Earthbound and falling

Sorry clouds pouring down their afternoon apology,
My attention shifting between the bracts of a lone thistle,
To the algorithmic beat patterns of vacuum in my head,
To the resonating alarm of my carelessness’ whistle

No nocturnal gnat had ever yet seen,
A soul as free as mine in this hinterland so arid,
Blowing up worries in subtle rings of smoke,
Though the distinctions of my distractions were varied

Like the Rastafarian centipede perched on a mushroom,
My words, left trails, like those of the warm and wise,
If you retraced those trails they all led back to me,
And all labyrinthine exits led to your surprise!

A beggar fears the phantoms less than the robbers,
A failure fears nothing but it‘s own self - appalling,
A contraband fears the confiscation of freedom,
But I fear nothing as I’m earthbound, and falling.



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Tadpoles Raining

The oblong sky stared right back at me,
With a calm, blank, uninterested look,
As if to say, "I'm so bored with you",
As if to wish to write another book

So I toss another morph over my expression,
And contrive a look of the harshest reminder,
"You're the one who's bored with us!"
I tell to the sun and those who stand behind her

We threw allegories around like a Frisbee that day,
That would be the later cause of our drift,
But, for now, I'm enjoying bathing in the presence,
Of the sky, the sun and their wonderful gift

Had it been so that the sun was green,
And tadpoles rained from the skies at night,
I would still disappear like the Cheshire cat,
I would still respire with all my might!



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Amethyst & Jade

Go! Fetch me fallacies,
Amyotrophic policies,
Speak Absinthian gallimaufries,
Fake gammadions for gallantries

Talk in a turbulently tumultuous tongue,
Pushing Panic buttons fore you eat dung,
Stop this Inquisitors’ masquerade,
Fetch me amethyst, bring me Jade

This makes as much sense as the invasion of Bucharest,
And the steam-punk galactagogues pumping her breast,
I’m chewing love letters written in hieroglyphics
And my unpatented claims to higher physics

And do not leave her alone in the woods, man,
For horribly horny hyenas might execute their plan,
Then these entrepreneurial dividends may remain unpaid,
And then you may die alone, unlaid

I have a bachelor’s degree in the zymurgy of barley,
You can fuck with Björk, I still like Bob Marley,
And her fertilized ovum is called a zygote,
You should’ve known that fore you put her in your throat

Religious homosexuals are redundantly whimsical,
(or whimsically redundant if I may be practical),
And you, young man, are a concoction of notions,
Drenched in exaggeration of unfulfilled emotions

But me, I’m the marquis of Kilimanjaro,
Where lies my Xanadu, beset with gardens of yarrow,
You may come there, and play with my braid,
And do bring some amethyst and if possible, some jade.



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Troubadour

Sometimes I wish I could be a troubadour,
The ultimate philosopher of all and more,
A lyrical escort to the evening chickadees,
Serving my homemade musical remedies

I would let your hearts dictate my songs,
And if you wish I’d write the wrongs,
You’d smile and drop a penny or quarter,
Happiness and illusions we’ll trade in barter

When I’d sense a couple of shivering feet,
Tired of standing on the grounds of defeat,
I’d cheer them up with the jolliest tune,
And walk with them till they imagine June

And when the nervous night finally falls,
The one which my lonely heart appalls,
When perfidious night bulbs start selling you lies,
My songs shall entertain wanton fireflies

Alone my guitar bids the autumn farewell,
With clefts in my heart and blisters that swell,
The sweet reminders and the choking anxiety,
The violated stand quiet for the sake of variety

In Shadows and silhouettes and shaking strings,
In Concrete bruises and traffic stings,
In resonating pagodas you could hear me sing,
And challenging fate for all it may bring.



