you say you dont know poetry
but you are a sixteen year old poet
when you are thirty five.
you walk up to any girls in your sight
try to start a conversation
you say you can read and write music
you say you had spent one night
making music of revolution
hiding away from the law that kills
You have so much to tell
don't you?
but i know you will die a good death
you are selfish as pig and greedy as dog
It's been raining since you bought your dark glasses
and you are crying for it
as you dont get a chance to wear them
you are not sorry for your town
you don't worry for your love as she is a spoilt brat
you are good with your lies and goodbyes
you try to get the daughter of the the man
who sells dead bodies back to their families
but you failed
and sometimes when you hear the song she used to sing
your mouth becomes dry and your heart breaks
you will go on like wont you?
my room sobs
as the walls drip the old paints
and my shoes with their tongues out
silently waiting for me
upon the torn doormat

the war was too loud
to notice all these..
now i am older and sober
but have forgotten
how to say goodbye to things


I dont remember August being so good.
the onions dont make me cry anymore
my clothes get washed on their own
the long lost umbrella popped up
and the cream rolls are stuffed with poetry
and there are hajmola pills around
Tomatoes and Mackerel are ready in the Kitchen
and my landlord is not coming to collect the rent

so continues the month of July

The leaves are gone from the trees
The birds have broken free
Our glasses are empty
The boots are marching towards us
and the dogs are barking

So what?
We are ready to grow old together
all this madness shall be over

it is so easy.
sometimes I found
in chewing
fried pumpkin seeds.
and why unhappy at all??

 cried a river
with a damaged liver
seeing the sun
protesting to not fall off
the cliff of Langol hill
and now the darkness,
you call night,
has come
and many fake warriors
have arrived
with their own revolutions
but with stars that twinkle
making fun of my torn trousers
left hanging on the Polangkhok
,,my sun will rise
that will bring a plate of rice
and when i am full
I kill people in my poems


we stood in a long ATM queue
then we got talking of things
he was a middle aged man
in a hat from Operation Daybreak.

he whispered "if you have anyone
who will be interested to be an agent,
let me know"
I thought of IB agent.

then I left thanking him.
later i looked at his visiting card.
he was an agent, LIC agent. 
Oh July!
you rain on me again tonight
You still remember Thangjam Manorama
and the night of July she was picked up
from her house by 17th Assam Rifles
to rape and murder..
Do you think you can wash that memory?
Do you think you can wash away the 23rd of July
from BT Road's memories?
Do you think you can cloth the mothers?
Do you think you can extinguish the fire on Chittaranjan's body?
It is too late
You bring only memories
to haunt a helpless man's sleepless nights

July is a lie
To the roses waiting for butterflies
But for the frogs
It is everything they dream of..
I heard one of them in my garden
Croaking and rhyming;
"How silly are your thoughts
Just like the toad
I once was, oh folks!
Don't you know its monsoon?
You dont need to water the Khongdrum"

When Mr President was about to come
They hit me abusing my moustache
telling me i have not done anything good
When there was a fire at Thangal Bazar
They hit me again for no reason
And when is the next time?
I am waiting eagerly to derive a poem,
as folks say everything happens three times

Her Glasses

I miss cleaning your glasses,
My town is so dusty,
Everytime i am out in the street,
i think this must be how
My darling sees the world
 Through  her unclean glasses