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.

SUnday Rain Walk

Abe woke me up
saying "wake up dada
see the sky is dark, so unsual
can't you smell the dust?
dont your hear the sky thundering
like a mad dog in the deep of night?"

I asked "what's wrong with him?"
she laughed "You are more blue than the sky i know"

I woke up lazily with the heaviest heart on earth
My breakfast was Officer's Choice
I woke up
with thoughts of her, the pink girl, the tomato salad loving girl,
rememebring how she made me felt like a a very shy school boy
at Namdunlong church
she stared at me
i stared away at the window 
half blinded by her hair
neither straight nor that wavy
Jesus saw it all,
He is dumb that's why he is silent
all these months
other wise he would have translated
why i said "I like you"
I meant 'I love you"

Yes, with thought of Ma Cabin Hoten too
where I saw the fine lines of her lips
where a bowl of chicken curry 
played the most undelicious curry
on earth...
the tea was sweet like her,
the ladies in front of us with the kid
I didnt care of,

But it is too late
I miss the bus
There is no point of seeing Ripe Mangoes
in the vegetable market in spring
Upon the pull-cart
when people talk of cucumbers. 

But I dont care
I have decicded to be a full time poet
and never will write about banana i see
cos i hate to eat them or peel the for others
I will write of things i love 
I will cry of things I dont get

As i no longer care of things around me,
Let the world rot
like my own jeans soaked in the bucket of water
for days before Binayak Sen got bailed
I will not  dream to handshake anymore with lady Roy
I have got my big things with no gods
unlike her small things with gods
i have to take care of them..

I will not care of the world
when i sleep with scent of whiskey
when i wake up with table full of pegs

with all these thought
I walk in rain with my CMB umbrella
spitting in rain in my lane
thinking of writing this poem
but i know people who read this wont get it
they are as shallow as my neigbor's pond
in Imphal with some unwanted fishes in it

And if you think there are grammartical mistake in the poem
or i have mispelt the words
Blame the Keyboard of this computer
not me or my dirtynail fingers
You know, I write when i want to write with my heart
and my heart doesnt lie
nor it cares where Im
Even if im at Lakshmi Cyber Cafe...

And Poetry is all i got
dont ask me to stop writing
Im sorry if i have used you in this poem
but I use only the things i love in my poetry
unlike the History, you know, filled with hate 

with this poem

With this poem
I throw away the memories of her
in my polythene of garbage
with the left over spoilt rice

I know the memories
will often come as my heart is soft and tender
like that of jackfruit tree leaves
but i dont care
I will throw them away continuosly
like i pour down every peg of whiskey
in my little dry throat.

She lied she lied
when she continously said to me;
'you lied you lied'

With this poem
I deleted every pictures of her
from my sister's camera
from my netbook

With this poem
I erased the memories of last september
I erased the memories of me and she
in holy family hospital

with this poem
I burnt her two black panties
which were of no use to me
other than reminding of how she smelt

\with this poem
I sit right now in my stair
where the dog left his paw marks
Time says 2.19 am
as I write this
But i dont give a fuck

with this poem
i call it a day
but a 400ml of whiskey bottle
awaits me lying on my bed
like my whore


The grandson arrived
after four years of computer engineering
with a computer.

The gradma smoking her hidak chafu asked
"what is this 'computer' all about?
Heard a lot about it"

The grandson replied
"Abok! with this you can do anything....
all u need is to program it to do what you want
like ,like.....u can make it cook ur meal
wash your clothes
find firewoods"

Grandma said "Great! Program it and refill my Hidak Chafu"
Hidak Chafu- Traditional Meitei Hookah

Goodbye Ginsberg

Ashley always said
"You cant like Beat, Akhu,
cos you are not homosexual"
And today i silently give up
my obsession of Beat
as Bukowski replaces it all

but Bukowski always comes
with a can of American beer
or wine in his German hands
and I can't afford beer or wine
so i sit with him with Old Monk
Or Sikkim

Goodbye Ginsberg!
Don't let Nixon talks
about your America in heaven
here i will take care of Obama
in my poetry

Some Shits

I die more than i do my living
I wake up again and again
As they forget to cremate me again and again

Trap me now
In richmen's world
Undress me now
among the flamboyant gentlemen
I have got poverty to offer to them
I have got my body for the scars they want to carve

