From the Notes of Surreal Conversations on Weekdays

Are you as pie-eyed as people claim to be?
—Pacha Meitei writes as his cirrhotic liver bleeds epiphany
In his works are we drunk with his words of intoxication
I could not accept this is a dream conversation
This is almost real I'm here when he asserts
There be someone who knows him that he blurts

Far across the lands and seas the connection is so strange
The stranger in Albert Camus is no unfamiliar for he has arranged
What it takes to be a rebel
Not in guns as is done in our land but in a well
A thousand Sisyphuses would bury all the boulders and absurdities
Care not the oddities but live a life with ease

Again closer home, we can stand up on our feet
As shits splatter the front seat & the society takes the back seat
On the engine when comes Thangjam Ibopishak with his shining forehead
Wearing a phanek, counting Indian-made bullets, reciting poems in blood-red
Yet time and tide wait only for the sun
And the age is written all over the people more than a billion

The smouldering fire paves the way for the howling in America
Home is just boring and with Allen Ginsberg, I can go to Cuba
I just cannot find the poems just cannot find the rhyme find the reason
I just cannot find the fun the action the direction the appreciation
Our generation is beaten and bleeding
With your scatology, please help us in learning

When you go to the gaol
Your incarceration has been a revelation & an ale
For the shitty sober sense of our freedom
Fyodor Dostoevesky writes from Siberia with wisdom
The words as cold as the frosted air
Yet, no matter what, it is no match with our despair



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