Sophomoric dystopias

The trebled bases of time, the languid
Sophomoric dystopias that fill your livid

Bases mingled with sweet morrows and
Shaded hapharzardnesses climbing out

Of some noons which are shaded with
Syllabyllic time, shepherded once again

With rhyme, bespectacled with the rhythm
Of time, and riddled with the conspiratorial

Factories of many days, many nights and
The leftover grains speaking less loudly 

Only because of distance, a distending 
Distance stretching out because it was due.

Changing the world

Changing the world one axiom at a time, one
Axiom offered at the altar of the sages who

Have pounced on Zeno, pounced too on
Pythagoras, for having enunciated truths

That have nothing do with fact, the horror
Of horrors, the sacrilege of ignoring data.

Changing the world elliptically as prescribed
In the constitution of the repetitive again

And agains swerving the elliptical orbit to
Move onto its center, gravitating left to the

Right of center, to prove once again in its
Againness the repetitiveness of the curvature.

Changing the world one hypothesis at a time,
Undoing one misrepresentation or better yet

Supplanting a suppler more pliable more viable
Representation in its stead, at a time. And giving

Vent, breathing room, walkable-in-a-dangly-sort-
of-a-way space, one cubit of space-time at a time.


Begotten in the sand where for long the granulets
Have sought to be drained sought to be soaked
In light

Forgotten where the land meets sky lining the curtain
Of time with a resin thin enough to not give a damn
This way or that

Beholden to a truth closer to a lingering than a calling
Closer to the thin shroudiness of evening than to dusty

Forbidden by laws that permeate your skin and travel
Duty bound to places objectively untold materially un

sukooN aur masti

sehpehr ka ruKh-e-noor ab sehr ki aaR may
kya kare jub
        neend ka nishana-e-zauq tharra ker
tumhaari mushkil ko aasaan ker bhi sakay or
nahiN bhi

kya yeh shahraah-e-farq sawaad-e-harf se
itna juda hai ke rawish samajh nahiN paati
        ke subh kahaaN shuroo hui aur shub
kahaaN tamaam; teen din Thehernay ke baad aur
teen raat

kyuNker ye bahaar-e-Khauf sard madhdham roohoN
ki kaawishoN ka zamin ho sakti hai? jub rah
        takna lab-e-farsh se uTh ker muNh moR
le to tum ye samajh lena ke sukooN bhi hai aur
masti bhi hogi.

Capturing less and more

There are so many arrows flitting about capturing less soul
and more the foul There are so many depth ridden fleeting

forays into summerhood that capture less whim and more
the resigning chime There are so many guilt laden mindful

strands of bile guilelessly capturing less din and more the
shine that heeds not, bleeds yes, thunders less and less.


When the gone tawdries collect woebegone dust
And resettle on colonies of ants and moles
Bit by a fever of callous callings and dry
Recollections of a past that never was and a
Future that will never be, the here and now
Will of course be host to tawdries, of necessity
Collect woebegone dust, all the while resettling
On colonies of ants and moles.

When the fever of callous callings and dry
Recollections bit by the recollection of a past that
Never was, reach out for a future that will
Never be, the gone tawdries have naught to do
But collect woebegone dust and resettle
On colonies of ants and moles as the here and
Now is host to tawdries, stricken by a fever
Bent on biting, the fever of callous callings and
Dry recollections recalling, reaching out.

The interjectionistas

The right to make amends in the image of your
Father, the right to bridge the gap between the
Has-to-happen and the had-to-happen, and the
Right to proclaim the blindness of it all, the
Proclivity of truth to reside in the wholesome
Bosoms of untruth, and the right to swoosh it
All off in bad tempered speech, ill-mannered,
Foul-mouthed interjections, because that too
Has to happen, that too had happened, had it not?

Perhaps the right to want to make it happen got
In the way of the proclivity to truth, and perhaps
The gated corridors of untruth were all that
Remained to console? Perhaps not. What seems like-
Lier is that the arrangement to conceal the dis-
Tasteful got lost in the accumulation of mistakes,
And the interjections interjected in their all too
Unpretty interjectiveness at a time when the right
To proclaim blindness saw the light and ran away.

yuNhee, takallufan

subukdosh hawaa ki chaap darya
           ko samjhanay se aajiz hai ke
wo thamta kyuN naheeN

usee aajizi ka ik ruKh-e-be-parda
           hawaa ka Thehrna hai uss

ko ke jub rooh aur maut donoN
           aik doosray ko bhiR
jaanay ki ijaazat
de rahay hotaiN haiN. yuNhee, takallafun.

An aftermath

An aftermath is the burnishing reminder of
     latency in
             in past confirmations of leaden
tasks groping
     a laggard
             that revels in annihilating, in
brunting the
hope of some
     and minding
     the gashes
             of a lifetime’s revealing clots
of hunted blood
some of which
     can re-trickle the hearth giving it an odd semblance to the poet’s last words uttered in silence.

The loonish and the petty

The loonish and the petty revolve, taking turns
As the garish and long rest on this corner of

Lost days and sleepy nights. Rest without breathing.
Rest within the seeming hollows bereft of noise

Caught in a shackle of pariahs holding out for more
Forgiveness, more longing, more rest. The loonish

And the petty resolve, taking turns as the garish and
Long rest on this corner of fast nights and dreary days.

Rest as if belonging to hollows of counting one’s and
Two’s is alright. And seeking such seeking that ought to

Be sought. The loonish and the petty resolve, taking
Turns as the garish and long rest on this corner of Mist

And Haze. Rest glad because rot has the upper hand.