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764 · Aug 2018
What else can I write, when the evening sets in?
The wintry old road, whispers to my soul-
Gather round the fire, there are
Stories to be told.

What else can I think, if the sky shouldn't sing?
I think I am getting old,
Like the wintry old road.

Like pebbles and mud and water and rust,
There would be time for-
Rebirth and trust,
And hope, I guess...
    But, What else can I think when the evening sets in?
I  think I am old,
    Like an anthem for a sin.

The days and the places,
Are numbered my friend.
The grass, the green
The gorging delight...

All like a bubble might vanish one day-
And What else can I feel and write what may...

I must treat the night with care,
With love, with patience and
With delight if I dare.

Since the pain would recede to the grounds, you see-
   And What else can I think when I am contained to be free?

I wouldn't be proud, and deaf to the
Tones of gloom and of death,
   But what else can I write if the evening rejects?
618 · Aug 2018
A man must die.
Every evening at eight.
When he sips the coffee with,
Hot chocolate cake.

Whatever is begotten,
      Born and dies.

But A woman is not,
And I'll show you why.

A woman must be,
A picturesque deity,
Giving and taking all the
Evening in her.

The harmony, the health,
The warmest of thoughts.
A woman's a farmer
Every evening at eight.

Watching the steam,
And taking within,
The fetish of hate,
Every evening at eight.

Makes her a woman,
Who isn't born to be great.
But kind and mild,
And As timid as a cow.

A woman never dies,
For she is never loved.

Since she is born to witness
A death.
And, A man is a member of a community,
Of men.

Practising a composition,
To produce hatred.

   Every evening at eight,
With hot chocolate cake.
592 · Nov 2017
An Apple a day,
Can keep the innocence away.
545 · Nov 2017
Lame Theory.
Can you define, define?

Can you hate, hatred?

Can you lose, what is lost?

Can you ******, upon trust?

Can you water your wants?

Can you review your rants?

Can you define, elaborate?

Can you hate, hatred?
448 · Jan 2018
A sweaty toothed madman, looks into my eyes-
With hunger, power, pride, and thirst,
insolence and disguise.

The sweaty toothed madman, begins to bite my nails,
With bloated bulgy human nature,
Expecting a recurrence.

A mighty mixture of anger, base and immobile,
The ring of magic, a realm of life,
Churns the paste of light.

Not so much on a wintry night, I expect so much more,
The sweaty toothed madman, wears a coat of holes.

He looks upon an eternity, the landscape of all parodies,
For I couldn't sing a melody to feather a community.
404 · Sep 2017
Mister Sen.
"Existence is but a deception," thinks Mister Sen,
"a ***** little lie, a junkyard of loss created by all men."
With cellophane dreams in restless hearts,
Mister Sen contemplates "to- comprehend, this or that."
"But everything is as zero as good,
and all are as one as bad."
Mister Sen thinks to himself, "I ain't no ***** little rat..."

Thus he walked out, and right on to the door, and,
With fancy biggy dreams,
stopped once or maybe twice to check out the store,
A store of books which sold fiction and all those upon a time, just at once,
Mister Sen, therein and herein, thought of having a slightly furtive glance.

He has read a lot of Sartre, Beauvoir, and Gilles,
He has read of Toni Morrison, The bluest eye,
But he has never read of himself on any given day,
He has never read of himself within any story to say.

Thus Mister Sen thought to himself-
"I am all old and a bit too shy to be told, maybe...
In any drama or an in any such way, to be too fictitiously wavy,
Existence is but a deception, and a ***** little lie,
Even in fiction and philosophy, I Don't have any right to look
around with my eye,
Why won't I have a chance to say any goodbye?"

He walked home, all cold and tired, and all,
With nothing in the world which seemed to be so good as true,
Mister Sen but never thought of himself,
That he was a story, combined to form a million things, untrue.

Mister Sen, Well this one's for you!
"It was all in the cold winter air,
Where all the answers blew, They were all really blue,
Dreamy And wavy like scented flowers at night and bright,
Bright as white and pearly glow,
Mister Sen They were all really blue,
To be honest at heart, they were, Meant to be only for you."

Mister Sen,  this one is for you!

