Thursday, March 26, 2009


I lost my poem,
lost long back.

I wish I never find it,
things of blue-black origin
search for it,
I lost my poem.

- - -

It is just not coming,
not even when I wriggle my insides,
not even when I rack my senses.
It's gone.

Lines are cliched,
sand is white.
Love is not over,
lines are.

- - -

This probably ends here.
Spaces and corners,
are filled with,
fluids of emptiness.

Emptiness is filled with,
all I never knew,
is what I do not.

- - -


Friday, January 2, 2009



And, yet.
They talk of people, shivering beside the ring,
with liquids in their hand.
I wonder whether any stars will fall today.
My wish is a waste.


I know your hideous shadows,
so well,
just like Master Humour knows Twain.

I move with my avant-garde thoughts,
knowing it's difference and progression.
May be that's why the moon seems to be a smirking ghost,
who shrinks as the witch sulks.


If you want an epilogue,
go to the masters.
As young men,
do when they die.

If you want some lines,
look at mercury lapped objects.
The astrologers will explain the riddles on your fore head,

If you die thinking,
you were never rich.
If you die dreaming,
you were rich.
be both if you die trying.


I created poems.
out of the wind and out of deadly alleys.
I create fire,
out of the poems I create in my smoke filled nude thoughts.

I lose my voice with the fall of her strand.

Neruda's lines,
seem happier at such times.

Today at college,
I saw the cloth swimming over National Instruments.
I wonder again if it was ever done in remembrance.

my vote goes down too.
I try to get it out of the never to change,
another idiot box.

Twist and twist,
dig and dig,
for I always confuse it with R.

still isn't a politically motivated
It's illusion.

I created this out of the wind and the black fire.


I sang a song to my self,
long back.
I saw her in the song.

After few days,
I won't be there.
She'll be off to Isles.

I hope the song would still burn then.
May, the music never bid a farewell to you.



I saw the old lady coming again,
asking for money.
His son was admitted in the ICU for the past one year.
Since when did doctors become so kind?

I had a dream.
(Although I'm no King)
I was sleeping among visions.

You may call this conglomeration.
It's not.
Lust, it is

Let's create and recreate,
edited memories.
Let us enter into a virtual world of realities.

They do not claim to write the saddest lines tonight,
or be as timeless as the Natore girl.
They are just off springs of magic,
who rise from the embers.


This is disorientation,
the wind is stale and the fire is out.

she lost my guitar.
The tune is no more.


Visions are not a man's choice,
they are of his mind's.

Neo-logistics do not rule,
if you see well.

I see wind and black fire.

Friday, October 17, 2008

Did you spend a night?

(Art courtesy Shriparna Sarkar. A friend, an artist and an ordinary oddball)


At arms distance,
my spirit waves its
hand to you


The clown
licks his fake nose.
It is his Dylan's harmonica.



Why do you hide in a clown,
on each night?
Do you think of old tales
and weep in your gin glass?

Look my spirits
wear new perfumes.
Smell with that red.



My clown is my disguise,
like your spirit.

My balms are for you.
to grow on you.

Why don't I see
the paint on your face?
smeared and wet.

The convalescences I cooked.
The massage I gave.
the music I created.

Did not you spend a dark day?



The blue light
shimmered on your tuna.

Our body ached of,
pain and perfume.
only once.

You wept and laughed,

Did I trouble you,
in one cold December?
I never burnt those firewood.

Their fire crackers,
burnt my cigarette.
Their pitchers,
drowned my hash.

They were voyeurs.


My ringmaster,
am I not strong a drug?
They search for me in dark alleys and brightly lighted chemist houses.
Smother and simmer.

I did tell them to do it.
I laugh and smirk with the pain of your
moonlit shadow.

This night is Guernica.



Lady of few words.

You can hear the night pass by,
with people tuning in
to the radio.
in camps which were restricted.

you closed your eyes,
and fed the orange butterflies.
And the audience of the station,
spent their night with you.

Why did you still return,
to mix your broth into the gin
and drink it like the chalice water?

You were not made by the woodman
or the carpenter.

The night is younger,
the night burns.



The words entangle,
with the pendulum.
They elude me,
like the clouds who eat the moon every night.
Like the fishes which jump and hang,
upside down on the water.

Don't you see me crying?
and yet I spent the night with you.

I'm my own spirit.
My attire is my ghost.
I burst out with my cocktail.
I danced to the fire, you
made with feathers and vodka.
I cooked the turkey.

And, I swept the blood on the couch.



And, still I say.


Wednesday, October 15, 2008


who do you love,
when you remember that the stars which
rain on the black void?

