boomtings
she married herself
dressed up in white
stunning she looked
mirror reflected a thunderstorm
she had a ring on each palm
and then she adorned one on each hand
she read her vows
she kissed herself on the mirror
she undressed and made love to herself
she had a perfect life
she wanted tragedy
she wanted to be receiving a soldiers uniform when adorned in white or
walking over a sea of red
here nothing was tragic
every other day amidst thunder reflecting on that mirror
she prayed for tragedy
it didnt arrive
nor did she marry him
but she married her self
she is her own widow
she is her own wife
i am not her husband
Seventh Sky
i am in a village with some priests
there sits in between us a black dog with a pus filled lump
there is nothing in site but mounds of mud
all of a sudden the priests have begun to clap in unison
theyre thumping their feet
and his years old lump just burst
there is a shower of pus
amidst the spectacle of prayer
of miracle
this black dog puts his tongue in a water bowl
the priests bathe him with saffron
and he runs and curls in the vast vast mud
I am.......
bin bin bind
geno geno genocide
rap rap rape
pla pla play
i will play with your trau trau trauma
i will laugh on your trama
riddle around your tragedy
kill you
put a bullet in your chest
despite all what you have been through
i want you to suffer more
your women to be roped against trees and raped
shutup
trees are nice
dont make it optically appeasing
i want your women to be roped against concrete pillars and raped
i want your youth to be amputated
their dreams to be.............
sheeeesh
you dont mix dreams with amputation
i want your schools to be bulldozed
your hospitals to be droned
your mothers to be shot
your fathers to be shot
your city to be plain as flatbread
i want you to be nothing
and i tell it to your dead body that
when your dead body will stand at a podium
and say that 'i am dead'
i will blame you for your death
i will censor that speech by your deadbody
i will block all algorithms
for im cool
im flashy
im suave
your speech will be against my sensitivities
my rights
it will hurt my sentiments
it will leave a stench at the podium
i wont even let your deadbody talk
now you must be knowing who i am
but will you tell me who i am
if you do
it will be against my rights
Void
walking through a dark night
a dark cobbled street
not a single light visible
till
till i saw a dingy bulb through a presumably dampened cracked french window
hunger there was plenty
i elbowed through the glass and entered the room
empty it was
from there i entered another room
empty too
the only lit house was dampened with emptiness
as always
i had reached my conclusion just by the second room
the second page
so i decided to walk through the emptiness
walk through more rooms
that i did
room after room i found lit low watt bulbs but noone there
there were books with pages so damp that they were almost see-through
wooden sculptures with dust
but i kept thinking that someone must have switched on the bulbs
i reached the fusebox only to find that the bulbs were direct
yet they hadnt fused so someone must have lit them soon
finally i reached the only room at the first floor
it had a terrace but to a dark sky
that only room had a paper glued to the wall
the paper read
" so you like so many before you have reached here -
you will go from here too
this is not a haunted house
nor a cured curse
this is lit emptiness
and if ever in life you want to think of lit emptiness
of buffered mutiny
of rampant tyranny
of adjectivised mysery
of a pulse contingent life
and
and
of a lit emptiness
visit this house on the darkest street again
and maybe that time the street is lit
but this house is dark
that will still be lit emptiness"
chikling
spring green walls in my room
dark green leatherite sofas
dresser circa 1947
sofa circa 1970
strongbox circa 1880
stupid ply bent bookshelf circa 2017
whenever i stand before that mirror
dark dark circles under my eyes
hair puffed like burnt flour
skin tanned by an anti sunscreen sun
still very beautiful
imagine all those who must have stood before this mirror
stood dressed - then undressed
hands that must have touched this strongbox
its as if im paraded by history
paraded so much that im removed from the present
its as if the present is the past and the future but not the present
crowled or crawled by deep thoughts
pause right here you dumb fuck
deep thinkers are lying alone in distant distant graveyards
alone
alone with their thoughts as eaten as their bones
intellect sells
intellect without a heavy tag is really no intellect at all
be pseudo
wear a white tee
beige coat
show biceps
a brown rayban
a five o'clock shadow
khakis
boatshoes
a casual patek on your wrist
a hardtop convertible
and after u tick these boxes
talk pseudo
talk about thimpu and gandhara
even if you dont know jackshit
so save your intellect
bend your bookshelves no more
for the ants in the grave wont spare
extra hold
frescos
worlds
beauty
i remember her driving a red ferrari
i remember her nerves done translucent by the sun
i remember the tik tik sound made by her heels
i remember her cartier shades
not fat
not skinny
olive skin and hazel eyes
spoke slowly, softly
with a voice punctuated by red marlboros
