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Love Poem & Hate Poem

Love Poem

Hating is easier than loving

Every asshole can hate

But most people can’t love. What they think of as loving is just an extension of their selves.

Hatred, unlike love, comes effortlessly, even to me.

And this is largely because many things and many people can be hated with all the bitterness one can possibly summon – and bitterness is an obedient slave, eternally ready for your call.

But few things and fewer people can actually be loved, and love is a difficult worship.

In short,

Hatred is an easy state of mind

Whereas it takes guts to love.

And not many can accept pain as natural.

But I can love and I have loved and I will love and I am proud of it.

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Hate Poem

Consensus with lions is easy as it comes from within

But that with foxes shows incapacity to think or stand for the self

The sad thing is that the ones you see screaming themselves hoarse

for consensus – are foxes with ill-developed guts.

Mostly, they have had it all easy throughout

And mostly, they know dick about the individual.

They are good at harming, at loving their egos , at hating others’ egos

And at whining about how they have been deprived

They can’t create or recreate or understand

But they can procreate foxes – a million foxes to scream with them

They can’t listen, but they can say

To them what they say are the canons and commandments.

To them,

Art is craft

Alternatives don’t exist

Life is pimping for procurement of fattening things

Fools are those who rush in where angels fear to tread and trade

The world is the way they see it

power is something to be afraid of

fear is something to worship,( though in secret)

statues are things to emulate

compromises are deities

restraint is necessary

poetry is a clichéd adjective

and big is finite.

They are everywhere, and they are the diseased ones

And the disease is spreading fast –

Because the germ that causes this can mutate faster than the mind

And can adapt to every climate and in every atmosphere.

These foxes will try all sorts of tricks to get you on their side

and they know many.

They will want you to bark, yip, yelp and screech with them –

In total union and perfect harmony –

And if you refuse, you’re up for the guns and canons and sticks and other things they are proud of possessing.

Their system works on fear for punishment which they think is good and required

They can’t roar. They’ll never roar. And their children will never learn to roar but will be happy that they have not learnt that, because roaring, as these children will be taught, is bad.

These children will grow up to be foxes like them

I feel sorry for these children

Beware of the foxes, if you are not one already.

And as for the lions, most of them are dead

And the rest have gone away.

There are no lions today.

Those of us who are not foxes yet are just that – not foxes yet.

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Nine Little Angels in Chocolate Wrapper Rags

Sharing cigarettes with strange old men

Looking for jobs out in the sun

And consoling myself with facts of eventuality, inevitability etc.

Half of me pretends intellect and tells me that rejection is essential for the soul

The other half doesn’t care for the soul or for the sharks, it doesn’t care for the sun, the moon or the mother, or for anything at all.

At times I wish that the sky or the earth would eat me up, or I would eat them up

I close the panes, pull the shades down and draw up the curtains

Everything becomes static, time included

the dark matters of my Universe start kissing all velvet monstrosity

Sunflowers take lessons on truculence –

(I remember how my mother used to tend the Dahlias once.)

Fairies with fangs make love to one-horned shadows

Blizzards run through destitute neurons

Dead swans float on dead lakes

Symphonies march through this dreary nakedness

Angels bring in cold points of view

Arrowheads shimmer in starlight

Ghosts sit on my brain

Ghosts sit on your brain

Ghosts from my brain fight with the ones from yours

City streets are city streets

Nights are lavender, silk and kiss

Nights are television sets blurting out their own frozen and well-preserved ideas of the essence of communication and of communication of the essence

Frogs shake off Blue Shakespeare from the hurricane's wagging tail

And wolves leap up with the flames

And these are just pictures I am talking about.

And why the fuck am I talking about these pictures?

And who pisses at sincere sadness? What blasted sorcery is this, anyway?

Trudging through the grimy accounts of warfare, crime and dead children

tires the intellect out; -

The intellect wants a soft verse, a flat note,

a conception of beauty,

profane tears

and some honey after the bitterness.

The intellect wants to remember Mother

The intellect wants to build a rainbow bridge to the flesh.

Hah! The Goldfish says – Hah! And once again,

trumpets roll out into the canvas

(another picture – Hah!)

Barricade the cows. Barricade the moss. Barricade the footsteps in light.

And why the hell am I writing these?

I think because I am tired of sharing cigarettes with strange old men,

looking for jobs out in the sun

And consoling myself with facts of eventuality, inevitability and all necessities.

I want to sleep and dream of gophers with saintly green eyes

I want to observe sparrows with white bellies and black beaks

I want to see stallions in moonlight

I want an erection that will tear open the darkness

I want to wonder whether god lives in the mountains

I want the windows to ask the flags why

I want the dogs to chase the clocks away

But I know that none of these will happen soon enough

Trains will never cry for Harold Hart Crane

And busses will never set cities ablaze by roaring out wildly for Flaubert

And pollens will never embarrass the demons

And people will never shed their dreadful skins

And love will never match up to hatred.

