Wednesday, April 27, 2011

The song for new cushions

Dissenting since 19XX

Since when?


But cushioned since then?

Comfortable jotting lines

In the papers, doodling shapes,

And lost trails over the torn maps.

Cushioned to believe,

In the craft of willing.

And this night arrived,

Draped in her sleeveless heart,

Draining the soul out this cushioned being,

Her guileless gaze

May have stalled the sunrise.

But it was for the sake his refrain,

So she sang:

“Like mystics unraveling social theory,

Diggers hiding their penury

Between their fingers stuck

In the mud of a facile earth

Willing to recast,

This cushioned frame,

With pebbles and flowers,

Baking it slowly on a low flame."

Monday, April 11, 2011

Sales Pitch

Our processed meaty selves,
sprawled on an interdisciplinary bedspread.
This machine obeys my binary grunts,
processing 'freedom' that never arrived.

The vigilant, that monitor, spotting our signals,
distinct of our distaste
for your contextual analysis,
followed by these loud beeps
of our profound sirens.

Our silences are now weakened by our predictions
for the static monosyllabic lives of the future,
our sales pitch, echoing across the tarmac,
of our in-flight correspondences,
relayed in their no-fly zones.

Pheromonic phastasmogoria of the cynic,
philosophically unhygenic, yet this catastrophy
of our controlled fissioned being,
helping the effects of revolution to kick in,
numbing his rebellious senses.

In my darkest drunk corner,
I search for my snail-like survival kit,
slithering in the viscosity
of our discharges, rumoured
as the marriage contract of our mucus.

Cosmogonical accounts now rides the mediumwave,
emanating from a sedated star,
its guiding light blinding our TV screens.
Seducing our sausage bodies in million couches,
sprawled in the wet blanket of times.

(Photo by Devavrat Rana)