Someone said that
sentiments are prison cells.
As one cannot run away
to a Kantian Noumenonal world
or escape to a Maya temporarily
at least for a minute or so.
Like a satellite
one keeps orbiting around them
funded by latent heat of remorses.
They die only with the dead
and live only with the living.
Nirvana can censor them
but not erase from the drawers
of neurons.
Ultimately we are
what our circuits do
day in and day out.
In this fight club
the member cannot fight.
Is enslaved to the roaring winds of wisdom
Forever
obliging to
The king of all virtues: truth
and
the queen of all virtues: justice.
A daring doubter
wrecking past, present, future
with thunderbolts of insight.
They interrogate
the flickering moral compass of mountebank
and make defiance their default state.
their heart can combat the vices of moral world
with bold silences.
kickstart rebellions in people’s hearts and minds
with nameless pen names and common sense.
you can find them in coffee houses, unknown gutters
or even in high castles
anywhere
everywhere
scavenging the glaciated, deceased opinions of society
and
lighting the cigar of uncertainty
and brewing the bonfire of the gospel
and forging
a new antithesis out of an aged synthesis.
—Drunken Lamp.
The jammed traffic
in the cosmic
mind was terrific.
The crowd in the neurons
were radioing in little secrets
to fuel the talk.
Dental wisdom and itching
dances of tongue were mum…
the life we lived was fast movin’
breezes reminded the bad days…
the algal blooms weaved hidden pain
and untold shivers….
What can one talk when
he knows that the time’s romance
will soon end… Is there something
that one needs to be told?
does it matter any way…
At 80
to whom should one pray?
With only a spoonful of energy each moment…
how many goodbyes can one say?
At this age..
how can one know the difference between a dream and reality…
no matter how many times one pinches..
the answer is vague and one is a vagabond….
Marvellous madness
and a skater’s fastness
lifted me off with a gladness
after some progress.
I thought
I have overcome the sadness of
the baldness of the paper.
With few steps into the paper
I felt
I crossed thousand miles and tides.
The sounds of
the car washes
the temple masses
and the silent wishes
didn’t bother me.
the mesolithic and the
specific wisdom was just few Neurons away…
I was onto something…
…in this time frame without
any limits limiting me…
…like a Batman…
but then came an
uninvited knock to wake me up from the flow state…
….People don’t know that
sometimes thoughts do need a closure…
The finished page
has no awe.
the last smoke
too
has no life
to burn the lungs.
The Peak
ends the hike.
The wheel
ends the ride.
But then
we miss the life’s cruelty.
Truth closes off
the investigation.
the climax
reveals the baddie.
the act concludes
the thought.
the finale
is all we want
but the closure
is cold with
a decorated period.
The mood began nodding off
probably to welcome a new one.
however, it doesn’t know that
you cannot invite poems,
meditations, and happiness.
To certain places,
we have to go.
Treetops, therapies,
renunciations, wars, and such.
thoughts are stray dogs
they don’t take orders
like the participants of
Milgram experiment.
Someone said
your love is like unbought clothes.
tried, used, and left in the
hangers of the trial room by strangers.
But love is like a public bench in the park
tried and used
no doubt
but leaves memories, laughs and
few icy truths.
It won’t drop you off in
no-man’s-land
as told by bards
but completes your void voyage
in pitiless prisons
and motionless solitudes.
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.
Thy Vox 