still a mess

I am just little fucked up
but it is ok
I am just a clown in december
I dance for the lovers
in their love nest
... i sing for the drunks
getting more drunk than any of them

5 am in chilly december morning
i walk home all the way
scrolling down the names in fone
to find anyone who deserves my wish
for the coming new year.

People watch me and laugh
Dogs feel sad for me and howl for me
from the garbage
i see many christmas stars hanging
but the revolutions at home
will outdo the number

No water to drink
instead so many baby mouses in my room
I am a mess
i call my mother to feel like a son
but that does not work
she complains of water scarcity in Imphal
I listen to “I wanna be black”
but all i wanna become is rich and slim
I write poetry on newspaper
out of my joblessness
I am bored of my guitar too

wake up at 1.30 pm
i am still a mess

I and my country are like husband and wife

I and my country are like husband and wife
But I don’t know who the wife is
Or who the husband is
But it really doesn't matter as i think of myself
As a feminist whether you like it or not

And there was no way I could beat or exploit my country
Instead it makes me taste its blood and sweat
Through many peasants and disappeared Kashmiris and Manipuris
Through many who sing “I had a life in Lalgarh
I had a wife in Chattisgarh”

Long ago, me as a poetry maniac,
Wrote a long poem about me being in 69 position
With my country, it fed me its blood
I didn't know of it till the day I saw those carved stones
at Khajuraho

Now here is a moment to leave my country
But I love it so much, as much as I love the poem
I wanted to be killed by an Indian bullet” by Ibopsihak
I may come back very soon
I protest for my living
Without my country how will I live.

Without my country I will be poetry-less
I will be protest-less
And I will be so jobless
My country is my poetry
My country is my poverty

I may be its wife who gets fucked only when it is doped
smacking gun powder and blood as lubricant.
Once it came wearing a pair of leather boots
In the streets of Imphal
And made me lie down in front of Kangla gate

And I was sexed in broad day light
I saw many TG school girls too bleeding
It was the time Netaji got killed.
Since I have been married as a minor
To my country and its atrocities

And now I am deeply in love with it
It is so beautiful with its cruelty and brutality
Me and my lover, my mistress, would talk behind it
My mistress would say, “It is snowing in my hometown,
Darling, how do you imagine your hometown in this beautiful winter”

I would say, “May be a dead body is lying somewhere in a field covered with dew drops”
She would say ,“Aww, you are lucky, it is just snow fall in my town but you’ve got human body falling in your home town”
We talk a lot of my country
As we are scared of it
As it owns both of us...


the red stain in my teeth is the proof
that I have been to Imphal
when they killed the innocent father and son
as i chewed lotsa paan helplessly
when all i wanted to chew was their bullets


Saturday morning
I was little drunk
thats why i was in love
with all the girls

Sunday morning
I got hang over
and was sad about everything
under the sun

Monday morning
I was so jobless
everyone left wearing yellow tie
for their jobs

Tuesday morning
I heard the news in television
three fucking months blockade..
i kept myself calm with a cigarrette

wednesday morning
I was couging
bought myself a cough syrup
and put myself to sleep whole day

thursday morning
I was broke
not a penny in my pocket
not even a song of bullet in my mind

friday morning
my frens called it is weekend
i said i have only one liver
set me free

they say it is war on people

My love!
I am stuck at airport
I am too tired 0
I got hangover from last nite
they say “it is war on people”
far away back home
lets go hide somewhere
i hate to be in cities
i hate to go back home
they say “it is war on people”
far away back home

i dont wanna sing anyore
my shoulder got marks of my guitar strap
my mouth bled last night while playing harmonica
may be it is the barbed wire in my song that cut me
I am tired of being drunk on stage
I dont care anymore of anything
I even didn't brush my teeth this morning
they say “it is war on people”
far away back home
whats the use of teeth against the war
wahts the use of songs against the war
bullet got no eyes or ears

Oh darling
I am stuck at airport
I am too tired to even write this
cuddle me soon
today I belong to that crowd of sad people
and they say ”it is war on people”
far away back home

On meeting Sudhir Naoroibam at Keishampat Junction

Everything about those three years
popped up today at Keishampat Junction
when I saw him among the maddening crowd

I once was obsessed
with Manipuri Literature
Rajesh Book store was my library,,
from house to house i walked
looking for poets and writers

today again when i saw that writer
i was reminded of many things,
If you ever read Pacha Meitei
you would know every bit of Imphal
has so much to do with your life.
to me it was Keishampat Junction today

