Showing posts from April, 2014

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similarities: on recalling last season

during christmas season
from the hills dearly brothers and dearer sisters
they arrive in droves to the brighter valley, our town
some of them bring oranges from tamenglong
some, maize and chillies from ukhrul
others, they carry all things good away
after all it’s the time of the year
when it matters not, which gods we fuck with

during any time of the year
many of us depart for the united states of india
as we leave behind the shits
we feel like kings
two mistresses massaging the arms
one fetching gracefully to our lips the grapes
one cooling the air with a fan made of peacock feathers

then i realise the thoughts of the hillspeople
i do belong to the mountains
no matter, even if i got a james bond’s suit
no matter i buy the miss spiral galaxy crown for my girl
and i can’t help laughing when i wear the suit at the ghetto
like it is christmas but the only similarity
it is the fat santa claus’ ass i got.

At the Headquarter


A tired husband just saw off his woman at the headquarter
Thence he had to take his daily trip to some working fields
His energy unit is always measured in insulin syringes, 
The woman here, to suck in the town’s morality
Living up to the lust of the people of this land of jewel
The town’s morality is measured from her poppy-blooming body
As the value directly corresponds to the lying filth around
The pigs’ smells, the unattended garbage, the roadside stench,

And elsewhere the believers talk about virtues
As old pushers with wrinkled skins wink at the visitors.
And the cops were looking for one shot of clearing,
Earning, robbing from diacetylmorphine-laden corpse-like bodies
They did--they always do with keen eyes
And wary addicts looked for one shot of paradisal potion,
The ghetto headquarter is no promised land
Yet sex and drugs change all the equation.


The wrath of the familiar people from home and around
The overcare of the love ones who share the books of life
The herpes-breeding solvents from…

In Sathura

From a long drive to the city of god


Where’s the beef
I got some beer
Go back to Dewlaland


One heroinmaster pops out
He says he’s clean for two months
He’s found his calling in this city of god
Then he disappears

In midst, the sea of chanting people
Barefoot, and their gods etched on woods and metals smirk
As if saying
What the fuck am I doing in the godland


Long drive’s a medicine
To the city of supreme power
To any place unfamiliar

But here, today, god’s an irony to mortality
We might even die while riding

The roadside dining stalls aplenty
And it’s nostrolisation
To mix god with long drives
Well, well, well, dining is living

ode to the robot

the weekdays drag
as do the street-goers to the dead horse
in the middle of the street
on a sultry midsummer day in Delhi,
sweat, puff, die but tread and drag on
maybe a cigarette break might do some good
think of the survival
it is so essential

to the indian standard time
if there is any antagonist,
it has to be the rigourous routine
the chill of the previous season
nor the impending blaze of june
none is good enough to match
but push hard, and harder
here comes the robot


is it in the seeking of symbols
is it in the seeking symbols?
the confusion is killing
try the gods and they say
the gods are outlanders belonging to no heaven
try the edifices and they say
the edifices are a piece of shit,
unwashably pious and historical nothingness,
and here we are with nothing to stand for
here we are with everything meaning nothing

the tallest mount tenipu is the height of prosperity
and ever the looters and killers amass for posterity
this means no sacrificing the good sense of beauty
just for the sake of comparing our duty
for that matter we have scaled new heights in bestiality

in relentless seeking are the symbols galore
―the scattering kiethel rubbish dumps are our cleanliness’ image
government buildings are the symbol of impending destruction
all drunken mob is the epitome of justice
giving the monkeys a run for their money
fuck the monkeys, fire the criminals,
peanuts share so many similarities with our brain
something about us is in a caged, foul-mouthed parrot
and …

monosyllabic wheel and fire

I the old is cold

let there be wheel
let there be fire
and god said
fuck the light
and the saints turn up
so do the fiends

II it’s new yet still old

what’s life got to do with life
it moves not
it’s in the dark
then came ’long the sword and steel
guns and slugs
all’s made from wheel and fire

III on the wheel of fire

when they make wheel
we have more fire
when they make fire
we have more wheel
what we make
it is in the height of the pile of shit

another similar babble
Us and Them in Monosyllables

Rape the Sense and Sensibility: From the New Millennium India

An impression on sexual crime and politics, recollected from the the expert recommendations of why rape occurs and on how the problems can be tackled


Indian politicians are known for their  loquacity, and of late, they have been honing their skills in the so-called democratic space. Their stupidity is blatant when they start babbling; the most recent is in their comments on rape and sexual assault cases. Some lawyers and public servants are as well providing fine finishing touches to the existing canvas of shits, which the politicians have been creating, polishing at the cost of our ability to reason.

