Atoms roasted in an oven
Glass swivels in love
Magnetron governed the muffins
Light fires in glove
Waves tranced the glass
Box dwells in awe.
Hot, Hotter, Hottest(Poem)
Annoying things (Poem)
Near the lemon tree
I saw a bullet train of ants
around the flood of pebbles.
The singing skin and the bitching bones
of insects are battling the high-heat days
under the replica city built of mud.
Birds didn’t eye each other and skipped
the beak-shakes in this plastic-pity weather.
Sun in her usual Sherlock mood
pumping up panels and IMF projections.
A spider widowed,
however, was ready
for yet another Hamlet revenge
and a Juliet’s date.
Expect-ing (Poem)
God hides
in
genes and memes.
People expect that
people in heavens
care about the carbon beings on earth.
They have been mind-washed like that.
Of course not the free-will-ers,
the 15-minute psychologists and the mycobacterium.
why can’t we just eat, play, love, save coupons and die?
why this metaphysical fire in us?
Different Roulette (Poem)
We all smell the same now. Party with duplicate talkshows.
Even the dog brothers and sisters howl the routine cry.
Popping Dolo 650 pills and eat matching social media newsfeed
like a mad earthworm in a field.
Why toss a coin
when we can look at the scatter graph fed on
identical samples.
so
no
eureka in the speaker.
this is the divine comedy
by Kafka’s cockroaches.
try a different candy
now and then.
drop the thesis statements.
at least
don’t sell your soul on Saturdays and Sundays.
Nonsense (Poem)
We hide the guilt
of no-creation and inaction
with consumption.
Terence McKenna
believes that we are golems now,
sedated by TV fixes.
We don’t care about the nightmares anymore.
We hate the awakeners and salute the sleepers.
We talk but not behave.
Fancy themselves in solo trips
yet too busy to flow.
living is a to-do list now
and eating like a cow
we miss the wow and the tao.
Go home, captain.
Wait (Poem)
The quicksands of life
demand an original footwork
not the paths treaded by strangers
or the winds of nameless atoms.
you need trust in this desert
to follow your own law and constitution
and a heart that never breaks
when the tribunal judges you
for stupidity and the losing of mind.
the truly mad ones
need just few candles to stroll the blackholes
and the help of friends to fill the holes of soul.
they don’t mind the dirt or the hurt.
the ship knows the way
stop captaining and complaining.
when the time comes
the compass shall burn to call the north pole’s dream.
Man doesn’t fall (Poem)
Man thinks he’s a mini-god
he doesn’t accept
it is what it is kind of stuff
though he says, talks and writes about it.
he roars everyday
despite the fear and the faltering
he tries the alter the darling roads.
too much left brainy
and too stingy
he ain’t got time to bleed
as said by Jesse Ventura.
but he’s a boiled potato
juts putting a dumb show.
he handles everything with a coffee
and a toffee
to speak the holiest of all words
i.e.
I am fine or takes a deep breath
as if it changes something.
man is sensitive
but gets shit done.
fakes it and makes it.
Zen-ing (Poem)
Monkhood 101 is
live in the moment.
feel the power of now
is the trend now.
But I never caught the “now”
couldn’t do it.
time couldn’t prison itself.
zeptosecond missed touching its own tail
despite the free will.
Awareness of awareness is simply the past.
so
all I got is the past with a mask of nowness.
I am here yet not here.
The noble truth is this-
we can only grab the dead time
not the living time.
the living time is beyond
and doesn’t respond.
I cannot stalk time.
The drums of mind (Poem)
Why does mind has a flashback?
What’s the point of archiving such delicate pulses of psyche?
Is it to label me as an anti-hero?
because one is sure that there is no wisdom in mis-steps and mis-dances
just bad geometries of thought.
Why is feeding and fattening itself
and getting slaughtered by calorie heavy food
and its stunt doubles.
it is easy to stay in the character
when you are the director
and the story doesn’t have the gravitas.
No pressure of being baptised by the burdens.
It’s better to delete these disqualified short films of time.
just catch the fire of life
and let yourself get burnt.
the slo-mo snags and situations
deserve an Oppenheimer bomb.
whistle and miss the missile.
Rich Mockeries (Poem)
The irony of success is
you don’t have time to cherish it.
The irony of failure is
you have all the time to feel it
till your bones soak in self pity.
—Twisted games.
Thy Vox 