Street Poet

Embrace me Burma!

Burma, if you have a heart
Embrace me please
I have stopped looking at my own shoes
Now I look beyond these lofty mountains
I see nothing in them except a handful of useless dust
I stop looking towards west
To me it is all just a waste
I stop leaning on India
Delhi crushed me among its sky scrapers and dtc buses
Mumbai left me stranded in the railway tracks
Bangalore didn’t let me smoke at my own will
Kolkata is too much of mouth revolution.
And we have been the niggers of India;
Read Pacha and Samarendra.

Burma if you need a lover
That’s me
Embrace me
kiss me please
Let me spread my wings in your poppy field
Let me sail in your smallest river with all my songs
Let me cry out all the tear that I save in this punctured heart
Let me shit out what I have eaten
I have eaten what have not grown in my land
I ate hilsha from Barak River
I ate wheat that grows in Uttarpradesh
I slept on the mattress that was made in Delhi
I sang Guthrie and Pete Seeger
I wear VIPs
I drank 8pm of Haryana at 8am in morning
i danced in the song of Indian Ocean
i climbed the Western Ghats with Iranians
I smoked the dry leaves of Manali
Still I was my own man standing alone
Singing “Ema Nangumbi Leite”
Now, I can’t praise my land with my poverty
Now I need a new land that gives food

Burma, Le me see your prison
And makes me feel I suffer less
Less than your outlaws and criminals
I was told you dump your criminals
In a Polang like chickens in Chingmeirong Bazaar
Burma, embrace me
Let me wear that bamboo hat
Like famers that farm everything
You will not regret to be my lover
No great poets write a line for your Tamu
And cheap sex inside your wooden cabin.
But I do, if you don’t believe me
Look at e-pao.net
You will find me whistling singing;
“Go fuck yourself with your AFSPA”
Along the Indo-Myanmar border.

Burma, Let me be a drug lord
Let me wear those golden chains
Let me measure the angles of Golden Triangle
Let me smack cocaine, let me smell you
Let me bleed out all this blood
That this heart churns breathing oxygen
That comes out from death and all these fake revolution.

Burma, Just give me a shelter
You are the closest to me.
I love no monks except the seven year old monk
I even hate U2’s song on Aung Sang Su kyi
I don’t know what the freedom fighters do in your Jungles
I haven’t heard about a hero of guerrilla warfare
Who emerges from your jungle.
But I know what I can do with myself
If you provide me a shelter and a guitar
A blank page and a poppy flower.
Burma, just embrace me
You will find me very fine

Embrace me Burma!

ode to yongchak

It is already february
and no more cold in the capital
and you arrived here
...wearing an overcoat
or is that a bullet proof jacket?
but there are not stray bullets in the capital
only rapist
and they wont know how to rape you
as they lack taste of good things in life

Blink on an eye

Evening fades under my door

I can see from my bed

night comes just like the husband

with the empty tiffin with no new stories

i blink my eyes

the clock strikes 4am

and i stand naked at my balcony

lighting a smoke

and then a smoke again

the last stick lights the sky

and the sun rises

as i fall back to my bed

with Dharma Bums

November, December, January

flew away with few poems

some written some unwritten

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

ode to my neighbor

my neighbor is kind.
whenever i feel there is nothing sweet
in my life
he will bring me a hot sweet cup of tea

he will get me movies
for my sleepless nights
he will lend me his camera
to capture my happy moments
with my sisters and friends
against the backdrop
of this depressing city

half kilo of pork
he will save for me
in his refrigerator
even in my absence

many time when i thought my breakfast is death
after reading online news of my home
he brings me eggs and beacon

sometime he would ask me about love
that i had in my kitchen cooking pork or beef
i would say "i dont know, Tabish, you believe in theory of evolution?
it is evolving"

my neighbor is sweet
he will laugh reading Calvin and hobbes
and would say "Calvin is sweet
but dont wanna own a child like him"
he will talk of Obelix beating romans
and Asterix falling in love with Cleopatra

He reads Ghalib in urdu
like he was left alone
empty in the streets of delhi
drunk and wasted

My neighbor is kind and sweet
everytime he sees my broken cups and plates
he will buy me new ones
Once he gave me the book
"Jonathan Livingston seagull "
but the book is gone and i never learnt a thing from it

He too loves haiku

Come come

The tooth brush is gone

and no more tooth paste

please come back

“one of the great joys in life

is to brush someone's hair”

please come back

two unwashed black panties

and a pink short boxer

please come back

the silver ring misses the thumbs

Gorky cries to be back with Tom Joad

Please come back

drunk or not

winner or loser

please come back

sex, spears

or Shakespeare, i dont care

please come back.

