On a rainy day
little drops settle on the comfortable
grass tops amidst teary eyed daughters and
foolish femmes chanting to be
androgynous seeking their beloved
attention. Conversations aren’t good enough,
there are no excuses in the
absence of love.
How alone are you in this world?
Two times, say that, yes repeat after me.
Hear me. Grow up. Procreate.
Are you alone in this world?
How alone are you in this world?
The above
words are careless introductions.
He is all alone in this
world.
-
Sick with piles, pain in the asshole but
the
comfort of love undoes blood stained shit,
she is looking ahead into the years of
promises, wicked camaraderie- claiming to break bones,
like elephants her memory is emotive and
fragile but
often in the name of comfort people
wreck each other’s lives.
-
He writes with one breath,
and with only one breath
he shall take in whatever
the world has to offer him
oxygen first-
He breaths in birds, and their wings
filled with the templates of foreign lands
and sorrow sings la la la la in his heart and once,
or twice he would look up in the sky and try
breathing in the cacophony of the years he had
left behind- there was a young boy and there was
this young girl, and her smell would invade his
lungs and there would be nothing more but a blur
and he will keep on inhaling with hope
until he is old and bald and
his memory is about to fail-
static, dynamic, prosaic, poetic,
the shades of a story, the absence of love,
not make believe but truth, and then one must
release, breathe out- carefully as slow as you
can- a careful poet is not a poet.
I hear his deep sigh,
-that final breath
and there along with it
everything would come out
in the papyrus of present,
and he is afraid now, of
this moment between magic and megalomania,
of what might come out of what might
have been inhaled- satan, evil, bible, koran,
gita, a careful poet is not a poet. His
pure insides must have purified the black
and made it white, oh snow, how pure,
are his words, and everything
shall remain as it is in this world of
rancor and jingoism.
-
Fanatics, fools and wise men will
read them over and over
again- words, but in that depth of their
insidious prison they would
overlook everything, for first comes
the actions and then comes the everything
else but he lived the other way
and stepped ahead in this world
-
He is almost out of breath now,
he is staying within his overcoats;
cramped within a ten feet by
three space crouched hiding
behind anonymous words, and
as his life runs out with the
last exhalation,
with that last ink of
vacillating words
nothing else remains.
Hari Bol, Hari Bol, I hear by the old ghat
as they take him by their shoulders,
and reduce him to ashes.
He was a communist. A careless poet.
(They donated his body to the gods above)
