Surface

In the moment between two pieces of music,

A moment in the middle of glimpses

falling from one direction to another,

A moment of hesitation,
or reconsideration,

You may see beyond the surface

-beyond the glass, that looks like mirror-

You, who says truth is folded in layers,

You, whom poor laymen call poets,

or the veneered society calls philosophers,

You, who are always willing to romanticise ideas,

to translate them into ideals.

Did you see that woman impregnated further

by an unpleasant force between her thighs?

Did you hear her shriek, silenced within the

walls of the bedroom and a marriage certificate?

Did you see the shame on the little girl’s face

when her sheets turned red,

and she could no longer touch the plants,

she had sown the seeds of?

Did you understand her mature realisation,

years later, that someone else’s seeds were

more important than hers?

Did you see the pubescent boy driven hysterical

Over his attraction towards another boy

(the same hysteria that follows a crime of passion)?

Did you feel his dignity shredding and

settling into those layers of truth,

while sucking off the school Principal

to prevent any ‘trouble’?

But oh poet, do not trouble yourself.

There are no romantic ideals here,

or layers of truth, ‘tis but a mirror

that will reflect your own self,

and you, in no degree, are to blame.

‘tis only the surface and
no scope of seeing beyond it.

Untitled

The holy smoke rises
high up in the air,
for it seeks to convey something to
the Invisible power above.

My eyes start burning
with the fumes of all that is
thrown in the ornate hearth.
The fire turns furiously red

as if the spirit in it seeks

to transcend to the other side.

I follow the smoke

that is now coming out of my mouth,

with the similar aim of communion

of the self and the sacred.

The sky turns dark

as more smoke seeps into my lungs;

the fire slowly turning dead.

And the barren earth cries

with all its grass dry,

from heat and smoke,

and all the uprooting,

that supplement the business

of Faith and transcendence

for the holy power, 
deceiving.  

Afterthought

                                                                                                                                                                   
In the end

as the night passes me by, 

after all tangible interactions

when the sky is blinded, almost with a 

sullen emotion impressed on it, I get out

of my cocooned bed to the world of the Wild

where the stars become my blanket, and the smoke

my intoxicating perfume, and I pull my head back to let 

the sleep like reverie take hold of my consciousness,

that lets my life unroll, while I wait for the art of psychedelia 

to show me the reflection of what I seek; just like you wait for me 

to unravel this burlesque, but in that moment how everything succumbs 

to the one entity- becomes Entirety- like the flames consuming all that is surrounding

And all I see is my fragmented self in the directionless movement of the wind,

its pieces all dancing along in different directions, like siblings

separated at birth; and before I reclaim every piece

my fingers start burning, the reverie breaks,

I bid the insects a good night and

return to my cocoon, leaving

yet something else in

the wilderness.

Midnight Hum

A dark view from the rooftop

strips the world naked,

Released is the truth

 from the layer of pretense,

Entertained are the fools

with the various facets of it,

Frisked are the accused

suspected of misdemeanor,

Caused by pleasures born in guilt.

The world is a fireball,

Spreading smoke outside the houses

Of those with nicotine stains on their fingers.

The world is a whiny child,

Demanding irrationally from those

Consumed in flames of desire and lust.

The world is a tool of sorts,

Deconstructing models of life

But fixing them to no avail.

The world is a parasite,

Feeding onto the lives of those,

Who sulk in monotony and bask in glory.

The world wears a different mask

for a different eye in this city,

Shines through when a million lights

Are drawn at its monumental history,

Reeks about when shit-stained streets

Meet at the corner of the slum,

In the irreconcilable city of Delhi

Where one pulls the string

And the other beats the drum.