I have taken bath with rose water

soften and sweeten my lips with honey

please come back

curly or wavy or straight or coffee or tea

next to him or next to love, dont care

Please come back

i have got a brand new hindu god

on my walls with dates of this year

please come back

No more poetry or protest

no more songs only your thongs

please come back

“30,000 Brus who had fled to tripura

during 1997 violence are now on their way back to mizoram”

please come back

About the sticky stuffs of hills

shhhhhhh! whisper as secret

Please come back

Free sweet tea are being served

in disposable glasses tagged with “Free Binayak Sen”

please come back

you dont see it, it is raining

please stand inside my shoes

please come back

my tear, a drop of water on sand dust,

my fear, you would say so

please come back

At Jantar Mantar

I was summer in this winter without you

please come back

before they make a statue of me

for this endless wait like that of Hachiko's

Please come back

the borrowed warm air blower

blew out warm poetry on my cold thighs

please come back

A brand new sewing machine has arrived,

It wants to stitch you a colorful petticoat,

please come back

Thom Yorke in my woofer woofing;

“i dont wanna be your freind, just wanna be your lover”

please come back

those piles of clothes in the shop near my place

they miss your touch and smile

Please come back

Sweet mango shaped breasted ladies all around

but no heart underneath the breasts

please come back

Prostitution is a good business

come my penis is on sale

please come back

The armies have gone

deserting the cemetery for lovers

please come back

Im better than Prodigy

i sing of you your land your beauty

please come back

James franco failed to be Ginsberg

but i can ..see “Go fuck your self with America or Siberia”

please come back

the pianist don't own a grand piano

just like i dont own a gun to dream of death

please come back

Im a dancing black swan

from Africa from Hollywood from Imphal

please come back

you don't need me like anyone else

but today is my day

please come back

today is my day my day my day

Lets march in the streets like peasants on May day

please come back

keep me in your prison

feed me your attrocities

please come back

the portugese singer sings my heart beats

unknown to me in portugese

please come back

Even Elvis meets Walt Whitman

Even Einstein meets Ibopishak

Please come back

Nivedita Menon wants me to sing

standing upon the hairy chest of Nehru

Please come back

bought a family pack tooth paste

along with a free tooth brush

please come back

Yoko writes no Haiku

She knitted Peace with her toes on Lennon's pelvic gardle

please come back

the painter is fucking fine and great

his girl friend is a flower

please come back

the sky refuses to be in my pocket notepad

it underestimates the small blankness of the page

please come back.

“$ kirikou is tiny but mighty $”

Kirikou Kirikou, give me back Kabara

please come back

rhyme my body my name my life with yours

Hachiko

No one waits for things

only dogs wait

only fools like Samuel Beckett

wrote about it

So shall i stop and fly away

English booze and beer available here

cooking poems in my pressurised head

covered by my unwashed hairs

and unwashed hood of my unwashed jacket

i walked along the footpath

scented by smell of burnt tadoori rotis

it was evening

and as usual my legs walked till it dropped me

at where the angel has captivated my heart

all the heavenly smell i smelt

all the heavenly sweat i could sense in my tongue

Like the rapists of delhi all over a poor manipuri girl,

the rickshaw pullers, the bus conductors,

the suited booted capitalist pricks and me

were fighting crushing each other's balls

For the Crazy Romeo Rum

some to wipe the days off

some to join to mourn

some like any one else

and me to sleep

Everyone was a crooked version of Shakespeare's Romeo

Everyone was a fighter,

no one could move anyone

we were as firmed as mountains

for the English Booze made in Uttar Pradesh

Screams and shouts!

as if we all had just listened to

“Stop Whispering”

I knew it , i knew it

i would be last one to get the last bottles

the qoute or the song remains the same

and i walked out from that mad rushing crowd

with two Sikkims in my both Manipuri hands

one for the evening

again one for evening

and the poetry i cooked was

“Im recording silence”

that too a stolen line from '24 Hours Party People'

this morning

I heard the morning sweeper
sweeping like a brush stick on the drums
by a jazz musician
I heard my neighbor's alarm
like an ambulance
on some midnight street
carrying a half dead man.
I felt a poetry at the nib
of my ink less pen
I heard silence crying goodbye
sitting on my staircase
as i broke it with my cough
I heard my sister talking
in her dream to me
"Brother, you dont need to be the man"
I felt the cold of dead corpses
in the poetry book
"Waking is Another Dream",
(Corpses of Sri Lankan Tamils)
I saw the foot prints of Goddess Emoinu
upon my naked chest
I heard the old woman
from my ktchen window
cursing her sons
as the milk steamed away
as i stirred the coffee
with a spoonful of hot water
I saw the morning getting readied
to come out of the hole of my pena
like a mouse
I heard the writer whispering
on her dead bed
"This land is my father's"
I heard me telling me
"recover my holy child"
I heard all the lovers snoring
on each other's face
i saw my bed carrying away
the marks of my back
I felt this poetry can never be complete
as another morning awaits me