So, I am depressed.

The night is killing me,

The days are dragging me through dagger and dust;

I hope someday I'll be swallowed down by a huge Blue Whale

So that I can sit straight inside its stomach

and write my honest letters.

Three Tunes for the Cathedral and a story for the House of Dead

Initial rejection is expected

That’s how the body reacts

To poison

And to antidotes.

Besides, the more battles you lose,

The stronger you grow

Till that day comes when you’re just too damn strong

To lose any battle.

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The multitude, the herd

Is highly interesting –

Observe closely –

An entire mass composed of a million crawling, writhing, moving dots –

Now magnify on those dots individually:

The first striking feature that you’ll observe

is that each one looks similar to the next

The second feature that’ll hit you pretty hard is that each one of them operates in similar fashion – through switching of buttons. There’s one button that makes them love and there’s another one that makes them hate. Again, there’s a button to make them happy and one to make them sad.

And so on.

And thus they regulate themselves and the others and the entire flock – with buttons regulating everything they say or think or feel or do or do not do, controlling the fact that they are there.

The third feature, and this one will disgust you, is that each one of those dots, when magnified sufficiently, looks very much like you.

The fourth feature that will shock you to core is that now you are wishing that you were like them,

You are wishing that you too could operate like them – through switches and buttons.

Because by now you are sure that they never get distressed, unlike you. They are all well-operated, and there’s no inconvenience involved in this scheme of things.

And the now comes the fifth feature that you will notice, and this might break your heart though it didn’t break mine:

That the only thing you have learnt and realised through this observation

is that

they are there

and you are here.

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Pass the night on now, pass everything that’s in it

The star that’s Hemmingway – if it’s watching me now,

The star that’s me is watching it too –

And both the stars want it this way.

Pass the night on now, and pass its blackbirds too

I leave the streets and the yellow huts

And i enter the oldest forest that ever was

For my home lies deep inside.

Pass the night on now, and pass the ringlet moon

And take your trips to the hollow land

But don’t take the one of fright

Had Hamlet been a machine, he would’ve known why.

Pass the night on now, and pass those heavens on fire

And pass its little eyeballs and pass its pinned up skin

I feel like a reptile among the monsters

But i’m closer to the rough surface

Pass the night on now, and pass your love to me

I can make a boat out of it, or i may eat it up

Pass the night on to me; i’ll grasp its rainy throat

And when it’s dead and cold enough, we shall have much fun.

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Poetry From Airport

It’s huge

There’s a long corridor leading to the escalators and there are people of plastic and steel sitting liptight on chairs of plastic and steel, with electricity – also of plastic and steel burning the whole place up in its cold fire.

It all seems strange now.

And even the huge glass doors seem to be frozen for a long long time

And how on earth can so many people not talk?

If it ever wakes up, this entire place

And goes roaring and charging on towards the sea

Won’t it just be too damn great?

But there’s only so much greatness one can imagine.

I just hope that this demon, now asleep

Rises up soon. That would be the only form of greatness which is greater than hatred and yet conceivable.

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However lonely and silent and still might i become among the multitudes that kick their way through the sidewalks right upto the dead-end – be it home, office or whorehouse or shithouse or stations or just plain fucking nowhere,

However deathlike and pale might i become among the little signs of light and mascara and wilderness gone astray and concrete monsters and buses that seem like ill-sculpted rhinoceroses lost and aimless in the forests of plainly lost passion in bedsheets and curtains and tears and trains that can perhaps heave their sadness up and way beyond the chimney-fumes and the sea,

However cold and eternal might i become in the statutes standing through the haze and eyeing the wisdom of the day and the lemon-tinted mayhems that dot the borderlines of sanity and wisdom with contemplative bitterness and candour of a lost grandfather by the fireplace –

I will never be a mannequin – because my gaze can never ever be as fixed and as theirs are, and my cheek can never be as cold as theirs and, ah well

What the fuck am i even talking about?

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My haiku

was burning

for whatever it was worth.

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Yes, it’s that hour of the tiger again

A shapeless form, a formless shape, whatever

Nothing concrete, just an hour –

Lost in caves, lost in the ancient wilderness

Lost in eyes that burn the dark.

And nothing else.

And this too, shall pass.

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Finally, some sound – but it’s shit

Some guy playing some trash on his laptop and is listening to the same crap again and again

What’s he thinking? May i call him Plebeian? May i call him anything? Does he have a woman waiting for him?

Does he have anyone waiting for him at all?

Or is he the only one doing all the waiting?

All of that is besides the point

The point is that the night was dead till he opened his laptop-lid

And i think nights like these are better dead than alive if this is the only choice of life it has got.

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Violin Partita 3 in E

JS Bach

I’m listening to it now

The whole of the airport and the city and the entire big black night is listening to it now.

And little fairies with fires on their wings are circling the music.

Things seem smooth and easy for a few seconds – like a soothing ride through the first rains

And then, like a sudden jolt, the pain makes its presence felt.

