeding
if not,
wait for the intellectuals
who write down noble books
filled to brim with
the un-collected societal wisdom
left to the journal-writing vultures
by feared men and women.
We need valor
to wear the rounded hats
to walk with spirited sticks
to tread the tea bars
to ferment the dull cups
and pale milk.
Hence O’ nerds
hanging to the walls of
grey and cracked libraries
Hence O’ market-troublers
raising fists to fables
Hence O’ garden-walkers
and black-board artists
and beard trimmers
— the society awaits your holy germination.
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.
Thy Vox 