Backspace knows all the untold
Stories.

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

Enter Hamlet.

   O ****-
                 Exit Hamlet.

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

Of nothing else, I know not.

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.

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..

Far away, and far from this madding crowd,
Away, and a lot too far, To a place where all memory is dead,
And, Where silence is golden, and thoughts are but seething,
Far away, far from this litters of a latent heat, weeping.

Away to the sands and blue skies and to the seas,
Away and far from all of these falsities.
To A warm place without all burdens of hope,
And, A blessing to clean my soul, with an oily soap.

Where soils are but wet and, forgotten, the weather is withering out again,
Where there is more of love and less of pain,
And, Where there's sheep, all tender and meek,
Such a place of a complete innocence, my self-needs to seek.

But all I breathe is musty air, which smells like rust, and browny leaves,
And, All I see is but yellow days and gloomy lights in cityscapes,
I don't need rockets and space tricks and fiction or science,
I do want what I need, and I do not want what I feel.

Being blind, I still work with these puzzles you know,
Someday maybe, there would be a place, where we all just can go.

There would be a garden, a pyramid, and the lotus of love,
There would be a blessing, too beautiful a burden from up above.

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.

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.

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.

"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
Again.

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.

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!

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

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.

"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!

A shadow is my friend.
As flowers never bend,
From the kitchen, I bring-
Lots of honey and wine.
I have been to the station,
In the park, in the mansion.
Like flowers without a fragrance,
My shadow never resembles, a layer.

See the desert, the snow, the rain.
See, go on to see some more.
Seeking to see the shelf of shells, alone.
Flowers and shadows do not have souls.

I am working, be patient with me,
Jingle the bell, words will fall.
The wires seem to call,
I eat and drink and sleep.

What leaves do they read?
What on earth does it mean?
Even now they all seem to have shadows,
Purchasing sugar.

Go on, go ahead, dance the antic hay,
A shadow is your friend,
As flowers never bend with what they say.

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.

Fair and lovely.

No I am black and ugly!

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, ugly and thin!

I would rather call you- anything!

We'll begin with a box, the plural is boxes.
But the plural of ox is oxen, not oxes!
One fowl is a goose, and two are called geese,
Yet the plural of moose is never called meese.

You may find a lone mouse, or a house full of mice-
But the plural of house is houses, not hice!
The plural of man is always men,
But the plural of pan is never pen-

If I speak of a foot and you show me two feet,
And I give you a book, would a pair be a beek?
If one is a tooth and a whole set are teeth,
Why shouldn't two booths be called beeth?

If the singular's this and the plural is these-
Should the plural of kiss be ever called keese?

We speak of a brother and also of brethren-
But though we say mother, we never say methren;
Then the masculine pronouns are he, his, and him-
Now imagine the feminine- She- Shis and-Shim>

~ Anonymous.

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.

"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."

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.

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.

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

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!

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?

If you miss the train,
I'm on.

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

"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"

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.

Just do it,
.
.
.
.
.
Later.

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.

A body needs a soul.
The flower blooms at dawn.
The motion hides a force,
A jumbled overdose.

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.

In brief description is an illusion,
Everything floats.