Showing posts from November, 2012

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Compartmental Cosmopolitan

When I walk down the street
A street it is only in name
A street is the sea of people
The people is the street
There is no mark or direction sign
Should I look into their foreheads?
It used to be, with signs, over head
The foreheads are way above from the ground;
Should I look, see them there?

Ever since I have been in this compartment
I can see the people giving me company
Unasked, unwanted tho’ they still got me
Like we were born to be together to be here
How can there be a street in the compartment?
Are these people and us, trapped in the compartment?

As I keep walking, the road never ends
I can sense a memory, tickling deep down my mind
I'm sure there used to be a home
But I am walking down the street
With no name, no sign
There used to be a home where I used to halt
But there is no name, no sign, no more.

Frame of Reference

“What we see depends mainly on what we look for.” ― John Lubbock

Past Tense, Present Imperfect

The past makes me
I’m here where the past has brought me
Success is from all the good old things a-past,
Failure is from all the bad old things a-past

The place creates me
I do and I think and I see
The world is made of all the things around me;

No past and no present and no place,
All the things are so an-obscure
What was my past that into here, I’m lured?
Where was I, which no more am I sure?
With all the past and places
I’m sinking into deep shit.

..................................................................................... First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out— Because I was not a Socialist. Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out—  Because I was not a Trade Unionist. Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out— Because I was not a Jew. Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.
MARTIN NIEMÖLLER  SOCIALISTS      UNIONISTS      JEWS      ME ....................................................................…

The Great Gig and the Old Star

The Great Gig in the Sky 2.0
There is some mystery in the sky. But I know not the language it speaks, leave alone the hidden meanings. Maybe it has nothing to say; the fact that it exists is more than the words. And no words can get its essence. The reality is deceitful, lying only in its idea. For example there is no chair except your idea of what a chair is. Yet in an attempt, or an appreciation of its artlessness, there is always something we can pick out, of course not in its entirety, rather in a momentary expression that we are able to capture through the use of our maximum mortal strength. So here it is, the version 2.0 of the great gig in the sky. See the Great Gig in the Sky 1.0. I'm always so obsessed with the sky; in an instant, I don't even care how much Ibobi has plundered and saved and invested for his lineage of five generations. Ten generations?...don't exaggerate, please. And don't be jealous, but the truth is that in its bareness, the sky is far mor…

What India Is, What It Is Not

The comedy of the rule of law from an apolitical perspective

The nation-building process and then the merger of states with the union—define what India is and what it is not

Why do people from some peripheral states have so many questions about India? It is unimaginable, however, for the mainland people to even think about a little resistance. Situation really changes perception. There has been a long narrative in the history of India, consolidated with the arrival and departure of the imperial rulers. The Sepoy Mutiny of 1857 is marked as the beginning of the Indian nation formation. To cut it short, long after that war, political consciousness was concentrated around the vast plains of the mainland. However it could not penetrate a few regions, which were later occupied through manipulation and intimidation. The two issues—first, the nation-building process and then, the merger of states with the union—define what India is politically and what it is not.

Without a doubt, there have b…

Height of the Directionless Flight

When might is right
Dead is the fight for the right
All shadowy is the sight
The road is the darkness of the night

As mercifully life holds tight
As it burns bright to end, with ashes
And so goes the cry—pity the plight

On Utopia and Dystopia

The promised land of Utopia is almost similar to the pit of Dystopia, however they are divided by a fine line of our mental outlook

For the sake of optimism, we have been told to be positive and hopeful many a time, right from our childhood days. You have to believe to succeed. Indeed in our life the learning curve is fashioned on pursuing positive qualities while overcoming the bad stuffs. This is one of the lessons of life that we have crammed from schools and colleges and universities. Then it is no wonder Utopia is a more familiar word than Dystopia.

