Keine Lust



Desire and vengeance rip through the chord
While the soul crawls through the abyss. The
Pain, the light, the dark and the shadow; No!
I am unitary in pain and so shall I be in the morrow.

Keine lust! No worms, no caves. Never in the full
Moon does the being hate. Its only solitude, solitude
And pain. Keine lust... You shall never regain all
That you lost and devalued. All that you left in the way

Does the warmth seek you out in the nightly refrain?
While you snore and moan and slumber... But alas!
All in vain. Keine Lust... A tout le monde you sadistic
Piece of flesh. A tout le monde you bundle of veins!

Theres but, one bleeding heart and one that stands to gain!
Keine lust... Am lost in the refrain. Be or not, give or take
But, the sense and thought does seldom change. Be not what
You were and be not what you can. For the veins and flesh

Feed me- the man. So, while you dream and breath that
Ugly furore.... Meine lust rings through the realms afore!
You the bitch and me the dog, you the whore and the pimp
In the fog. We strike, we play, we merge, we bray...

The notion of us, lost in your foray.

In other news

The sky remains jittery as we enter the third week
Of what has been an incessant spell of blood rain,
Heavy black snow and tidal storms. Experts say
This weather is likely to continue for a few eons.

Thank you Hedon for that update. Now, moving on
To other news; Icarus flew to the sun again in an
Attempt to grab that light and fell on the rocks- yet
Again. Bathory, your thoughts on this? Bathory...

Bathory you there? Folks looks like we have a
Technical issue here. Moving on. Chinua Achebe
Was caught eating locusts in his bullock cart at
The Santa Monica boulevard. He remains defiant.

His lawyer has submitted a petition that says,
"The defendant has every right to chew what he
Wants." Replying to a comment by the prosecution
He said Africa or not Achebe will do as he pleases.

Now over to Carlin for some of that other news
We have been waiting for. Oh! We have Bathory
With us now. "Yes Ritwik, I can hear you. Just so
You know how waxen wings and Promethean heat

Aren't the best of friends!" You had some of that in
Your castle didn't you? Just kidding Bathory. We
Will return to you in a moment. We have Carlin live
From West Bengal. He has something to say. Carlin?

"The seven unspeakable words here seem to be different
From what I used to do. In fact its only two. Women and
We-Men! I say go fuck yourselves rather than sliding into
Restricted, independent zones. Thank God I am dead?"

The main headlines for you once again! Weather looks
Challenging, Icarus is nursing his wounds- again, Achebe
Will always do what he wants. Bengal lies in waste while
Carlin is glad he's dead. Aren't we all?

So, until we meet again this is Ritwik signing off from our
Studio at the bank of Padma. Thank you Bathory and Carlin
For those deep insights. For what have we the dead got but pride?
Good eternal night!

Jabber

It's a long way to the top. No! It aint. It's a fuckin tiresome journey of falls and crawls and occasional illusions of rise and then fall again. All you gotta do is hold onto that illusion and ride else you are never gonna make it. The illusion lasts for a fraction of a millisecond and then its lost. Gone forever. That is what I am learning in my new trade of my choosing, struggle and toil.

Gotta learn how to catch that glimpse of lightning on a sultry summer afternoon... Weatherman??

If I don't wake and you're home

©  mobius-one.deviantart.com

If I'm not awake when you are home

Know that the body has left but, the mind

Hasn't. Know that the ideas and the

Ideals are safe within yours. If I'm

Gone when you return, give me your

Balmy smell and let the candles burn.

I'm not awake and you're home and I 

Am always around still, and you're

Never alone because memories you'll 

Have galore and what's within you are

Yours alone.That I'm gone when you're

Home is just a phase like I was born.

When I'm awake still and you're home

And you find me strife ridden and 

Despite you alone, don't change your path 

Or Waver your course because I'm just a

Rider of a black death horse. While I rest and

You're in your wake- hold me for heaven's sake.

For when I'll not wake and you will in

The next morn, don't treat the bed like a

Sheet of thorns. For when you slept and I was

Awake I weaved a million dreams around your

Face. That face will carry me home when I sleep and

Perhaps, I dearly hope in the cosmos make us meet.

