19th November, 2010

I have a friend who is a poetry maniac
He married on the day the dead poet released his latest book
on the day a school girl was crushed to dead on tiddim road
on the day he gave me a poetry titled "Khungee huranba"

those faces on his wedding day he said he saw them as incomplete poetry
started by some amateur poets and left when the town was called out on the field
for another routine combing operation.
The short story writer too came riding an old hero bicycle chewing kom kwa
i took pictures of him and posted in on the wall's of many bourgeois pig
who wanted gratitude of the puppies and fishes they raised in the soil of a rotten valley
filled with corpses and male whores who happily sold off their dicks for few thousands
to any political parties

On the day, the fields were bald with flames burning down the piles of hays
the bullock cart driven by the lady clad in torn phanek with khudei around their heads
chattered away the tiredness under the sun with smiles and as the can whipped the bulls

On the day, the warm alcohol washed the bitter poetry from my throat of my past lover
at Oinam Kabui Khun with a man who owns a fish farm
On the day i saw a broken bicycle leaning against a broken wall
with few boiled peas on my aluminium plates
with a whiskey bottle filled with local liquors with a bollywood tits behind my back

November is long gone now
and my friend he thinks he can;t feed poetry to his kid
unlike me who think i can feed it to anyone i hate or love