Tag: poet

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 voila
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 boy doesn’t care.

---

Wheels
dutifully
crossing the white lines.

///

Motorcyclists
joined the parade
like a slow lava
or a careless British ball.

///

Passengers
tread the tar roads
Lights
lit the last breaks
Playlists
play the preconditioned loops.

///

Motors howling
Helmets prickling
Gases trekking
and the accidents
spilling the blood.

/

---

The unethical air
was beyond redemption
full with gases
only known to science
and men and women
with angelic-white coats.

The smog without
feel
but with filters
and painkillers
cannot give miracles now.

The illegitimate houses
and the un-mothered slums
visible only
with the polarized lens.

No editorials for them
No missing ads for these
counter-clock fucks
No ink for them
except
when jailed
and veiled.

I never found a poem
in these electric rainbows
and jordans
just few tweets
and hashtags.

Street vendors some how survive
in all these rages of nobodies
and fill up
the bellies of time-murderers.

How?
perhaps they don’t have a mirror.

Only Graffiti didn’t give
a fixed smile
the colors were busy
covering up the bullet wounds
given by woke system
and statistics made by
bones
who never knew
what empty pockets can
or cannot do.

---

The October rains
have a spice of uncertainty to them.
Surface out like Genesis flood
and ebb away like the value of stock
on a shady index.

By the hand of ***(Merciful God)
the banyan tree
which sheltered
many starlight romances
and flamy reflections
fell.

The baseball cap sailed
away with the winds
like some 19th century socialist
leaving many bareheaded
with tomato faces and wheat cheeks.

Such were the sins of this storm
with Dracula morality
and pumpkin virtues.

it’s not held accountable
not even when it ate
my pixel-jammed kindle
not even when it chewed up
bamboo pillow.

But my frail felonies
are always on the tab.

— Drunken Umbrella.

---

From 6:03 pm
a temperature inversion
began in the heart-o-sphere.

At 6:06 pm
I left the tribal island
of mine
full of tangled spiderwebs
and half-ass pencils.

6:07 pm — 
contacted the electrons
to give life to one-plus tv
and catch up the social realism
and reflect on my poor idealism
with begging eyes.

6:08 pm —
pressed the electronic peanuts
to catch the god frequencies
that can illuminate the wasted moods.

yet
yet
yet
nothing comes close
to the good old
sun, air, and the musical silence of detox tea cups.

6:13 pm —
I resign and regret
with Joy Harjo’s
“How we became human.”

---

Like a London smog or
an Indie dog
the wilding heart began racing and musicking.

Thought
it was a virtual reality show. I guess
sometimes atoms of long dead people in me
take over.

There was no perfect map
to decode the movement of madness.
Time at times paralyses us. Just to
feel the blood ageing and caging.

I want to see the end of history
not of nations but of me.
to see whether the slave has salvation
in store at least after few chores.

My mind is god’s own county
with no bounty for me.

---

Three lambs and
two dreams got
shattered that day.

A dead hoarding with
bleeding lights
and a grandma wrinkles
was saying something but
who cares?

I was drumming with
the disasters and humming
with flames of youth
and games of Bluetooth.

The pen store owner
with a zen tummy
and a comet mood
was rearranging the shop.

I got little attention in the store
my mood
seeing that
evaporated or rather
stomped.

I know that gravity bends light and
sanity ends fight
but on that day it was shown that
profanity begins a dark night.

---