a sketch of no man's land (moreh)

never been to America or elsewhere
except to Myanmar

it's the no man's land
adventurous people come and go
looking for sex drugs guns golds and pearls
and for your kind information
the cheapest sex is there
the quickest consequences you will know.

the town with the yellow girls
famous to me for its sugarcane juice
famous for its candles and bangles
famous for years like an old wine
my granpa had before he dined

the thin line of the border
each side with flags of different colors
the BSF standing still watching the chicks
in their uniform and unclean beard
i was told they enjoy watching in and out of the girls

the river by the woods
where they remove their hoods
to wash the sweats and go back home
was where blood used to stream
where the forgotten hero washed the bloody sword

the evening scenes often remind me
the ancient Rome created by Goscinny and Uderzo

the market with the stink of fresh river fish
the people, the air, the monks too
the smell of the burning incense stick
from the Buddhist monastery
like a blue shade upon the vast ocean

the varied pickles of varied fruits
the roasted sunflower seeds with milk
inside the polythene
pictures of the yellow girls
sold by the ladies
chatting away their last night's orgies

the half opened pumpkin in the market
glows in yellow
you can see from the nearby hills
i never made mistake in pointing that out
even if i am colorblind

the monks on the little honda bikes
taking advantage of civilization

the southern sons, in their rolled up mund
the long thick golden chain
contrasting their own hairy dark skins
but goes well with their agressiveness,
biking up and down the pebbled streets
the streets of the ruling corrupt government

the sellers, the buyers shouting
and bargaining over the floral blanket

the roadside furniture shop
decorated with the yellow marigold flowers
for the coming pooja or christmas who cares
they just have to sell away their things

the crazy sun seems low and unkind
disturbing the old woodcutter's wrinkled eye
the windy evening carries the men
around the oval of the hips of the ladies

many tried to knock down the girls
inside the cabin made of wood
but return broke and empty like a gambler
down on their luck
here hundred doors open to become rich
to those born with the silver spoon
..................................akhu fades..............................

mund : south indian lungi
Goscinny and Uderzo: creator of Asterix comic

i'm trying to sketch some scenes of a place called Moreh. it's a hub to small town like imphal economically.
eveything that we use from morning till night comes though this town moreh. it's been a life saver town. it lies in the Indo-Myanmar border. Thank you, Moreh!

evening walk

i had a weird idea to write a poem while walking down the Aundh Road
this road is quite quiet and calm.never believe
it somewhere connects the city. i walked towards Parihar Chowk in search of some
evening snacks, after a while, i walked the reverse direction but by that time my evening snacks turned already into a poetry.

they scrap me on my ass and face
they have a different tongue and face
they said i'm like a garden
rose up from a stinking garbage
i really dont understand the language
was it a sarcasm like those school boys
in this globalised globe on my table.
i was scratching my head just for money
scratching my balls like a monkey
where should i go or listen the bastards?
oh! i dont wanna leave this city
but what this city has given me is shitty
mama's girl with the doll singing lullaby
for the beggars from the long big red car
the passers gaze up wondering why
i dont know why too they look up like
a frog waiting for heaven's urine
i saw lovers
they die for each other
they smile when they die
they never say bye when they leave
as the lady from south inform me
when i was young and poetic
and bit wild and alcoholic

the flying crane's leg hanging
like a bamboo
across the lake with the green hyacinth
the chickens reciting charles dicken's poems
the mother feeding the husband
the armies commiting suicide
the youngsters feeling high
in their faded jeans and jockey shorts
the city lies inside my keyboard
isn't it funny
whatever i see and feel was fake
whatever i wrote is not mine
I steal, rob and snatch from you
dont tell me back what you are
my lovers i love you like my poems
my friend i can sing you hundred songs
i can play and blow thousand tunes
dont tell me I'm garden or garbage
i know it's hard to be what we are.


why the fuck the ducks walk like drunk?
why the fuck i'm too blunt?
why the bucks are so hard to earn?
why the bugs are not still burnt?