The Yellow Dawn and The Coffee Mug as She named

Like The light on the cup
wish i could cup your chin
with my dirty hands and tell you
I want you
..............................
I started it all giving you this yellow cup
and now you end it gving me back its fotograph
but the yellow hasnt changed a bit
except the yellow pillow drenched in my tear
..............................
you did yell
and it echoes back
pounding my heart into dust
............................
I was called a beauty with no face
I was called a Man with no heart
but today im just mad bout you

Ode to Africa

Africa in every drop of ink

from the nibs of pens

Africa on pages

Africa on the stage

Africa in every drop of sweat of farmers

Africa streaming down in the river of words from Himalaya

Africa in my valley

Africa on my bank reciept

Africa in the lips of Sabitri

Africa in the poem of Pakistani poet

Africa in my dream

Africa in my book shelve

Africa inside the hole of my acoustic guitar

Africa in museum

Africa in newspaper

Broken Things

The city stood still.

broken men and women at bus stop

waiting for broken buses

that collapsed long before

the red light pole collapsed

broken people stood still

“People are poles”-

unbroken glasses whispered

I asked the plumber

to fix my water tape

and he said “but who will fix a broken man”

I asked the cobbler

to mend their boots

and he said “ but who will mend

the broken hearts underneath their fine suits ”

the broken singer sings

“the river of warmth from your eyes

are not to keep your cheeks warm

but to remind 'you are broken'

broken like everything else is broken ”

I asked the poet

to write a poem of my broken cellphone

and he said “but who will write of this broken country

which send poets for trial for writing of broken things”

I asked the lover

to teach me how to fall in love

and he said “Can't fall twice as a whole,

if once it is broken”

I asked the coal miner

to give me some coal to burn

and he said “it wont get burn under the broken sky

under the broken roof of yours,

the rain will leak, your destiny is here with this coldness”

I asked the revolutionary

to teach me how to revolt against this broken justice

and he said “Revolution too is broken into peices.

only they are in books or in the lips of those bearded faces”

I asked the cook

to cook me pork

and he said “the pressure cooker is broken

the plates, the spoons are broken too”

I asked the dog

to bark at broken things so that i know they are broken

but he barks back at me

as if it was me

who collected all the broken things

of this city,

who made a portrait of himself

with broken things

January Blues

The professors, they keep writing good books
and the singers , they sing old american blues
and im worrying bout money to pay the dues
my landlady not at all she is cute

my kitchen tape leaks like it is pouring rain
As life leaks away as i remember WH Auden
when ever i have headche and worries bout life
“Oh It cant be life, the picture can't be my wife”

My skin is thick even for this coldest winter
but my thesis is too thin, I can't be a winner
yet i wrap around my neck the used mufflar
And walk like a handsome man in Manchester

Summer's gone but somethng bout it is caught in spiderweb
like a helpless fly, but i feel not so bad or sad.
The pickle of colors from the jar, listening to Dylan's Joey,
I apply on my body, no im not trying to David Bowie

the coins make noise
as the bullet hits the child in joy
It is the voice of innocence
robbed by violence

the hot sweet cup of tea turns cold
in the callousness of my thoughts
my colorful friend in orange hat comes so bold
He abuses the country calling it a fraud

The french philosopher was not funny at all
but few laughed like they were doing him a favour
and the post-talk tea was good, even the woman in shawl
and the pakoras on my plate said “Politics of Nature??”

Strolling down the narrow lanes of Darya Ganj
I look for a better capo of my life to enhance my soul
They were too expensive, more than the air gun
Then, across the road i saw a wine shop

Again my broken phone LCD beeps
calling me once again to Jantar Mantar
to sing out the heart beats India has skipped
So here I am whether it is summer or winter

“Im getting wiser day by day
as i m getting poorer day by day”
I sing out loud with the father of two girls
and he says “Godamned Renaissance!”

new year day

Happy New year

It is a freezing saturday afternoon

The red roses are blooming at traffic lights

The lovers have gone away from the citylight

the poets are busy greeting their friends

everyone is a singer, the voices crack soulful melody

out of such lifeless lives...

Dancing Dancers all around

inside the rooms, in the streets

in the campuses, in me

The coffee mug is filled with whiskey

the man across the buidling greets'

“Happy New year”

“Same to you”

the popcorn popper sprinkles white

like snow from the sky

and the smell too

and the children stands in queue.

