bleed generation

We sat the evening in a park
with Sanjit's body and Rabina's chappals
with no key to a room
we were stranded like rats in a crowded city road
we sat with one kilogram of chicken
with one royal stag bottle.
we waited for any room to be opened
to house our tired souls
and the fake encounter
we didn't know how to handle
as we have seen so much of it
or read or discussed in many useless
conversation that lasted like
a burning of a mantu bidi

we measured our past
with many pegs of whiskey and vodka
we sang a victim's song
we fed ourselves everything we couldn't digest
we shot the night
peeling the streets of Delhi
and reached Gurgaon
among the skyscrapers
we were the ants
we were the drunken ants
who forgot to move
we were the witches
that rode brooms...
leaving behind our roots to the poet
who desires it sitting in the clouds of Meghalaya


again we sat in a field
the naked dead poet chased the roaring planes
the painter threw his phone
to a canvas of black holes.
our urinal telepathy led us to a bush
and the dawn broke
and it was drizzling with our little pissing
the city was rained with our territorial pissing
we dipped our poems
in the sweet cups of tea

we all forgot
where was the dead bodies
when we saw each other
when the first rays of sun struck our ugly
little drunk faces
and we laughed plucking the tiny white flowers
if white was the symbol of peace
then i plucked enuf white
that my land would turn into white ashes

we kept on riding, driving
as we knew we are the Bleed Generation