i'm screaming out my guts loud
but it is never too loud
wanna run away somwhere down to burma
wanna be a little monk without dharma
smoking lots of kabo bidi
wandering along the indo-myanmar border
whistling "go fuck yourself with your mother
go fuck yourself with your acts
go kill yourself with your bullets"

your civilization sucks
your mother is hurt
i'm happy with my plate of rice and farm
i'm busy with my loveless life and the dam
now is the twenty first century
all the cricketers can score century
still somebody is hungry
still somebody roams in naked on the street
down to earth
with the dreadlock hair
laughing and floating in the smoke of grass
nobody cares nobody
everybody fucks everybody
given a time and place
me too wanna fuck you all

forgotten morning

the morning was silent, cold and forgotten
my room was filled with my thoughts
the tea got spilled over my favourite shirt
the huge sum of phone bills upon my wallet
the curtains splitting wide like a virgin
my window like a black n white television
i could see the sweeper emptying the dust bin

with one hand holding a bidi,
endless smoke from his stinking mouth
perhaps it's the sweetest mouth to his old wife.
the clouds chasing the lazy sun
like in south people chasing northern sons.
the school kids have been dressed up forcibly
some are smiling, some are crying,

some are sleeping and walking
like a flock of frogs looking for rain
they've been woken up from their wonderland.
the newspaper boy cycling so fast
as if he was going to miss the news
of the death of the lady
who has been raped, murdered and shot

the forgotten morning had lots to watch
the remembered evening had nothing except to forget

independence day

my love, can you hear the soldiers marching?
dont you hear the trumpet?
it's independence day.
can you see the tricolor flag waving
goodbye to poverty?
don't you hear the soldiers taking
oath just for you and me?
dont you hear,
the wealthy politicians hosting
the farmers' feast,
promising more crops in the coming years
simply by sitting on his wives' lap?

the armies
the rapists
the singers
the lawyers
the activists
the revolutionaries
the snippers
the pretenders
are gonna help us.

i ain't got no mouth and guts
i ain't got no bullets and shells
i ain't got no love of you and me
they are the savers they are the fighters
they are the keepers, they are the law

oh! Mr. Prime minister are you happy
to see my mothers naked.
oh! Mr. Captain dont you hear the slogan:
"Indian Army, Rape Us"

the deserted road maitain its desertedness.
the mournful cry completes our ears.
the killers' AK47s complete our sights.
the politicians make us go on and on.
a night is not complete without a gunshot.

it's the celebration of independence day.
we are the players they are the judges.


it is raining

it's raining like it has never rained before
the sky's been dull, black clouds've been drifting
my money plant in my corridor becomes wild
spreading like my hair
i'm happy like hippies in woodstock '69

my neighbour's been smoking
everybody's been working like dog
me too busy like a bee in spring
wandering in rain in naked
my toes upon wet mother earth digging

and make me fall in love with everything
under this hazzy sky as if i'd never known love
i feel cold but my soul's happy
even if it's not fed with a proper love
my feets are dancing even if i crawl

march made me sick even if it was spring
june made me cry in tears with viral fever
i stood up in july with a new me
august reminds me my dark lady seeeing me off
i used to be loved ,true, pure and moody

now i rise from my mountains of blues
shine against the long dark cloud
hoping a rainy day again,
so rainy like Cheerapunji
there's no doubt
i'm happy
and sound like a reggae singer.

foot tapping love song

are there tears that you hide from the mirror?
are there liars that you still love and adore?
are there fears within love and lovers?
are there memories that stain like your scar?
are there nights that makes you cry and shiver?

look around,
to you no one's bound
dont get drowned, dont be down
you are still beautiful.

are there pains that make you strong?
are there hands that wipe your tears?
are there times you expect call from your love?
are there memories that scare you like cancer?
are there babies that i kill just for you?

i look upright
see a baby's smile
it's alright
i'm still suffering.

are there times that you cut your hand?
are there bloods inside your veins?
are there flood that wash your pain?
are there hatred for my words of anger?

i feel the air
been swimming for years
like a drowning deer
i'm still hiding tears.