At INA market

The big knife chops slice after slice of pork

and lovers walk away with it

some like to have it mustard

some like it simple

some like it with bamboo shooth

happy new year

i say to my blanket

and wrap up myself

and watch the silent Scarlet Johannson

guava

The first bite of this season's guava

I thought i would have wth you

But it was so cheap today evening

it was ten ruppees per kilogram

so i had one big one all alone

sprinkling salt all over it

as i strolled the evening

looking for spring onion

Talking Guitar

Everytime I cough
My guitar that leans on my wall
next to my pillow,
makes a sound
that tells me;
"You have been coughing since November
It must be tuberculosis
dont kiss your lover"

To Venus

apples in your pocket
potatoes in mine
and the year about to fall off from its branch
drunk men in front of mother diary, dance
and we become grasshoppers
...hoping good for every smokers
some may term us as PEACE LOVER
but we are simply Life Lover :)

Ode to 2010

It is raining.

Lovely rain I must say.

Farewell Tears from the sky

as another year shall pass away

like an old man in his dying bed

remembering faces of his love ones

And you, my friends,

How dare you toss off your cocktails

at such time with joy and laughter?

Be pateint!

You can giggle

in the jingle jangle morning of 1^st January.

To Her

For the heart you broke

i don't care

but for the pressure cooker handle you broke

i wont forgive you

Let me....

let this be the last with your name

let the memories drain down with my puke

let me not know the time through this wrist watch

let me think of her as faceless as beauty

Let this morning be gone amnesiac

Let the new year begins on a warm bed

with no wrikles on its bed sheet from last night

Let me be a working class poet

not someone who is so love sick

let me not drink again to cry and wake her up

from my sleeping mind just to curse

let me be the happy song for my own next song

let my tambourine crash like christmas carol

and shake my legs over a peg of life

let me fall in love once again with everything

Let me kiss all the happy dry lips of girls

Confession of a drunk Men

I was drunk
that's why i sang laughing
talking to the girls of dead brothers

I was drunk
in my torn jeans
that's why i sat down on the stair
inside the bus
that's why they laughed at me
like i was a beggar

I was drunk
that's why i lied
so they dropped me at the bus stop
at 6am on 26th December

I was drunk
so i leaned on the fog
getting away of the smoke
from that filthy mouth

I was drunk
so i hid the morning and its coldness
under my skull cap
and brought it home
and slept with it
till it turned into a lonely evening

I was drunk
and i was singing my senses
so they wanted to take me to Silchar
and i said “I want to go to bangladesh too”

I was drunk
that's why i forgot Jesus on Christmas
that's why i was friends of all the drunk men

I was drunk
but i didn't slip off the chair
but the lady in wollen cap
she thought i did it
and she got her forehead swollen

I was drunk
that's why i cried standing
inside the DTC bus
cursing you all for no reason

I was drunk
that's why i gave away music chords of my heart
free to everyone i knew
to everyone who was drunk

The Body

Carry it with tender and love

don't drag it, dont drop it.

while he was walking for home

you let him down

with your bullets, with your cruelty

at least show the body some respect

even if you failed to see him as human being

while he was alive .

Close his eyes, please.

He doesnt want to see this world anymore.

The Dreamer's Death

Death has been calling me up

as the height of insomnia is higher than ITO building

I even refuse poetry this time.

Earlier, like a gluttonous dog

I waited for poems while cooking

while shitting ,while making love

while protesting, while swallowing taste of love

Then poetry refused me.

Now I refuse them

Like i no longer believe in them

or in expressing my feelings

like my own fucked up generation.

I have told this little world

i have seen that

“i can be good like anyone else

I can build a castle like nation with my own sweats

Just let me breathe at my own will”

but they left me calling me a dreamer,

protester, loser, etc.

Here Im again

death raping me from back

thinking of how another night

i shall bear with nameless poems

that i would eventually trash away

like cigarrete butts inside the empty tea cup

Here Im again thinking of nothing

but death that they call suicide

Blurry scene came up while rolling and tossing

under my dusty blanket:

my late drunken neighbor stabbing his daughters

one after another

sometime it was me stabbed

and shivering in naked wth steamy opened body

upon a table with fables bleeding away

from my opened heart...

and the scissors slowly cut away the brightness

from my sight.

I was wrong to think

unnatural death comes only with bullets

but it comes too with insomnia

as cheap as my own poems

To cry for other is easy

(i have done it many times)

but to cry for yourself

you need blood to stream away from your wrist

you don't need tears

you need to rope your neck

and hang yourself like

the Rajasthani puppets hanging on my wall.

that would be a great piece of art.

Yes! my death should be an art piece to look at for others

my body shall decompose till tumites

And ants get inside the bones and suck away the bone marrows.