He smiled at me
and asked "Have you printed the books?"
I had no answer to that
instead I bought him a pan
and we talked for a minute or two.
But i wanted to ask him
about his upcoming books of short stories
I wanted to know  things
about Ibopishak
I wanted to ask "is he still thinking
fucking is a business to mind?
Is it worth dying with an India Bullet?"
what about Yumlembam Ibomcha?
Is he as angry as in 1974?
recently i read one of his poems
he seemed sober
and surrendered to his wife's demand
what about Shri Biren?
does he still read that ballad
of him not leaving Manipur at this time of madness?

i did ask nothing to him
instead i rode back my bike
remembering Pacha Meitei
and his story
"kali mai ma mangda laibak katpasu kattabasu yaowi"

Talking Automobiles

I hear the automobiles talking
deep in the night
the car says "i hate to be so useless like this
i dont get to see the chicks
and boast around with my loud whistle"
... the bike says "they dont even take us out for a walk
so what if there are no petrol"
the truck says "fuck you both! i am resting finally..
i have been so tired working my dicks off..
all they do with me is carry mud and sand
for MLA's and thikadar's..
they dont even play neil young's "cow girl in the sand"
,,good that there are no diesel"
The bicycle says "i was always a Marxist and i am and will remain so
goodnight all...i need to leak on the highway"

Post Sunday Bomb Blast

there was a bomb blast
and she cursed the bombers
for spoiling her sunday
she believed it was a Chinese grenade

she just got back
after meeting the victims
we sat in the hotel
we heard the wedding drums banging
she was not bothered
instead she looked at her toes
and said "today i had to speak English a lot"
i listened to her observing everything
that i had missed last autumn
she said she has two bicycles
and i can take one
i complaint about the tea
as it tasted left over

we walked along
the crowded part of tidim road
we walked few inches away from each other
she took me to the lane
the dog made her closer to me
then we walked holding hands
blaming the dog for it

the moon looked pale behind the cloud
and lifeless unlike my beating heart
we walked towards the hotel again
and had another round of tea
and we walked walked till her gate
nothing much to talk
then i saw the bougainvillea flowers
which once was a marker for my heart
we shook hands
and said "bye"

and i wanted to remember the evening
whole of my life
that's why i write this now for me and her

I need a fucking Bicycle

I need a fucking bicycle
not a country or this valley
I need a bicycle with a carrier
to carry my lover

I am too an anti social
to join that long queue for petrol
and I am too fucking poor
to spend 200 bucks on it

I am too an anti national
to use the currency to buy me a bicycle
some one please let me borrow a bicycle
my lover says she will fast if i dont show up

I need a bicycle with a ringing bell
people are cow and buffalo here
they are deaf, they are blind
they think they have a country and a government


it's drizzling in Imphal
beating the fallen and forgotten leaves of autumn
to grow once again on the trees
where they once hung the red stars
against the back drop of crimson sky..
oh! what a lie it was....

To my little sister

Your wooden guitar sadly leans against the wall
with one string broken
the thermomemeter silently dips
in a glass of cold water
and this piece of wet cloth is as helpless as me
we both fail to cool down your body temperature

I bought you cucumber
and boiled it with sugar
you didn't even touch them
I cut you the apples
just like in the fable
you didn't even look at them

I try to distract you from your panting
telling the story of the housewife
who stays opposite to our balcony
It is 4 am
still she is doing her dishes
when does she ever go to sleep
before we know she will be awake again
with her three naked children
running around with the broom.
you know,
yesterday morning the cat didn't even spill the garbage
the cat too knows you are not well.

you find your hands folded well above your chest
and speaks slowly from your dry lips
“ I am surprised to find my hands folded like this
this is how they lay dead men in coffins in movies..
I am dying for sure”

I laugh and remind you how you always wanted to die
and joke “but those are the way
people lay dead in hollywood flicks..
I am sure you gonna have a hollywood death”
then you stretch out your hand
to make me feel how hot it is
i try to rub off the heat with the wet cloth
but in vain
Oh sister, it is this little fever in you
that makes me cry at this dawn.

There is nothing in my mind now
except this worry and love
i have for you, my little sister..
i don't even care of my kingdom of scarcity
where potatoes are gold
where onions are silver
where people are happier than ever
where death walks tired on the deserted highway
trying to take a nap in some corner..

my thing

My thing in the morning
Stands up for what it believes in
unlike me and my friends
But it doesn't stand
against the goverment
not for the revolution
Not for America

Oh the Mountains

Oh the Mountains
they have lived so long
They have witnessed so much
But never have spoken a word

But me, lived three decades
and have spoken too much
have cried so much
have loved so much

Oh What a fool I am!
or  do the mountains forget to grow old?

