At 2 A.M.
it was all a
blooming, buzzing confusion.
Under thick moonlight
a red ant died with a smile.
Bluetooth devices already
connected without permission.
Sad part was
I was the dictator red in tooth and claw
for the ant family. But I am just a dot
in this pale blue dot of earth.
I cannot tell that in their pheromones lingo. Pity.
Hid the body
and couldn’t stomach the ongoing curses
so
I gave them a holy book and took the pillow ride.
Walk
into the road of excess
with a hammer and a flamethrower.
Vent out in the nature
the clouds can hold
the muds, floods, and the
bloods of soul.
The Hyenas in our consciousness
need the woods and winds
to dam the loop of replay
and redo the clay.
slowness and the boniness of id
will set a new sail for the ape.
Sipping the sands with the feet
makes a vacuum to suck out
the foul.
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.
Thy Vox 