she spent a great deal of time with me
taught me life within the confines of locked doors and closed curtains
but
she would go back
go back to her two sons and husband
he was just a decoration piece
this robotic creature with muted lust fixed before the tele
sons were nice
but they despised me
its as if they knew the expanse of their mothers lessons on me
i was never confronted by them
but i was the stench in their lives
the boy outside whose house their friends would see the red ferrari
i exposed them to lockerroom rant
turned their parents into strangers
but what did i do
i was just a good host
a good student
or maybe i was just the quintessential definition of the 'other'
i revelled in being the other
besides the occasional bout of conscience
i just kept on covering every window
window after window i covered
more sheets and more cigarettes
different colored cigarette butts
one day i came across her husband at the drugstore
he looked at me
i looked at him
he smiled
said i think you know me
weird
weird construct of a sentence
we were again behind curtains that night
she said her eighteen year old had asked her that who was i
had further said he knew everything
and that dad was weak
i listened
poured us some neat
but sometimes pleasure and routine defeat self proclaimed consciousness
sometimes what is right is spun by what is necessary
sometimes being together
being together against all odds is necessary
18 x 2 =36
mathematics even doesnt add up
i went up
carried on up the khyber
and unlike those timestained last pages of a novel beset by tragedy
her life also went on
silence and routine were a refuge
and
and
refuge doesnt always need to be correct
splashy paws
my frenzied mad mad world
yellow lunatic type splashes
wow type creatures all around me
stuck at phallus while pronouncing philatelic
boom boom
so
there is a door i will venture in tomorrow
faces and faces
storied faces
i will greet them
they will greet me
beautiful beautiful exchanges
there will be rivers of liquor as promised in paradise
there will be rivers of ink through which we know of paradisiacal promises
then
then what
what will it be when ink and liquor convulge
the poet replenishes in blood
the painter paints canvases unbound of blood
of napoleon invading god knows what
streets being bloodied in medieval europe
but they forget
alas they forget
they forget the magic of other elixirs
tonics
such tonics which serve the unarmed warrior
while he is cushioned in the solitude of his miserable nook
it is this tonic
callous routy kegs of beer
callous fountain pens with bent nibs
sometimes worse
nights and nights
long nights passing onto months
it is not the bullet taken
not the bullet shot
nor the distant journey taken onto war
but it is this convulgance of fountainy happiness
that takes men to know other men
brothers karamazov or the big rape
they still teach
those moods onto months onto years still teach
not the bullet shot
the baby crippled
her pregnant tummy routed
gaza wont teach
graveyards do
but to another sullied generation
maybe another sullied world
worlds
i am a dog
i sleep most of the day
maybe the night too
she feeds me
shes nice
her miseries are mostly of her own making
she frets over the shade of her mascara
she further frets over those creek lines under her eyes
i see her without makeup too
she isnt too bad
but rates herself a bit on the lower tier
that has made her too accessible
vulnerable she always was
i knew her vulnerability when she over fed me
when she would sit under the jacaranda
and keep looking at me
and end up with tears and tears
she talked to me as if i understood
she would pat my head
and ask whether i was tired
i would ask instead
whether she was tired
but beyond this mundane emotional infestation
we knew stuff
i knew she was alone
moneyless
trying too hard to live till the next day
trying too hard too pomade her hair backwards
trying to hard to just fit in
i think she understood me too
i'm black and furry and stupid
she thinks i'm an over thinker
its most likely that every fear of hers
she finds as a fear of mine too
maybe in this stupid two room apartment
like so many other stupid two room apartments
we are just living
putting on a good show
and nobody really knows that we are tired of pretending
still
pun intended
atleast she gets laid
i'm all by myself
Umpteenth
battered and bruised
oh princess of wales
why do you look so sad
oh princess of wales
step after step
sail after sail
rhythmatic interjections
splintered pulse
battle royale
on the fringes now lies another world
worlds
where everybody is battered and bruised
punctured
cordoned
there are some with tremendous flamboyance
desire to shout high pitched
show high pitched
put their selves out their like exhibitionist bitches
there are these people
and us
them
we keep sipping tea with a passion
sniffing on cardamom
smoking up still better than living down
booky nook still better than opulence unbound
cats the only pussy that matters
this is a knived in existence
counting sticking in like a disease
abundance running away like that girl in school
running away to abundance
wisdom they said is the virtue of the weak
so fuck this bout of wisdom
and lets smoke up
to a few more genocides and a few more scandals