It was all in the cold winter air,
Where all the answers blew
397 · Aug 2017
Rusty bicycles.
Gone are the days,
Of disobedience and innocence.
Gone are the days of, an-
Instrumental violence.

  Morning to the silky soul,
And to the shadowing shades of impermanence.
Morning to the dewy doses,
Of painting all accidents.

Long out to the zenith,
Of red bridges, and bluish seas,
Like a rolling stone troubled all alone,
To Bleed a maze of moss and broken violins.

But a mundane mourning for the silky soul,
And there are,
Some adjectives to condole.

These parts of an analogous appearance,
And moving along with,
some blessed rings of smoke,
A glassy, grassy stairway to the Vincent skies,
To the blinky stars, and stormy tales,
Moving alone,
But All alone, with fairy grooves and blooming dales!
373 · Nov 2017
An old picture for an old room.
An old song for an old day.
A visit to the other ways of looking back at time.

Sweet sensations, bitter sweet blood,
Rosemary and thyme.
371 · Nov 2017
Coca Kala.
Fair and lovely.

No I am black and ****!

Oh! Sure you are? What does the law say?

I listen to the vagabond winds, which barks at the youth of the bay.

Sunset? Glimpses of eternal youth?

Keep your gratitude!

I am the landscape of a lie, what does the law say?

Young and human at any given day.

Drink the bottle of law!

Ceaseless motion, see saw!

Discord you mean?

Black as a cat, **** and thin!

I would rather call you- anything!
349 · Aug 2017
On Saturdays.
In a classroom of twenty or more,
The teacher walks in with a thought of pride,
"I am here," She thinks to herself,
And we all stand to wish, "Good Morning".

The Teacher teaches Literature,
The Teacher is a lady of fifty-five,
The teacher walks in every day,
With a lot of pride, especially on Saturdays.

She prepares the lesson plans,
Fused with the state as to what is to be taught,
As to what is to be reasoned, and what is to be asked,
She teaches all students who belong to a class.

She addresses the students, calling names and more,
Talks in all platitudes, and looks down upon the floor,
She teaches all students, about romantic outbursts,
She praises Keats and Tagore, but not Beckett or Hurst.

But one fine Monday, there was he,
A Cherry Little boy, Big eyed, Twenty three,
Asked a question about false nationhood or so,
She was a teacher with a lot of pride, as you know...

With a thought of tasty theories, and elitism in mind,
She bashed and washed him down into the drain,
As to not him, but his hopes were drowned,
And this is how the teacher throttled "The Questions,
Which were all around...."

But In a classroom of twenty or more,
'These' students never fail to follow,
'The' teacher walks in every day,
And usually, teaches Literature, on endless Saturdays!
She teaches approaches and Literature, on Saturdays.
349 · Oct 2017
Open Up.
I Dig, You Dig, We Dig,
They Dig...

It's not a beautiful poem,
But it's very deep.
307 · Jan 2018
I scream to have *** with time,
A morning brings a contradiction in terms,
In between the other and all forces of allusive virtues,
The style awaits for an arrogance to bloom!
304 · Oct 2017
The key to happiness is lower expectations,


Much lower,

There you go!
295 · Nov 2017
Wild Horses.
The east was drenched in the color of liquid gold,

The waters of the river were lapping against-
the edges of all the boats,

The sun and his soft beams,
had the coolness of the dawn,

And the toe of the river,
was tracing patterns under the rocky shoals of time,

But still, The coward has always been a beast of burden.
288 · Jun 2018
The body is my slave,
My soul is my king.
My mind is my labor,
I think I am existing.

The words are my speech,
I express pleasure and pain,
I am an animal to be tamed,
At the beginning of dawn.

The whitest night glows,
The foundation mellows,
Like light.

The principles of partnership,
softens the fright, of life.

The conditions are given,
I harbor my axe,
I breathe to produce,
I exhale to relax.

The whitest night glows,
The foundation mellows,
Like light.
281 · Sep 2017
Justice, at ease.
I am born in a poor country,
in a poor society, with a poor soul,
In a poor family, with diminished hopes of seeing the world.

But I am Icarus, and by 28
I would be rich, so ******* rich,
that I would hardly be able to count all the money.