Often it is a curse to be a human being. The self-righteousness might only add more wounds than doing by the injuries. As one of the harsh realities that we come across when we grew up, in our surroundings we have to put up with more shits than we clean. And the issues inch towards the height of tragicomedy when we can see that there are even different categories; t…

The Circus Is in Town

promises of winter in summer
promises of keeping promises
stay on for the acrobatics
somersaulting, clowns, vaudeville, charee-varie
arrive, once after a hiatus of five years; come in

and so is the dressage-expert ring master
ready and waiting
and his two-pronged forky tongues
those are wagging and all set to spew

the king-appointed spectacle is scheduled tight
that’s in the wagging half
and the fun is unlimited; that’s the king’s blessings
and that’s in the other spewing half

as always torn apart by two places
i cannot but remember home
not that i hear not, where the circus is louder
bomb blasts, murder attacks, gun-toting thugs — well blend

then decked up the announcer roars from the grandstand
the biggest circus in the universe, it’s a sellout
albeit all the Gimmick want is go home
like late april the Old Monk is packing up for summer

all out and over, all out, all over
life’s back to square one, too bad for the troupers
save the claps for the next absurdshit-fest
when the king …

Metropolitan Blues

On looking back all’s here
From whisky shops at walking distance
To talking shops that rule the empire
The only missing link is life
In its place is the mechanical living
Early morning undertaking, to put it nicely
A robot is given a run for its money

And the rigorous routine of surviving
And then some serenity was found the other day
Some corners of the city parks secern
Amidst the colourful hatful of blessings of spring so natural
Probably all sanity that’s lost in home is here
Yet the vicious night covered the happy wishes
All is lost in the cacophony of the civilised city
And the broad roads are no big enough, to hold them
Nor the tall buildings; nor the massive monuments
On looking back nothing’s here
All but one day closer to the end.

from the altar, among the china roses and lotuses

it is like no man exists
just like who has not seen any prostitute
in some shitty shanty in paona bazar
like only the army rapes
when we can see motherfuckers galore
the preachers preach about promiscuity
it was imported from andromeda
or else it is the ‘them’, not the ‘us’
scattering the shits all the sides
us, we are the children of the god
the goddess of virginity,
they are harassing the gods
they are molesting the goddesses
us, we have never seen any beauty
who sells herself
and as well, never we see gods
and behind the temple walls we see
the fathers leer at their daughters-in-law
the husbands dig for the pot of pussies
the brothers drown in thousand bods of boobs
never know what the other sex do; maybe only sex
and all the kids are waiting for puberty
and the preachers are still preaching
they look they are hard for a lifetime

The Unofficial National Anthem

The guy says he’s got India kicking his balls
The girl says India’s molesting her
The minster says India’s got into his lies
The singer says India’s got into his music
The doctor says India’s got his medicines
The biologist says life started from the ancient books in India
The statistician says the numbers and figures are from India
The astronomer says he sees only India from amongst the stars
The astrologer says the lines of fortune runs through India
The analyst says India got space between the lines we read
The designer says he is obsessed with the Indian pattern from Iran
The architect says India has built everything; you got to find your space
The dancer says India has got just the right moves
The actor says India’s got the storyline and the plot as well
The drainer says India ejaculates no trash
The alchemist says India turns shit into gold
The loi says, so India has owned them if not the gods
The capitalist says India is the biggest investor
The robber says his specialisati…

Blast Report

In the last blast
At the doctor’s house
Three vases were broken
And the sentry’s shack shaken
And the walls cracked
And the cracks
The numbers are more than our letters
Begging, demanding
For how many ways I can fuck
For how many ways I can raise my babies
For how many ways I can preach shits;
In the previous blast
It was a professor or an engineer
Who the hell would care who they are
When all is flooded with placelessness
All we did was to hand the bombs over
And threaten
And tell the sheep
We got the detonators;
No matter how much the detractors are stupid
Tonight the revolution’s manifesto’s out
We got to go to Burma for more bombs.


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