So, if I'm not awake and you're home, know

That the body has served its debt but the heart

Is your's alone...

© Malyaban Lahiri

Sting

Those gaunt hands that collect honey

Know well of the musical hum and the

Unforgiving sting. Alone in the woods

At dawn he searches for a bee's haven.

He knows well the rise and fall of

Beauty. The amber hue of the heavenly

Sap, the mesmerising buzz of the little

Bee-

But, sometimes though never too often

The sting cuts through all of that and

Whats left is the pain and the fiery burn.

A token, a price he does pay in the woods

To collect that nurturing sap every day,

Alone in the woods. The haze of the mist,

The fear of being lonesome and of course

A thousand stinging buzz.

Between that and now though, he is unpinned,

Chained in a two by four hut of his own making.

Imposing, lonely and engulfing where neither

The bees, the honey, the woods or the dawn

Decide to come by and keep him company, for

The bees are busy in their combs vomitting the

Drops and the rest dont care. That is when the

Sting stings...

Its true; every man of this profession gets stung

Often enough for them to accept it as their own.

But, what does one do when thousand scalds and a

Million stings are magnified by the time he has to 

Himself in that sullen hut of two by four? He melts,

Nay he vanishes within, lives within and waits without.

Now, that is a taste that we don't get when we gorge

Ogrishly on that freshly collected honey...

The taste of unintentional singularity that stings

All over and expands time and with it agony. And as

Time ceremoniously stretches itself just for a jest

The scalds dont heal and the stings dont numb.. Its

Just echoes in the two by four, the conundrum and

Concerto of the bee's hum!


© Malyaban Lahiri

Crimson Butterflies (Dedicated to Tony Scott and two butterflies outside my porch)

How can you not wonder about
Creation and its null when you
See a pair of crimson butterflies
Engaged in mating games around a
Stained newspaper lying on the
Asphalt reporting another creator's
End?

The temerity of this process amazes me-
The balance and the disbalance of things.
One life below the bridge and another
On red velvety wings- But, just for a day.
No grand theory can compensate and satisfy
This reprise and refrain- the process.

While a pair perseveres to chisel and shape
A pupa and a chrysalis, a creator and master
Of things decides to end the game.They Exist
On two completely different plains, they create
With different notions- while the purpose is the same.

One leaves their legacy on a tree while the other
On the psyche and collective memory. Is the former
Then any smaller than the latter? Is one day's life any
Lesser than the span of a thousand stimuli aroused
On a celluloid?

Or should the chrysalis reach fruition to
Inspire grander creations such as the creator's?
Is it more apt that the creation stays and the
Creators leave? The butterfly cannot wet its
Wings nor can the creator fly... Its death.

Is this how they balance each other mutually
Unbeknownst? Then does life live for life's
Sake and art for art's and so on? Or do the
Creators embrace death to perpetuate life?

The crimson tide of the murky waters were
Probably conquered by him with fire, who like
Prometheus guarded it for other creators to use,
To yield in and to never be cold.

Rest well. For you and the butterfly are all but one
And maybe it bodes well that you walked not knowing
Its pupa or it your images

For with time, lives like these leave a mark that
The balance cannot erase; it doesnt dare to!

Dear Icarus and Prometheus- sleep well


© Malyaban Lahiri

Free Rider (Dedicated to my friend Steve)

Now, in these towns they all know your name,
Riding the dust and in the dust rusts the rugged fame;
Of devil's riders and their leather armor, life bled
Through engines, throttles high playing highway games.

With bad company, through devil's bends we ride,
Saddling up and eyes on the road till the day we die.
We the forgotten and we who forget seize the day,
Coz at night we are the vanguards of the bleeding highway.

We ride for freedom, we ride for lost friends, we ride
For the dead life we lost at the canyon's end. By the sea
And through the meadows the engines roar with pride,
Coz life's a bitch, now its on my bed and I've got nothing-
Nothing left to hide!