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Radio Tears

I can hear your radio tears,
Wrestling down your sorry cheeks,
I know how they change careers,
Every time my piano speaks

I’m so high I’m on air right now,
This vacuum amplifies your sniveling sorrow,
A microphone interrogates my larynx somehow,
I’ll see you someday you can see me tomorrow

A duel between my keys and your brood,
My piano is a battlefield for the telepathic,
You can’t discourage when you’re not in the mood,
And the referees are all so very apathetic

I hit a minor and your heart finds the Atlantic,
You’re scuba-diving in memories blindfolded,
A major note now and it’s suddenly romantic,
The origami albatross is neatly unfolded

There is no guarantee for your defective emotions,
Your lies can’t change truth’s short-wave frequency,
And I won’t ever be the cause of unhealthy commotions,
Not even if you’re in a dire emergency

May the lord be praised for this revenge benign,
May you recall what’s forgotten when memory disappears,
And these slaves of slaves of injustice divine,
May they never force you to shed radio tears.



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Reboot

Winter tastes the same this year,
Like extinguished cigarettes on the frigid floor,
And your shadowy blanket still wrapped around me,
Enlightening the darkest nooks of my mind,
And your face is still liberal with the torture,
Your memories show no mercy on my mortgaged soul,
And I know that I should know,
That this will probably never end,
Astral predictions confirm my beliefs,
My beliefs leave enough room for doubt,
And doubt,
Reminds me of you.

So you see, I’m stuck in a vicious cycle here,
Of morosity, heartache and pain,
So fuck you!
And fuck the universe!
Oh but I’d still be your furniture,
Nothing’s better,
Than having you walk all over me,
So what’s a man to do?
I repent,
Reflect,
Reboot,
But the winter still tastes the same.



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Detainee Release Form No. 12

To the messiah of all the castrated dogs
The pious keepers of umbilical chords
I beg to thee, my humble lords
Release the frogs! Release the frogs!

Erotic postmortems and hibernation pills
And crushing them under thy rubber soles
Is severely torturous to their dissected souls
And to the finances of my apocalyptic mills

Amphibians trapped in padded antechambers,
Are harbingers of exacerbation mi-lords!
Have my head under thy sacrificial swords!
But please release my family members.

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Lilliputian

A cacophonous communication in ecstasy,
A by-product of the intense heat,
Erupting from this slender stick’s rump
And the scorching effigy of her shame

Probing the depths of her mind, anally,
With this carefully aligned battering ram
Eternity begins when wooden bodies melt,
With the audible universe pouring out her mouth

And later I feel so pathetically small,
Like a Lilliputian soldier against her gargantuan lust,
But then I’m reminded of that principle of nature
Where fingers are mere gigolos to cochlear itches.



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Cockroach

Crawling on my broken glass insanity,
Through the din of the day,
Kafka makes his way,
To his refrigerated asylum under my hair grey,

I want to smash this surrealist cockroach,
This tubercular German Jew,
Crooked existential slue,
I want to squeeze his head with my shoe

But as I stare down at the splinters of my sense
Arranged like mirrors in an infinite recursion,
Whispering about my deliberate subversion,
I’m baptized by a sudden cosmic inversion

It dawns on me then, like it dawned on him,
We’re all horrid vermins, crawling,
With parasitic expressions on our faces sprawling,
Banshees screaming afore mirrors drawling

The surrealist cockroach checks it‘s antennae,
Scurrilously waves a feeler at my face,
And then, as if it’s loosing this race,
It scurries along and leaves no trace.



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Twentyone Semicolons

Punctuated in periods of seismographic shifts,
My time in the sanctuaries of despondence drifts,
And the question that guards elucidations of fate,
Is running fast, but is running late.

Twenty one semicolons, and two silent periods,
Envelope this ensemble of mistaken myriads,
Invariably they send me a bouquet of lies,
My obdurate will my obdurate will defies

They yell out perfectly embellished taunts,
And scratch the surface of the past that daunts,
Lies upon lies built on embankments of trust,
But I shan’t break this mould, even if I must

Because in this mould I was died and cast,
And yes, sometimes I’m left alone and aghast,
But these twenty one semicolons recapitulate the fable,
Of how she struggled as he put bread on the table

And though life’s ocean may seem rhetorically calm,
But their bones still need my gratitude’s balm,
So I can’t refuse to pay the responsible debt,
And that I will, is the safest bet.



