Dingy dongy tiki tiki,
Boomy doomy  hissy pi,
Hushy hushi, pluckahchaki,
Traki doomy criihh.

Chipy Gippy farafashhh,
Micky mucky boooo eeh ah,
Dingy dongy hikipiki,
Boomy zoomieka.

Amal was a friend of mine,
We were together at school-
He used to fly kites, And-
I used to stare at the sky like a fool.

Amal was a friend of mine,
We were two good friends,
He used to get the highest in Chemistry,
And teach me the relative velocity,
of trains.

I was a little slow in math,
Always had been the fool-
But Amal was a friend of mine,
And, we were together at school.

During Summer, the evenings were long-
We used to play cricket till our bodies glowed.
I was a spinner, like the soft dying cloud,
And, Amal was a friend of mine,
I used to get him out.

He first taught me that girls fall in love,
And watching **** was wrong,
As Amal was a friend of mine,
And the summer evenings were long.

We were together at school,
Amal was my friend,
Recently we are getting old,
And we don't talk about the velocity of trains.

He now keeps a goatee-
His soul demands for a job,
I start blaming the government-
While he makes me stop.

Amal was a friend of mine,
we don't meet like before,
He took a a train to go away,
And I don't understand velocity anymore.

First as love, then as hate.
Burning coal in my hands, I understand.
First as a river flowing,
then as a dawn mist glowing.
I Cannot but think of you, our souls,
like lost little clones, swimming in a pond,
With dreams to fly, I am learning that I've pride.

First as a cold winter day, I love the
gift of light.
I understand that you hate the mode,
of fright. It is easy to float, like bubbles
of wine in my throat.
I am not trending as a goat, And you are loved,
Therefore we are dreaming to fly,
I am learning that I've gorged with delight.

O! Happy days, Happy Happy days.
There was an age of suns and glory,
And heroic similes.
Fortunes favor the brave, I have been dancing,
over the grave, the gravest of thoughts,  
As an ashcan, Like a patient on a table, etherized.

First as love, then as hate.
Burning coal in my hands, I understand.

Mira is like the color of dusk,
Life without rhythm is no life,
Today she is leaving,
The dark clouds would burst.

Mira.

Mira is like my drawing book,
The pages are clad with steams of life,
She would be leaving, like a crying
dream.
I would pretend to sing a song.

Mira.

Mira is my room of mirrors and signs,
Life without meaning is no life,
I'm born a weaver, My chance of birth-
My mind is like her heart, made of sticks.

Mira.

"Once upon a time, there was a queen,
Beauty admired her all existing being,
Generous and lovable and caring she was,
Once upon a time, there was someone as her" said Mrs Brown,
and stopped for a brief,
The kids were all gazing with a wondrous relief,
"Once upon a time.." She went off to say,
A story of beauty, and fairies and elfs,
Who can love you all day.
Who can love you all day.

And then when she said of wolves and dark doubts,
The children were listening but making face pouts,
But then when she said-"that there was Prince Red, who was but brave and saved all of that town...."
The children were going all like-"and then what Mrs Brown?
And then what Mrs Brown?"

And like all other stories she then well said-
"Happily ever after, with our queen and prince red.
The town was now green with hopes and new dreams,
Wolves were all gone,
And love was in air,
Everyone lived so happily over there.."

The children were smiling and laughing like skies,
The children went home with hope in their eyes,
But Mrs Brown knew, that the story was false,
Since when they would grow, there would be only wolves and dark doubts.

She was but hiding the mask of all truth,
She knew it well, that reality "ain't good."
But all that she knew,
And all what she did,
Was To instill a moment of hope in a brief.

The children would grow,
One would be queen, and one would be Red,
Some would be wolves and some would be afraid of fear and all dread,
Some would be good, and some would be bad,
The truth in all ways, would be no ones are glad.

They would be just there, between this and all that.

They would be grown ups, who would be standing between,
The conception of bad and the conception of good,
They would be grown ups to think-
"I but just could...
And I but just should..?"

I am close to comfort-
My lights shine.
I see the screen of words,
they seem to die, each minute.

What if the words are not sounds?
but a vision locked in my mind?
Silly questions.

I understand.
Time and more  Time
for days and works of hands.
Crescent bays, megapixels.

