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| (Self-Portrait along the Border Line between Mexico and the United States, Frida Kahlo) |
Death
Why do they shy away from it?
More so the ones who never truly lived-
The everyday people,
who used to earn to feed themselves
but now are just hungry to earn more,
who skip their breakfast,
and ride a rickshaw to a bus to a train,
then run to their office cubicles
like a rat in a trap and thank their lucky stars
that the trap was not occupied, the day they walked in.
The
smooth talking, fake smiling, buttoned up bastards,
always selling some shit or the other -
a holiday in Seychelles, a lottery ticket, a brand new God,
and knowingly, their souls with it.
Lying through their teeth to feed their bottomless bellies.
The
power crazed politicians, always clothed in white
(but not shroud alas, not yet, too late?)
to cover their blood stained skin,
in satin and silk, for the blood of the poor
is too shy to leave a stain on it, and is only ever undone,
when every thread gets dyed red
in the saffron and green that the streets will have bled.
The
21st Century, washed out, pre programmed, Read-Only minds
that are too wired to ever sit and read a book,
the ones with yellowing pages, in fading print,
whom the truth hurts so bad
they spend their lives defending their borrowed Source Code;
the true religion, the better race, their rightful motherland
Never once seeing that the DNA is shared, regardless.
They
are the ones most afraid of death
Crippled by the very thought,
So used to the rut of their so called lives,
Unwilling to live today or die tomorrow
For it would upset their routine.
Word Prison
The
blue blooded white collared children of the crown,
Why not let them choose for you the words you are allowed to utter?
They, that live in the bungalows in Lutyen’s,
they, who never had to work for their bread and butter
Oolong
tea from Ceylon, served every morning in their lawns
With cream and sugar and french croissant.
Why not trust their ideas, for their books must tell
what the workers, the peasants, the handcart pullers want!
That lofty
piece on “The Emancipation of the Urban Poor”
that one of them wrote for that glossy paged newspaper.
Did it not overnight purge all the cities of all their ills,
the hunger of that starving child, the itch of that leper?
These
masses that were born in the dark, they know not any better.
Generations of willing cattle tethered to their sahib shepherds.
The fourth estate forever enslaved to the elites,
Traps a billion writhing bodies, with their few decorated words.
You,
barely literate, with not even a dissertation in your mother tongue,
why do you crave a voice? What doth thy opinion weigh?
A life lived by the dust streets in a loin cloth and towel for a fan
Seal shut your parched lips and believe what your societal masters say.
-the
masters that swore to serve you
these leeches that feed off your cadaverous spine
while preaching with practiced empathy, what’s best for your kind,
in palatial homes, under crystal chandeliers, sipping their sparkling wine.
Release!
In borrowed insanities
owed allegiances
and forced profanities.
In clouded sunrises
sombre nights
and rude surprises.
Life wears you thin.
Scars you, when it pleases,
and brands the remedy a sin.
- drunk on the booze, dry on the weed
Shot with the cheap smack
Alive, till you finally bleed -
Bleed - of your own volition, of this tired haggard life
Of thoughts that you can't or won't abandon,
Till you fall asleep on a knife.
The Bill
Comes Due
The creepers have started scaling the walls
a week since the world went into quarantine.
These idylls of modern world, these parks, these malls
lie in shambles, wait their turn to immolate, standing in a line.
It’s a short wait from here, as the concrete turns mossy green
that the systems that were in making since our dawn will collapse.
The excesses and the materialism seeping away to the wind,
like sand held in your palm, oozing through the gaps.
We have tried too hard, in our shortsightedness
to keep this wasteful way of life afoot
where more meant less, and more was merrier,
this endless plunder of resources, this mindless loot.
This is nature ordaining us, as Tolstoy said
to “stop a moment, cease your work, look around you”
at the ephemeral life we treat as eternal
in our egos and ‘isms’ that we stick to, as glue.
If you
make it through, don’t thank your made-up Gods.
They
don’t exist - those ghosts of history, hallowed by the lores.
Bow to
the nature that nurtures, that mother you looted in your lust
who
stands plundered, yet forgives, still holding open her doors.
Me/We
What it
takes from me
To
obey, to toe the line,
To
stand in a queue,
To
conform, to live in a box,
With
another box for a view,
I'd
rather not say.
But it
has cost me half my wretched life,
and the
blessed one that's due.
To stoop
and kneel and grovel,
To bend
at my waist, to be one of you.
The Nine and
The Five
What
do you shy away from, what do you praise?
A posh house, a plush car, a big fat raise?
The promise of beauty or the promise of life?
The downtown mall and a trophy wife?
One look at the stars in a cloudless night
Shredding the truth - the black from the white,
And ceaseless clicks of buttons on a keyboard
Writing from dark cubicles, of endless winding roads.
What you shy from, is what is true.
Whiling your days away, just slogging them through.
And what you praise is what is fairy dust,
Just sifting the grime, waiting to rust.
Boardroom Anthem
Knowing
how to be convincingly ingenuine,
It’s a modern art, a corporate dream's kick start.
A twenty first century life skill,
It fuels your car. It foots your bill.
The price you pay is small,
A youth spent in self-made walls.
Enslaved by the routine, grateful for the grind,
Fragmenting the body, slowly losing your mind.
Trivial, really, for what your trade for it,
A humane heart, a lively wit.
A Poet’s Curse
Pages
of verses I read in leisure
To what do I owe this pleasure?
These blows to the harmonica I'm perpetually learning
These days woven into years, of constant yearning
Seeking what I’ve already had
Trying to be who I've always been
Living for the silent victories,
With collars dirty, my conscience clean.
To what do I owe this pleasure?
This unloved cursed treasure
To live amongst great minds in their pages
From the beginning of time, till the end of ages.
This gift of rhyme, born in the dirt,
blooms brighter in poverty,
of holding the words together as they dance
and carving out imperfect poetry.