The rainy wind on our faces reminds us of the days
Of six gun lovers, of the love once lost and my home's
Misty haze. But, the rain soothes our faces, only bones
And leather laces, it hides the tears and bathes the skin-
Coz what is life without some sin?

Now, in these towns they all know our names,
Riding the dust and in the dust we shall remain
Till another one rides over our bones, feeling alive
While their engine moans! That's gonna be our
Cemetary coz riders we are for life...

We worship the demon, the demon of speed and
A thousand times we've died. The road remains
And so does the spirit till another one joins the line.
So, we just ride like the gale winds, storm at our heels

Coz, never will we sleep, till we 're buried deep
Beneath these memories. So, cock up and ride
Speed demons and dont let the day steal your
Hunger for freedom, the lust for life and the ever
Faithful highway! Just cock up and ride...

© Malyaban Lahiri

Raag Megh-Malhaar

A sudden torrential innerburst, mind numbing

And tearful in extent. What is it? Where in 

Natures bountiful mysteries does this figure?

Overflowing inner joy but by no means peaceful,

Like a matrimony of Ghalib's pain with the joys

Of the rain!

A welcome yet unsure change between hazy days of

Self yielding grey. What mist, what silence, what

Rhythm brings about this cataclysm of overwhelming

Heaviness in the throat, skipped beats in the heart

And a rush of ecstacy in my blood? A sense of such

Seductive anticipation..

A timeless time on the clocks that remains unseen

Just so the soul can enjoy these fleeting yet strong

Lapses of unhindered selfless freedom. Inward collages

Of crashing waterfalls, stubborn rivers, golden fields

Of wheat and green valleys of flowers. The focus of a

Tiger and the suspense of a deer. Oh what is it?

This resonanting tune of the flute, the naughty string

Games of a sitar, the push of the tabla beats and the

Binding sorrow of the piano- the outburst in the inner!

Then, when I open my eyes, harness my senses ready to 

Plunge in the senseless mediocrity does my mind answer-

It's the raag Megh-Malhaar!

© Malyaban Lahiri

An altered state of mind

Image Copyright © TimFrommeyer

I am as if in the midst of a conundrum.

I can see but I cant watch, hear but 

Really dont want to listen. I move, yet

I am still, but walking on the waters of

The rainy Hyades on the dim sea.

I can hold yet cannot touch, I cry but

Do not weep. The salt dries on the face

And yet I cant feel the residue. I write

And imagine yet I dont think and toil. I

Am just a mirror placed in an angle.

You can see a million me's and I can

See a million yous. But its just me at

The funhouse of mirrors and distortion

Of internal images. In a slumber I am

And when I wake, its on the lap of daze.

Words pass me by, an incommunicado

Sub-conscious doll embraced by cobwebs

And dust at my angles, and a mask on the

Mirror that I know but have never seen. Its

An altered state of mind. A lapse of your reality

But, I am still awake with heavy eyes scanning

Frantically around to find a shudder that will wake

Me up from this state of seemingly eternal bliss. Its

Too good to leave but too hard to stay coz when its

Over you are way below in time and space;

Gathering your conscious pieces and sweeping those

Sub-conscious cellophane bags under your cerebrum

Is as easy as saying goodbye to the last train of eternity-

Inevitable yet painful but, again somewhat ecstatic. A

Thousand screaming headless torsos thrown into the mix.

The trip; the journey into the micro of things but

Looking at it from the macro on top just feels

Like the body is detached from you and you are your

Reflection. As the neurons fire under the influence,

The brain sits still gathering the output like cable tv.

I am what you are and I am what you are not,

I am your reflection and you are mine. But 

Beyond the wakefulness of it all is what I tend

To think about and then I see not me, not you

And not them, but a pulsating electron surging.

Into the funhouse we go and look at the distorted

Mirrors showing our true self and what we can be,

But, once we leave the mirrors still follow to remind

You of a sense of time which has no minutes or hours

But, only me and because of me a different you.

So tell me perception, which is me, what is them and

What is us and ours? Coz all I see is a hollow lane where

You can choose to light the flame or just walk into the

Darkness that keeps crawling like maggots and eating

Our state and time and realizations. Its altered and yet isnt.

