The songster bird
and the Casio
have hit the air
at 5 a.m.
Papa too
woke up
for this disrespectful sounds
followed by mama.
the nescient plant
couldn’t tolerate
this scheduled hell.
Wires hung to walls
have begun
to charge the poor
devices
reeling under
the Victorian electric poverty.
Up, down
Up, down
Up, down
scrolling and rolling
of e-mailbox
and the unquiet notifications.
Only then
I raise a toast
to the sorry-bar of karma.
The mailman’s inky fingers
were shaking like a toddler’s head
when his eyes saw
the tragedy
behind the letters.
How many kisses of death
and the news of hell
can the latter carrier
take with him to the village?
This is no majestic mission.
God decides
yet the messenger takes the blame.
I long to lug the light
and twist the words
so that
the beloved only knows benevolence
and the rumours only
rush to remind a forgotten face
yet the sound
I
deliver is cold.
the memory
I deliver is tainted by time.
the laughter
I deliver is brief
and burdened by blows of
blood.
Locked and locked to the
a load of luck.
The train of thought
was a rumbling one
very close
to great Indian railways.
I left the stations
of Plato, Socrates, Kant,
Hannah Arendt and other
such wise fellows
to burn my engines of the cranium.
Neural obesity of schools
and university did not
give me greener ideas.
All I had was some
colored and copied ones
to entice the unread.
At last, after a few shots of courage
some came up
good enough to start a caffeinated small talk.
The whole process
resembled a Swedish night
waiting for the sun.
For this, we need some iron
to trust our own mental breeding
if not,
wait for the intellectuals
who write down noble books
filled to brim with
the un-collected societal wisdom
left to the journal-writing vultures
by feared men and women.
We need valor
to wear the rounded hats
to walk with spirited sticks
to tread the tea bars
to ferment the dull cups
and pale milk.
Hence O’ nerds
hanging to the walls of
grey and cracked libraries
Hence O’ market-troublers
raising fists to fables
Hence O’ garden-walkers
and black-board artists
and beard trimmers
— the society awaits your holy germination.
Without sun —
colored sweaters
were flavorless
and very neutral
like an old diplomat.
The hibernal moods
were suit-cased
and hand-gloved.
Spirit was
an old octogenarian
dragging on a long staircase.
The imagery
of a paused butterfly
for a candid shot
was missing.
fingerprints of a bee
on the nectared flowers
were long gone.
The lava of snow and solitude
slowly filling in.
the deserted sky
slowly filling in
like an unholy cowboy
coming to a village.
polar lights with
chameleon morals
masked the brightness
of a starry night.
poems too
have become
dubious
so
too
were the guests
of late night TV talk show
so
too
were the swirling coffee cups.
— Drunken dragon with
a drunken tummy.
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.
Thy Vox 