me.
They make fun.
and they are just as like me,
roaming around
Purposeless
making fun.
ii
I am not mad, singer
nor do I think so,
I am different I must insist,
so that you can understand
and know well
I am not mad, singer
I am unique, the one alone
I am not the next Einstein,
nor am any other famous
I am the first
the unique
the mad
X
Sick, sick me who dream
showing off all to so impress
a word of praise I sweat
rolling into one thousands of water
Sick SICK.
And then then what I get?
A sugar cube to lick in anxiousness
for the response never had
ok... ignore me.
thank you.
XI
Take my desperation and agony for too long
and make me a grain of salt which refuses to dissolve
in the world sea of emotions
make me a hollow bone of dog,
which understand and feel nothing
Take my desperation and agony for too long,
make me a person who refuses to understand,
the simplest emotions of life in all that happiness
XII
This starry night is not beautiful
the star are twinkling and giggling
not on the moon so vast and fat,
but on me, the lover of name and fame
money and everything insane
stars are laughing their big hearty laugh
they know I will die
but still I run away from that and hide
that I am just nothing.
The stars laugh on the fact I think I am bright,
but a bit of their shine will burn me alive,
The stars chuckle on the fact I think I am big,
but take thousands of earths altogether, smaller than them
The star giggle and guffaw, on the my presumptions,
on my thinking and my vanity.
Stars say, laughing loudly,
“Time, who changes everything to chorus,
to destruction and disorder,
will also take you away,
the big chuck of matter,
you are just nothing but bighead.”
And you think they are beautiful, eh?
XII
Constrained Contained, Perceptive, Babaria
In the sweet lust of green plants, Bare,
and the heavily sparkling colors of cotton, wrapped,
her sari;
Babaria, dances, dances, dances,
on the pain of crackled glass pieces upon grasslands,
for the love and life of her own piece wrapped by inhumanity,
for which temp'est roars, and torture her.
II
I
i
Even magic takes time. But if you are too rushed, constrained to a tight schedule, where is time? Where is time to understand this world blundered with tomatoes, onions, and capsicums? Time is now should not be wasted. But tell me, when time is washed? If you sit still watching the molten gold skies? Or if you simply waste away your life throwing yourself on tension of several assignment and work pending? Or only you like money building up like Empire state buildings? Or out of some time, you give at least some to talking to who you love?
We all are here to work, and this work should be done. But out of this try to give some time to your life… try to get and give some happiness… not money. Try to get some time for your son or daughter? Even god rested the seventh day. Time can be easily managed, not from books, but going in systemic way which comes inherit in everyone, but none care to use it.
So, I will not be impressed for a president who worked 20 hours a day and left his daughter trying to picture her dad’s face. Try to live… sometimes simply because your loves were first even before the others are first. Because happiness was first, even before money was first.
ii
The scene I see is a play of so many elements interlinked together that a silent grasp left my mouth. In this hugeness, no one can be the focus of the eyes, there are so many things. There is football on excitement, and a cricket speaking louder than a radio. There are rocks flying on the surface of the lake like fish, thrown by boys passing their times. So many people doing something or other. You cannot point someone and say “He is different”. But still, everyone is so different.
II
i
Drowned by that sunlight
she laughed, and she drowned in her own laughter
her laughter lighted the air
but I hear the laughter of no one singing with her
her delight, her leisure in the way of walking
and the trees and grass all around.
I was pleased
with that melody of her,
that small hat wearing girl.
ii
In that gardens, stranger.
There was a little girl, a small one…
She was swinging, even though lonely she was
she was smiling
She looked all around her
And saw the trees and skies
And you know, stranger?
those trees and skies sang with her,
as she swings and swings.
So happy, so happy.
Stranger, but even she knew
every best bliss,
have to end.
III
Lovely lights,
sparkling slowly,
in towards the tunnels time,
and me the heart's soft,
loft around the dusty tunnel ways,
lending me way to nowhere,
somewhere existing,
maybe it could be,
but opening like a flower's bud,
into a full bloomed flower.
But I never be sure,
when I call that flower
full bloomed.
IV
Monotonous Monsters
with bloody fangs and stinking hairs
every night, every day,
every season and today.
First night it was fear,
then all dark room for the ears,
and after that, all boring
everyday same luring
V
An old man is looking at you
eye to eye
face to face
nose almost touching
glaring at your eyes
He makes you uncomfortable,
he makes you restless,
as you see through his eyes,
his eyes of truth...
But you cannot see
you are blinded by faith
you refuse to believe the truth at point blank.
Words,
defined to the imperfectness of world's delights.
I
Fluid, brightly dull, thousands of pictures spiral the mind
sloshing down to no man’s meaning…
Flushing on with mind’s consciousness
all dust, blood, sweat, poetic
II
Seven hundred ninety nine worlds
is what the red time holds,
and each world for its words new or old
and each for its picture own
so mad mad to describe
III
I scratch away on upon the dark lines black
with my dusty thoughts, I wrote with lack
ink of censorship, I wrote with free ink
and only unknown thoughts to lick
But red’es mind’s fire burned
and the lost memories, whirlpool emotions lured
to the darkest corner of an unnamed jungle
and peo
ple got sweet burns.
IV
Lump of words, down on throat,
splashes on mind, hard and sore.
No world these words create,
slide back, blue and cold
The rhythmical dance of poetry it may say,
meanings of meanings it may lay,
but the leaves of the fiery autumn,
or the crisscrossing car's light blossom
defined to the imperfectness of world's delights.
V
Words speak…
I cry for you, speak.
Just for me.
Don’t be the verse of each sentence
Echo the flaming peacock.
Make the sense I don’t have
Words speak
I cry for you you you you you you
VI
Who to see the nightingale drowning
under the depths of deep dark well..
who to farewell...
or to answer her distress call
Who to see the nightingale's night pen echo
the dark childish nags of phantom in her ears
clutching the words so dear with her claws
where to go, with the rag rock
She is tried,
wet with dust,
her throat is cracking,
no longer sings,
the world's song...
Who to see the world she so sweated created
who to see the world she so sweetened salted
who to see the world she so deliciously departed
to whole the word world around...
The shadows of her, canalising into the world
that raw energy of anger,
who to row with her