Time is not “out there” anymore,
It’s inside me now, a parasite,
I am an hourglass,
A passive instrument,
At its beck and call,
Time’s ragged edges cut my innards,
My thoughts but mush of mind,
Pestled and chewed by time,
I have nothing that is mine,
There is just this rabid time,
Prowling and Growling,
Tunneling into every neuron,
Past and Future psychotic mirrors,
Suspending action,
Paralyzing and Eternal
Bleak
What a game!
To be chopped like a lone doll,
Cowering in an absurd road,
The intent of past,
Flaked away like rust,
The possibility of future,
Subdued like a whipped dog,
What do you do then,
Do you play the game,
Where even the victory is a plunge into swamp,
Or just break free,
To be stranded in sea?
legacy
I hark back to the past,
When I used to feel something,
When I used to be someone,
Now something has snapped,
I don’t feel alive anymore,
My glories seem so far gone,
When did the mine blow off?
There was no explosion,
But a silent beckoning to back down,
An inward crumbling of artistic sense,
An implosion due to it’s own weight,
And still I get the glimpses,
Perhaps hallucinations of an old amnesiac,
Or perhaps an oracle for real flowering,
A harkening back of a lukewarm past,
Only a preparation for something cosmic..
the tin roof
the rain drums loud on the tin roof,
its so loud that every chatter outside is masked.
people stand under the this roof;
the lady with the dog has stopped playing with her curls,
she seems to remember a lover she kissed on the rain.
a shabby old man in ragged clothes has poised
half spent cigarette in his dirty fingers.
he is looking out from the window
almost jesus like in his glory.
and there you are,
sober and little rain wet,
with a cat like disdain for the downpour,
passively looking at your phone,
a private story cocooned in your palms,
oblivious to the chekovian angel,
and an obvious mystic,
and the plit-plat of the rain.
you are caught up in static of your own mind.
the rain keeps on pouring,
until it doesn’t.
and then the lady goes,
the shabby man goes,
and you go too.
the tin roof canopies nothing now….
On absurd bliss
Here’s to the greatness of being,
Erupting off a wonderless life,
When turbulent cacophony of mind,
Is stilled by a pure note from heart,
A pleasant daydream,
A broken note from old string,
Beautiful eyes in burn ward of hospital,
Sleek fingers serving bitter coffee,
Sad and absurd though it is,
Existence has a stylish grace,
While it plunders away meaning,
It’s grandeur is too good to miss,
A lifetime’s worth of cynicism,
Melted by a fleeting God
Seeing you
I see you,
I see you in places where noone goes,
In ramshackle coffee shops,
which have spent their allure,
In libraries filled with dusty moth eaten books,
I see you in the pages of second hand poems,
And also in the old black and white movies,
I see you in front pages of fashion magazines,
And sometimes in mugshots of people lost to wars,
Sometimes, I sense you riding on the wave of obvious,
And see you in facebook and instagram,
Bits and pieces that are you,
So many places and I am yet to find a wholesome you,
Its as though you have deliberately scattered yourself,
A chip of your heart here,
A semblance of eyes there,
A voice amidst static of midnight radio,
A silhouette of dream crossing the road,
A jigsaw to figure out
And sometimes I see myself
tide and sea
the tides that were mine relinquished in you,
you got the zest to move on,
while your peace shattered my exuberance,
i am not blaming you, peaceful little one,
you were settled and just needed a nudge to flow,
while my chaotic energy was to be its own demise,
i am looking at you from a distance,
perhaps a little proud too, like a father is of his daughter,
but then i am not so stupid enough,
to pretend that i made you what you are,
its just that, in the dank enormity of my life,
you still are the light that sometimes fills my senses
the butterfly effect
My butterflies
which made me/ unmade me
which were which
all looked chinese.
Benign silly butterflies,
like flies between
cleansing dinner plate
or leaving it uneaten
one fly is fated to make storm
another is lost in the wind
alternative
Oh my little friend,
can you loosen up for once?
And let the road take you,
to places unknown.
Bad or good, mere propositions,
ambivalence and equanimity,
heavy words, light renderings.
if your neighbour dog barks,
don’t respond by keeping cats,
if your breath reeks
and teeth glint gold,
perhaps your teeth
are better off without brush.
Sometimes sleeping is hard,
dont pop pills or cry to death.
You could always walk alone,
into the sterile phantoms of night,
who knows,
maybe demons prowl the street,
or gods!
Merits of the unfeeling poet
When sadness is not a lead that sinks,
And happiness not a feather that floats,
Make do with commonplace merits,
that lay sprawled nowhere/everywhere.
Rain that splutters on tin-roof,
A cartwheeling housefly,
Image of stray dog squashed by yellow car,
Memory of husband succumbing to wife,
A scandalous suicide by drowning.
Then generalise these eventualities,
With something along lines of,
Death permeating everything,
Everything eroding away.
A book by the edge of table is falling,
Love is decomposing into union or severance,
Life is replicating and then vanishing,
Atoms are colliding into wavelets,
Thoughts are becoming words,
And words are being forgotten,
People are arriving to be fictions.
No happiness, No sadness,
But a neutrality,
That trails through eternity..
theinvertedpoetry 