I do not know how, or why, but-
I would be rich and young and beautiful as Nixon or Reagan, or Trump,
And, I would dream on. I would be here and over there, and everywhere,
For whatever it takes, to triumph over the world!

And thus the body decides to give flashes to these fleshy thoughts,
He reads newspapers and books and propagandas, which are hot,
He believes to make a difference in this world of men,
He hopes to try beyond the screen of hopelessness again.

But, These are just rantings of a beautiful mind,
Trapped in the vestibule of wriggling nets of upbeat thoughts,
And if he succeeds, he would be Icarus, someday,
Or if he doesn't he would be a candle to be burnt and charred away.

And you read and judge all poems and points,
For, The world moves between just these two paradoxes of choice.
Of virtues and vice, and to limit oneself within the membranes of such an obsessive noise.

For, The world but moves between these two points.

But I would love to die young and rich,
Before I sleep like an use less snitch.
274 · Aug 2017
Donkey loves to eat all grass,
Donkey loves to chalk out plans.
Doggy wants to beat em up,
Colonia'h eyes wide shut!

Ratty steals and shines like gold,
Donkey loves to work for free,
Doggy wants to beat em up,
'Contradictions' come n see.

Lambie takes all sinners good,
Lambie tastes like good ole food,
Doggy eats them with all pride,
'Mythology, you may write.

Birdie drinkin' seedy tales,
Birdie talkin' insurance,
Lizzy breaks all vertebrates,
Doggy has got hate in tails.

Sweaty donkey works all day,
Ratty gives him no such pay,
Doggy loves to beat em up,
'*******' shout and say.

Donkey needs no birdie tales,
Shout n say. Shout n say!
274 · Feb 2018
Toil And Trouble.
Magic is my name, I can play some pranks,
Fearing is my fright, I can cheat my self.
Shining shimmering trees, I can feel the breeze.
Cloudy sunny rays, fills my shelf of souls.

Who but you? But I can cause the move of games,
Who but they? But they would dance in antic hays,
And I would do, what is true, and what else does a pinky promise need?
Joyful truth and a sweet melody?

Now, The time is ripe for breakfast now,
I would cut all ropes in four, or eight-
Chime and chew and spit some soy,
Gaslight anthems on abroad!

Fish fish fish fish, fish-fishy dreams,
Black, pepper garlic doomed dark nights,
Magical magazines and meatballs,
Think of offbeat opposite kicks.

Lock and trick your fearing doubts,
Double your strokes of sightless strings,
Harp your body and spring your files,
Bark at zips of melancholies!
273 · Oct 2017
"Wake up in the morning,
and go for a jog," said the doctor over the phone.

"Okay Sure and Anything else Sir?"- I pretended to try.
"Oh yes cut out sugar and whiskey and rye...
Don't eat mutton, stay away from those chops and cheese...”

And I thought to myself "Yeah, why, thank you,
I need more sleep and crates of ice cream if you please?"
I thought again-
"Yeah, maybe, maybe I am fat, and have high blood pressure, and all-
But the doctor doesn't understand,
about the beauty of leisure at all!"

"I am lazy, and I don't like work,
Please, one more pizza? Burp...”

But then I think about living with life,
moving on, going on, all yo! these things,
this and that, and stripes of hate on an existential being?

The world’s a meeting room adorned with smelling salts and meds,
the doctor yet again continued:
"you should exercise every day, as it is said."

But I am lazy you see,
as lazy as a snail,
And, to be honest? I need more cream and cheese,
While watching TV and biting off my nails.

The doctor kept on saying about-"happiness and endorphins and love..."
And all I was but thinking-" Then, Why did God create Pizza, with love from up above?"

And I did put down the phone,
ordered another meal, so-called food.
You see, I was happy with life,
and was ready to seize the meaning, of being better than good!
238 · Jul 2018
I have eyes. Two eyes.
I have thoughts.
Thoughts, many thoughts.

I sleep, I repeat.
I begin to shine.

I add sweetness in my days.
232 · Oct 2017
Rule of Thirds
"Between one and infinity,
I have always cherished the desire to free."

"An artist you mean? You mean philosophy?"