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The Unassuming Suspect

Tea parties and stabs of invisible knives,
Makeshifts and deliberations of infidel wives,
Golden locks fluffing under nervous straw hats,
Mediterranean winds and mechanical rats

Telegrams and noisy facsimiles,
Maniacal laughs and evil smiles,
Wandering eyes behind Rembrandts fake,
The unmowed lawn , the blood on the rake

Corrupt accomplices and crystal balls,
Double-crossing bears and voodoo dolls,
Bullet-trains and bullets in brains,
The unassuming suspect’s innocence remains

The attention-deprived sleuth with the magnifying glass,
A trusty sidekick and a voluptuous lass,
A love affair maybe, and possibly some heat,
And then suddenly, all fades to deceit!

Magistrate courts and Scotland yard,
The all-knowing madman reciting the bard,
Secret talismans and cryptic obfuscations,
The cold-blooded murders’ juvenile hesitations

A wicked hunch then, Ah, the concluding clue!
Candle wax stuck under the prosthetic shoe,
It’s over, you think, and pay entertainment’s tax,
But what unfolds is an anticlimax

Pornographic flashbacks, and anxious gasps,
Everyone gathers around the fireplace like wasps,
An unexpected confession and the vindicated smile,
Oh wasn’t this all just worth your while?



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Memsahib

Edit: This Poem has been published.

Memsahib scribbles epistles for an unfortunate lover,
Jots down her providence with India ink
Ends this debauchery naiveté committed
In her sterile negligée, lavender and pink

Translucent tears on the fading papyrus
by the burning guilt of kerosene
Reflect the crystalline purity in her
And the frescos on bungalow walls obscene

Sealing the evidence of decadence with her lips
She kisses the envelope with an imperial stamp
With the servile butler’s senility molested
And thus escapes this Colonial vamp

She takes a sip of the impotence‘s sherbet
As the summer sun hides in an ambuscade
And swallowing the end of this interlude
Her Rolls-Royce follows my mocking tirade

Her deeds will make up for gimmicky folklore
And petty gossips concerning regalia bygone
Like her taxidermal pet cheetah, ornate,
Her lingerie once was an unassuming fawn

To Johannesburg! , where the reincarnated are born
And where the languid await a shooting star
No Brahmins there, to cleanse her Atman,
Just beguiling nightmares of the burning Chamar.

Affidavits of Mystery

The temple bells are ringing slow,
In the precincts of this monolithic edifice,
Candescent flames of hope burning low,
A silent prayer for deliverance of laboratory mice

My father nudged on the arm of another person,
And asked him about my destiny’s decree,
He replied, if the conditions don’t worsen,
I shall be the ambassador of all who’re free

But as I walk across these corridors of pain,
I smell naphthalene balls and tinctures of iodine,
The battles fought by disinfectants in vain,
These germs have witnessed more than I’ve seen

And I feel as if the best days of my life,
Are now available on DVDs in stores,
Too many possibilities of perpetuation in strife,
Too many nights spent with temporary whores

What’s the lesson then, that’s not been learnt?
What explains these lingering notions odd?
The affidavits of this mystery have all been burnt,
And faithful hypocrites now believe in god.



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Must you die, nemesis?

Must you die, my nemesis?
Swallowing this capsule of regret,
Shoved down your blowhole,
By your nemesis, the me?

Must you die here, arch enemy?
In this blue lagoon, with my harpoon,
Slitting your four chambered heart into two,
For more than just an iota of my retributive satisfaction.

Shall I smile the smile of a hunter worth his while?
Or shall I lament the loss of a deserving adversary?
Shall I lick my thus-vindicated wounds?
With this tongue that longs no more for the taste of your blood.

Is the glare of the photographer’s smoldering flash,
Hurting your conjunctiva?
And does it bother you, when I dream,
Of your skeleton suspended from the roof of a museum?