They can't stop us

So what if the moon looks so fake tonite
we are for real
you can reach my hands with yours
i can reach your lips with mine
we fly kisses against the aeroplane
... we catch cold and cough it out
sipping lemon tea, talking of puppies
we will talk of death as long as we want
we will undress this country as naked as we want
with M.F. Hussain's brush,,
They can't stop us

listening to her

It is autumn
and everything falls
my hair too
but something lifts me up
every evening
listening to her
how she is so weak
got beaten up
by her younger sister
she needed a shower
for all the winter to come
so she skips her dinner
and ask me to courier
my melody to the one
with the words of revolution

yes she is funny
but she says i am the first one to say so
and i proudly agree
and say "i am a good observer"
and i kno i wud be dreaming again
of everyhting we talked

She got ugly toes

for months i was blocked
i could not think of a line
even when i know autumn is right here
even when i rallied starving
those streets of jantar mantar
but ur toes just showed me the way

you got ugly toes dear girl
i know ur daddy is rich
u have a good face and wears a nice smile
but no, ur toes are ugly
I believe in toes
if they are ugly
the person is ugly inside
and u got ugly toes
dont be friend with me
we better remain foe
but i got beautiful toes

I smoked all the weeds of Bombay

All the weeds of bombay
I smoked in two days
and headed for Airport
and went to the book shop

They all write stories of Slums
No thing about the sweetness of chewing gum
The magazines are about MBAs and USA
and those lousy long essays

At the airport Television
i saw her all smiling with a teddy bear
like she has brought home a revolution
yes I was smiling too and felt it's been years

then I took off, i was an aeroplane
saw the city as a birthday cake
with so many candles,
yes this would be the cake of my eightieth birthday
I saw the moon being put atop a steel pole
who did that?

i though i was gonna crash above the sea
my flesh would be eaten by sea fish

 i remembered my friend Leichil
who is obsessed with Time Machine
He asked me to listen to Robot music
and our kids would love them
we agreed the music never stops
On the spring field, we grew as poppy flowers
the bees sucked us
the butterflies sprinkle their colors
we peed in rain
we cried upon grasses

we saw many clean rooms
with polished leather shoes
with oiled hair people
loving their lives planning for time to come

and the local train arrived
and we were aeroplane inside the train
my lover called me
as i flew over her hut
she said "peacocks are making out"

again we choke

Again we choke
this time for the Sardar Hills

last time it was for something
im not remembering anything
as i am choking dying

i see the potatoes rolling
up and down
in the hills and valley
boasting around for its price

I see some of the people
worrying bout Anna's fast
when the highways
have been blocked
reminding them
they are not part of this country

let me buy a bowl of rice
whenever i want at the right price
before i die

Accept me with all my blood
and history if you want me
as your country man

dont tell me Im not choking
when you fast not for me


you buy cars
you build houses
why? why?
look at that pull-cart puller
at day time he sells vegetables on it
at night he sleeps on it
under the moonlight

haven't you learnt
anything about Economics?

lost my big heart

to worry
all the people
i know
i thought
i had a big heart
But that little girl
with the tiny eyes
at Dhanaulti
she took away
my big heart
squeezing herself
that very
conjested Tata Sumo.
and i came
back to this city
with no heart
No wonder,
I hate you all now

dont you dream of me

dont you dream of me?
I often dream of you
with a thin and rich handsome man
you two read each other your atm bills
like poetry we read together
in many sleepless nights

if your dream of me
please be it the ones of making love with you
i miss your body
I miss the touch of your golden chain on my chest
I miss you

Even in dreams
i fail to make love with you

in between

Between you and me
there are fifteen odd states
in this country dying
of poverty
killing each other for land and a bread loaf
and how can you just only see me and
tell me "you are the only one i love"

between you and me
there are thousands of automobiles and trains
mountains and rivers..
how can you still smell me and tell me
im lying when i say i dont love you

between you and me
there are hundred of handsome
and richer men who write correct English
who always carry condoms in their wallet
who look up the sky when they talk
even about small things like napkins
making every moment filmy
dont you love filmy moment?