The mind over the body, the subconscious over both,

Or just me and a perceived you above all else. Let my

Altered state of mind decipher and decide. For it will

Never be decided and the you and the me will all be 

But one and different in an altered state of mind. 

Every stranger has a name. Me and you...

© Malyaban Lahiri

A Malady

The proverbial all pervading calm and inner peace,

Stability is what we choose to call it- to earn greens,

To eat them, to share it or to control it. So escapable

Yet, always avoided. The veil of contentment ever

So fallible.

Moving from thatched roofs to brick and mortar,

Crawling from unleavened bread to croissant and

From the hard cold ground to the fluffy bed of roses-

We cry, we try, we fall and we die, but then there's 

This small moment of rise.

Unseen, often unfelt, unknown and yet mildly present.

The only pure drop of human essence that is- but a drop;

Yet, if embraced it presents enlightened apes with wings to

Soar beyond the cutlery and the bed and diamonds and

Roofs. Its there but never yet...

Why do I the naive poet type my verses on this machine?

Why does the rickshaw puller not opt to buy a higher 

Mechanism of sustenance? Why do you think of conquering

The space while the same increases in light years between us?

Where is that drop? That essence of intended genetics?

Or maybe intended is what we make of it. Individual freedom

And the consequent 'progress' or digress. A place where graffiti

Almost topples the la politica and, deaths of millions and voices

Of the troubled are channeled like the AM frequency. A drop to

Each one of you dear mortals!

Breathing free sans the fear of someone at the door, sleeping

In peace sans the unrest within, listening to the wind without

A play button to press and walking the muddied path without

The cacophony of horns. Some of the things we inherently want

When the body is born naked.

Then? We grow up and down and up again like a spiral. A 

Careful reduction of the equation that wasnt meant to be a

Circumspect effort. I equals to human so you equal to?

Oh wait! There's a square root on top... Tough luck child.

That drop is there somewhere but we are reduced.

We grow up but never grow back!

 © Malyaban Lahiri

Baptism by Colors

 Image Copyright © Vlad Nemirovsky

The Christmas lights shine while the temple bells
Toll. The baby lies bloody on the bed- 'delivered'.
Its dusk, a shade of grey dusk but again a dark blue
Around the corner; not a sound did roll nor did light
Strike and it slept. Hush baby... they will come! Among
Her broken toys and impaled dolls she sleeps like the
Child of time- she is black.

Again, the star shined and the bells tolled and they came- all over her,
They trampled and burnt her sins away. Smoke and soot and hell fire
Rained everyday and she took it all in. Like the voracious petals of the
Venus fly trap, those lips of hers engulfed them and stayed content.
It lay in the night... At least she had the night. She was content. Slowly
The saffrons, the whites and the greens entered her hollow being
Day after day and she did not know where they came from.

Even the one to be delivered that rested inside her grew impatient.
It broke free and she lost. It was buried amidst the fanfare and
Ho hum of those colors. The same colors that devoured her sins
And had her delivered, and now they lie in constant wait for the
Reigns to break so the stake is theirs to burn. The witch must burn.
The Green must burn, the saffron must be severed and the white
blackened they thought.

The witch died, and so did they but not the colors. As the
Child in time sleeps under every roof, so does those black eyes
With glowing fangs, under the bed. Just below the flesh
And the wooden bed, you can hear it breathe and crave blood
And carnage. Every street, every devil's bend, every wall bears
Its name. Yet it hides, kills, plunders and hides. Yet another
Deliverance and another coming against the eclipsed sun.

Tomorrow if a life is born I shall warn and mourn and curse
The deliverance coz the colors will lie in wait under its bed.
Sharp talons and itchy fingers waiting for it to blossom and
Tear it up in pieces. Yes! This is our deliverance... We all shall
Be delivered some day. But, I hope my child of time is colorblind
And comatose- Maybe dead. For then it wont hear the evil crawling
Under its bed, see them on the streets and  feel them inside itself.

That day will be her baptism and maybe she will wake...

