Showing posts from July, 2014

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Kill the Kids

Kill them in their school uniforms
Kill them in their dorms
Why the hell are they protesting on the streets?
Am I surprise sometimes to humanity my heart escheats?

Save them kids at dawn
Save them kids from the troubles of this bloody world
Save them kids before them the filthy flags unfurl
Before them know which country them belong to
But do at dusk, do kill them; continue!

Kill the kids before they die like their hopeless parents
Tell us what good they would do when they become adolescents
The minister’s son’s gone to America
The engineer’s daughter’s gone to Russia
And other bastards are taking refuge in India
And which mongrels are these kids in the streets?
Order the dogs the cops to slit the throats.

PS: Ask them teachers what they teach in a classroom
Ask them the masters of gloom and doom
Make them toe the line; for their salary would they never whine
Kill them swines too — for funerals we got the wine.


Haiku July


some days in life, mist
thickens even in midday
summer sheds the tears


you cannot act like a child,
heart for age’s sake


it is all absurd
so it seems from what we see
even what we don’t

will we never meet..?
we always tell each other,
solace in sadness

you, a part of me
me, a part of you; it’s true,
still going apart

unspoken moments
and those unexpressed feelings
those suffocation

Image: A night shot from the India Habitat Centre

Should I Be Good...?

And talked,
Shiny, honey-laced lips
The beauty in sweet talking it’s clear
When all I hear is fucking moaning
Vision blurred
Shits scattered across the paths, the walls
I’m more worried about rats and ants

Those sweet lips we believe it’s what
It’s what raises pellucidity
Bloody civilised

And I should be good
And behave, like amiable, playful dolphins
When asses run amok
Be good
For it looks good

Absurdity She Tells Him

Since when, in the theatre of the absurd
The man is preparing for his tragedy
It’s just like he lives life like in a comedy
It looks anything is possible
It looks lovesickness
But here how can you capture 24 hours
Of a million little feelings in two to four minutes
Of recollection amidst the tragedy?

And from the billion of them there is just one face
Yes, despite absurdities she stays noticeably
And the privilege of uniqueness can turn into a nightmare
And it does, when she tells it is all absurd
And tragedy, for the man has reasons
And that’s why he is preparing for the play
And now it’s never clear what is what.

Punishment sisyph by Titian from Wikimedia Commons

In Pursuit of a Pattern

Into the fabric
A single thread runs from one edge to the other
How would a lesser mortal know it is such stubborn
When the entire camaraderie has metamorphosed into a drapery?

In the almirah
Soft hands fold and arrange the apparels
Numbers in as twice and thrice as that of body parts
There is only reason in their being: to clothe

When it is time to get out of the closet
It makes sense how we see in the patterns
How it exists all around all along
“Beyond our pathetic myopia
Beyond the blindness
We are only hell bent for chaos,” said no one ever

From the fabric to the end of the universe,
We have seen it but then
We have seen it in war and worldliness as well
We have seen it
We are out of synch
But then again, does it even matter?!

It’s ironical we live in both order and disorder
We might live with the government and without
While the recently formed regime announces its promises
Just like everything will fall into their places
Just like something’s better than nothing.


The Enemy’s Manifesto

The invisible prokaryotes insult the mothers of the believers
“And the bloody scientists dare to sleep with our gods”
The believers would cry in the name of the father.
Well in my neighbourhood the gods are made of mud,
Plastics, woods, metals and plaster of Paris and I hardly know
What the fuck is wrong with those scientists. Sleep with mud?
Plastics? I don’t know either what is wrong with the believers.
I don’t know why I’m even concern about them.
I only hate them. Because this is my manifesto.

All the people are kings and queens of their own kingdoms
I’m just an outcast peeing on their gardens. One at a time.
Because I got nowhere to go—perhaps, except in the frontiers
But I heard the national armies are polishing their balls out there
They got balls, I heard, as shiny as their new machine guns
I had heard, balls and guns are considered a jinx by foreign marauders
At the end of the day, I got nowhere to go but crawl in these kingdoms
And by night, each night, I retire by the Lake…

Weekdays Blues

Stories, Characters and All the Related Items

Do the stories make the characters or the characters, the stories?
The stories arrive in droves and the characters alone
Happiness comes in bubbles
Sadness drags with heavy feet
Ridiculous shits as usual in the story called living
At each turn it bends to absurdity
As if this is the only possibility; no stories are the same.

Annual Pilgrimage


And then the everyday fuck.

On Waking Up

i saw the realities in dreams,
as in holding a stone firmly in the water
even if the reluctant water only lets me float,
and later drenched, but with the hope of getting dry
and live a life happily thereafter;
and i saw the dreams in realities
as the happiness of dreams collided with the pain of realities
the moral of the lesson was understanding just a part of why i woke up
it’s bloody late for work!

An extract f…

Complaint Box

It could have been Utopia
Yet it’s not
But that’s not the problem

That amazing thing, that amazing place
That amazing moment and that perfection,
—None is the issue here

It could’ve been happiness
It could’ve been cheerful
It could’ve been harder
It could’ve been painful

It could’ve been anything
Take the peace but why come back for war;
Take the war and there’s not going to be peace either.
It is killing. We ever suffer for others’ stupidity.


Gunmen are in a cage of guns
Bards in that of words
Newsmen in that of scoops
Musicians in that of notes
Professors in that of books
Workers in that of machines
Ibobi in that of money
Butchers in that of meat
Neighbours in that of gossips
Sex workers in that of genitals
Believers in that of gods
Tailors in that of threads

Let me be nothing
And fly away freely
And then I hear the music
The crooner, seemingly sneering,
Singing “Even the birds are chained to the sky.”

July Graphically

From Proudhon to Camus, we have numerous lists of thoughts that inform us about the perspectives of our world; but less said, the better it seems so.


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