News of my death shall fly or run wild like brimming rivers

“Such a coward he was, how could he do that?”

my fellow poets must write odes to my death

my parents shall recieve my body in pine-wood coffin

with a live music band that can play “Vodoo Child”

my guitar must play blues on its own

my neighbor shall miss me while he makes tea

The book seller at New Friends Colony must wonder why i disappear suddenly

my land must mourn for me as i have mourned enough for it

my lover must cry like lovers in my song “North East Express”

my friends must be sleepless at least for a night

my homosexual friends must know i was not homophobic

my ghost must camp in Paris, like a hippy who lost his way, just to fulfill my dreams

my ghost must visit Ginsberg's grave and recite “Ginsberg, Akhu has given you all”

my ghost must find peace travelling in Japan,

writing real haiku cheering every glass of wine in the name of Basho

in snowy winters wearing kimonu

My ghost must rob the banks and spray money in the streets

my Ghost must wear my wrist watch and tell them

my songs must be sung by my friends Abung, Nila and Hero

whenever they drink in my remembrance...

“we don't need rules or laws or acts to live in peace”

“you don't need money to live your life, (call me a dreamer once again)”

“you got to be stubborn to be a dreamer”

“You don't need to be loved to know what is love”

In one of many sleepless nights

I needed lips to kiss

so i kiss Sylvia's tulip

that has been lying next to my bed for weeks

and her death find its way to me

So here Im

Fantasizing death.

Born to die: Boooooooo!

We were born to die

but why in the streets

why with the bullets

boo the armies

boo the bullets

boo the bombs

we were born to die

baby let me love you

before they take me away

boo away the hatred

boo away my drunkeness

boo away your sadness

we were born to die

but i dont wanna die under their boots

you were born to die

you wanna live till your skin withers

till your ears are deaf enuf

to miss your lover's whisper

like a flag after a storm

we were born to die

whether rich or poor

dont think twice

you can't be young forever

you can't write a song twice

but you can sing it hundred times

so while living such a life

protest hundred times

against the marching boots

Snatch freedom from the flying flags in air

make a human chain against the barbed wire

they said "dont dream anymore

You have lived long enough with your dream"

If this is dream

I better not cry for all the things i love

I better cry for the silent mountains

why should i waste my sweat

in my own dreams of waste

fuck your reality!

Im gonna pluck poetry from the sky

Im gonna sing my cries

like a lullaby to this world of yours

You sleep Baby sleep

sleep with your reality

let me dream with my arms wide opem

let me dream with my eyes wide open

days and nights

Let me dream with the smell of gunpowder

Carry On

Carry on

wrong winter

This time winter goes so wrong

like my own song

There are no warm hands

inside my pockets

Only the lifeless christmas stars

twinkling desperately to catch

the eyes, whose eyes i dont know.

But not mine for sure.

lousingba

Pic: with Lousingba's Ema

Lousingba
I have never remembered you
like i remember you at this dawn
It has been almost a year
that you passed away
leaving us alone at this age of violence and injustice,

now you are right here in front of me
telling me those stories of our lives
i thought
how irrelavant those sweet childhood memories
were in my life of protest?
I even said often to my friends Life is too short for simple things
but now when i look back for home
it is you and your presence at my home
in those sunny morning of imphal
that i can feel.
Lousingba
i realise now in our land
all that we can share is love
and those sweet memories
I will give your parents the warmest hug i ever can
I will never forget you as long i live.

december eight /3.55 am

December comes
and i know u feel colder than any one
come my love drink my blood
it is luke warm.
all my blood for you

the girl, i gave my blood to,
has got married and settled in America
now it is all for you
fill your veins with it
Let me replace it with wine and your love
Let me walk the empty night roads of delhi
Let me write of wine and love only
like Ghalib

Once i sat next to Ghalib's statue in a summer evening
and the lovers, they read out his poetry
and you came to leave me alone

since the day i hate to see the rickshaw puller
and you popped up on the very plate of shawarma
and i gave up loving you

but tonite Im sleepless
as it is gettng colder and colder
hope you are lying in some one's arms to keep you warm
hope you are not sleepless like me

Thank You for all these sweet memories
I will cherish them till this body withers
and fall into the coffin
Thank you tomba!

Oh Sister! (to Irom Sharmila)

Oh Sister!
They dump you in Jawaharlal Nehru hospital
Because when Nehru discovered India
you were not born
and today you give a new meaning of this country
protesting calmly on the hospital bed,
Nose feeding back them 'how democratic India can be'

Oh Sister!
your silence is the marching song
against the marching soldiers

Oh Sister
They will crumble one day like rubbles
into your feet.
They will cry for peace someday before they die.
Let this world drown in your tears
Of ten years.

A Night's sketch with my Kaboklei

We started it all with whispers
at midnight under the blanket
like a mosquito singing Jana Gana Mana
we got louder and louder
like the whistling local trains at dawn.