Would you ride the zeppelin of my desires, dearest foe?
Now that yours has succumbed, to my obdurate will, but still,
It’s not as if you didn’t go down with honor,
Anarchist of the highs seas, you were mighty even in death.

Against whom shall I now draw,
Conspicuously meticulous and creative plans of destruction?
Who shall visit my blood-smeared dreams now?
The visions of whom shall now drape my sanity?

You left me without an offspring and intestate,
And my hatred incubator is empty once again,
But farewell, nemesis, may we meet in other dimensions,
Farewell and rest in peace.



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Harp lady

Joanna has such a surprisingly suffocating voice,
What is she not letting go of?
Is It her own mystically magical self?
Or something that I shouldn't know of?

Yes, she plays the harp with some skill,
Is that the agility of her fingers?
Or is it what happens in that infinitesimal moment,
In which her each thought lingers?

And I feel like the flower that blossoms,
When it’s touched by the dewdrops in her tears.
Is it in the fragile way she pierces into my soul?
Or is it just those peaches, plums and pears?



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The Spirit Welder

Thirteen pills of Babylon,
And yet I feel lost and alone,
I wish for raindrops to turn into bombs,
And I wish for these missiles to guide me home

Aurora licks my silver wounds,
With her silent rainbow lies - stoic and hollow,
If this Sisyphean trail’s end were in sight,
What’d I regurgitate and what would I swallow?

I often search for splinters of truth,
In the noir dreams of test-tube babies,
And I find myself casting sparkling reflections,
In the deserted eyes of coyotes with rabies

I fall in love with mannequins of wood,
And propound anachronistic theories of marriage,
And upon the death of my reasons to sing,
I blame my mother for her false miscarriage

So put your gas mask on, O spirit welder,
And disassemble me part-by-part,
I’m a clockwork automaton in this digital age,
No microchips are embedded in my unyielding heart.



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Dystopian Dilemma

-1-

The victory of forces of reason
over forces of kindness,
Brings us to a point, where,
Science spills it’s guts out,
And people relish it’s delicacies.
And Self-righteous morons,
Stand in perfect concordance,
With their electronic gods,
Curse them!
Curse them! For they shall eternally rot,
In the abysmal trenches,
Of their self-constructed oceanic hell.

-2-

Trust not these bible-thumping idiots,
The time is ours, and hope,
Shares the same bed as us,
And you must never allow,
The morally irrational incantations,
Of those who believe in the suppression-
Of the logical forces of reason,
To hold you captive in the prison of false faith,
And the rituals of superstition.
Absolution; is not an undertaking of god,
Nirvana is a cerebral function and only your neurons,
Can perpetuate the feeling of eternal bliss.


-3-

This is all Bullshit!
Do you really believe in this?
The real logic always transcends,
Consciousness and all it’s cousins
And consciousness,
Can never be dictated.
It creates it’s own extremes,
It’s own laws, it’s own religion.
And the moment you subscribe,
To the theories of anything that,
Lies outside your consciousness,
Know, that you are no longer free.



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Apprehensive Giraffe

Long neck, approaching,
The airspace of the people’s republic of china,
Requesting permission to land,
On the cool green grass that grows
Around and under the palm trees in the distance

Hot air causes optical illusions
And hot air balloons
With their Technicolor exteriors
Cause collision in the sky

Mayday! Mayday!
But it’s July the eleventh, not may
Are we going to die?
I hope we are

The apprehensive giraffe watches in silence
As this metallic comet decides to descend
Ablaze and at great speeds
It takes a little time for the dust to settle

And when it does get calmer
I can hear large teeth chewing green grass
and sniffing my hair, perhaps
He wants to welcome me to Mongolia



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Daydreams of a fisherman’s wife

Subliminal reveries of the fisherman’s spouse
In a slithering, slippery, erogenous drowse
Find her floating in a pool of septic pus
And in the embrace of something unctuous