© Malyaban Lahiri

Creative Freedom

Did the actor act assuming his craft
Would be important in some way? Did
The painter paint with an aim to touch
Hearts? Or could the singer sing his
Baritone to bleed hearts and melt eyes?

Most negate these possibilities and label
Creations of art as mere chances and children
Of kind destiny. But, perchance might there
Be a creative soul who is so sure of his craft's
Effect like a hunter in the Urals hunting a fox?

I say why scoff at such a predicament where
The creator knows what he creates and how far
Reaching those could be? Such wizards are too
Few and far between but they do exist. Somewhere
In the barren crags and fissures of our aimless void...

I have felt this subtle upsurge of sure notion
And confidence wherefrom I can see what I can create
On a stage of perceptive voyeurism  and having the
Intended effect. Effects of change, of time, of freedom
And even bordering on the spiritual. The confidence stands;
Its mine...

My Lust for Life

No. It's not a Van Goghesque desire or moment. Its purely mine but, then again Vincent would have felt the same way. Anyway, my lust- for life. 'My' lust for life. Have say this to myself over and over again to start knowing a different me. The me I want to be, planning to be and have no hope that I will. Have to repeat the 'My Lust' part to assure myself that I own this dream, that it has a chance of happening and then a fear creeps up my spine. How high are the prices of such a dreamy fanfare called life which I want for myself?

My lust for life, my thirst for a solution in strife, the dearth of a life called freedom here on earth. Yet, a few seemed to have got it their way. Sacrificed a hell of a lot to just breathe that one breath of pure and lung burning fresh air on the highway, facing spotlights on stage, on the bed, in the studio, by the causeway, down the barrel of a shotgun or maybe even in a hole of a cell under the starry sky. So, who am I? How do I make the choice?

I have realized that until the desire, longing and a spiritual pressure of sorts exceeds every sort of reason that holds one back from taking the plunge, an average person will never just leave everything, let go of the strings and fly away... The same morbidity is consuming me slowly but surely. I am just a thud away from breaking free but, then again what about my approaching illnesses? My tonsils and cancerous or precancerous sores etc. etc. My fiance and my parents... Oh hell! What about everything?? Go kill yourself whydonchya?? But again, these are true fears if you will of a completely middle-class, tamed and logical mind. Where will I find a doctor in the middle of an Arizona highway if my throat starts bleeding suddenly or if my spleen bursts and and I hallucinate due to pain and crash my car into a road train and so on and so on- my head seems to say.

So yeah my devils workshop decides that what I want is a balance of a free life with the security of love, the bonds and the depth of a woman, maybe a family and some friends. Aha... so you want to sit with Lucifer on the ivory dining table drinking Rhenish wine out of a jade cup and yet tell him how pained you are about malnutrition and starving children on planet earth? Or better still I should just go and nail myself to a cross in the middle of a desert with a placard around my neck that says, "Wannabe leper messiah without the balls to lose everything..."

Yeah so, we both dream of that kind of a life where there is an equilibrium of personal freedom, individuality and impulsiveness yet a semblance of a home and peace and love in each others arms. Lord almighty!! Like thats gonna happen. I laugh myself to death thinking about something like that. Coz absolute freedom always tramples over any institutions and iconoclasm and vice versa... So, here I am imprisoned everyday in my own cusp of freedom, death, bonds and fear. So basically I have to choose between one pure moment(s) of life, the grim reaper, love or myself. What a predicament! I am in this self-sustaining nuclear prison that has gone critical. Graphite rods anyone? Or maybe a pinch of a Hadron collider... Complete subjugation or limitless pure energy. I am such a lousy dreamer! Hehehe...

I'm the sprirt in the sky
I'm the catcher in the rye
I'm the twinkle in her eye
I'm Jeff Goldblum in "The Fly"
Who am I?

The Final

The hand that holds the pen is disconnected
From the head, the brain that writes the
Thoughts. Its crippled with implosions of the
Fifth kind rendering the body helpless and still.
Paralysed...

It feels like the limbs are falling into slumber
As my brain remains ever awake without any neural
Outlet. The fear of an explosion, of death and of
Destruction is paramount enough to perpetuate this
Neurosis...