Like a black and white movie in flashback
like Tarantino's Pulp Fiction
we jumped to shots
which we loved to talk about
Forexample, you said i brushed your breast with my arm
and i said you brushed your breast on my arms
but my cuban second hand jacket sealed away
the softness and mildness of that evening wind

“Is this love?
Or
Is this “Like”?”-
My torn mosquito net sings everynight
I just nod to its rhythm

we walked away to the foothills
(hand in hand )
that joins with the paddy field
and sat on the divider
and you covered your head from the sun
with your shinny disco jacket
while i peeled the sweetest Nobap in Manipur

we shed our clothes and looked at ourselves
like no other animals have looked at themselves
and we convinced ourselves
we are as nature as a grain of paddy.
And we pollinate
You down, I up, as you wish
the wind stops, the world shuts up, as we wish

we wrote fables of our nipples
no history of blood
no hate from past
as if i have flushed them down to dirty yamuna river
and you whispered
“I wish you could do that ”

you, like a child in sleep,
like a blind witch,
murmur away our love
composing lines after lines
like an overdosed poet
quoting my silly behaviours
reminding how stupid i can be
when i m no longer a poet
When i have goonighted to the poet in Akhu
when i goodnight to you every night
with my dirty fingers over my poor naked cellphone

O Kaboklei!
The crab has find its part in Basho's haiku
The khudei has got its starch and wrinkle of our love
The ducks, Dylan has made them drunk in his songs
The fields have had our eggs and cream
Last night i saw you in the film robin hood
Galloping towards me with all your armour of love
I just missed to kiss you

O Kaboklei!
Where are our twelve children?
The Sun is gonna sink amidst the cloud of your wavy black hair
We shall 'goodnight' our children
before we send away them to all the districts as saints of love
we shall greet them “Happy Birthday”
As we give birth to love every day and night
Happy Birthday!

sweet rage

thoiba, stand in queue

get a litre a petrol

I already have got one litre of petrol

after standing four hours in queue

once you get it

you burn from Ukhrul

I will burn from Imphal

lets make ashes out of this land

keep the good ones on right side

keep the bad ones on left side

and burn the bad ones

burn the divide

burn the assembly hall once again

burn their play cards

burn burn burn

i need a new land where i can walk free

where i can ride my bike without driving licence

Ode to My Kaboklei

She wants to be a poet
to write me love sonnets
as she knows all i have is poetry
to offer to this world of misery

she held my hand took me to the lane
of the angry poet who searched for the sun
in a pool of blood that stream down
from the chest of his dead son

I held her wrist like she is mine
like a gentle man holding a glass of fine wine
and walked under that noisy evening sky
while the wind whispered “ this is not a goodbye”

Wake up! wake up!
She shakes my body
and makes me laugh away my nightmares
my borken heart, she stitches sharing the thread
she has on her left chest

Yet sometimes we pretend like strangers
and tell each other “we are going no where”
and next moment we say “It was a joke”
and we smile in bytes showing our face like frogs

we fall in love knowing we can't fall in love with each other
manytimes i feel we can be two helpless protagonists of one of GC Tongbra's plays
we live like dancers, we dance so much when we dance

Chewing Pan she roamed in the streets of Shillong
carrying her stitched heart as heavy as jackfruit
when I called her, she said “you taste like kangsoi”
and she giggled and my heart as wet as Cherrapunji

^&#$%^&

Shall i die tonite
for all the things I love?
It seems they have waved goodbye to me
this evening.
The paddy fields, they have harvested.
The song for her, I could not sing
The poetry I love, they hate

This night wind is singing out of tune
Like an air cooler of Indian Summer
I see no more soldiers in streets but dogs and wolves
I wanna go blind and deaf
I wish i can write this poetry better
I wish i can make you love all like i love you all

On the Death of Poet A. Ayyappan

In this country of pigheads
You have taught me how to die, Ayyappan!
O poets of my times
Listen to Ayyappan's death
This is your destiny if you believe in speaking
The unspoken words of this fucked up world
This is my own death with my last poem in my torn pocket
which has never cupped a ruppee from the hands of any pigheads

Ayyappan, what were the words of your last poem?
Were they as depressing as Yesenin's last words?
Who smudged the words,
Was that this corrupt wind of this Indian Autumn
Which carries the smell of death from the valley of Kashmir?

Ayyappan, I will never die for this country.
Ayyappan, Were you another Pacha Meitei?

..............................

Note: A Ayyappan was a noted Malayam modernit poet. He was found in an unconscious state on 25th Oct, evening in front of a theatre in THIRUVANANTHAPURAM with a poem in his pocket. He died later in hospital

Unhappy

How insane is that to say

I am going to commit suicide

just because I read the last poem of Maya?

and Im no longer nervous

like lovers inside the bus

And i have never sold myself to a god or church

I'm alone and busy finding myself alone

O Poets of my times!