between you and me
there are good poetry bad poetry
but none of them are of you or me
they are of old lovers
who died holding their hands
when they became eighty
but not for you and me
who believe not in love
but who love love

do not die my children

Do not die my children
on your way back home from school
this is a valley of corpses already
run by devils with guns
they preach your death in their propaganda
their politics is to kill you if you are innocent

Do not die my children
on your way back home from school
when you grow up
do not vote for this government
do not let this war mongers swim in your pond
they all love to drink your blood

for her

i heard of you falling in love
as u talk to me only when you fall in love
with some one else

but today it seems
no lovers of yours write you poems
such lousy poems

may be you are gone long ago
but you are stuck in my poems
dont blame me for this

we may not say hello
but if you find a poem somewhere:D
talking of yellow, thats for you from me

Choose one

all I need is a matchstick
but i have to choose 
which one to light;
this university
or this last cigarette

i know too many of them

I know too many rebels
who write long letters to the Prime Minister
when even love letters are not working
and I have got a problem with them

I know too many poets
who say they just write like that
but think they are the best
and i have got problem with them too

I know too many fathers
who say their sons will save this land
when they know it is not gonna happen
and i have got a problem with them too

I know too many lovers
who promise summer in winter
just before copulation
and i do that too, so no problem

As i grow older

As i grow older
i lose many friends
some of them through my punch
some of them through my politics
some of them through my poems

Im now left with very few
as i grow older
i will lose them all
and i will find myself alone
on my dying bed someday

they call me an activist

Most of my nights i am drunk
most of the my days i am asleep
and they call me an activist..

I am not surprised
Obama got nobel peace prize

the economist

The economist is a good economist
he has a good looking daughter
with well combed hair
sometimes they are oiled too

he writes weekly in the Newspaper
except that i stop reading it
as news of raping prostitutes
have been reduced

He is a good fren of armies
he listens to them carefully
and never forgets to ask for Jack Daniels
He is a good economist

He listen to them say
“your state needs more BSF ”
He shakes hands with them
He makes fren with revolutionary too

He is a good economist
He knows both the sides
He writes good english
He earns good money

He manages seminars in the University,
about the State being freed from Militarization,
where there is an Army Camp
He sees students among armies everyday

Highway 39, 37 is his topic of writing
Sometimes he praised the Cheif Minister
saying there had never been anyone like the current one
Never forgetting how to become VC of the University

Some people were born artists

Some people were born artists
in rich family
they buy expensive cameras
and take pictures of Children in Slums
and exhibit in galleries...
and the critics say “Mumbai , Delh, has been exposed
thru shutter speed of blah blah blah”

i always wanted to be an artist

She wears one

She is a feminist
with big breasts
we have poetry reading together
once a month in her University
when she reads hers
she uses her hands
She performs poetry

Her breasts hang like ripe mangoes
that once i plucked in my neighbor's garden
she being a feminist
i wonder does she wear bras or not?...
but looking at her breasts
i convince myself she doesnt wear one
cos i know when they hang they really hang
No difference between fruit and breast
Gravity works the same everywhere on everything


God is likely to piss over us
for what i said
about killing him
with a broken bottle of beer
No one of you
shudn't walk out
from ur houses
i take the blame
it is all for me
I will face it..
i will gulp it down
like whiskey nights

feeling like orgasm

while sitting
on the stair
cursing this city
for its weather
Suddenly u feel
a cool breeze
it is like
one of those
instant orgasm
inside the bus
a middle aged woman's
small angled breasts

No one is inviting me

No one is talking to me about poetry
have they all really become poets?
No one is asking me about my ex lover
Have they known the truth?
No one is inviting me to protest events
have they stopped protesting at all?
No one is inviting me to dinner or lunch or party
have they seen me drinking like fish thos free drinks?
No one is talking about AFSPA
No one is talking about Manipuri Literature
Have they all been bought by Sanjay Hajarika?
No one is talking about teen sex
were they all born losing their virginities?
No one is talking of Art
Have they stopped calling their fart art?
No professor is calling me
Have they known I flirt with their wives?

nice neighbor

Life without sugar in kitchen
is not bitter at all
if u have a nice neighbour..

