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.
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.
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 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.
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.
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.
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.
The Seeker wanted
just the journey
but these bends
and destinations confused him.
The Seer wanted
just the truth
but these facts
and certitudes confused him.
The Teacher wanted
just the job
but these wildflowers
and faces in the classroom confused him.
The keeper wanted
just the birds
but these weeds
and brambles confused him.
The leader wanted
just the power
but these silky hearts
and clayey minds confused him.
The eater wanted
just the quench
but these calories
and canopies of shame confused him.
Either wanted or
Neither wanted nor
I wanted a letter
but
fates planned something bitter.
—Drunken Play.
Nothing matters for a public bus
not even the goodbyes and the hellos
the monkish machine barks with
a horn which sounds like
I don’t care, just move away
your dead language and luggage.
On a Friday night
it is more busy than a god
and pissy than a waiting woman.
the master morality of the commoner
cannot mine moral salts from it.
it shows off a it is what it is
attitude and waves at time with old boy stoicism.
Going from A to B should be about
A to B
not seeing murders on the road,
not interviewing 1998 thoughts,
not smoking political cigarettes,
not flirting with 6.5% inflation,
and
not multiplying the debt of your nostalgic debt
while tasting Gaza news in the BBC market.
The tumbling down of the sun
assembled a dark emptiness
on which the moon was mourning.
the night was pregnant with
defiant stars and holy comets.
the winds, untamed by cliffs
were snoring in the sky.
the graveyards weary of
field notes of the ghosts and
un-cared flowers
called the cold caravans
for sweet lullabies.
the silence was too loud
to let the body rest.
and the turmoil was too silent
to let the pillow fall.
the blanket was too unruly
to let the thoughts settle.
And the plants
were worn out after
pumping oxygen all day long
from their brittle lungs.
the mist and fog
to thick to cover the wildness of passions
the clouds
too thin to dress the shades of the sky.
-the language of the night
dreams a reality within a reality
till the toilet disturbs your soul.
Thy Vox 