Rape me now
with your boots and tooth
I have bled enough
Nothing more to paint these streets of my own shadows

My Mobile Phone

Every time i get drunk
I take it out of my pocket
if i am walking
or pull it from under the pillow
If im overdosed with cheap rum
and call the girl i love
call the girl who loves me
we will talk for 40 minutes
we will wish each other
I will also talk mad
I will say I like her

But I slammed the phone on the walls
many time when my ex said "Im a loser"
when i fought with drunken frens
in drunken nights of delhi

I remember the day the girl i love called me
when i was having a drunken auto night ride
on ring road smoking the snatched bidi
from the driver's lips

She said" You never acknowledge my love
i dont think you care of me
There is a boy who loves me
i must start seeing him soon
Take Care..keep wrting poems
I love them all as much as  love you"

I replied "Ok good, Have a good life"

I reached home and slammed the poor cheap phone
on the walls where i slammed my head before i owned a fone
it got broken into pieces like my own shattered heart
next morning i picked up the pieces
Yet it worked except the LCD...

It never betrayed me like my own poems
after fifteen days i repaired it
and deleted all the fone numbers of the girls i knew
i loved i hated i admired i envied...

since then it has clean like my throat at this moment
which was just rinsed by 250ml of whiskey

And How unkind i have been not to write a poem
for my own mobile phone,,,

It is new year and here Im writing it
for my mobile phone,,,
stay with me till i slam you again

Scent of a Poem

Among you in suits and boots
Among you who stood or sat
for what you believe in
Among you, young or old
Among you, tall or short
Among you, ugly or beauty

Have you ever read a poem
that smells cigarette butt?

But I have

Consider me as Bengal Tiger

Consider me as Bengal tiger
Save me
Im going to extinct
you dont have to feed me meat
I can survive on mustard or cabbage

consider me as bengal tiger
cage me
the freedom you give me
brings nothing but blood, sweat and death
I have shivered in summer
I have sweated in winter

Consider me as bengal tiger
I wont sing or read anything
I wont even roar
I have lost my voice in the streets of Imphal
when they stuffed my mouth
with the barrels of their guns

Consider me as bengal tiger
my lover is gone far away
find me a female as bengal tiger
i want to copulate
let the race of bengal tiger be increased

consider me as bengal tiger
when i lay in the lazy winter sun
after my free meal, reading newspaper
yawning over the pictures
of Primi Minister and MLAs
and sexy foolish half nude mindless models

consider me as bengal tiger
I will give up poetry to be a bengal tiger
I always wanted to be naked
and to see others in naked
thats why i write poetry

consider me as bengal tiger
let me doze off naked
showing off my balls
inside the cage snoring
with my tongue catching flies
dreaming of wild African jungles

save tiger

consider me as a Bengal tiger

save me,
im going to extinct
adopt me,
Im an orphan on the run
feed me
Im as hungry as your son


I blame Bukowski
for the pool of whiskey
i had, for having me felt like singer poet
at 4am in the morning singing duet
with curtain in my window,
... remembering the widow
I love

April Fool! Susaina!

It is 29th February
and I become Irish
propose me
ask me "Will you marry me?"

April Fool.

I have forgotten Manipur
when i see you,
listen to the irish music
look at the irish rose i grow in my head

April Fool

You and i shall never get married
till they repeal AFSPA even if im irish
you shall never conceive my child
as there are stray bullets and dogs
in the air, in the streets

April Fool

If all the lies I whispered in your ears
had colours
you would not need a jewellery
No silver No gold
You would have been too colourful
for the bloody streets

April Fool

Pound me with your high heels
Grind me in your kitchen grinder..
I can't be the bull anymore to till your irish soil
Let me be the onion to make your eyes cry
even if i fail to make you cry your heart

April fool

Spring wish

Spring be my canvas shoes
like kerouac's
to take me all over this country
to be the pop out leaves
of old trees

Spring be the song i sing tomorrow
with birds be the chorus

Spring be my love
as it lasted only a moment
I shall have the best.
find it among the nests
and for me, them,  go catch

Spring be the whiskey i drink tonite
with ashtray be the companion

Spring be the silence i play
with string less shoes in evening
spring be the broken glasses
the morning sweeper be the god
I knew who is blind deaf and dumb

spring be me under the shed
with cyclists be the wind to take me away