An appointment with the doctor

“your report says you are 29”
“Oh my boy! U gonna catch that old fashioned disease TB
you are too young to have it”
“Im actually 30”
“why did you lie”
“thats what we do in schools we filled the form one year or two year younger
we have been taught how to lie from schools”
“if you dont take rest for a month or so...u surely gonna catch the way what do you do? seemed like u do some heavy works..”
“Im a reasearch scholar”
“what do u research on?”
“aah... about Universe the stars the galaxy....”
“so u use telescope and all heavy are telescopes ,,,do u often lift them up and play with it? Ur report seems to tell me u do some heavy work...”
“i dont use telescope”
“then how do u study stars?”
“i do maths ,,,,algebra to study”
“oh u think u r some kinda god to study stars without looking at it...?,,,what else do you do?”
“aaaahhhh i write poetry too”
“ahhh Kabita!”
“what do you write about?”
“ write about me ..about things i observe...about things i hate///abou things that betray me”
“I thought poetry is about feeling,,,but urs seem to do a lot with only THINGS......
what time do u sleep and wat time do u get up”
“nothing particular....I am insomniac...i sleep sometimes very early...sometimes dont sleep at all”
“thats bad..u have to sleep in time...u have to follow a routine...”
“i know”
“then why?”
“just cant...i dont know why..i am seasoned to this cycle....”
“is it poetry and the THING that makes u sleepless ”
“may be I dont know”
“but u shud know if u keep living that kinda life u surely gonn die with TB”
“ TB is a good company of poetry....but i have never heard a poet suffering from TB”
“so what? U gonna be the first one”
“I will try to change my routine....”
“it is not only poetry that makes me sleeepless....there is music too”
“oh! U think of Music too”
“yes,,,a lot...”
“what type of music? Rafi's suhani raat? Bollywood item songs?”
“ music”
“your music....???”
“yes i play music....i sing a bit too...”
“what do u sing about?,,,is it again the THING?”
“i sing about Manipur, Kashmir, Binayak sen,etc”
“what is Binayak Sen?”
“it is a person's name...he is a great doctor like you,,,he listens to poor people..he treats them free..he was arrested by Chattisgarh police framing as a Maoist ”
“i thot he must be related to bollywood like konkona sen or riya sen....and waht do u sing of Manipur...? ”
“I sing about Irom Sharmila and other issues”
“who is she?”
“she is woman who has been on hunger strike for last ten years demanding of the repeal of AFSPA”
“how is she still surviving? And what is AFSPA?”
“She is in police custody and being forced fed thru her nose....AFSPA allows u to kill over suspicions...many civilians have been killled”
“Ok...what do u get out of singing all thiese thing?”
“then why?....dont worry now u gonna get TB”
“you know what NOTHING is what exactly u live for....u live for NOTHING....I get TB free but I live for what i believe...and By the way TB doesnt kill these days,,,u may be a doctor but i know it too....I have taken too much of ur ur next patient who may be living for NOTHING like you do...”

just another Bday

After months
I took out
my Bata leather chappals
and walked it to the Cobbler
he fixed it and polished it
i dropped 20 bucks
and walked back home
singng “English man in new york”
across the shitty slum
i slipped over a half eaten banana
and tore my slipper again
again i walked limping
to the cobbler
and dropped ten bucks again
he fixed it
and i walked back home
looking at ground silently
singing nothing
and a five hundred ruppee note
found me...
and i went straight to the liquor shop
called the day my birthday
and talked to few artists...
what kinda artists i dont remember

want to tear my poems someday

I wud love to tear my poems
but how?
i dont know
most of them
i type in my netbook

i need to buy a printer
to tear my poems
oh! that means
i need money
to tear my poems

8 am

8 am
just got back
from my usual morning walk
Oh! i dont walk evry morning
i walk only when i had a sleepless night

i saw an 8pm bottle
crying out its emptiness on the road
when the dogs urinated in it

i saw the old man sitting
shrunken withered
behind his thick glasses
betrayed by his own shop
where he once bullied me
while buying eggs
(he gave me broken ones)
now he is not allowed
to open the shop without his son
as his eye sight is very weak
and cant see the difference
between 100 and 500

though he noticed me and said
“why dont u cut ur hair, bahadur? ”
i screamed back as he is bit deaf
“I am not bahadur”
“how does it matter?
You still make chowmein
i have seen you buying noodles”- he said

oh what a stubborn old prick is he
in his withered nuts

7 am

I observe lots of thing
about her, the woman that hurried
to the bus stop in a loose sari
to drop her young son..
I wont tell u a single thing
about it

6 am

6 am
I needed nicotine
i got down from my flat
there was only two shops opened
mine was not opened
I am very particular about
from where i buy my things
like a thin black drug user
in hollywood movies
who is very particular about his supplier
i just dont smack
anything just like dat