"Nope, but a wage laborer, working in a manufacturing industry?"

"Ha! There you made the point, friend,
Welcome to reality!"

"Anything else? Or should I just go?"

"You're living high, and moving slow."

"I mean, you know! anything else you want to analyze?"

"Nope you can leave your memories, just remember to never be an artist, that's it! Goodbyes"

"You see, Stars can never hide their fires,
For, An artist can never die with wild and deep desires. Goodbye mr.heckles! See you tomorrow!"

"Okay, it's late you must now go, you're getting late for the word salad!"

Moves out to the window, stares at the wall to burn his shelf of selfs!

232 · Jan 19
Jam pam
Dream Like an idiot,
Dance like a goat.
Deep like a wound,
The future's present ghost.
215 · Aug 2017
Mr. Bright
There was a young man named Bright
Who- traversed faster, with colors-
Heat, cold and light.
He set out one day,
in a relative way...
And returned on the previous night.

An airless wind- he turned it super cool-
He stretched out to measure,
the chalky fingerprints of Death,
He took a chain, however long,
He made it straight, however tight,
Against the teeth of gravity and weight.

Vibrating Anger danced within the wisdom of Dark-
Over bellowing waves and ineffable foam,
to create tiny curled membranes of orbits.
How flimsy, feeble and fragile it seemed-
His yolk of thoughts screamed like a shower of shooting stars.

The geometry of winter sailed through-
the ponderingly wondrous locus of infinity.
There were those rushing waves-
mountains which roared of thunderous shrieks,
And, Ages on ages on a dead planet.

Then Came one Summer,
swelling with the pleasures of a velocity.
Which outshone the loss of fallen leaves,
And he-
sprayed iron and salt onto the light.

He became a young man named Bright-
who whistled in wonder to swallow the lake of dreams,
and overturning all its jars,
like a feeble fevered coiled ghost,
he vanished!
212 · Nov 2017
Demand supply,
Absent present.
To suffer is to exist.
The surprise of a surplus,
In nature.
207 · Aug 2017
In brief description is an illusion,
Everything floats.
203 · Aug 2018
"I am an addict.''

"What do you take?"

"Not ****** or marijuana.
Or even alcohol or acid."

" O that's awkward..."

"No I mean, I am addicted to Reality."

"As in?..."

"I expect. I dare to communicate."
195 · Mar 2018
A Constitution.
Life is pretty short.

It is a crime to solve this amorphous riddle.

The dear, dear sun-
moves like an aged old ghost,
jovially, with histories and stories on its hunchback.

Feeble teeny lights of flying dreams,
drift over the cities of civilization of roots and roses,
like a thick sloppy smoke.

Life is pretty short,

intricately designed to wipe out-
all the songs of sparrows and nightingales,
and nothing else can be exciting after death.

Or is it the saliva of some slimy poison-
which inducts the motif of grief,
and a body without a mind,
or a hope beyond a trace?

You see,
it is just about a day or a night,
the dawn or the dusk,
a winter or a spring.

And somehow,
In this grand play of time,
Life is what ebbs away,
Only desires and a fountain of a foundation...

And I therefore, may ask-
O Me? O Life-
what Good amid these?

Since you see,
These walls were unusually dry,
They slept like milk, on Saturdays.

And, life is pretty short,
It is an industry of cowards,
manufacturing vision.
193 · Oct 2017
The Idler.
The king in the courtroom boasted like a bird,
"I can sing like a Nightingale, if I stay a bit alert,
I mean alert about the notes and pitches and scales,
Heigh **! You pianist play some music that sells."

The piano made music as soft as a feather too bright,
G sharp major said the singer at sight.
"Yes Monsieur, surely and at once,"
And the king went on singing like a donkey in a trance.

Etched and wavy, and linings of link less placed tones,
The pianist went on smiling, as if the king was like a dog with all his bones,
And the courtroom listened and everyone was but happy, "there, go gentle gales."
And The king nodded to the music, as a dog wags his tail.

Everyone clapped like a good old cheers to the king,
The pianist went over to say, "Monsieur! O! Monsieur you are the only one who can sing."
The queen kissed his hand and greeted him all the way,
But it was music and the piano who had nothing else to say.

