On being asked where i lived?

I live in between the semblances
of ancient coastlines and mountains,
between an ethereal crease that appears
on a hermit's meditative face.

I live under a motor car's lamp,
Pilfering grease for their piercing glances.
I live in a garage of ideas, and chat messages,
of a book known for its faces.

I live above the snowline in the mountains,
when hunting season is about to come an end.
I live with foxes, and porcupines,
under the stone huts, counting flakes for a widow.

I live in a barn, reading Animal Farm -- often charmed
by the bovine's indifference to a printed letter,
I live also amid the shadows, threatening them with a light beam
from my electric torch, sold while they were 'loadshedding'.

(Pic: Chakratirth, Diu, India with Sanjana)

Four phone calls = Four paragraphs

I need a source.
A mole or a deep throat,
someone high up there,
perhaps someone in government,
I need a source,
Then I would make four phone calls,
four phone calls = four paragraphs,
four different sides of same coin,
a story, perhaps.
I need a source,
not an inspiration,
I dont trust it,
It doesn't trust me,.
But we have promised,
that we will speak truth.
Connivance of comfort, if you think.

Nomad Song by The Stolen Cat

in three parts:

1.
You called her fallen,
with your swollen eyes,
... her stolen gaze
defied your lies.

the angel who fell
left a trail for you,
the angel who fell
left a song:

2.
But we were trapped in the lines,
in the numbers and words,
in your cardboard boxes,
that said "fragile",
we were shifting
sands from home to homes
to the domes of martyrs
to the shanty tombs
for a candlelight dinner
on a tabletop mountain,
but leaving the undistributed middle,
untouched and unpacked.
the joy of giving
wasn't the politics of trade,
but wait, we just traded your soul
for a domes and chime,
and the temple next door.

3.
Back to where it all began on the tabletop mountain:

"where's the mirth?" said the candle to fly
and the fly burnt with joy, and left
a trail of soot on the table for two.

time's up

filter forest,
pilfer wood,
cobalt warm,
molten gold,
"gabriel's eyes",
the salesman wails,
leftover rice
mark carbon trace.
torrid riddance
is a baked apple,
hold your fire,
the steeple's feeble.
river rhyme,
flooded pine
its time its time

feather glow

feather glow feather glow,
why are you such a lather blow?
your bubbles have caused pain,
those floating faces of disdain.

...Revel slow, isn't too early?
what do we know?
the cross and the plough?
love's a warm burrow.

Finding Devi

the ever expanding space,
was wearing a facade,
of rhizobium and nicotine,
...and that agro cement real estate thing,

charm of my town,
trapped in her body,
she wore not clothes,
but romantic history of her eyes,

sadly the dawn came,
wearing inter galactic glitter,
spattering the milky white yolk
de-flowering my pagan spirit.

they gave me a cross,
an extension of your swastika,
they gave me self doubt,
and a pile of books to trace her image.

there she was,
for a moment,
burning in the liturgy
of a lost portal.

Mada Dayo

Not yet,
there is still time for us to drown,
Not yet,
This heat is still bearable,
Not yet,
We are happy consoling each other.
Not yet,
We congratulate on her loss.
Not yet,
She's just jumping the gun (filled with bullets)
Not yet,
We might be called insecure,
Not yet,
We need more oil for blood,
Not yet,
When the train left on the ripe time.

a pop up

"pop" - when the primordial bliss got disturbed,
"pop"- when i almost ODied over this idea of big bang,
"pop" said the corn inside the microwave,
"pop" -- said a bubble on being launched to the surface from the bed of a distant marsh full of methane,
"pop" goes the seed mistakenly meshed between burning strands of the sweet leaf because this moron was desperate,
"pop" -- the sound of the last drop of water released from a sarkari water supply connection, "pop" -- on the junk tapes bearing the 'philips top ten' label,
"pop" -- is what a puff is called in assamese,
"pop", a consumer degradable grade for everything else that wasn't so popular,
"pop", said the husband to his wife on the morning after,
"pop", goes the cork when sparkly wants to set herself free for your thirsty throats,
"pop", is not about Karl Popper,
"POP" -- nightmare for the fish waiting for idols.

(Screen grab: Panicware)

The Tamarind Tree Replacement

They ran for Krautrock,
they ran for hymns,
with calibrated consciousness,
replacing this hazy wakefulness.

They purchased cars,
Origami cards, mud lamps
for their concrete hearts,
replacing the haunted Tamarind.

They looked at the East
By the West -- a hollow transformation?
If they wrote blank papers,
they drew blank drafts.

They made love,
in their imagined vineyard.
Shouting, as if believing,
once again.

Pagemaker's Panic Poetry

Moot now!
Else grind
No! churn,
Enough! just burn.

Throw?
A three letter word?
No! just trim,
we need a paper tiger.