Who told you

These mountains dont sing

They sing in pebbles, my kind of fables

of being loved and used and thrown

Clear you ears, Poets!

they are filled with voices of fearness.

Let me mourn for a while

The cat has stopped drinking my milk

The dog has gone mad and never gonna bark at me

Let me mourn till the morning comes

and welcome me to my bed

Long ago a mosquito kissed at my eyes

whispering “im taking away your sleep from your eyes”

since then i have been awake and hungry

and every where i look around

I see unhappy people

some are aiming through a broken lens of telescope

some are listening to humanity through the broken stethoscopes

Unhappy people, they make me unhappy

Unhappy Artists, they make me grow my moustache

Unhappy singers, they make me sick

Unhappy lovers, They make me see filling forms

Little Angel

The dawn breaks with the music of Pena
and the voice follows haunting the valley
"an ode to our rich culture and tradition"
and the corrupt sky cries its tears upon my tin roof
but who can stop the sun rising

And I wonder
what that little angel must be doing
she must be sleeping?
Has she chaged her torn clothes?
did they give her dinner?
Do they love her enough
not to make me love her?
I don't know

But let this rain be the tears
that she will shed in future

Come Back Haikhohat Samte

The bamboo shoots were sprouting
Oh! But the July moon died
In the cloud of gun smoke
The rifles getting readied to bang more
To tear the innocence apart
And there you came alone
Passing through different colors of their flags
Passing from Burma border into India
To find the remnants of your home
Where once you collected firewood

Now there you are collecting memories
To remember you had a home
With cattle and poultry
To listen to your evening songs
Now you breathe gun powder
And fumes from the ashes of your burnt house
Now a bullet hit your spine
Leaving you paralyzed on the hospital bed.

Oh! The day I heard about you, Haikhohat Samte
They told me you died three years back
But I’m not a newspaper to forget you and your story
Let me remember you whole of my life
Let me smell the stink till I see
Their bullets melting in your father’s tears.
And let this poem be a bullet to rip this rotten land apart.

Come back! Haikhohat Samte
Where is the plastic pipe that fitted to your urinary tract
Let’s fit it to this land
Stream them away like larva from a volcano
Where is the blanket that covers you
And the foul smell of your half dead body?
Let’s cover this land with the blanket
And upon it we will grow a new land for you

Ode to Moreh candle

my poetry shines at night through your flame
inside the mosquito net
you dont even care what color it wears
like you are being there as a prostitute.

when the crimson sky fades
with revolution in black market
you emerge out of bamboo shoots and Ngafak
from every small keithels scented with Uhmorock

Mother cooks in your light
Father search for his alcohol scented sons
in your light
from the thatch roof of small huts in hill
you shine on against the darkness of sky

I am gonna burn another you
to see how long this dark night is
is it longer than my poetry of petrol blues?
is it shorter than my song of dream?

Shine on! teach them to burn their weakness
like you burn your wicks showing the light in you

Home Coming

When no seeds
answer to the drought
I will be the cloud
above Nongmaiching
from my foot steps
paddy fields will rise
the rodents will drown
in my sweat of dance.

Im coming home
to be the monsoon
Open your thirsty mouth
Let the scars of hunger
in your skin be washed
Let the hills cup me
around the holes of dying pine trees
Let the sky thunder
to quieten your selfish desire
Let the rainbow emerge
to fold the colour of the past, forever

I'm coming home
get the empty vessels and fields cleaned
Im coming home to spread myself
at Tidim road watching the green pastures
that pave from the hills that kiss the sky

excuse me!
Im coming home
leave my way unblocked

let me roll like the way i want
I was born yesterday
i don't give a fuck about day before yesterday
all i care is about rain
and my friends
that are starving

let me hold your hands
there is not a handful of sand
in my hand to show you fear
all i have is an empty wide open arms

Play the Music Loud

Play the music loud
who cares whether they are loading guns
or filling their sacks with golds
roll your smoking paper my freinds
and light it with flames and smokes
there is fire everywhere
dont worry for matchsticks in the land of torch

Play the music loud
No one wants to hear ur scream of cold turkey
Let;s put a curtain here and make it invisible
No one wants to see you banging the doors
No one wants to help you put the ladder on your bed

Play the music loud
Your story is complicated and they hate it
they have no solution for your future
there is no such thing as being a good son

All you have is your generation
squatting by the roadside
fixing their eyes in the lost air of innocence
searching for something to replace their anger

All u have is your generation
smacking their own madness
suffocating in their own vomit

Play the music loud
and look at the windshields of the army trucks

and Hallucinate what you deserve
Once a while you need to be served

Hallucinate what you are not
Once a while you need to be someone else

Hallucinate to be the flag in air
Once a while you need to feel the freedom

Hallucinate to be the names on the tombstones
once a while you need to be a hero

Play the music loud
Scream against this society

Spit at the holes of their guns
throw your fist in the air
Clean yourselves with their memorandums
blow off your nose against their propagandas

