Way to home

The highways whistle past the woods,

Catching glimpses of the sun through the foliage on its way, 

like bogies drenched in streetlights at midnight trains, 

splashing yellow, weaving lemon dreams.

Breeze sings a morning raga, 

mind weaves sweet memories, 

hallucinating in drowsy afternoons. 

Alexi paints dreams, drifting like clouds in the sky.

Eyes lust for the hills, 

Umiam casts a spell, 

everything fades on its crystal water, 

Shillong beckons the soul.

Lukha takes away the eyes,
Drinking the sins of earth,
It looks like the blue throat of Lord Shiva,
Hiding in it's deep blue eyes, a raging silence.

When the road turns up at Sonapur,
It brings a heart break.
A sudden gust of pain that makes you puke,
For life here after is a sad song,
Lynched roads wail in agony.
No skin to peel off, no bones to crush,
left with her broken skeletons,
like a ghost stuck under a spell, 

A shadow meanders around in pain. 

Lubha breaths in silence.

Ar Ramnagar, Silchar still smiles with longing eyes,
As Life comes home one more time.

Mornings move like feathers,
floating languidly in the infant rays
that escapes the cages of time.
Leaves blink, flowers smiles,
breeze sings Vibhas.
The sky oozes warmth,
caressing out of the slumber,
nights that took refuge in the forest.

If only we could write our way out of this rot,
But words are like tears,
they deceive you when you want them the most.

We could scribble all night,
drawing a billion patterns,
like a somnambulist, walking aimlessly
to find a way out of this nothingness.
But no shape will have any meaning,
not to the world.

Because we have failed ourselves,
For years, poems weaved words
of hunger and naked love,
tales of human plight and pain
but we didn't trust them.

Now even our fingers have betrayed us,
Once in love with papers,
they now lust for the keys.
But the key to the door still eludes us,
perhaps they too are lost in the pages of time.

Now we could make a zillion paper boats,
and wait for the rain,
but not a drop will escape the earth.
Like a stone it will stay frozen.
None of them will ever leave the shore.

I saw a river. On one side a sea of people dressed in white were
holding red flags. On the other a lady with flowing cascade lead an
army of saffron. Goirick called to me where are you standing? Adity
said Amitda we r here. A man wrote something in a white paper and gave
it to the lady. She threw the pen in the water and torn the page into
halves.and gave one half to the man. He threw that page away in rage
and demanded for the other half.

Next moment, I was around people who were talking among themselves.how
can they divide us into two. Democrats and communists. I kept saying I
still believe in my country but I won't take sides.

Then a man on the other side of the river set up a pyre and he lay on
it. From the other side, the lady lit up an arrow and threaten to
throw it on the pyre as we kept looking at her shocked, confused &
awestruck.

I am climbing down a stair.on every step there are saadus with long
hairs and Trisul but their eyes are all burning ball of fire.I run
down the stairs and when I come out I find it is a tree which is
innocuously hiding among a sea of trees. Two men were roaming in that
forest looking for them. I told them they are inside a tree. We come
near a dilapidated building when a zillion saadus with swords pour out
from everywhere, their eyes burning ball. We took shelter in the
building. I wake up.

Final whimper

This is a poison that we live, 
running high and dry on potassium air.

A psychic ward put on high speakers 
blaring a maddening high-pitched trance.

The city of stones turning into claws,
sharpening them a little more each day.
For years, humanity has raped the land into a whore, 
after the acid rain, the scars reveal themselves.

Machines drill holes on its skin, 
sucking the final drop of blood.
under the sun, left to dry into ashes
bone by bone, 
plate by plate,
they grind against each other, 
turning into dust.

The red eye is burning
and we don't have enough water to quench its thirst. 

Now it's just a wait for the final whimper 
and the tremble will send shivers down the spine.

Poetry

Why do you want to cut my voice,

sculpt and blunt the edges of my words, 

put me on a dais and call it poetry.

For me, it is an insatiable hunger, 

an unstoppable urge to puke, 

a unrelenting desire to pee,
That's what is poetry.

So don't lure me with your intellectual masturbation,

or rims of news prints that goes down the toilet everyday. 

I don't want to be a sensation,

don't tie me in your definition for success.

I don't need a white shawl
or a hanging bag on my shoulder to look the part, 

I'll never look the part, I don't want to look the part,

a torn piece of jeans and a full sleeve shirt is all I need.

Let me be a bit gibberish, incoherent. 

Let me stammer and stuttered my words to you, 

without any form or structure. 

Rhyme or rhythm. 

Lucidity or logic. 

Just let me speak.