Tag: poets

Copper eyed man
at the ticket counter
gave some unflattering coins.

I sat on some utilitarian
poetic bench with
business thoughts in grey matter
and basaltic tie around the neck.

Lovers quarreling in the background
not sure who’s preaching who.

A fella with candle legs
talked about calculus stuff
with his nerd-guilt face friend.

One girl with black rose lips
was giving practiced goodbyes
with her wooden palms.

Cigarette ashes on the floor.
People filled till the concrete shore.
While I am listening
to the cinnamon song
which I played before.

— Drunken Platforms.

---

The sky was still like the blue flame
cooking impoverishment for the wretched.

Ocean was pregnant with the
waves, white corals — bleached to colourless death
and got acidified like a high school chemistry lab.

Night still looks like the Raven or Dostoevsky novels
with the white olive moon,
and the pillows cried yet another day.

Sensory — sapiens are swallowing
the air salad of
C0, C02, N0x, PM 2.5, Furans
and sulfur oxides.

Water
watered down
with watery things
without walling the
waves of waste.

Limousines emitting
status, filling insecurities, and
chauffeuring carbonated cacophony.

Soil got
stained,
soiled,
sabotaged,
sanitized
with the scams of savoury man.

---

Left-wing
Right-wing
Never a thing.
only a fight
in the ring.
people played
on a string
in full swing.
truth, not a sure thing.
justice
it was something
now nothing.

---

Sugared nutrition.
Flooded mailboxes.
God-ish morality.
Hashtag-ed opinions.
Social Media loves.
Ex-boyfriend poetry.
Teenage politics.
Books summaries and
parrot-ed writings.
Meditation games.
Lemonade talks.
Neon nights.
Weirdo tags.
YouTube education and
Reddit convictions.
Worshiped routines.
Play store/ App store freedoms.
Fight club gadgets.

— Drunken rat.

---

The book
was put on the embargo.
sentenced to hell
by the leaders of eco-chamber.

Unloved
Uncared
Unquestioned
the labor and
the song became invalid
and behind-the-curtain artist.

Fine was to crush the faith
and knife out
all the tunes
out of the tune
with the melody
of Marxist melodrama.

the last decency
of human rights
was wrapped
and condemned to conformity.

The ego of the state
was high
on the psychedelics
of yes-masters.

the masturbation of morality
to the lust of the law
and the rage of the collective
to the Orwellian originality
and the Camus individuality
was too much to the fragile pay check
and the policing conscience.

(Hope caught in a homicide)

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

---

At 3 A.M.
a quiet pissy feeling,
woke me up or,
a thirsty throat.

_________________________
At 3 A.M.
the wormholes of the universe,
were wide open,
no one was there to melt into it,
no, not even the gods,
for they were too busy,
in auditing the spreadsheet of,
vices and virtues.

_________________________
At 3 A.M.
productivity games of man,
did not start, yet —
the air was still not,
wet the sweat of joggers.
the birds, the dogs, the cats,
the coffee cups, the babies,
and the karma has not woken up,
yet —
and were still in their erstwhile positions,
like a spartan army, disciplined and tamed.
but the cockroaches were moving.
The nothingness of 3 A.M.
was blissful, not yet intruded,
by mechanical and robotic 5 A.M.’s,
of the man.

_______________________
3 A.M.
it’s the time,
you are utterly alone with the stars,
and the darkness,
in a state of true living.
the only moment,
I hear the time,
slipping by.
only the watcher remains,
with no mind,
to explore the geometries.

---

I think, therefore, they are
Clouds without me are just science
I make an art out of them
and give meaning

I catch these nomads
and make them
a one-eyed dragon
using their unfathomable expressions

Without me
they are just pale simpletons
however, I rearrange vapour
and forge a great lost king

Before those wild winds take them away
out of sheer mercy
I took these idle dull not-fit-for-anything creatures
and shaped them into
something great

Mikail says they are just hippies
I agree
but I gave them a spiritual aura
by my imagination

---

The son of the soil
and
The daughter of the sickle
placed the bet
on the slaughtered lands
on the mercurial monsoons
and
on the sleepy seeds.

Pack of pests
patiently waiting
to prey on the pain.

The rhythm of debts
The tunes of prices
play a sad melody of suicides.

Meanwhile, the cows
cry in the clutches
of corporates and
the Goblin of globalization.

Adding to the ironies,
The past sins of man
come to the farm
in the form
of cyclones, droughts
to make late memories
and bleach the
colours of cracked earth.

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