So i waited for my shop to open
the owner came in yellow shirt smiling
behind his thick black moustache
greeting me “Oye Ronit”
D or T, he doesnt care...

he pulled up the shutter
and the first thing i saw inside the shop
was the thing that said “STAY FREE”
in big bold letters
and in smaller letter
it said “SECURE”
and i suddenly envied those girls, ladies, women
who get to use something that say “stay free”

What a luck a man has
we get things that say “Just do it”
and who knows where against the wall
or in the bushes of thorns...

i got my nicotine
with a free poem in my mind
and came back whistling

5 am

5 am,
bored very bored
not sleepy at all
not at all

The dharma bums became just another book
Bukowski was too old to excite me
Tenzin Tsundue was too much about refugee

i decided i wll have the darjeeling green tea
remembering what my neighbor said
“Green tea are for intellectuals”
So i decided to be an intellectual at 5 am
naked and ant bites all over my body

entered the kitchen
the basin was full with unwashed plates
i peeped insde the pressure cooker
something was spoilt
i cudnt fgure out...
i smelt it...yet i ddidnt know what was it
i didnt remember what i cooked two days back
but knew for sure it was rotten like hell

so rinsed the plates and pressure cooker
while the tea boiled
two little mouse came out
they too have decided to be an intellectual like me
It seemed

but i shooed them away..
with the pressure cooker lid
as im very particular about who else
are inetellectuals around me

and i sipped the tea standing in my balcony
flirting with the Sun-less- not-so dark sky
and believed “The Sun is a shameless Bitch”
as it comes up everyday .....

this time

this time ..Did i actually kill God
with a broken bottle of Beer?

Everytime I got drunk I killed a God
How many i have killed
Some with my spits
Some with my shits

Reading Books

Reading Books wont make you wise
u have already eaten enough shits
without thinking
the books were written to be read
that's why you read it foolishly
after your meals...
Just come out and sit in the streets
see the flies flying
see the bees buzzing
do you know why they fly shaking their butts in the air?
They know too little things of this shitty world
they dont read the books you read,,,
they just dont care...

that's my style

the grasshopper committed suicide
in my toilet bucket
there was not even enough water to drown him
but he did managed
that's his style

And me, I say "I am dead"
in every little poem i write
in every night i drink
I punch life away
I hang my soul from the ceiling fan
and burn it with cigarettes
and i live and I am gonna be thirty one
and that's my style

when relationship went wrong

When my first relationship went wrong
I became a poet
when my second relationship went wrong
I became alcoholic
when my third went wrong
i started sleeping on the roads
When my fourth went wrong
I published a book
named 'love is a whore'

Booze Hunt

3 am
we went to Nizamudin to get booze
crossing the shitty railway tracks
that smelt of real India,
with a dirty drunken old man
who led the way

we got two half bottles of Royal Stag
and two beer bottles for the ladies
we drank all
and they all went to sleep
how boring were they
they didnt even whisper
"we are fucking drunk "

Only me left on the road
looking around for a clean place
To sleep
but the damned dogs shooed me away

someone please take me to Tibet

Someone please take me to Tibet
There is fire and bedbug in my bed
Im sick of Delhi and its weather
and i can tell you hundred reasons
to prove this is not my city or country

I wanna feel the Chinese government now
i want the Chinese toy stamp on my ass
it wont make me a lesser Akhu
I was once below the poverty line
now Im at the line of crossfire
I have had enough of Indian Government
and its atrocities,
I cried but they said it is just my slanting eyes
I want Tibet now
I want Momos now
I want to meditate remembering what is not in my memories
I wanna rot in the Chinese Prison
 where Ngawang Chophel was kept for six years.
China! please frame me once i get there
i dont care as being the citizen of India
here people dont get legal trials..
Just frame me, i dont even have a buck to hire a lawyer
I dont wanna rot in JN Hospital where i skated when i was a kid
when the building was new
Nawang Khechog, blow me away with the sound of your flute
i wanna fly above the Himalaya
Delhi is melting like my own semen in my own palm

The dogs are chirping
The birds are barking
the Faridabad night trains are crying
Im sick of my pressure cooker obsession
my friends are uselessly drunk and depressing
I wish them their death now
I just want to go to Tibet
Someone Please take me to Tibet
I want to feel the real bullets of real PLA
I wanna sing 'Tibet in Song'
Summer here is all about tomatoes and cucumbers
I want poetry, i want to read poetry
I love poetry, i love to read poetry
no one is selling them here
no one is writing them here
no one cares of them here