Zooming.

"The answer, my friends, is blowing in the wind.
The answer is blowing in the wind."

-- ****? You mean?

I hate the rising sun,
The gift of light.
I hate waking up and watching
The limbs.

Time moves on tired feet.

And, I have watched and I found
A picture of a thought.

Since, we are never loved.
And, Therefore we are.

Eat some hate and ***** out love,
Sleep like sickening droopy doomed roads,
Feel and gorge and shout out hope,
Wash and clean and brush your soul.

Thick like fat and soft as sponge,
Take that browser up your tongues,
Search for form and facts and flicks,
Eat some time and ***** out things.

Innately curved and clasped under locks,
Presently situating obtuse points,
Silver smokes and a street light farce,
Shivering veins snort doses of curse.

Light more light, and lots of light,
Thin loose layers of lost parodies,
A burden is a blessing, with youthful laughs,
With fat and glycerine things get stabbed.

Eat some love, ***** out fat!

"Clouds fly high above the ground,
And I am a matchbox trying to burn the whole forest down."

"Don't you like greyish green? Do you mind an effeminate sin?"

"Please, hark the chords of faith, farewell to the newest gloss of hate!"

"Not yet, you're going out to stand alone on the ocean to sink down all the ships"

"But was I not a matchbox trying to burn down all those castles of retreat?"

"Good, now, chew the essence of worth, and bid goodbye to those sinking voices in the dark.."

"But colors. My colors where would they go?"

"I mean 86 dimensions for this show?
"

"Metanoia? You mean? A war to room all falsities?"

"No, but you won't mind some fiction, would you?"

"As true as an age. And ages and ages on a dead planet, untrue"

আমার খুব কাছের এক বন্ধু প্রায় সব সময়ই বলে- এই যে ছোট্ট জীবন টি তে, ওত সব কিছু গভীরে গিয়ে ভাবলে কোনো কাজই আর ঠিকঠাক হয়ে উঠবে না. নিতে থাকো, হজম করো, চিবিয়ে খাও--টেক লাইফ এস ইট কামস. রান ফরেস্ট রান. ব্যাপারটা সত্যিই অসাধারণ. ধরুন আপনাকে কেউ হটাৎ জিজ্ঞেস করলো-"কি মশাই? খবর কি?" আপনাকে কি কখনো অতোটা ভেবেই উত্তর দেন? সিম্পল একটা "ভালো আছি"...অথচ আপনার এই যে মাপকাঠি তে বাঁধা জীবন যুদ্ধে, আপনি এগোচ্ছেন, পিছোচ্ছেন, দৌড়াচ্ছেন, হাঁপাচ্ছেন, কাঁদছেন, ভাবছেন, এবং তার খানিকটা সমানুপাতে, অনেক কিছু অজানা, অচেনা জিনিস শিখছেন, বা হয়তো বা-- আরেকবার নতুন করে শেখবার অন্তত, আগ্রহ দেখাচ্ছেন, তাই একটা সিম্পল "ভালো আছি", তার যে সত্যিই  খাঁটি মতলবটি বাঁকা হবে তা ঠিক নয় . কিন্তু এই প্রায়োরিটি'র মিস্টিক্যাল মিস্টিরিইউস মিছিল-এ আপনার ছোট্ট এই ধুলোমাখা চেতনা টি স্থির ভাবেই চাপা পরে যায়, প্লাষ্টিক গোলাপ আর অনন্তের গল্পের মাঝখানে. কিন্তু আমি বলি এতে দুঃখিত হবার কোনো কারণ নেই. আচ্ছা একবার ভেবেই দেখুন না, এই যে পৃথিবীর গোলকধাঁধা, এই যেই এতো বড় একটা সভ্যতা, আপনি তো হাজার হাজার কারণেই তারই একটা অত্যন্ত জরুরি অংশ. বলবেন তাতে আমার কি যায় হে? সভ্যতা চলছে তার মতন, আর আমি কি এমন আর মহান কোনো কাজ পালন করছি? তার সদুত্তর এখানেই খুঁজে পাবেন. কারণ আপনি নিজেই একটা দুর্দান্ত বিশাল বিস্তার ছড়াচ্ছেন ওই আপনার একটা সিম্পল "ভালো আছি"র মধ্যে দিয়ে. আপনি জানাচ্ছেন এই গোটা পৃথিবী কে- আপনি মেনে নেন, আপনি জানাচ্ছেন গোটা পৃথিবী কে যে আপনি লড়াই করেন, প্রত্যেক ভালো থাকার মধ্যে দিয়ে, আপনি জানাচ্ছেন ভালো থাকবার উপায় খুঁজে নিতে হয়, নোকিয়া 1130 আপনার পকেটএ আর হয়তো নেই, তবে আপনার হৃদয় জুড়ে একটা বিশাল বড় "ভালো আছি" জায়গা করে নিয়েছে, সত্যিই বলছি, ডোনাল্ড ট্রাম্প আর মোদী রোজ রাত এ হয়তো ঠিকঠাক ঘুমাতে পারে না. আপনি পারেন. আপনি ভালো ভাবেই ঘুমান. বিরিয়ানি'র দোকানে সময় পেলে আর টাকা থাকলে লাইন দেন. আপনি সত্যিই তাহলে, কি দারুন একবারও ভেবে দেখেছেন? আপনি তো সত্যিই অসাধারণ! আপনি তো ভালোই আছেন মশাই..

