there's nothing to me
I'm just going down with a style
saying things like
death is only perfection that happens to us
I appear suddenly in SG palya and knock and imitate
Pink Floyd
is there anybody in there
( it's a bit off )
take them out
blindfolded to only village that speaks Sanskrit
we'll
all of us useless bastards
we'll procreate and grow and be prophets
we, who are fleeing from homes
we'll be given to carry nothing
others dressed up in sweet words
like balloons full of air
we have to balance vacuum on palms
and a stark bolt of uselessness of this all
and square soldiers
and fling nothing
blot out moon tied with a thread to my bus
we have roads to deliver free of cops
and homelessness
and destination
and towns free of rupee
and colonies free of people.

Window seat

I saw a still childbirth in sugarcane field
lady cackling in labor
and a writhing incestous couple
trampling whatever
bloody slimy thing was dangling out of her stretched cunt.
Well,
they were not
really incestuous
but we all know how it works in haryana
Oh! and I was in a bus
bouncing on concrete potholes and I saw this all
through grimy
cracked glass pane stained
with paan
and it could as easily have been
a pack of hungry dogs licking their balls
or people making a home
but I decided on this scene
and I started eating my teeth in a
hipster angst
at this pretty red and green facade
like a late Manet
for rain was just around the turn
fetus will melt to feed the ground
and elders will bless the couple
and give them perforated raven wings
and the guy next to me,
he offered me a knife
to file my tongue
so smooth
questions will bounce
right off the polished words and hit your fucking face.

An old man's death

a neighbor
ninety two years old
dead
silence coated sunlight
no shadow, no music for two nights
pale daughters wail
his photographs,disgusted
have decided to turn away their faces
memories water-lilies lost dogs
why don't they return
or die
locked in a single room
in a mile of mountain
old man sat on the tree
smoking a beedi
and watched down the road
one mile of mountain
leering
as inmates watch TV in a mental ward
for seventeen years
same old show
wandering Jews
thirteenth tribe of Israel
awkward seven foot tall people
tired of heroism
weary of war
and the tense joy when you really want to shoot someone
and orders say no so you shoot your comrade in the leg and then shoot the enemy and both of you were really engaged to one black widow that goes by many names
Jew met a China man
in the mile of mountain
they decided
to get naked
and stare like a stone
at the old man in the tree
then he dies on a hot sunny day

Drama101

an open door in balcony, chill fillin', winter,
laptops in sleep mode, TV in AV
3 piss drunk idiots in hall,
in dreamland
newer, stranger shadows go in bedroom
2 naked bodies and a deaf shadow lives between  them
whispers lust,
on every bed - one shadow
in every heart - an image,
only drunk are safe
and insane
victims by day, hunter by night,
their dreams, others plight
like you creeped in
like daydream
bolted doors and windows locked
every visitor clocked
you creeped in unsigned
riding my lips
every night, three idiots in hall
you leak through an open door in balcony
II.
before leaving she said,
nothin
nothing unusual, atleast,
same old catchphrases, no good byes
i'll kill myself
in a sense, we believed in yesterday
when we slept and left the doors open
alone with hunger in a vast hall
TV in AV mode
cliches last said in a taxi
scenes last seen in himalayas
encore till it's all a blue screen
every morning monday blues
every night saturday night
wasted bummed burned dropped fucked
neurons fire on a li-ion battery
an open door in balcony to let the smoke out
III.
verbal tiff, eschewed and stiff,
proud and vain, writhing in pain,
we could not say no, it was not discovered
it's a homage to our lies,
heads like shrunken roses on graveyard tilt
on a side, a lava of spit
and vowels explode like glittter out of
jokers's gun
invisible aims at every beating heart
ultrasonic guitar frequency, music above consciousness,
ears bleed on the the beatles
deaf shadow whispers lust
all that drama, in an old vast hall,
regular concert in the open balcony.

Lying on the sea

Madam
I lied
on sea of seven cities
land annexed by tetrapods( maximum efficiency);
I don't fear gilded (earned, ofcourse) mausoleums of
humanoids shuffling inconsequently through
red lights and personal dreams
routine heroes of boring destinies,
I could be another replacable cog
Only without......
3 hours of silence
for months of foreign noises
I fear subtle brutality of truth
I fear murder of my muse.

History

since as far as I' m allowed to look in my history,
 i despised clockfaces, as duckfaces, stupid duckfaces,
(kisses for everyone
no one actually)
i was drowned between
seconds to moments, nights to nightmares
 a sea of wine, a casket of beer, a drop of blood,
Drowned in a single drop of her blood!
across these beauties, ( I still have some of your blood on my hands,
I'll keep this souvenier, caked in my fingernails),
across these beauties, i live for eons,
and die in instances, hazy memories, room full of smoke,
moments count for days, blurry,
blurred clock, and when eons pass,
second hand moves, days are moments
I DECIDE TIME.

Dear blog!

it wasn't supposed to be this way,

me with a stark white fragile screen, worms of intoxicated minutes

all squishing, crawling, sobbing

never this way without shades of last morning,

that lasted forever,

even now,

miniature suns flickering under a powerful and tyrannical laughter of a mute moon

that last morning

that lasted forever, tastes

of wine and apple pie,,

across geology of segregated past,

even now,

warm sweet aroma streaking through, bright and shining,

on altars I bowed

whenever i celebrated death, of you, of me, of every brain that felt tumults of a faraway heart

every rationality that trembled before feeble beats of stumped heart 

watching you sleep wistfully,

death of every human that could have been 

human, without past,

all those death, the tribute is cheap,

just a single bottle of wine

that's all worthy of an offering to unnatural deaths

and coffee, and cream, and pie.

But you see, sweetheart i'm broke

to the last loan, sorry sweetheart I'm parched to last drop

of alcohol in my veins, I can't give you any more sweet hallucinations of

two kids wading through glamorous destitution,

a single suicide, and a beautiful betrayal,

no more of those dreamy graves.

Tributes running short,

call the priest soon, priest of green herbs, priest of brewed hungry generation

summon all those priests, make them real,

my last breath is dying,

I WANT TO HEAR THE FINAL SONG,

Playlist

All parched now, of possibilities of millions better future

better than what you fucktards will provide,

all satiated and finally

holy, free, vipassana

vipassana at ultimate moment of chaos

vipassana in very womb of desire

free from spanish doors and shiva's india

it all sounds same as silence, all that psychedelic noise, same as 

silence after first murder.

lamentation of my fictional oath is not yet over

tandava is incomplete

dancing to your limited, microcosmic, insignificant tunes,

even beethoven is a lie,

fuck this shit baby,

i remember you smiling to zombies,

hordes in a playlist and we slept peace fully in their kingdom,

my demons, softhearted discouraged masks 

afraid of more chillums and where in deep abyss of murky honesty will herb will take them,

hearts evaporating (its bad, as bad as fate, bear with it

as you always had, with fate)

it'll give you something deliriously beautiful in the end

perfect waltz to dance to, perfect peg, perfect fucking patricides,

don't deny it, i know i wanted it, to walk down the perfect hall

of rolling stones and led zeppelin and pink floyd and jefferson airplanes and

 my last life, jim morrison

 we look alike with the mane, smoke hazing birthgap of decades, 

father i want to kill you

across hazy decades finally, across first whiff of opium free decades,

we'll laugh and surrender and head will have no remorse,

both copying other, salutations to future,

greeting to past,

unholy, unholy, unholy.

please,

perfect end of a regularly

perfect drama.