Next morning, the town knew that the king sang out loud and good,
And they told their families that all music might be dead, but not the king as it never should.
192 · Nov 2018
Haiku Sutra 007.
A body needs a soul.
The flower blooms at dawn.
The motion hides a force,
A jumbled overdose.
192 · Sep 2017
"Please stop, please, would you?
Can't you see that my son is in pain?"
Cried the mother aloud, with resounding hopes of seeing the doctor

The doctor a year older than thirty two, says-
"He Is a patient without any patience, its true,
Your son is baffled and a catatonic mass..."
The mother cried aloud-" please doctor, o doctor help us....!"

He sits down at the desk, checks his pulse,
His cheek, his bones, his eyes at last,
"Catatonic, catatonic" he murmurs twice,
Says to the mother about "being encephalitic, which is as cold as ice..."

The mother nods to almost everything he says,
Takes the prescription, gives his pay,
Goes out to the booth, to fill up the form,
Thinks to herself, "my son would be really well someday."

"With newer meds, He would talk like how grown ups do,
He would write stories about his aunt Mary too,
She is still alive, loves him very much,
Perhaps he would be just fine, by the next lunch at home?
Perhaps no one would be no longer be alone anymore?
Perhaps at home? With everyone together?
Perhaps with everyone back at home, helter skelter?"

Months go by, the doctor, Mr Sacks,
Discovered a new medic, which carried the potency to release the germ,
He treated it on his patient Leonard Lowe,
Within an hour, he became a man, as creative as god can be.

Months and months added up to a year,
Leonard has now somehow, recovered himself into a well bred man,
But, as awakenings come, god keeps all other plans, at bay..

God is not chemistry, that can be studied at hand.

With Side effects, and more, he now became paranoid,
His head moved and shivered, his eyes now continued to toy,
He received a awakening from an awful dream,
He now received paranoia from his newer medicines.

Lowe was really well for a summer, he tasted ice creams,
Lowe was really well for a summer, he drew a painting,
A painting of what simple chemistry can do,
A painting that all doctors can never be true.

His mother was still crying aloud with resounding hopes to see the doctor again,
She was screaming, helplessly " please stop, would you?
Don't you see that my son is in pain?"

Since the doctor said-" that awakenings are once and can never be said"
The doctor went to the other chamber,
That evening, "to read a story again,
Which he perhaps, never read."

Chemistry, it can never be said.
Chemistry, is but an awful arrangement of certain probabilities in sets.

The mother was still screaming-"don't you see that my son is in pain?"
For, Leonard Lowe has now become catatonic again.
183 · Dec 2017
The Travelogue.
Your hair is short,
And, You've beautiful eyes.
I am a lonely street,
Listening to the evening wind.

But, The wind would come to
spoil the moon,
And, I would fit in this noisy truth.

A natural flower being too dead,
to mock the
sleeping sequence of-
a buzzing hope.

The scraggy anger would get absorbed,
like salty waters among the gravels,
deep below, and all down below,
The foam of disguise.

But I would rise again, to make it sure,
The Eclipsed Moon,
to eat your Rose,
And I would toil my Greeky hands,
All hunger, but an image fails.

And, I would capture an orange light-
For, I would burn my fear with an asymmetrical fright.
And, I would intoxicate the absence of all links,
upon the suspended mechanics of all-
suspicious inklings.
178 · Oct 2017
Moss Grows Fat.
One should not confuse motion with progress,
A rocking horse moves,
But it can never feel the pleasure,
Of a linear growth.
172 · Oct 2017
Hausu of Cards.
Cameras were invented to capture memories,
And to not burn memory space.

An essence, and its immediate objective essentiality.
172 · May 2018
Three Mistakes.
The wind had a name,
History for an age.
An attempt to be red,
A singing liquid overflows.

The flowers were all bricks,
And, all petals were like stones,
The pride of ecstasy-
Jumped on the ashes of time.

The memory of reason is dead,
The liver can turn milk into wine,
The seriousness of a conception is a lie,
A butter is nothing but disdain.

The neglect of mobility is fresh,
A team spirit, no more, no less.