Like the non-stop cycle of seasons the head keeps
Churning. But, now there's a difference. The senses
Cant feel it anymore and cannot respond. Only the
Wandering and fearful eyes seem to understand the
Flickers inside my head...

Is this it? Is this the end? Is this what all that we
Felt and hoped have finally come to? I dont know.
All I know is palpitations, heaving breaths and
Breathing eyes... All I know is you are out there,
Maybe I am too... But, is all this mine??

The Wife (2010- Sad Attempt at humor)

Stricken with grief, the wife
Lies prostrate on her bed. A
Single strand of beads, a flower
Or a surprise nicety is what I
Didn't get. Torn is her
Flowing gown and dull her
Hair, a few hours of extravagance
Sounded only fair. "A heartless
Villain you are!", quoth she.
Not a kiss, gesture or a
Trifle for me? With tears
In her eyes and heart of
Dismay, on gravel steps of
The mansion, defiant she lay.
Tried and tried I, to raise
Her thus, so she sits beside
Me without ruckus. The neighbors
Took turns to steal my pride,
Jests and blames they hurled
To comfort my sordid bride.
Stones here and eggs there
Threw the urchins at me,
All for I displeased their
Generous aunty. I know, I know
Where all this comes from. Muffins
And cakes for snotty kids simmer
In the kitchen. Alas! For I had only
Sought a peaceful life and a loving
Wife and a dwelling, an abode.
But, here I am a doleful male,
Naked in the butt with draconian
Blame. All of this and much more,
Coz I forgot my wallet and had
Left the door!

The Mundane

Rise above the mundane. Ok... so if life is then a bread where do I find the intellectual yeast? The self cant produce that continually. The self has limits in that its limitless and digresses into producing other products of human pursuit and thought. So... The yeast. Where is it?

A Whore Called Maxine (2009)

There lived once, a whore called Maxine. In the bowels of every city she lived

A life feeding on greasy crumbs, thrown in jest at her by pleased guests.

A gentle hostess, Maxine let her guests fulfill any fantasies, feed on her

The way they wanted to and then leave when she was spent and numb.

No qualms ever crossed her conscience, or no persistent super-ego ever

Tore at her for choosing such means to an end. She was doing all that she 

Could do best. Please a hunger which no emacipated soul can ever quench.

Forced into mediocrity, raised in strife, throttled with competition- she is now a whore.

There was a time when people had relations that she had to keep. People had hopes that she Had to share. They had dreams that she had to see and 

Expectations she had to keep and live up to. Soon enough, the seasonality

Of these, drove her into the streets where at least the cold roads, the thick air

And the leaking houses are faithful. They show what they were, are and will be.

She sang. She could sing. In modest gatherings where people of principles

And values took seats of dignity she sang. Now, those figures of stature seem

Like insects and reptiles crawling up her stairs to feed. She is a good Hostess, our Maxine. Never placing their shining pasts on their present.

But, maybe thats the way with the calling such as this. You feed but are not fed. You dont judge, But are judged. You dont stop entries but are shown Exits, the moment the cold coins hit your Palm. Even love is scared to walk up Her stairs and ask for a glass of rhenish wine to replenish itself. 

As, unselfish he is... He cant bring himself to breathe her air, share her bed, eat from her plate And cleanse the body. Love is too righteous for that. Too Emancipated to look at her from a Height that is light years away. Her calling

That feeds her cats, pigeons and ducks cannot feed that crevice in her Bosom hungry for a Tinker of light. 

That light is not there... It isn't a light or a shining ray of unequited hope. It is

But a mere reflection pretending to be in full glory of values created on beds.

Just like the moon, ever shining but devoid of life from self, this is the calling

That she chose without help. This is life...

Jeremy the Bee and Icarus (2009)

Arms raised in a V. While the dead lay in pools of 
Maroon below. Poor Jeremy O' Delle lies in bones
While Eddie is the priest. Where do we have such
Commemorations everyday? Why don't we? 

Oh so many died! And so many more lived and are waiting
To breathe; Against pointing fingers and blunt, wicked
Smiles and gawking stares. The worm tickles in the head
Like a fly trapped in a glass jar. 