Do you think of the white paddy fields,
which sway
to the bloodbath?

Let me tell you woman,
I have seen nylon bullets
pierce your existence.
Why must you live then?
Why must not you cry?


do you still please the Rabbi?
sing to him,
songs of Rumi and love?

Whom do you think of,
when he the Rabbi declares himself,
to be the,
And, then explores you.

Don't you hate,
your sadist uncle for once?
He who sold you to him,
after making you a bloody Eve?

soothe my girl", he said
and dissapeared into the blue air.

did not you study Pseudolus?

Pray, Rabbi.


My woman,
welcome to the land of imageries.
Do you see yourself in the molten mirror?
Do you see the blood diamond,
on the cold head?

The far away woods,
call the sepentine laws to them.

Your diamond is lost.

Then why does your neck,
still smell of the
stealth and hunger?

do you have the answer?


The bosoms are like the enemy lines,
you feel brave,
yet timid,
the senses are like the no man;s land.
you remain so confused.

My woman,
they are fighting over nuclear and automobile
Do you see the anger?
do you remember the Rabbi's floral smell,
in such a day?


I remember the Rabbi's song,
in a stormy, dusty day,
Your farewell song.
But girl,
I'm your friend,

Do you remember?
the talks and the debates?
of uncles and freaks?


they who think,
never think.
The Rabbi who thinks he thought,
is thinking.


Woman, girl, female.
Whatever you are.
I killed the Rabbi.
Do you remember me now?

will you remember me?
After your farewell.

Tuesday, August 5, 2008


He has seen them,
seen those wars build great legacies.
He felt her,
sensed her create songs.

He saw those little kids,
jumping on the
springy skeletal remains of the burnt couch.

His eyes have seen,
two trees,
fighting for space on the river side.
His heart has cried for the river,
that flowed in ambiguity.


One brilliant summer,
he was sent to the Bahamas
He swam with the wild men,
and he saw the love in the water.

He talked to himself,
named himself,
Mister Me.


His little home,
by the miner's den,
was a dream like figure.
It ate prostitutes by night,
and drank the men playing cards,
in the noon.
And,when Me was not somewhere else,
it smiled.

He was sent for the War,
came back injured;
brought home a bride as well.
He works in the Postal now.
she sells potatoes and herself,
in the market these days.

His children smoke,
in their garage,
and practise rock with the neighbourhood junkies.

They prefer the stone game as,
and still do not wear full length trousers on their own.


The burnt couch,
was brought,
(Me does not remember if it was bought),
from the Gulf country.

He lost half of his letters,
he works works as a gardener now.
His wife is in the same job.
His kids,
one ran away to the Rockies.
The other,
is sick now.


and caprice,
his jobs varied just like his mind.


his grave stone stands tall,
his house is a grave yard now,
peddlers meet here by night.

His wife died of the disease.
His son never returned.
The other one,
opened a rehab.


The grave reads,
"To Me".

Thursday, July 3, 2008

Ressurection of the Musical Ghost

with a guitar,
between his legs;
he sings.
she loves.

"where do you put your lips?"
he puts them on the lip of the hour glass.
he smells.
he visualises.

Red star dimly diminishes,
becomes the white land.
and the hour glass shatters on the string less guitar.

And then,
the sandy wind blows over the silky magic.
and the lovers part under it,
to sing two songs.

and then the harmonica,
bleeds on the iron violin.
sweet ,sweet.
by gone baby!

Cigarettes and cocaine,
my harp has become sane.
the ghosts come and sing me lullabies,
stories of slumber and dream.

blurry visions of the sub conscious.

Leonard, Leonard.
Dylan and misDylan.
love the others as well,
my strings burn.

produce the lover,
produce the music.
sleep her songs.

My music god never,
you never sing,
my art god,
never loves.

he dreams Jibanananda singing with Freud.

My music is a ghost,
tends to die.
but each time the ears sing to them,
they come alive.

Wednesday, June 18, 2008

Flight of the High Priestesses

She flees,
runs to the red valley.


High priestesses,
antimony in her hand,
blood stains on her long flowing robes.
She has fled from the bleeding ship,
which lied wrecked on a pregnant sea.


She crosses,
the broken bridge that flowed over the,
still water.

the water called sacred.

In the stone wonder,
the image stands still.

Back in the blueness,
the silvery images of fleeting moisture,
the surreal thought,
drunk with the fruit of the clouds and the air;
the smelly earth rises to the sarcastic sun.

The jewels form the womb of the empty space,
hangs ubiquitously,
gesturing few inanimate emotions.
Unknown the the happiness below.

the happiness that saw,
visage of pink tears.