The Bukowski bee
came in
and sprinted away
like the Sunday joy.
Careful in
thought, action, deed
like the new immigrant.
it’s either drunk
or desperate
hard to tell
with the sinful antennas
and treacherous steps.
the railway movement
of the legs
and the weapon-ed wings
with party-bouncer eyes
are hard to miss.
but then
it teleported into
the wormholes
of the switchboard.
Probably to write
notes from underground
like Dostoevsky.
So
it won’t see me
becoming Nietzsche’s Ubermensch.
A scourge of mosquitoes
formed a clean Bombay circus
above the head.
Lunar legs
teased the dew
of grasses.
The hands, as if they’re cursed
yet tranquil
were telescoping the currents of the earth.
The mind
which was in “Hmm” mood
briskly went to
“Emoji” way.
While the middle-class ants
were too cautious
in treading the pheromones filled paths.
— Drunken Bench.
I sat down
with a shaved pencil or
a pilot pen, I don’t remember much.
Tried Ancient music
medieval notes and
modern melodies
to spark my creativity.
yeah, I even scratched the
dried paint on the wall
like a mad scientist or
failed philosopher.
The celebrated weather
did not cooperate with me
neither the scrambled eggs.
words flowed like a
slow fingernail or a snail
between the magnetic north
of productivity
and the magnetic south
of procrastination.
I took some antibiotics
to cure the lazy infection
and some soybeans, with some,
coffee beans.
finally, I painted the A-6 book
but it was like that flavourless mint
and savoury dark chocolate.
faced with a temporary setback
I watched the starry night
and the cosmic juice stirring up
through a telescope.
and yeah, even the bald eagle is
preying on earthly worms across the street.
I crossed the calendar date
and took the rusted sharpener
to shave the pencil again
but the blanket crawled up
and put me into sleep
with its cotton-silky-woolly touch.
thus, the end came upon me
on that Monday.
Forest silences
of the dimly lit skies
and the undeveloped silence
of the craters on the moon
define the fevered winds
of the icy night here.
The coldly metabolism
raise some orphaned moods and
half-real drowsiness.
The monotonous
starry nights and lights of Vincent Van Gogh
and the caffeine fjords along with
snow of silentium define
the muteness of glaciers.
Ancient nights and adolescent mornings
take a turn in a cruel rhythm
like a cold roulette wheel of the casino.
The nothingness of socialist nights
is really something to watch.
So much of stubbornness and
solitude.
— Drunken star.
A humble dealer
of mortality
with a cool hat
and china flesh
begins the day.
With rioting moods
and tweeting feuds
he
sets the day in motion.
The high passion quotient
and neural feedbacks
asks a pulsating coffee.
Villainous fingers
skim through
the mass culture
in the Google News.
The Tie-man
takes the carbon spirited
engines
and
some brainy walks
with
some itchy talks
in the concrete lands
and
neatly settles before pixels.
Projector runs
for a while
depending on the fates
which are as messy as
the scribbling pad.
And the anaemic soul
finds a
new body
or
jumps out of the matrix.
whatever.
— Take the red pill
and the blue one.
— And sit tight in the duty.
Difference-less streets
and
all-round walkers
crossed me on the road.
The Monsoon potholes,
family scooters,
stilled trees,
tangoed to the rain.
Fat breezes
woke up the tadpoles
and the souls
dulled by the dusty fates.
None
there
to give
a kind shade
to my Samsung
and my young lungs.
So many
flammable stirrings
all
yearning
a mystical dance
under the 4G clouds.
— Drunken drops.
Cricket on the granite steps
in
a Yoga asana
or a Kung fu move
hard to stop
in the spy-movie lights.
Folk music and dog barks
in the cosmic background
as the lizard near the light
is interrogating and shadowing
the migration of insects
like Sherlock along with its Watson.
Chinese clothes on the nylon rope
suspicious of getting dried
in the dark-American winds.
One crazy cat has loosened its fur anarchy
onto the world with night king eyes
and convicted paws.
The ice-chipped
winds and the shadows
of unknown lights
erect silent goosebumps
on deforested body
as the legs pass the stanzas
of concrete.
Definitely not. Being a Dostoevskyian is sick and saddening. Why should any suffering have meaning at all? And we never search for meaning while we are happy. Is it to accept the helplessness and then seek some pride in it?
Friedrich Nietzsche says that what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. But suffering rarely made any men stronger. Either they get used to it or become egotistical to accept that they too are weak and can weep.
Even after the Nth time, pain cripples us but humanity and so-called self-advertised strong men find it hard to swallow it.
This has a negative consequence—No one is seeking out help and is crushing their lives simply in the name of being stoic. This is a disease and a plague for us all.
They are dumping the waste into the subconscious and growing their Jungian “shadows” and society is raising sociopaths in the name of strong Spartans.
Acknowledging this can heal the sore souls and spoiled spirits. It’s time to stop searching for meaning in martyrdom and affection in affliction.
Thy Vox