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