A Suicidal Drama Hero (When spring comes)

a suicidal drama hero
dreamt next to the cemetery
with crosses sending signals of silence

the moon above so big and low
making a vow
to the curtains of his windows

how do the trees know it is spring time
when i dont know what's in my mind

spring be my lover
insanity be my spring
Soko be my insomnia
Charles Bukowski be me
wondering 4am in the morning
what such a lifeless poem
doing upon my white pages of me-peace-lover

dawn time, no more caffeine in my vein
the chinese pencil broke its lead
leaving a hole in my dirty pillow

I heard this purple city
singing colours
and i sang black and white
and the morning sky showered loneliness
and everybody in the streets got an umbrella
except me and i was wet,
wet like in dreams of night swimming

A sucidal drama hero
who was stuffed with songs of fraud in his mouth
at drunken nights of Bangalore, I am

some hopes some loves
some tear drops some spits
I left on the dusty roads
for those who love to pick up

cry for me, spring
with your new leaves of old trees
and the wind shall mop away the fallen leaves.

die for me, you street dogs,
with your howl
showing off your naked vein-full of testicles
in winter morning

save some love for me, lovers,
on the warm benches
where you hold each others' hand
Im going to lie flat on the benches

flower for me, you tiny little red roses,
at places where my lover lives
Im not going there anymore

Sing for me, you beggar singers inside the bus,
the song i have betrayed from my heart
to sing for “Dear Country” and its glory.
Im not gonna sing that ever.

Kill me, you killers,
for i have no purpose nor my poems
burn me alive with my suicidal instinct
like those effigies they kicked and slapped
and tore before being burnt.

Steal me, you theives
from such times of my life
place me at times of innocent laughters

whistle for me, you night trains
the tune that i once listened to along with her voice
at nights of beating my head against the wall

write for me, you liar poets,
with your good handwriting
read them out to your audience
they will have a good laugh,,

Gossip for me, you gossipers,
I am poor, Im rich
I need a stitch
but for every words you have
i can write you a poem
my words shall run faster than your automobiles
my poems shall be longer than your hair

A nest for me, you morning sparrows,
in the tree i can name Home
where i see no chameleon in the morning sun
where i can lavishly write poems of your fallen feathers
and my grey hair

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