The concern for such a-
stupidity is predicted to burn,
A method, as good as this,
can a turn a word into a gun.

An obtuse flash---------
171 · Dec 2017
The Song of Sparrows.
Mostly it was the sky that never changed.
The same star pictures were there years after year.
The Moon grew from nothing-
to a thin silver,
and then to a round ball,
and then back again into nothing.

When the moon changed,
the women used to bleed.
Sometimes they used to shrink down at noon.

He used to stare at them with awe and wonder.

Faraway lights blinked in silence,
and they planned to obey the rules.
For, Rules were sacred.

The stars were far away.
When he used to climb up a hill or a tree,
they were no closer at all.

And clouds came between him and the stars.
But the moon never ate the stars.

He thought they were his children.
They flickered strangely,
cold white faraway light,
many of them all over the sky,
but only at night,
he wondered what they were.

But if the stars were holes in his skin?
He became afraid!
He never wanted to fall down through a hole,
and into the flame of power.

He moved. He survived.

But, One day there was a storm,
with much “thunder, lightning and rain.”
The little ones were all afraid.
And sometimes he too was afraid.
But the secret of the storm was hidden.
The thunder was deep and loud,
and the lightning was brief and bright.
Maybe to be a wolf was bad.

Someone was angry, maybe up in the sky,
he thought for a second.

But then after the storm,
there was a flickering and crackling in the forest nearby.

He went on to experience.

It was a bright hot leaping thing, yellow and red.
He never saw it before.

He named it “flame”.  
It carried a special smell.

In a way it was alive, he countered.
It ate food.
It ate plants, tree limbs,
and even whole trees if they used to let it.

It was strong but not very smart.
When the food was gone, it died.

It never walked, never danced,
but when there was more than enough food,
it gave birth to many flame children.

One day he had a brave and fearful thought,
to capture "the flame",
befriend it a little, and feed his taste of desire.

But the flame children were weak, they died.

But still, he used to shout out loud,
with all his good wishes-
“Do not, no, no...never die. Never! Never Die...”
170 · Sep 2017
Into The Ring.
Trouble, would you come to me?
I have high hopes for you to see,
That I have failed a few times,
Which is partly true, and partly fiction.

Trouble, would you be my walking contradiction?

Trouble, would you come to me?
I have empty pockets and heartbreaks,
But I do have high hopes of defeating thee.

Trouble, as far as I can see, With my polished eyes, I'll be-
I'll be a painting in the wind,
And, A cherry monkey in a sanctuary.

Trouble, please stay there in ageless time,
with thoughts of breaking my skull, and I would be in pain!

Trouble, But I assure you,
I would fail again and fail better,
And I would rise again from the charred and burnt ashes,
Since the Fighter still remains.

Trouble, I ain't leaving, No I ain't,
But, I am ready to erase these stains.

Trouble, For you the trouble is,
The Boxer still remains.
169 · Jan 2018
Where is the center of the sea?
Why do waves never go there?

Is it true that sadness is thick
and melancholy thin?

Are you a bird or a fish
in those nets of moonlight?

Are you the reason?
That a man might question?

And, like a train,

-you lost the motif of time.

Why don't they train helicopters
to **** honey from sunlight?

Where did the full moon leave
its sack of flour tonight?

Tell me, is the rose naked
or is that her only dress?

Why do men conceal
the splendor of death,
in their graves?

I know not how-
the smoke of a ******,
talk with those clouds,

But Such desires-
must be watered with dew!

The windows must be open,
To watch buried time.

Isn't the smell of gravity,
made of both iron and peace?
165 · Oct 2017
The Kid.
Cut your nails and brush your teeth,
Eat your food, and take your seat,
Check your box, and fix those knots,
Clean your shoes, and pull up your socks.

Read your books and play at 4,
Park that parachute of fooleries,
Receive a hug from ye, mother at nine,
Little miss kid, you're doing just fine.

Here and there a mischief or four,
Break your sister's mascara box,
Eat some biscuits and chocolates,
Bless you kid, that's innocence.

Once you grow, and groups and gags,
Farces comedies would relapse,
Tragedy harpers the bazaar of rust,
Bless you kid, never get old!