Vacuum cusps kissing her unsheathed softness
She lies in the company of the prisoner of Lochness
Who’s invertebrate and has tentacular appendages
And unwraps her from her emotional bandages

The hind walls are pierced with organic orifices
And someone behind them intermittently pisses
Her lover’s gelatinous arms slide on her slimy skin
And awaken the monster that dwells within

She quivers as it then infiltrates in a spur
Releases spermatophores and impregnates her
And then she, for just a microsecond gestates
Entrapped fluids escape from all her bodily gates

The maiden’s iliac now swells with heavenly pleasure
It’s an ecstatic saturnalia by every measure
Her spirits swim in celebration of liberation from their velour
A kafkaesque explosion and she's the cephalopod's paramour



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Escapism’s Adventure

Escapism finds it’s roots deep down
In shallow pools of materialistic fools
And the effort that it takes to mutate this frown
Cannot be measured in existential joules

Everyone wants an unreal adventure
But the economic boom and the fear of doom
Decapitating braces and evolutionary denture
All keep them tangled in necessity’s loom

On Saturdays my heart fills with pity
As mortals gather around oddly lit portals
And celebrate their blessed mediocrity,
As innocence weeps and libido chortles

Is their no release for us prisoners of life?
If I could resign from this day-job, I would
But being and conscience won’t call off this strife
I don’t want to live. But maybe I should.



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The Worth of a promise

Promises made and promises broken
Promises that are so often forgotten
But promises kept are affection’s token
And promises broken suck dirty rotten

Some are made in the blink of an eye
And some are born out of obligation
Some are just parts of a big fat lie
And some promises cause constipation

But the real worth of a promise, then
Lies in the moment in which it’s made
Because words spoken can hurt badly when
The tongue works like a razor blade



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Tautologies

Carry me, my love, she said,
And I carried her to bed.
Numerous lies were told her there,
To catastrophe she was led.

Tautologies I recited in her ears,
I had nothing else to offer.
Unwearyingly she learnt to live,
In this empty king’s empty coffer.

But I was up to evil again,
I slaughtered her unborn children of hope.
Blinded her with recursive silence,
And bound her with a fantasy rope.

Every fiber of her being, then,
Was held prisoner in my breath.
Carry me, my love, she said,
And I carried her to death.



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Rasputin’s Revolver

Flare and smoke and a pointy copper shell,
Your own personal rocket on a staircase to hell
Rasputin’s revolver and it’s front loading muzzle
A dash of my ire and there goes this puzzle

A promptly squeezed trigger causes inanimate combustion
Claustrophobic mind opens up to the congestion
Like molten lava escaping from a lubricated vent
There’s nothing you can do then, nothing but repent

There always lies a way to put an end to this dissension
When you get too old and barely eke out a pension
And life becomes a bitch and the only way to dissolve her
Is a fucked up mind and this Rasputin’s revolver



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Dreams

And thus I,
Remain uncoiled,
Between the sheets
My drawers are soiled

And you remain, desecrated,
In my sorry soul,
Engulfed in your own mélange
Enveloped by your camisole,

I relapse,
As I collapse,
Is this for certain?
I’m unsure. Perhaps.

But Strange,
as it seems,
But we never get as close
As we do in dreams.



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Soon

In disparate quotes, my god emotes
Slowly I watch my destiny unfold
Perpetual journeys in sinking boats
No sunken treasure. No pirate gold.

Melancholia reigns, and anger remains
My eyes wrapped in celluloid dreams
My patience in it’s captivity drains
No retribution. Just a void that screams.

This lunacy’s spree, it sets me free
But freedom was never a goal contested
I prayed but just for the sight of thee
Ah! But my prayers were self-infested

This lycanthrope, once tied to a rope
Now freely howls under waxing moon
He asks with whom did his fortune elope?
And why the fuck did she leave so soon?