Some one please take me to Tibet
I wanna ride a yak chewing yak meat
I wanna fill my pocket with roasted barley
I wanna have butter tea in the morning
Mother, Im too much a poet to be your son
My love, im too much a poet to remain your lover
Father, Im too much a poet to work in the fields
Soldiers, Im too much a poet to die in your bullets
India, Im too much a poet for you
I know some day you will drive me off
for being with you in 69 position in my poetry
I better go away on my own
Tell the Chinese Embassy to grant me a life long Visa

Someone please take me to Tibet
There is fire in my bed
This city makes me sad
all my trousers and shirts are wet with sweat
The sun here makes me mad
my people, they love to rape
can't you hear me Tibet?
I wanna be that frozen ice slab before i die
upon the Himalaya
don't tell me of religion or god Jehovah
don't talk to me of sickle and hammer or of Chinese toys
I just wanna be me in your lap, in you, Tibet
Long ago, she acted as Pebet mother
but the little ones have been murdered, killed, raped, coverted, etc
in the valley in the hills in this country.
She now is no longer a Pebet
She is now Tagore's flower in his repetitive murmurs of Spring evening.
Tibet, i dont wanna be sad anymore

To Illina

reading you i cried last night
Hope you find the Chattisgarh you love
in the knot you made
at the edge of your floral sari
my heart is already a home for you
Hold his hand for the life to be shared
don't worry of home, in Manipuri
we have a saying ''you can't take your home when you die"

Im a lousy poet

Im a lousy self styled Poet.
.dont come closer,,
you will end up in my poems
crushed between commas
or punctuation,
followed by meaningless verbs

Im a lousy self styled drunken poet
yet want to be thin and rich
may my poems speak of something else
that even the dogs dare to bark
I lie in good ways
but never wrote a poem to please someone
Im just lousy in my way
in your perspective
I dont have any adjectives
Im just a lousy poet

dont call me
I dont have a new phone yet
the old one is still naked
you may speak of love and tender
but my naked fone recieve it in nude
they will end up in poems
titled like "Naked Poems"
How lousy Iam

Water melon are subjects of my poems thesedays
I dont remember a bit of Imphal anymore
except the criss crossed wires at electric poles
at Alu Gali
Im rootless
I am dying with no religion
like the mad man who hangs around his neck
a wall clock at Shamu makhong
who keeps telling others
His time is more acurate
than the one atop GM Hall.
Im a lousy thrity year old man
who claims to be a full time poet

Dont hang around my room
Im not gonna write about you anymore
till im in my good mood
I dont care of my English
i m not gonna write anymore
for my lover but for the dopers
who hide by the bank of Imphal river
with syringes and tablets or bullets

Im a lousy poet
dont read me
it may give you a different meaning of life
and you may become as lousy as me
but Im sure Im not one of you
cos Im a lousy poet

April is in its midway
And here comes good friday,
for me an Omen
as it is dry day
and within the month
my heart broke twice
i recover it  last friday,
watered with Romanov
Still im lousy
Yet Im sure Im not one of you

Im a lousy poet
i thot of myself as Sisyphus
long ago
remembering how i kicked up
the pebbles on my way atop
now I know
Im a lousy  Poet
with no editors or publishers
cos Im not one of You poets

f*&^k YOu

You tolerate everything
even when they practice
unlawful acts upon me and my sister
You sit at your desk
wearing that dirty mask
borrowed from whom i dont know
now you point your fingers at me
when i write 'fuck you'
when i say 'you are a waste'

You criticize the poets
You said you know how healthy is she
you lie even after they call you liar
Now you point your borrowed revolver at me
when i say "fuck you and your lies"
when i say "you are just another joker"

You say the street is for the boots
reading the morning newspaper of yesterday's riot
between police and public
now you lie with your half opened chest
on the same street
with the bullet that come with my name
and i say "i know you would die so"


Im bored, simply bored
no one even comes to kill me
for all the bad poetry i wrote
Im bored, very bored
Give me anything
but not this government
Im bored, fucking bored
No one even calls me
and Im not drunk too
I am bored and whored
No one even comes to fuck me
It has been months
Im bored and disturbed
no police comes to shoot me
even if i spit on their boots
Im bored very bored
Can i change my country?
Can i make love upon the flag?
Im bored, deadly bored

Jesus' son

You are not going to accept me
in my torn jeans
with my unshaven chin
with my poetry
with my history
with my songs
inspired by mother India's thong