Young and free and meek and mild,
Cleans my soul and I can smile.
164 · Oct 2017
The Text.
"May his liver be turned into water,
And his bones crack in the cold of his heart,
May dog fennel grow upon his ancestor's graves,
And the grandsons of his children be born without eyes.

May whiskey turn into clabber in his mouth,
And every time he sneezes,
he would blister the soles of his feet,
And the smoke of his pipe, may it make his eyes water,
And the drops fall on the grass that his cows eat,
And poison the butter that he spreads on his bread.

He would die like a stranger to the beauty of such an,
existential Dread."
159 · Aug 2017
My fancies are bitter flies,
Sparks of looming light,
Twinkling in the dark.

My fancies are Drowsy evenings,
Which echoes the silence of a careless glance,
To soak up the pleasures,
Of disobedient thoughts.

The bindings of love has grown such filmy wings,
And took a farewell flight,
Into the sunset sky.

Now I thus leap,
into the darker caves of the mind.

These scatterings of memories, Flower,
But, for the moment's whim.

And the fallen leaves of confusion,
swollen with hope, rides on the canvas of winged surprises!

To dance alone, all but alone,
With the illuminations of catatonic bubbles,
and with illusions,
Of Beautiful Shadows.

And, I float on the surface of colorless nights,
With all allusions to the shrine of the dead past.

From the solemn gloom of numberless days,
The staccato of memories fritters like secret stars,
Wishing to hearten a timid lamp.

But the sky seeks slaves and claims obedience,
From the mysteries of ageless time.

But, as you see,
My fancies have always been Fireflies,
And, Scripts of screaming tales,
Which would be Written on dust with flowers and scars.

My fancies 'are' fire flies,
Specks of Troubled light,
Twinkling in the dark.
158 · Nov 2017
Death Drive.
High speed. Shouts and screams.
Cool air, and the art of lost rhythms.
Make up, blush, black doozy mascara,
An overdose joint production!
151 · Nov 2017
দূর এর কোনো মধুর বাঁশি,
সন্ধে বেলা বাজে,
নিথর নীরব তুলসী তলা,
মন লাগে না কাজে.

দূর এর কোনো ঝাপসা আলো,
সন্ধে তারা জলে,
এমন হটাৎ হতেই পারে-
থমকে যাওয়ার ফলে.

দুয়ার ভাঙে, শরৎ কেটে,
ঠান্ডা বরফ আগুন,
আগুন চোটে নিজের মতন-
হাওয়ায় তখন ফাগুন.

দূর এর তখন মধুর বাঁশি,
ক্লান্ত মনের মাঝি..
আলো'র ঢেউ এ পাল তুলে ন্যায়,
অবাক স্মৃতির দাবি.

সময় যখন শুকিয়ে যাবে,
ঝরবে কত পাতা,
তখন দূর এর মধুর বাঁশি,
আঁকবে রং এর খাতা.

সন্ধ্যা হলো, মধুর বাঁশি,
মন লাগে না কাজে,
দূর এর কোনো মধুর বাঁশি,
সন্ধে বেলাই বাজে...
142 · Mar 2018
Again A Day, and Again a Night,
Dawn And Dusk, A winter A spring-

In the Play of Time, Life ebbs Away...

Only Desires Remain.
134 · Nov 2017
When you wake up and you have 600 clothes to wear,
enough thread notes to curl your hair,
parmesan, strawberries and indigo red wine,
You should innovate for such an absolute reason to rhyme.
133 · Sep 2017
I try.
"What do you write? Poetry?" asked the teacher,
And he continued-"Why ain't you trying anything else?"
Well, I was baffled, and I thought-" I write,
Poetry, Yes it doesn't sell."
"I know that"-That's what I said.

For a moment he glared at my hands
and looked around for something more,
He was staring at the broken walls and the memories,
of vicissitudes, which were scattered all over the floor.

He resumed again with an essence of pride,
acquired in taste- "what else do you do?
Don't you like playing games?
Boys of your age, go the field and takes up a batter,
with bowling techniques..."

I was baffled again, thinking to myself-
"More Poetry? Please?"

But I was silent on my lips, as my thoughts were shy,
I told to the teacher-"Yeah Cricket, I might try."