And music can be so cruel at times. The fire-fairies have blood and murder in their eyes now.

The night seems like a hungry wolf, the city seems to be drowning in its own sewery guts

And the airport is but an icy knife making its way deep inside everything – starting from the skull and spines and moving on till the endless ends.

And then, yet another jolt. The music stops. The ride is over. Go home, kid.

Go home to the void now.

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Wish there was a space where i could let it out – let everything out

And yet not be accountable for it. So much accounts and accountancy eats the brain up.

I just wish i could spit fire and poison from my eyes and mouth and everything else and i could burn everything and get burned.

And i could sleep for a few thousand years after that. And wake up like i woke up when my mother poured me down.

Honestly, how much can we eat without taking a crap? And if we check too much, won’t the farts be too damn unbearable?

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Seventeen brutal waves opened me up

They stabbed me all night long

And there’s blood all over my chest and belly and over everything else

And with each stab i felt a bit of flesh leaving me

A bit of whisper knocking the woods though the oldest chimes and other open spaces

And every wave had a crown of empty bitterness, and nothing more

And i sought to survive.

And maybe, just maybe,

I sought the pain as well.

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Strange places these are.

Strange people, all as dead as the next one and a bit less dead than me but strange nevertheless

One’s coughing is lungs out right now, and the other one, he smells like a rotten fish and yet smiles at times – wish i knew who taught him how to smile.

And all of us are doing what we do best.

We are waiting, all of us!

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The greatest genius of god, if one exists

Lies in nakedness.

Nothing, no cities or countries or civilizations or spring’s blossoms or treachery of the hours or phantasmagoria or whore’s tits can ever possibly match up to it.

The truest glory lies in nakedness.

Naked people, naked streets, naked houses, naked euphoria, naked solitude, naked gamblers, naked roses, naked everything – stark, divine and naked.

This is where real beauty lies.

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A touch of eyes, an occasional smile of familiarity, an oeuvre, an outraged hour, a slight shade for the butterfly wings –

All you require to prim the void up.

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Animals in sunlight –

All jostling for security

All mourning the tides

At war and at peace – all

Animals in sunlight, all,

Praying for things to get easier.

For a high chair,

For some light to seep in from beneath the desks.

Animals in moonlight –

Strange voices, strange tongues

Children and their playthings

Dropped from the Chariot of Fire

All paying their dues to the enchantment

To the bittersweet, to the flesh

And to the confluence of all hateful endearment.

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Sitting at the smoking zone with burnt out lungs and parched lips

My laptop and my world spread out before me

Occasional nods at passersby

Occasional catching of glimpses and bits of conversation

Each and every conversation meanders like a smokey ageless snake

Which begins and ends in the same void, like everything else.

Forms, both human and humanoid, moving all around.

They are talking about safety now. And they were talking about equality sometime back

A glass door between us and the rest of the world,

Outside, there’s a huge piece of flesh dangling down the great roof of the world.

And the people inside, myself included,

Once we go out, we’ll make a mad dash for a piece of that piece

And we’ll kick and punch and stab each other, we will raze and gun each our down, and we will bomb the guts out of one another as we race for that piece. We will burn the world out and we will leave ugly scars behind when we go – all for a dig at that one piece.

Until then, it’s just us inside, all smiles and nods and smokerings and bits of the aimless chain of words that bind strangers down when at peace.

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I opened the newspaper

On the front page it was all about how everything is going down like a limp dick

On the mid page it was about how a baby got his skull ripped out in some war for oil or land or whatever

And on the last page it was about how some gamers gamed their game and about an actress getting married to a hotelier’s son.

Honestly, we all knew that these were happening much before reading all these

At times i wonder, the question of utility notwithstanding,

Why don’t newspapers burn down in their own wrath and leave bits and pieces of their bile and entrails for us to pick up and create our own stories and histories?

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Machine place,

Smooth edges, smooth walls, smooth floors, smooth people,

Everything’s perfect, and everything’s as lifeless as perfection can possibly be.

What the fuck am i doing here?

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I’m a mammoth in the twilight now

I am looking down at my children far below

I have seen the world when it was young

And i have heard the first sound and i have seen the first light

I have walked through all the roads and across all the horizons

And soon, all will be put out, whiffed away with one stroke of a hand

Just the bit of the wick that remains

And in the flickering twilight – i see my children below,

I see the earth, it smells of mother now. It shall rot away, like mother, like flesh. Like everything that is there and everything that is here.

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All dazed and sleepless

Dirty clothes, dirty mind, dirty hands, dirty intellect

Everything’s just too damn fucking dirty for pleasure or convenience

I was off and away, far far away from where my home is

And life was tough in the farawayness

Just a few hours to my own bed.

Private propriety seems comforting at times

And i want to sleep for the rest of the eternity that’s left in me.

Yeah, that is all.

That will be all

Curtains,

curtains please.

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