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Bubblegum Requiem

I am a man whom nobody loves
Because for a living I sell balloons
And make condoms out of surgical gloves
For her majesty’s urging platoons

Into me they push their pins
And I tie my mind in rubber bands
Am I not proud of these sins?
Must she grant all their demands?

They chew me and they spit me out
They’ll never write me a requiem
And I don’t have a fucking doubt
For I’m not a fucking bubblegum

I’m fed drips of melting plastic
I’m made to lick burning tires
And kismet’s motives are rarely scholastic
But I’ll live and learn till will expires



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The Laughing Tunnel

Run away and hide, girl,
Reality’s askew
And when you lost your pride, girl,
Trouble found you

Someday you‘ll reach Neptune, dear
Someday you’ll touch the stars
But what becomes of this usurped fear?
That lives beneath your scars

I’d like to see you on a laughing spree,
Mouth gaping like an open funnel
That’s when it will occur to me,
That it’s an evil, laughing tunnel



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Sleepwalker

Wake up, brave sleeper,
Thor’s hammer strikes the midnight’s gong,
Wake up, slave reaper,
And heed not the sleepy cradlesong

Wake up, destiny’s unlearnt mistake,
And in the milky moonlight bathe thy ebony hide,
Awaken! You fool! Your existence is fake,
Awaken, and follow the rising tide

Walk on the thread on which you let clothing dry,
Walk on the hollow construction girders,
Walk on, against your equilibrium’s cry,
Walk! I command you, And commit seven murders

Step over sanity’s restricting threshold,
Step over see-saws and step over swings,
Step over to this side, come now, be bold,
Step on the instincts your drowsy conscious brings

Saunter, across these ill illuminations,
Beyond these, there are great fields of corn,
Tread across the roads that join great nations,
Damnations! You should’ve heard that big truck’s horn!



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Mother

Didn’t I tell you I could fly?
Didn’t you call me Icarus’s son?
Mother, now watch me as I die -
And I’ll watch you as you come undone

Wasn’t it me you didn’t want to see?
Am I not the one you so abhor?
Catch a glimpse as I play with gravity
Mother, I just jumped from the twenty-first floor



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Friendship Rules

I remember back when I was young
The adulthood bells still hadn't rung
In the nation's capital we used to dwell
When life was peachy and all was well

Friends were neighbors and neighbors were friends
And a simple sorry made all the amends
In the breeze of summer nights and under the sun
Me and my friends would often play badminton

Gauri, Pooja, Shilpi, Suraj and Prateek
None of us were shy, none of us was meek
And blessed souls we were indeed
Always there in each other's need

Many a things my heart remembers
That secret club with seven great members
And all the festivities and all the celebrations
Some memories are lost in life's facilitations

But the winds of time blew much to soon
And we had to part with this joyous song's tune
And I remember that one sad goodbye
Oh! when I barely managed not to cry

We all moved on, and we let life progress
But we all missed each other, and this I confess
That I'd sell my soul to relive the glory
Of those golden days; of that old story

And we reunite now; in this virtual realm
We're doctors and lawyers and people at the helm
And let this be said to adulthood's bells
Our friendship RULZ! And nothing else.




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The Joker

It has begun
And it has a gun
Oh! What fun!
Oh! What fun!

With a tricky spin
And a sneaky grin
It has begun
To drown my sun




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Bloggers Against Censorship

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Noumenon - 2

Titanium reinforced armor adorns my unrestrained wrath
I have slain every miracle that ran towards your aid
I refuse to carry this burden into oblivion
The burden of mistakes I have reluctantly made

Scimitars of demolition I chain to my hands
As this demonic hour passes through the night
For too long to my love I have owed this debt
I have no choice; unto death I shall fight

I await ragnarök with the sound of critters in my ears
And rattlers whisper to tell my sorry old tale
Of how your contagious insanities slaughtered my love
As the lord turned deaf at the sound of my wail

Like a madman I wandered in these infinite woods
For light years that stood afore our reunification
I had resolved to seek out vengeance divine
And allowed my impetus this minor modification

And now I am your greatest enemy
And now I am Noumenon’s death incarnate
I’ll tear through your flesh like you tore through my dreams
You’re driven by your fears; I’m driven by my hate

Inevitability stares with a death gaze at me
I’ve erased all borders between you and your rape
Summon your slain warriors and call all your beasts
Your fall is certain, there is no escape.




