You have these moments where you are waiting for a conception. Your mind is expanding, your temper rises and your bones practically walk till the river’s end to get sucked some of the endless life splurging through. You just want to explode and move way beyond and into an exhilarated space. But all you think of is you stuck walking through a landscape, an open field. You are running aimlessly until you finally get hit by a wall and you realize -“Fuck this!” Everything we do is as good as anything anyone else has done or ever will do till the end of us all! Because this is all you feel. The closest you’ll get to anything remotely ecstatic! This is life, and all you do from now on is move and enter the world as it is and write your heart out or scratch your skull into the bones back again. Or, you just forgot about everything and just pass with the times. It’s all never up to you, but it reads all you.


Where are your friends tonight?

Teen Murti Bhawan
 Contemptuous minds will forever remember him as the pompous aristocrat who begrudgingly light the chaste beauty of an imperialist queen, and none will see the untiring smirk of a zealous man, who nearly conquered everything with his extinguished cane.

Why do you want to be free?

Why do you want to be free?
There is only freedom here.
No hoofs of hounding cows stressing the aggravation of human deities
No excretions of transcendent vigilances detailing my presence
No enigmatic hostels whose pupils dispel calligraphic petals landing on each man and woman’s shoulder
No days of rejuvenation after momentous leaps
No sounds of shattering glass that tell what there isn’t to say
No seeds of oak that ripened in the cages
No means of efficient excretions that lay submersed in cognizance
No truths of complacent pulleys that dread in the hex of decadent tries
No heaps of eminent sticks that twitch for him or her
No rejections of profile indentations
No tells of the mountain sky that lays bare in a silk dress
Dispel forgotten glories, for this is what your tart desires.

Walking below my shadow

Walking below my shadow,
where there is no one to follow,
to sleep within the joy of absence.
There crept a jar of syrup that kept rumbling through the night,
as the rattle silenced my lord.
Never waiting for answers,
It kept asking for more.
Sliding between the windows an ant chiselled through the Madonna.
While bumbling fools marched through the rains,
crying for those who fell from heaven and never made it to hell.
The caretakers clinched,
Winging through every drop they could find –
Blood, booze, puss, snot, jiz, juice, dew or spit.
Men flying through the skies as the winds took rest.
Blankets of women gliding towards all,
Flocking their cervixes and ridding the destitute night of old light of a forbidden son of a manly God.
Noses made the roads which simmered in leftovers of bare men and women,
Who lay on the soil that once trembled beneath their fate.
And there was I and you and me and her and him and her and no one I knew,
As the hand went beneath the spreads and the joined us in our vigilance.

Remembered day

Of you there is nothing but the unflattering calmer of an undefined evening with the first few dews of intoxicated scrambles and the discarded windings of an initial bell hammering for our waiter. The noises you flutter between breezes of shushed away timid concerns, of whether if my palm isn’t as sore as yesterday. The cruel pit of pink that lay within the yearns, it seems untouched and known that it scattered away within the glides of faulty drains. There was kept a saying to you I made, one day there will be I to say what you may.

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