Ponder?
just say KISS.
page heavy,
but sight dim.

Glottal stops?
Speech therapy
to face a mic, and
achieve accent distortion.

Paste it, no time
for word carpentary,
suffer slip tongue,
so just say KISS.

(pic: www.boyet.com/Articles/FixingEzdslForUnicode.html)

KISS: Keep It Short and Simple

God in exile

Nightwalker or Forest Spirit from Princess Mononoke


On a fine morning, my god was assaulted,
bruised and battered, he
surrendered his will to science,
they found his secrets,
told everyone about them.
My god stood naked and defeated,
no chirping of birds, no rainbows,
my land of mist slowly turned into a coal mine.

The defeated God was locked in a temple or
may be at a mosque, but mostly under the veil of reason,
his statues -- replicated, recast, resold,
his songs were now were written and recorded,
And his messengers bask in his glory,
while he was imprisoned in time,
by an urgent need of ours to exceed ourselves,
to defend us from ourselves, and to save us from us.

My injured god is exiled now,
when reason of man took over his throne,
the rulers praise my god, praise his creation,
and tell us how miserable we are in his glory of greatness
Our rulers did speak the truth,
for it was the cause of our devotion.
Some of knew while others fought,
as we were supposed to be mute spectators.

After eons, by a waterfall in the heart of an ancient mountain,
the exiled god perched on the last tree of the forest.
A forest spirit, as they called him,
lived amid the beings dressed in the light itself,
danced around him -- the glowing honeycomb of a million fireflies.

Tiller's song

spill the bean,
let the sprouts grow,
earth needs fire,
but fire needs fire alarms,
just like cows need bells,
and cats become mothers,
we go round and round,
and almost rotund,
till o of the val turns into an office,
and the hubris descends down

Avenger the scavenger

a life spent on avenging,
the mangled remains of our tribe,
meet me sans my mistaken laughter,
behind your favourite scrapyard.
A ruthless desert road, countless skulls,
robbers and lepers, the ills and wrongs,
consuming all for this appetising triumph,
the lonely scavenger has arrived.

I stay inside a box of rain,
Filled with charms and essences,
In the overlapping groves of memories,
As moments testify their presence.

No! These are not archives of my thoughts,
For they are breathing droplets,
Consistent like rhythms of my chaotic heart,
Alive and dead – but only for this moment.

If I were to pen down my thoughts,
Like the way it rains inside this box,
A flood would consume you, and me too.
Shall we just keep it quiet then?

You are welcome to my box of rain,
You could get your raincoat
But I sit naked, and I dare others to lie beside me,
To know the warmth of these globules.

hypothesis

if i am in two minds,
one has me in my mind,
the other is my mind,
settled in a subset,
of agonizing similarities

and you say instant coffee tastes like mud...

In instant fame we drown,
And between instant love and hate,
Riotous thoughts tear this being apart,
Into a friend, a foe, a lover and a god,
(I wish I knew the others)
But conflicts are now harbingers,
Of this new consciousness,
Of the instant being,
Apparently in disguise
Of a crooked fate,
Predicting storms,
While others believe and seek,
This instant association,
With gods and the good.

Terse in verse

Jacques Andre Boiffard, Big Toe series, Untitled, 1929

Pride of the cartel,
Was a lost cause,
He swerved to his right,
Fell for the gloss.

Blank noise from the sun,
Blackened her hopes.
She stuck to the pole,
Like silhouettes of gods.

The bride loved her mother,
But She fell onto their arms,
The wolf and his other,
Half brother, the lover.

The prisoner smelt freedom,
Died an instant death,
Poisoned air, they say,
Is free and easy, these days.

Feral

Your brilliance will never cease
This unease in the equilibrium,
Your potent countenance, fiery,
Oblivious of the veils of myth,
Yearning to cover your face.

The spirit disowned you,
The day universe exploded
Like a sun starved by its own force,
You fell from grace,
Into a loop called time.

You, now on the threshold of light,
Traverse through this twilight,
Like an urgent nomad,
An impulsive streak,
A forgotten truth, a persistent lie.

autobiographia

Listless, but he survived the odds,
Eager and wanting to believe,
The line that blurs the fate,
Of a child lost in a storm.

Aspire, she said, and she
Walked out of the room,
To become an elusive mean,
for an amnesiac inside a maze.

Lament, but he fought them,
With a half hearted smile,
In defence of the weak,
Between the lines of print.

Shy, he wrote in bold,
Of his own death,
He punished himself,
With a tear and a poem.

Untitled

Rustic bliss I seek you,
Soil smeared on my palms,
Shrouded by the rough-uncut,
Face of the earth.

Trees, undergrowth, the misfit in me,
We are all one today.
One of the same,
For you it’s a naming game.