1.
Perhaps;
my poems—
like sparks,
ready to scatter everywhere;
the presses tremble in fear.
Whatever people swallow becomes poetry.
The definition of poetry
is essentially press-dependent;
pages devour fragments of love
and imagery of wild vines and leaves.
Bravo! How perfectly grammatical!
Twenty-two copies sold;
a few naïve displaced souls,
within editors’ metaphors—
this innate grammar
fits half-dead poems
in the pile of poets;
in the verses of the owl,
canonical literary methods
are neatly found.
2.
To become a poet in the afterlife—
I tore apart your editorial page.
I was not born
to write poetry by rules,
oh bureaucratic hypocrite.
O grammar-obsessed editor,
my poems intend to cross this world,
they journey through the heavens;
let your press remain filled
with flowers, vines, and leaves.
3.
Now I sit as Time itself,
facing God;
page and pen in hand.
Watching the form of God,
I want to write something;
without wine this pen is useless,
yet God has forbidden that too.
Jan 27
Jan 27, 2026 at 12:25 PM UTC
I note twenty-three lakh thirty-three corpses and fall asleep.
Waking up in the morning I hear India has become a vast ocean of one billion corpses!
So many corpses in one night!
Hawker while hawking
the newspaper man’s corpse on my floor
that guy came to deliver the paper
right there became a corpse!
Here corpse, there corpse
everywhere corpse
in houses or in buses
in parks or in restaurants
corpse corpse and corpse
from mosque to temple
behind garden houses
under tree shade or on green grass!
In the universities there is no living student, all are corpses
in one night what a terror!
On the roads no peanut seller, all are corpses.
I call the corpses and ask;
didn’t you wear saffron? what is the cause of your death?
why did you die, why did you become a corpse, oh?
my brain got pierced by Shiva’s trident;
I couldn’t ask anything more,
asking the cause of death— I too have become a corpse!
Jan 13
Jan 13, 2026 at 3:51 PM UTC
Everything
Spread like a bomb -
My money
My wealth
My mother's bracelet
My father's blood
The throat of my song
You are selling Aziz
Black Money - or Treason, Hungary
Whatever you say; I don't believe you long ago
You are a thief.
You murderer is a lustful *******
When I saw my mother's hand empty -
I will curse your mother InshaAllah!
You be the Mafia, be the bomber - or blow up my skull with a pistol - I don't have time to **** you and your brothers; Thief's *** - Where are our resources?
Jan 5
Jan 5, 2026 at 10:04 AM UTC
26 May, 2021
1
Ceasefire—looking towards your path, somewhere there the future of a flower.
It falls.
At the bottom night, gab flower trembling-trembling Quran falling in the yard
Between the date leaves, their morning in the madrasa.
In the concentration camp,
I also hear the tilawah of birds, hear the news of dead Palestine — in some ayat; someone's name may be stuck there, cluster of blood, ayat of a bullet pierced in some hard brain; oh martyr, brother of my morning!
2
The death of your remaining brothers may happen, I have seen on Al Jazeera the ruins of house number seventy-seven.
From the turret of ashes a few hands have come out as if,
Your children are suffering a lot in hunger!
Be flexible, or burst in rage at the news of death,
Meowa fruit you know in patience.
It will collapse only the pillars of your house, why you?
3
I did not feel surprised at anything,
Nor did I feel any sorrow anywhere.
Then why am I crying?
You can ask, of course.
I tell you—
I have not seen any such morning,
That morning in which the soil of Palestine did not cry!
One who does not cry seeing someone’s tears,
Such beast with face of demon;
Only one exists in the world — Netanyahu.
4
On cactus living thorns, knows the source of blood as leeches know the pores.
The trembling chest of your mother—
That trust has broken a few times only
Somewhere someone's body is blooming,
In the splinter of bomb the long sigh of belief.
Even after being resolved—
Israel understands weapons, understands the killing of fathers of children
Bomb also knows blood as cactus and leeches also search the source of hemoglobin.
You go to war— removing them throw the enemy's corpse on mother’s Golan land into the soil
When breath becomes heavy — take the smell of blood of a few children.
5
The Lord Who has glorified you, I am also His slave.
The One Who has taken everything from you, I am also His slave.
The One Who gives torment keeping you hungry, I am also His slave.
And in such world I am that unfortunate brother of yours;
That brother who cries beside the corpse of his brother; except being able to cry he has nothing special to do.
Jan 3
Jan 3, 2026 at 3:49 PM UTC
The night is silent – everyone sleeps deeply
Now surely your mother sleeps too
Come out and press your lips to the window
In the dark, I am the mad horse!
I won’t touch your lips, I swear to God, listen
When you say “life” and wrap your neck
My member throbs—
Now it’s your turn to hold it!
I won’t spare—there are no rules—
I never know when I feel desperate
Your neck – a salty river
In the void, baby, the epidemic of hair!
I’ve taken my mouth, eyes closed
Endure my kiss on your lips
Today you will be a pond
I will cultivate hybrid fry.
At the red end, femininity fades!
I am like a pervert,
Jump and touch your chin
And wonder how much you will endure.
Now you will be like a river
Now you will lie like a goddess
Now you will be still like a card
On this board, we play, baby, a game.
Now I have received great gifts
Now the opportunity has come
Now I have thrown everything on money
Baby, please open it now!
Jan 2
Jan 2, 2026 at 11:59 AM UTC