He lost the art of conversing in a rhyme-
And he exclaimed, dolefully-"Try Poetry, maybe another time."

And all I was but thinking was about this thought,
I know I don't sell propagandas which might seem to be hot.

And, he left the chair, the class was but over,
I thought "to make an attempt to creativity,
Which is both acceptable and sober?"

And Like all other days, the birds were all chirping,
The engines were roaring, and the sky as casting the bluest shade,
But, you see,
I write poetry which kisses the butter with a blessed blade.

I write poetry, I try to do so,
Scripts of screaming tales which you might not even know.
128 · May 8
Could you be loved.
Days go on. They never resemble time.
A spring, a summer, a shadow.
An idiom for growth and honour.
In the dusty lanes, children play.
Evenings are ******* with you.
You are old while planning your trip.
And you're older than the wind.
You blow the whistle, the hope is brighter.
You might touch your hair, and it's bald.

Do you remember what it meant to begin?
Do you remember what could've been done?
Does it bother your eyes, moist and cold?
Should you require your coat to hide your soul?

Do not hesitate and fritter like a code,
You're in warm waters, you're a frog without legs.
You're boiling, and the points reverberate.
Your mountain is melting with your thoughts.

The rooms are available for dinner.
Eat and sleep while you can.
Days go on. The Colors on the wall.
Keep asking questions about your plan.

Streets are like snakes, winding mossy ways,
You begin time, you're in the park.
Hot balloons and the voice of a lark.
To the beach for a shell,
A short crisp clear sound of a Bell.

Ringing in the ears, you end your song,
You part your hair, you pack your bags,
Days go on, they're all not sure,
Why do you think you should remember more?

Take the time, the wind, and your boats,
A journey to be taken to the other end of the coast.
127 · Oct 2017
In Bloom.
It all, actually comes down to a single choice, really.
To be innocent like a softly spoken Blooming tale,
at night.
You can Sell the meaning for art's sake.
You can Read and rejoice and remark like a story,

Walking within the measured lines,
all but circling against the plot.
And, thus Nature is in Bloom.

And The Principle of a behavior is,
****** out from the marrows of life.

And You scream like an idiot, an experienced fool, you are! for him-
there's a script of skinny tales,

And, Nature is In Moody Blues, My Friend, again.

Like dizzy doses of death and weary wallets of wishes,
you hear a whisper of grunge.
Sauce and butter and eggs for Lunch.
Walking within the measured lines, you are circling against the plot.

You can Nurture the secrets of stars from,
up above.

Joy, O! joy,
Bleed like a metaphor, a maze of magic moss-
and there are red violins for beats,
Cheap and sold the meaning in brief.

Eating the doses of measured griefs and groans,
And, Nature is In Moody Blues, My Friend, again.

Talk like a glassy shade of impermanence at sight,
I can find a mountain to climb,
A soft nestling place where a sickly smoggy winter craves,
For Breeze and beats and boxes of hope.

For, My Nature is In Moody Blues, My Friend,
to clean the little bruises on my soul.
125 · Oct 2017
The reasonable tragedy lies in the fact,
That there is no such thing called-
an invincible summer!
And You fantasize about A Pi? A rotation?
123 · Oct 2017
The sea turns white,
Like a diamond too bright,
Like a death too dear,
The seething eclair.

The sun burns like a bomb,
An artistic womb,
A warm cozy place, with no memories,
In front.

The roads were in two,
The ruminations were true,
Like a rocking horse moving with motion and force,
But no progress or life to feel the sea.

Mirrors in my room,
And the nature is in bloom,
Like a fortune at sight,
The sun was clean and bright!

I became death, like a wavelet in pause,
Of all reasons I am, I am the effect of effort and cause!
119 · Aug 2017
Growing up includes a lot of sacrifices,
and swallowing salty tears,
and going out to the sea for an ever-more.

Growing up includes the option to edit,
as all machines are prone to make mistakes,
They all rephrase.

Growing up is but a short story,
of not being totally complete.

We Grow. We Rephrase. We Live up to it.

We Repeat.

Growing up includes the art of painting,
A successive series of accidents.

Growing up, in general,
is all about playing broken violins.
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