A bad day.
follows into the sadness of this very day (everyday)
Follows me, untimely
Waiting to the start of burnt ends of a
  starting weekday. Tired, suffocated, exhausted.
 Oh, the dreary days -
   Not loving a thing
 Things not in love with me.
      Again, like every other day
today too has been such a bad day.

Life, may take its every turn,
  But, each morning sees the same sun;
I vowed never to write - But lo,
On this treacherous sad day
   I write about its bad stay

  My very own, defeat
 and Kingdom conquered -
      On this bad day.
 

This is Tragedy

thinking of how,
  many lips must I taste upon to be called into the league of men -
  how many times must I rush into love
     to be felt for in the heart of many
          who called the words of a wife upon their lives
      how will this screen showing what does call
  upon my meager stages of respect faltered on the palette of success
a war making wounds on heart of souls
   souls dusting, upon how -
      we talk without meter and rhyme.
          the weak stupor of a young man in love with women-
          year by this year, the morose souls will face death
         and in some will this soul rest, as it is named after the deadwood.
       

ah, who would walk down the green parches
 as silent as the wind stalk right behind you hair and tells your every step
to the walls of infamy painted on the human cross
  as the sky melts in the distorted dreary of the early morning into
everything that lives in your vision
  Its a silent walk to the pool
no roses
 no silver plates
   no monies
      no fancy clothes to compare with your canvas
          
           day breaking into pieces of bread,
                 the ears awaken on the wind,
                    to hear the broth of your voice begin.

Silence is not my fort

Images behind images, this world is made in different films,
  Shades of transparency, translucent and opaque -
   there are sometimes, when I have no matter as the molecules of my mind shatter -
   what is there to look for and wonder,
   what is there that takes a hope for some slumber in the times
 life shows the gliding glitter on the living remains of your brain
the functionality - is gone and now what remains is bits of little memories
  that can take us now, nowhere, for the places have already been visited
the stars have already been broken and hoped upon
  the feelings already taken, the pictures already seen, the storm already brazen

when the body lays at its feet -
   silent into a long sleep knowing not when to become -

the sand grain flowing against time of itself
  knowing not what floats in your black eyes
  knowing not what dirt has made home in your blood raised its home
  knowing somewhat how your itch has been tearing up its feel once in every minute to make you hand go back to the scratch to where it had all started

   life is a mystery, please don't try to own it. all I ask is when will you show up to live?

Finally, it again trickles down to this,
Sitting here drugged on my existence.
I know of nothing I couldn't repeat
In my life without fail.


Is this the only way to be?
To be wasted every morning that you get up
And see the improper Sun on the properties of
lowly humans trying their best to make it to another day.
I have done that so far. With my mind numbing down.
Slowly. Accurately.


I am still am swimming in the orb,
Of things that don't matter.
Somehow, I have come to realise that you cannot
"Do art". It's just a bit too hypothetical
Art, lives like a parallel to everyday strangeness.


A pornstar cannot acclaim that she does like sex so much,
That she chose the adult industry.
Sadly, I have no means of living in both;
The everyday strangeness and in the Art of my being.
Never good at anything. That is a tad bit me.


I need to get out of this constant drudgery
Intoxication is eating me up from inside.
I need health. So bad,


Till anything better comes up,
It will be long.

Today

The freshly mown grass smells burnt,
Of machines and of intention made social in human.
The mother look ever more constrained, not strict
Their children ever more lost so, their mothers,
The falcons cover their width amongst their wings,
Twirl without a swirl, hungry skies;
The young hawk on the intentions of the providing,
The dire heart consequences of surviving.
The Women made so plastic, Men
Hover longer, maybe, provide for four wheels that make a ride;
The written verses of love fall shorter
Without a reach into the known life that lover proclaim.
The Fragrance comes swiftly against the
Demised sweet smelling sour sweat of mine.
Today, I feel short of needs
Like living of on a pond of decadence,
Wallow, The Doors ask me to smoke,
Their pieces of plagiary in dices and peace.

Today, may seem less named under the yesterday,
But it's goodness remains, just like everyday.

The Rickshaw

The Monsoons had just taken over. Leaving puddles within muddles, men looked into their reflections. Some women too, had the same demeanor as they looked at the reflection of their men.

The day slowly had passed through. With my lurches in my stomach, I ached, closer to the end of the day, but was stopped prior to the night, by a friend in the evening.  It is heard, that he said, “I think we should study with our examinations approaching. We have dallied within the attractions of dope, and now it’s soporific.” I agreed, but the day continued excitedly at the edge of the day, and its talks. Finally, the hour struck close to the leaving. The exit had to be made from a very obtrusively enclosed room which spuriously felt large enough when inside. I always wondered if making love, to someone I took fancy, would chance upon entering it. We made it to the stairs, somehow I never liked using the elevators even though they had polished wood plies plying to make it more sober never the less it wasn’t my choice, sheltered by plastic sheets that were damaged in each metal frame that held it.

Making back to the streets, wasn’t that hard a job on a likely unfed day too, the only barrier that seemed to be was the new wave of monsoon mosquitoes swarming about in shapes of men, as well as that of an insect. The tea stall was hardly a yard away from the main gate of my society. Me and my companion swift in gate, made it there before we realized it. Then the customary act, of peeping in through the columns of many a assorted tobacco powers gilder with flavors, made a crunch of plastic that I truly adored.  “Bhaiya, ek Navy Cut, ek Classic Mild or do chai” (Fellow, I need single cigarettes of Navy Cut and Classic Mild, as well as two cups of tea). People had been telling me not to smoke the former cigarette brand, because there were rumors that renowned hospitals had already forbidden its patients for they could not be cured. I was acceptable to that on measures of notable quantities of Nicotine. Within no time, we sat on our favorite spot, a cemented and grilled cover of a septic tank that had its elevation well enough for a proper seat.  

Soon my wandering eyes met a valiant blue shade, generously made piqué to my imagination.

Silently, twirling with tires on its front gape, the chrome on the front wheel. Wishing, it would go next to where I needed it to charging, no money for my wishes. The guy on the seat, sipping his chai (tea), like any master of his fate. This took me back to my days in Mussorie, when on a cold night of August I rode a rickshaw, how my bad hand at it, almost drove it to a trench. Little did I realise that I was narrating that account to my friend who had chosen to docilely follow me through.

"Bhaiya, kisi ki marzi pe nahin jeeta hoon, jitna mehnat utna kaam." (Brother, I live according to my own wishes, my work fetches me my income. My employment is my will). I smiled back in grace and so did my friend. This made me recollect, as once my Dad had told me, The one who works the most, is the one who earns the least. I think his context mean pure physical taxing labour. In a country with billions of people. I think somewhere the value of this nation has been distributed. So much so that the one who lives life of a many places and a life so desperately wanted by the ones on the epitome of prosperity, was so despised.

Like a many questions never answered, showed naught anywhere on his face. From what I remember now, his glistening showed from the humid summer afternoon. His grace, his smile. Like a answer to everyman needs, dwindled away in the smoke of an Industrious life.