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Noumenon - 1

O! brazen lords of philosophy,
And dacoits of every single natural emotion,
You are the creators of conspiracy theorists,
You are the lust in the savant’s devotion

Illegitimate children of Nostredame you are,
And devil worshippers just don’t compare,
To the evil you hold within your souls,
To the grin behind these faces austere

No exodus can depict your arrival,
Neither will one denote your fall,
No evidence screams of your existence,
Nothing’s a proof, except my gall

Minions and slaves of your amphibious gods,
Tried to devour me in epochs past,
I chained them and hung them inverted from the sky,
And this time I’ll administer the rectal mast

“Noumenon!, Noumenon!” I hear your chant,
As you are Romanticizing your malevolent designs,
Fearless, my mind bestows upon me now,
Every deterrent my conscious consigns

Prepare for combat, you unworthy foes,
I want a war no less than you desire,
Let’s leave behind some stories of gore,
A history in blood, never fails to inspire.



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Imaginary Mistakes

All my friends are victims
Of profound psychological problems
Severe conditions, where generative genitals
Spray the walls of their minds with nymphomaniacal tendencies
In pink and blue and in a rainbow hue
And, termitic instincts to fuck viscerally crawl up
Dementia is soon a hostage in a Stockholm syndrome situation,
Jacob climbs the ladder as jack once did over a beanstalk
But it’s not all birds and bees, no,
It’s spiritual, transcendent, non-physical, meta-physical
And I relish the stories all my friends have to tell me
More than I enjoy their other aural smut
And for an infinitesimal moment in time
I am unable to extricate between the thus depicted products
Of my self-inflicted and illusionistic delusions
Time relapses as the cosmic boom in my mind
Implodes and turns into a ball of brushed sheet metal
And explodes again to unglue my eyelids
from the blotting paper of dreams
Which find their long lost focus in the intense glare of the evening sun
I ask mother what time it is.
It’s 6 in the evening. The sun behaves like my last lover
Begging me to let go of her arm, so she could go home
And like the common covetous Romeo, I,
Ask for but one last kiss; or here, at least a promise of dawn
And all my friends are gone now
I wipe my eyes clear of memories and other filth
Take one more quick glance at the sun and allow it’s departure
So that I may rhapsodize my enthusiasm to my friends again
And let them know - that I don’t believe
In their Imaginary existence;
To me they’re as real as love



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Three Tibetan Travellers

One Tibetan monk and one Tibetan monkey
Ride across Tibet on one Tibetan donkey
Across the valleys and o’er snow-capped crags
The weight of these simians their sorry ass drags

‘Tween monasteries and pagodas their wisdom they spread
The donkey eats shit while they feast on bread
And on sacred themes the primates debate
In psychobabble to which the donkey cannot relate

Through gulches and gullies and in every village
‘cross every prosperous and failing tillage
They forewarn against the good lord’s wrath
And insist on plodding of the middle path

Arguably they’re queried by many a peasant
The answer to these queries is seldom pleasant
Treading the middle path requires the kind of discipline
To which these lowlife heathens aren’t really akin

And this crystalline discipline reflects in their actions
For whenever the solution is apportioned in odd fractions
The middle one they will impetuously choose
And blame it on Buddha should their conscious refuse

Now it so happens, that they come afore a pass
This Himalayan foothill that's beset with tall grass
A decision now lies ‘tween them and their grails
For the path ahead diverges in three different trails

The right towards prosperity and the left towards doom
And the middle one to an avalanche that’ll sweep them like a broom
After much contemplation their decision stands bold:
To take the middle path just like Buddha had told