And then we are free,
When fear is no more a mystery.
But a concept is fluid like a juice,
We do consume, but we can never choose.

If you miss the train,
I'm on.

Buy the next ticket,
I won't be gone.

Dear People of the World,
I don't mean to be slutty,
But please use me when ever you want.
Sincerely,
Grammarly.

When you would be dead,
There would be new flowers at your door,
Time would not stop, The soul would
stop begging.

No one would speak, Pity would bathe,
like troubled twin babies.

You would be dead, the message from lights,
stills from photos, so many things.
Dying Young, wrapped and covered, boxed,
and released.

You would be dying,
Like the slow soft treble of leaves,
at a summer's night. The Forests, The clouds,
The half eyed moon, would stop begging.

You would be dying, dying like the river,
traveling again in a realm of strange colors.

Where is the music of The sunsets? The glowing flowing-
Youth?
The delicacy, The purple hazed yellow sky?

Trust me, someday you would die.
Time would stop, souls would stop begging-
wrapped, boxed, released.

When there's a wheel,
There's a way!

A poet must have a pain in the ****,
And a pen in his hand.

Of nothing else, I know not.

Where do the birds fly?
After the last sky?

Where do the feelings go?
When there's so much to show.

What do the colors mean?
As if it never begins.

What does a limit seek?
A bird, a feeling, a colored stick?

Where do the women go?
After the evening show?

What does a man need?
A limit, a feeling an evening deed?

Where do the birds fly?
After the evening sky?

Your life is ending one minute,
At a time.
So, Beware!

Hope is deaf.
Thought is blind.
Afternoons pass away,
Watching clouds.

A feeling is cold,
A maddening delight-
Syrupy evenings,
Watching eyes.

Two eyes, Two,
To the days before,
The Sun is old, kind,
But fraught with noise.

Cheer up, go along,
I don't care,
I never did wrong,
Silver nights.

And it will rhyme,
Like lemon and lime,
Like a walking contradiction,
At any given time.

And It will pass and play genteel notes,
Like counting colors in dreamy courts,
Like mellowing butter,
It will rhyme,
Like a lot too less,
But Too much a crime.

And it will rhyme,
Like munchy days,
Like grief and thought,
Of mundane ways,
Like liquor at nine,
To say that I am fine,

It will rhyme,
Like lemon and lime.

And, it will rhyme.

It has been a thrashing defeat lately,
they have been
Charred, and Burnt, and burnt and triple tossed!
And they’re still;
Munching and mincing the mundane motion of hatred-
to burn again, to burn profusely, a bit too more in their fiery lake of remorse.

They have been an admixture of life, loss, and liberty,
but they still seek to spread the mirage of a thousand dreams,

And, I have been a character underneath the hazy shades of appearance,
sleeping for a thousand years or more,

Well,
I could have been a mirror which trembles at the passing of hunts and hordes.

I have all been a fatty fuzzy Butter between burnt baggy loaves of bread,
And an edgy elite Ox dreaming essentially, incessantly,
to flutter like a doped dreamy butterfly.