The buzz and the thumps are for Jeremys to hear. It says,
"Goooooo! Dooooo!! Liiiiiiivee!! Leaaaave and be on the
Outside... Please!" It begs. Coz the fly knows its life has
Been shortened by an overpowering thud of a hand.

How much does it take to take the first step and then
Run like hell?! Thats pricey... Hehehe! An awful lot and
Sometimes takes nothing at all. Run like a mustang,
Fuming with rage against chains and a 'need' to go.

But then, what fate did Icarus suffer? We are quite like
Him arn't we? The need to fly high on waxen wings ends
With a shattering drop onto the oceanic rocks- smeared
With red. So what? The pain lasts for a minute...

The freedom of those few minutes, gliding to the sun
Lives forever! Lets die. Let you and me die. I presume,
A death preceded by moments of pure freedom without
Silken threads and iron chains is worth trying...

Who knows? Maybe you will live after that. Maybe you
Won't. If we live, we shall keep dying glorious deaths
Everyday and sleep content in oceans or hills or
Woods or the open highways. And if we die...!

Aaah!! The death will be sweeter than birth ever was.
She will embrace you like no other and never let go.
Rebirths? I have not seen them... Neither have you...
But life we can. So, shall we now?

Or maybe later....

Not In Vain (2008)

The cornerstone falls in each lame word
Spoken or pelted in silence. The center 
Cannot hold what the purview of reason
Has shunned long back. Here, when I walk
The lonely streets, among the tall redwoods,
A whiff of cold breeze skims by exposing the
Edifice of conscience that was so nobly buried
In the sands of novel tranquility of the wind. 
Now, the wind just blows by the sentient grave,
Not stopping, not yielding and not breathing.

Like a passerby who has left behind a million
Breaths to but reach a tangible oddment that
Was carefully masked beneath the surreal
Gossamer. Taking the long winding road 
after the day is done, adorned with scattered
Leaves and home-bound gulls, my feet stretch forth
Searching for the horizon of the wind and the sea.
Then it stops. Shivers and stops dead. For
The wind does not have a beginning and 
Nor the sea has an end. I take the next bend.

There I see a cemetery of the brave, in lines
Arranged and a fitting stone for every grave.
I wonder whether the wind and the sea will
Have deserved a place there; a watery grave with 
Stony winds sleeping- a conjugal pair. At last,
At last will they meet in wraps of eternal rest?
Finally living, past deliberate hurts hurled at
The sea in that excruciating test. The wind 
Will kiss it and the sea shall bathe the place,
Having conquered at last His sadistic jest.

Finally unified shall the earth live and breathe
While a sigh, a mourn would echo in relief.
Heard in every hamlet, every town, in every woods
And parish and mountainous ground. The sea and 
The wind singing their strain, overflowing vales and
Plains just the same, "We have waited, have waited,
But not in vain..." 

Shuteye (2008)