But I tell you the truth
I m Jesus' Son.
Ask yourself
why would i crucify myself
on every top of mountains
leaning against the air?
There is no place for God these days.
Dont you hear the news of Sai Baba's death


No one is with me around to chat
I hear my neighbor locks his room
Only a roll of tissue i see
in a corner of my dusty room
and nothing but a roll of words
i see to call it a poetry for you

Since i have been writing poems
of things like computer, telephone,
pressure cooker, etc
since she left forever
since i heard she recieved a gift pack
on 14th february

When i cry, I need no hands to wipe off my tear
I just need a tissue
When I am aroused sexually, I need no cunt or a mouth
I masterbate and all i need is a tissue
to wipe off the bastard sperms
When I catch cold i need no care from a doctor
all i need is a tissue to blow my nose

and I have a thick roll of tissue.

Tong and thong

Do not ask me of your red thong
all i did was to undress you
while Bono sang “But I still
haven't found what Im looking for you”
with his IRA cap
in the radio

All i did was to massage you
while you were busy messaging
while the radio sang “But i still haven't found
what im looking for”

But some time i did misplace the tong
in the Kitchen.

As I seek happiness in my kitchen

A half written poem died in my mind
as i saw a dead body with its cottoned nose
Everything i saw sulk,
the vegetables silently,
the rickshaw pullers so sleepy
the grocery shops so empty and calm
and me with no expression about anything

I seek happiness in my Kitchen
among the leaves of corriander
among the pea nuts and peas
at the bottom of utensils
underneath the Gas Cylinder
opening up layers and layers of Onion

Oh! it is here floating over the pork curry
with its brimming fat..

Animal Poets

The cows in the shed are lazy poets
reciting poetry of hay and meadows
leaning over each other
chewing untiredlessly
hanging their milk-full breasts
surrendering easily every morning
to the milkman poet with the aluminium cans

The cats are mad poets
in the morning sun
waiting for a 'sparrow' to rhyme
with 'window'
of the kitchen
from where they will steal chicken

The marching ants are beat poets
travelling continuously
climbing the steepest thing up and down
looking for sweets like grapes in american outskirts
where kerouac had many sex with ladies in grape farm
with the heels soften by red wine from the grapes.

the mosquitoes are failed poets like me
whose lives you can't predict.
Heard a Slap, then
they ooze poetry of blood on the walls
leaking their own lives

the bees are romantic poets
who wait for spring
for mango flowers, lilies, tulips
jasmine ,etc, and they love to suck
They are thieves like many i know

The flies are fake poets
who act like philospher.
give them a place
a garbage or a spit
a wet private genital or sticky fingers
they will hover around
with their limbs in their heads rubbing
as if they are in deep thoughts
as if they are going to create a gold mine

the ponies are street smart poets
but never do a thing on their own
till whipped or canned
they keep the tradition of old school
as they are fools

The dogs are the worst poets
who write and bark
at poor men and women
who snatch others' poems
They are mostly green and black in colors
they travel in group
they sniff everything they see
at nights they remain high
but stick to each other
as they fear for their lives in dark

the spiders are propagandist poets
every corner they spread their webs
attracting helpless foolish poets
and slowly they will make the foolish poets' soul dry
and will leave them dead hanging from the gallows poles

The bulls are working class poets
with no idea how to defy the status quo
they will die as poets with their unpublished poems
soaked in their own sweat
while even their dung have been exploited

the fishes are the poets in prison
they wait for their day to come
with no idea who brought them in prison
or what poems have they written to end up in prison like this
'die! Die!
The bait is, for you, a rope to hang'
they are guarded by dogs
they are spat by dogs
they are pissed by dogs

the migrant birds are the hungryalist poets of 1962
who all gathered here dreaming a new revolution
under their colorful wings
but left leaving a fellow poet in a trap...
and they never returned
since then, no poets ever drop pamphlets of their poetry
in the streets of city of joy, except in russian stories.
since then the streets are wordless and voiceless
now they only write for themselves and carry wherever
they go like robins in the eastern hills under their wings
and the lake awaits for a new flock of migrant birds

the owls are the three poets of Shingnaba
who in day time, in 1974, were very hungry and angry
but now at such night time become sober,
so sober that their poems are with full of punctuation,
to breathe for every word and line and stanza.
They sit by a hole of a banyan tree as old as withered,
observing the robbed, raped and killed animals..
once a year they fly out of the hole to see the thick jungles of Assam
but they used to kick their mothers by chests earlier to fight the enemies.