But, their waves of cadence do not reach any height!
From that squalid catalog of their mistakes,
they gain nothing, seriously,
by stringing together, solemnly, their tattered pieces of life,
their vague memories of solitude,
and transcendental brightness,
they gain nothing, nothing but small pieces of an insatiable pleasure.

“This has been a complex composition of a Phenomenon, as you see.”-
said Michelangelo
“They would seek for a gigantic yawp!
There was nothing to be meant at all!” – said she, with perfect normalcy!

Coming down the road, all alone,
all covered with water and pebbles and mud,
People, as I see, talk of muddy days, diseases and the decease of success!
A slight fuzzy wind blowing into my face!
And the light on my door harpers the state of falsity.
I try prioritizing peace and calmness. She tries eating salads.
They try to wait for a better basic tomorrow.

But,
Everyone in the world was so doomed to happiness.
Their Morality was-
A mad- mad-
Maddened gaslight on those bloodstained walls!
They do not have anywhere to go;
I do not roam around anymore like a wild solid pig,
they do not sit down on the sofa with hope as their favorite cushion,
and-
They don’t try to adjust the temperature of blind follies and melancholic memories,
with perfect calculated mercy and normalcy.
Well, what they have is Michelangelo,
“And, Different colors made out of tears!”- said she, with perfect normalcy!

They all come and go!


But I still dream of green nights and glittering snow!
And about Distances which can be shattered into foam!

Just do it,
.
.
.
.
.
Later.

The sea had been mine,
The Sun was all yours.
The land had been lost,
Since all Time will fly.

How would you still then deny?

The growth is a law.
The choice was my slave,
The Time will all fly,
Since they try to be loved.

How do you manage to listen about...?

The courage was all yours,
The seas had been old,
Moved like a ghost,
With a powerful voice.

How do you still manage to rejoice without food?
How do you even think when the times are not good?

And all days are but told,
The numbers are alone-
The body was my slave,
My soul is my king.

How would you manage to ever possibly begin?

Since there would be leaves,
A released reverie,
We would be there-
Perhaps a witness to this game?

How would you then manage to whisper your claims?

And all Time will all fly,
Like I said they would do-
There would be Time yet for more...
And you would look at the gates.

Would you still play this game of a battle between states?

Too Dearly, it'll be gone.
Casually alone.

Truth is everybody's an *******,
Poets don't qualify.

8 to 8,
To live as said.
9 to 10,
Eat food again.

Sleep. At two,
Repeat the next morning,
With tuna stew.

Good, now you're a man,
Well, you are now you again.

Do not ask naked truths,
Do not trust your soulful thoughts,
Do not question the author and the book,

Good, you're now ready to get paid,
To eat food.

8 to 8 and at two o clock to bed,
To live a life, as said.

Said the author-to Ellis Red.

Like night, it settles upon me,
Around dawn i begin to chew my thoughts,
I put the sauce of time in this platter,
I fry memories with minced and chopped culture.
There's so much to write about you,
about me, about so many rivers, stars
towns, cities, sorrow, joy, laughter-
as they share miserable,
poorly dressed stories.
There's no one to understand this,
there's nothing assured in meaning,
They call God Dieu in french,
Maybe the aboriginals call God something else,
Why should you name someone and attach stories?
We begin to originate from this point,
And we end.
A soft melody begins to die at the end of the road,
The tambourine man has left you,
He has taken away your tattered coat
You/I begin to question, these things at dawn,
while an old physicist feels afraid of death, at night.
A poet feels afraid of time, burning bright.
A city feels afraid of cafes, at noon,
A society feels afraid of stories, and ideas.
They come and go,
Breaking and assuring again,
your status quo.
I understand i cannot hold water in my palms,
I understand I cannot hold burning coal in my hands,
I do not mean.. symbols can be frightening.
I just want to add a little mystery to my life.
Like night it settles upon me,
And I begin to chew my thoughts,
I mince and chop memories,
At dawn, it stops.

Enter Hamlet.

   O ****-
                 Exit Hamlet.

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.

This land is mine.
I stay here, started my career.
I have seen wanderers, on this land.
I assumed they were sugar in the milk.