Dead leaves, wandering flies in a quagmire
Midst the silent and motionless redwoods,
Fragmented sunlight bleeding through their
Leaves of silence and dust, eroding my skin; 
Squirrels hopping and flowers dropping
Marking beginnings and closures at points
Of one. Stone bench and gathered muck,
A slouching body- mockery of sanity...
Taking a nap. Swinging in and out of
Parallel realities and with the sun on red
Eyelids, hope and sanity hide and seek-
Taking turns. Family? What is that? Like
A thicket of stoic redwoods, silent and 
Inactive just expecting one to look up till
He is blinded by the sun? Morality, dignity;
Just the dot-like flies that live and die by the
Hour. Here, I take a shuteye just to measure
My sanity in scoopful, redundant heaps. The
Sun adds color to these images within the
shuteye and scatter these scenes of a memory-
Suspended and crucified in time. The wind
Blows and the water flows through dead leaves
And gutters making a gutteral noise of still. 
I jerk into wakefulness- the numbness of my 
Reality. The fingers burnt by the speck of fire,
While the smoke corrodes my breath. Smiling
I, take another one and quench a timeless debt.
The eyes are shut again and now, open with
Denial. All of the seven cast on my shoulders,
As the redwoods stand looking down on me.
Once what was the sea is now a meander,
Yielding nothing. Still, waiting for the wind
To blow over and validate its actions and fill it up
With waves of moisture from the clouds. In that
Shuteye, the collage of melting colors reprimand
And incarcerate the rigid meander sand. The
Bastard creation of nothingness that was thrown
Into this void of faces, just wants to live for once-
Validated. Proven like a theory and accepted like
A growing hypothesis; being nurtured over decades
And accepted. Sitting in the crucible of time under
Vigilant irresponsible eyes, I bathe and corrode
In the acid of stereotypes. How would it be I wonder
If I was born out of a meagre, inward shuteye? Would
I feel the weight of sunlight or the bitter chill of the moon?
Would I appease life with another morning candy or beg for 
Death at every noon? Wish I was a baseborn form,
A stringless life and a determined death. No 
Umbilical mother, or a redwood dad or bloodline
Diseased with thousand debts. Set me free,
Let me love, give me my wind in a treasure trove. Life,
One day I will be your maker and we shall meet, where
Death becomes you and the rigid strings- me. With 
Each shuteye we will be free. There... it rings again!!
All a mockery... A shuteye of my sanity!

Farmer- The Scarecrow (2008)

I cant leave that barren earth that I have watered with my blood.
I cant stay and build a roof on it as the crust is unyielding and dry,
Soaking in every bit of nourishment but yielding nothing but cracks
And dust while refuting any approach by scorching my feet. I chanced
Upon this land when it had gaping holes and caverns that needed
Filling up. I felt I could give it vital growth again and replenish every
Gaping fissure it had. After a decade of debts to myself while I tried
Watering, ploughing and harvesting I realized it does not want any of
That. All it wants is infinite life blood that will seep through its cracks
And lose their way into her dark and pitless chasm. The barren earth
Just wants one drop after another without any awakening, yielding or being
True to the purpose of supporting life and living  through a symbiotic
Growth. Instead, the crust transformed into a haven of weed now that
The blood flows without her having to worry about that. Earlier I ran around
Her stretch trying to water every feature, mound,crack and roads but now
That I am too spent to move I have impailed myself on a yard of wood
At the centre of her and slashed every last vein and artery so that the
Blood flows in abundance. I have assumed this last role of a scarecrow
At the center of my land thinking maybe, just maybe this time that pitless
Crucible will fill up to the brim, overflow and rise through the cracks
Till the barren earth is inundated giving it the purest color of all- red. No,
No, no! This cant be. The newly born weed is growing into a barbed forest
Of frivolities on her drinking the blood that trickles from my veins. While the
Irony is the earth is now the cradle of these carefully nurturing each root
Of every weed. There was a time when I sat through congregations of 
People who would pelt tears of pain for their lands were barren and won't 
Surrender the freedom of being all absorbing and seldom yielding but only
To weed and ferns and barbed thickets. I scoffed and scorned at them saying,
"My land just needs care and the understanding that nature expects. I know
I have all of these. It will be the land of utmost abundance full of vegetation, rivers,
Flowers and fruits. It will be a smiling face of symbiosis." Now, I am here on an
Equatorial morning with the burning sun on my carcass drying up every drop
Of red water and burning every bit of skin as they stubbornly stick to my bones
Unwilling to leave but unable to stay. The earth? It still is thirsty and wants more-
More!!! A scenery of an earth with an ever empty cradle at the center of itself and 
Nursing its once protective shell of freedom that does not have anyone in it while
The frivolous weed grows and turns the crimson earth into a grim, lightless forest 
Of moans and shrieks. Aah! So it is red at last. At least my pale eyes can see it or
Maybe imagine it while my torso lies impailed on the plank, sticky and dried and red
While my inclined head watches the thorny bushes take over that earth of possible hope
And liberation. The vultures are finally happy as my eyes, mouth, limbs and guts are
Now food! At least someone won't be hungry anymore and thank this 'selfish' crucifiction. 
My purpose is served...