But the mule is frozen, he’s cold and afraid
He is no more a part of this fanaticism’s parade
When no amount of kicks and curses seem to work
The monkey finally calls him an ass and a jerk

And decides to endure the journey on foot
And the monk follows too; his intelligence kaput
The donkey now watches his two unkind friends
As they meet their horridly deserving ends

As onwards he marches towards the right way,
Where he hopes to find some of the finest hay
He wonders perhaps in reason’s abatement:
Why Buddhism is such a big fashion statement



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Suddenly

Suddenly your eyes; seem don’t seem as lewd
And your kisses taste like hospital food
Thought we came here to make love to each other -
But now all we’ve got is this fiery feud

What your mouth gives my mouth receives
Just your passive, pathetic, puked-up peeves
Suddenly the descant that played in my head -
Starts sounding like the sound of rustling leaves

I try to bury this hatchet of hate
And in jelly of patience let my love insulate
But suddenly your intentions of leaving are evident -
As are my intentions of blaming it all on fate

We’re trapped in this undertow of the falling tide
And all the forces against us, have staunchly allied
Suddenly I’m not the knight in shining armor -
And suddenly you’re not my benevolent bride

My visions of a flawless future stand re-arranged
As all your demands become discreet and deranged
And I realize this as you walk out my door -
How suddenly my whole life has changed



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The Irish Flute

This Irish flute of solitude,
Has played me too long with it’s illusory jest;
And when I blow my heart out into it;
It’s timbre vacillates my timber breast

Atop this meadow hill I stand;
Hold the flute of solitude in my hand;
I’ll Pump my soul in the wooden pipe;
So that all may hear my loneliness’ gripe

No trite song shall I play today;
For the song must summon my lover of old;
To her I shall surrender my destiny;
For I am hers; to shape; to mould;

So I commence; thence; put all my compunction aside;
She’s calling me from Elysium and I must abide;
But guilty seas lie in between / and / I don’t think I can sail through;
I have no ship and I have no sail; the wind’s my enemy and I have no crew;

But I shall persist; command and insist
Her to spare me this pointless privation;
And to return from those frozen lands
And be the cause of my joy and elation;

And all the while, this wooden flute;
Rendering all the other voices mute,
Whispers gently to the gentler air,
"She's gone / she's gone; she's never coming back;
she's gone forever; despair; despair"



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Victory

Victory drips from this resolute soul
The sweet taste of it fills my mouth
It’s not as sweet as your kisses could have been
But then, it almost gets me there; It’s -
The only compromise I could ever make
Swapping you with this victory
That slowly drips from this resolute soul
Perhaps because of this leaky resolution
That challenges fate to try to tempt me,
And renders it’s every attempt futile,
I can not stop sucking this sweet taste of victory
That tastes almost as sweet as your kisses
Could have been
So, let it leak forever from this resolution
This leaky resolution
That I’ll never ever love any other girl.
Ever
And allow me the sweet taste of victory. Forever.


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Postcards from the third world

To all my brothers and all my sisters
And to all the immoral and corrupt ministers
To every stalker of a better luck
Who’s stuck in this orgy and doesn’t want to fuck
To all I send these postcards and prayers
May god give you food and DVD players

To the woman who ate rice from the gutters
To the unemployed scientist who quietly mutters
To all those born with a silver spoon
To every gangster and every goon
For all these people I ask from god
To teach them fishing and teach them fraud

To the new bride in the abortion clinic
To the girl in her womb - already a cynic
To the doctor who knows, had it been a boy
She wouldn’t have ever paid him to destroy
To all those stuck behind me in this traffic
I wish they had the eyes of national geographic

To all who see culture in this disorder
To our neighbor - seemingly blind to the border
To insincerity’s cadaver and to poverty’s vulture
And to all those who see disorder in this culture
For every beast and every man
I wish I could say there’s a better plan

To all the people in the second world and first
To all who don’t know how to spell worst
To every celebrity who comes so often
Gets pictures taken and adopts an orphan
To all you people I send love and care
And would never wish for you to be here


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