But if there is a brighter tomorrow,
A colour for them and us
A line to be drawn between you and me,
I assume the land would have eyes to see.

This land is mine, you're waiting for yours,
Memories are made of a political force,
The milk should be warm, and the sugar brown,
I assume you can stay in this town.

Thinking of you, I remember things,
Such as religious beliefs and suspicious inklings,
The pattern of your beard, the bleeding men in the park.
I don't know what you think,
I assume you were not sure.

This land is between an object and
An-other tryst
You're the first to comment on its beauty and on its sleeping beast,
My land depends upon the issuance of a game,
Don't worry about the troubling nature of your shame.

This land is mine, linked to many souls,
The source of warmth and of heat,
The fire resembles the state of pride,
I assume the conflict of interests would subside.

This land is mine, welcome hither,
Posters and flyers bubbling thither.

Backspace knows all the untold
Stories.

Why? Why do you hate?
A boy who works in the garage,
And a drunkard who comes home late?

And but Why? why do you love?
Sharapova and the glittering taste of all beautiful stuffs?

And but why? Why do you want?
To be so great and disprove your own little self?

And thus why? Why do you need?
To understand the very necessity of greed?
And there fore, perhaps to rectify the very meaning of grief?

And then why? Why do you live?
To gather the surplus production of rotten beliefs?

Have you asked yourself? To not to walk behind the blind?
Have you seen a clown all naked and shouting at nine?
Have you got drunk and washed your eyes to see and not to blink?
You must, and you should but ask questions to think.

Take the meaning of roads not taken,
Insert the potency of life and liberty.
And how would you do all these?
Would you Listen to the beatings of your heart, please?

The world is a missing music box,
Where the voices are lost.
All spirits are dancing, in spaces, between-
Madness and laughter, A child's tale.

Narrate the stories and ingest the thoughts,
The world is a missing music box,
And You are not what you rather seem to be-
Your religion, Your place, Your position in between,
A lost truth and and a crooked meaning.
A child's tale.

'Caps' 'Lock', is ironically a key.

I Kiss my fantasy, with lips as wet,
As moss,
I kiss my fractions of sentiments, which boils and bubbles a lot.
My cauldron of hate, toils and troubles around these frames of life,
I trust the nameless destination, but not the very shadowing impermanence of signs.

I kiss the cotton, with silky care and sun burnt mirth,
I kiss and caress my huntings for a three hundred degrees thirst,
I point towards the woods, wherein the fountain may sprinkle some water over the lost balloons,
I try finding, what I found, and what I lost at certain gloomy afternoons.

I come back home without a burden, after scorching conversations, which
stitches and stuffs the telling tales,
Of and about the gaseous state of fire, which may bring some happiness under my battlements.

And, In pieces and punches and in pastures I breathe,
But, I do shiver at the very thought of attachments, in brief.

Nature has a beautiful way of saying,
That an experience and a change can be the only constant, as such.
That life on earth moves like a timid yellow lamp,
We breathe the heat of troubles, and we adjust to the newer patterns of the flame.
We try stitching together the tattered tattoo of thoughts and memories, which are lame...

We as characters, underneath the hazy shades of appearance,
tremble at the passing of hunts and hordes,
Sleeping to sweep out the dreams of a thousand years or more.
Nature continues to elude us to the constancy of change,
We rephrase, to repeat the act of movement.

Embracing all what is new today,
Would fade away like fallen leaves,
Change is thus perhaps, the only constant,
In brief.

Dear math,
If your x is gone,
Do not you wonder y.
Say goodbye,
Move on.

Dear math,
If Ya' feeling you need one,
Do think twice, since-
Twos are great,
But the truth is but a functional device.

Dear math,
Move on, would ya?
With errors and more.
You do have a gluttony,
To statistically ignore.

Signs, symbols, and tales.

Dear math,
Theoretically, with you,
At nevermore with variables.

Math,
Say goodbye,
To all those laws of squares,

Stop mathematically,
To count the viability of all empty stares.

You are but here,
Do not you wonder y.
Stop whispering to the ordinates,
of a blurry black sigh.

Dear Math,
Say goodbye,
And cheer up to face an empty sky.

Math,
With you, I am ready to try.