There is a catch here. The world is no light and bright as we wish it to be. Instead of being optimistic for its own sake, and without being hopelessly pessimistic, we can see the fine line between them that we can call it real, that we call it our reality. That’s it. Grapple with the reality. That’s actually what we are, that’s actually what the world really is. Being realistic also does not change the universal facts. We are how we …

Bop the Cop and Chop

Just around the corner is just perfect
They kill and they are outlaws
So do we kill, but it’s different, it’s justice
Even if justice is no different from injustice
So just around the corner, it has to be done;

Dozens of armed men have planned
On this route to visit their well-secured dens
Before they come along we can sing a song:
This is going to be tough;
Let it be less rough.

Now should we get a pig from the prison?
Should we raid a house?

They have to die in a special location
Their wallets should not be empty
Don’t forget the grenade;
Two grenades were found last month in a wallet.

Yet nothing matters in the end;
A few lives lost
A few more years of pain
A few more killing and robbing,
It’s all in our world
That’s only what we are.

Hold the Fort

Hold the Fort Hold the fort, people; Without it, we are only As good as the ass

On Consciousness I am what Iam I am where I live I live how I'm alive I'm alive when I live I'm why there are a few lines here.

Bibliophobia Blues

On the occasion of my last afternoon
In paradise lost
In these hundred years of solitude,
Silence is our crime
And the punishment, it’s plain
In the dogs of war
In our life,
written all on the leaves of grass
as sour as the grapes of wrath,
No surprises, tho’;

Do we know why the caged birds sing?
We are the dead men walking,
Footnoted with large fonts in the almanac of the dead
All of us are fraud, we the living,
the master of the game so lame
And, the government completes
our hungry generation, with us, with no exertion
The Mariopuzoan mafias-alike rule and bind us;

Oh! Listen to the call of the wild
—Nostalgia is our anthem; warble we can for the animal farm
Where we belong—or now we can hope for
a miracle, a metamorphosis
From here, the days of our origin,
the funnily medieval species,
As we toil to hitchhike to a faraway happy galaxy.
And always are we on the road
And always lurks in the horizon our destination;

My homeland is the Lolita of old India.
So this is it, this special …

Imphal War Cemetery Blues

What we wish is not what we see
What we see is not what we hear
What we hear is not what it is
What it is, is not what we wish

We wish to go to the cemetery
And be the part of a foreign land
Yet we see that nothing could be more ridiculous
We can hear here, of all the world, the absurdity so bare
Tho’ it is but a reality, which we wish not.  

No more third-grade poetry      We use Facebook, listen to Slayer and Kreator, have America and Korea right on our fingertips and can have the 21st -century lifestyle like any global citizen. We saw, as the world did last month, Felix Baumgartner doing a space jump — the best jump we can do is somersaulting at the rivers, lakes and ponds galore in our neighbourhood or figuratively, from a government to a robber. Suddenly we see we are a part of the whole world, identifying ourselves with the advance that others have made in this world. Yet it is a farce when it comes to reality in this corner of the world. One of the obvious examples is in having nowhere …

For the Gentlemen from Imphal

Gentlemen, take left; the ladies are on the right
From the TV and the net the world looks like a small cocoon
We can also hide there in the darkness
And America is the best gentleman
Though you look like a Burmese farmer who grows but poppies
Like a smuggler from Laos; it is enough for tonight.

Come home you might be drunk by now
Beat your wife and write poetry of
How the jungle blossom in your backyard
How the graveyard is dug in your courtyard.

Beyond Toleration Level

In an exhibition of stripping naked proudly, the great unwashed all of them have become India: a great country of unity in diversity and in its hands, any magic wand to let us clothe and culture ourselves is redundant for there is nothing to see in the bareness of the listlessly living souls.

And it is too much
It is exceeding 1,000 kilogram
And we are having it
When we need just ten or twenty,
When we speak against the army
But we would cry for our country;
When we believe the lie
The army has nothing to do with the country.

Zombie’s paradise
Eye sore, ear sore, rear sore
Nobody is more patriotic than a zombie
We should kill ourselves for the country.

There exists a level for toleration,
Whether we stop moaning and growling;

Or I’ll just go get
a hearing protection device,
an eye protection device,
a rear protection device
For pity’s sake.


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