Play the music loud
Worry not for those actors and liars and killers.
For all the things they have done
they will be gone
Leaving their homes soak in their own blood
They will be flown like rain
leaving their homes wet

Play the music Loud
Dance inside your canvas shoes
leave the leather shoes for the ones who sing fake blues
You dont need their injection
to look handsome

You don't need their guns
just to say you are lonesome
You dont want to be a good son
for they will demand a ransom
You belong to this generation
to not make a bow at the dead sons
but to cry out loud your existence
from your heart with bloodfull of veins

Play the music loud
don't bother by the clowns in the circus
the stuntmen in suits are jumping
from chair to chair

Play your music loud
The music from the speakers of Television is a lie
the music in the big theater is a fraud
the music in the music stores are for them
who don't have a mouth
The music they call classical will never speak for you
Your mouth is the best speaker for you
Sing with your tongue
don't just hum!
Lick the society's cunt
taste it! face it! chase it!

Play the music Loud
there is no charm in such silence
in such confused face like yours
dont bother by the fights
They are fighting for lands
when they need a space of one square feet to stand
and a seven feet to become ashes
Let them grow the walls of brick
Now stupidity and insanity is part of humanity
Play the music loud
Play the music loud

such night

Unnoticed Lives in sweat
curled up and falling
on the push carts
under the moonlight
like cucumbers in daytime
on the same push carts,

me and my love saw them
after the dead poet departed us
at the crossroad
leaving the taste of dead fish
in our tongue

and the gate of home
refused us
but i opened it
with a plastic rope
while she like a kid
was riding the scooter
looking at the side glass
for the nose she pierced
and we rode down
together on the highway to love

and the ladies were singing to the goddess
and so we sang together the beauty
and love of such night

economic blockade

A football was crushed by a highway truck
Economic Blockade!
A mosquito collides with the windshield wiper
Economic Blockade!
A bullock cart bang on an old Banyan tree
Economic Blockade!

O Manipur!
don't think of going back to school,
as you lack good education,
because the schools are closed
O Manipur!
if you have stones in your gall bladder
don't go for surgery
there is no oxygen
and ICU too have been closed

The crest is for him, the trough is for them
but they don't know they are in the same wave
Economic Blockade!
The church greets them, and The tulsi leaves greet him
"Good Morning"
Economic Blockade!

O Manipur!
dont think you can go off to see your lover
dont think you can ride the bike down the road
to get away from this 'You or Me'
because the petrol price hikes to 150rs per litre

Don't think you can cook bamboo shoots
to remind them they have something common
because one LPG cylinder costs 1500rs

O Manipur!
dont think you can get away
Your name is not in Schindler's List
dont think you can get away
riding that brand new Hero bicycle
There are Bicycle Theives too
and don't think you can read the story
of your stolen bicycle in newspaper
because there are no papers left to print your news paper.

India has cut you off
Feel the freedom that you wanted, demanded.
Economic Blockade!

I can't name it

Dying in the streets
and leaking out lives through blood
under the boots
or in the great fucking clatters of firing bullets
is part of being a Manipuri

I never learn this in my text books
I never see this in movies
I witnessed them with my own my eyes
crawling under the barricades at Sanjenthong
while the AK rifles were singing their songs
spraying death in air I breathed

Now you feel it on the very highway
which you think is your kingdom
where the history of head huntings had been written
But the truth is now you and me are brothers
Now you are embraced by the Police bullets
Now i see you block the road
not only by digging the road
or chopping down the faithful trees
but using the faneks of your ladies
Where do you learn it from?

Now the rumour spreads
like tumour in the sick brain
but the humour is
it is just another Indian summer story

we are left alone
to be the beasts of the highway
to make you hunt my head
to make me chop your head

And the wind of history sings;
Rwanda is coming your way
Bosnia and Herzegovina, they say

But the truth, You and I must face
that this land is not made out of clay
but only blood
And if you want to break it
there will be blood in the Hills and Valley
and I don't want it
and your Jesus don't want it too

death is the only winner

You had June 18th 2001
with the blood of eighteen splattered
in the streets of Imphal

now they have May 6th 2010
with Mao Gate erupting,
with flags
with blood
with children parading the highway

but
who wins the hills?
who wins the valley?
who wins your soul?
Death only death

Death to the fences of barb wires between Naga and Meitei
Death to the cunning balls that roll between ethnicities

the highway is for god

whatever u hear now
is the story of God
whether you like it or not
if god wants to come
he has to come
but he will not walk upon the land
So they burn the buses to create flames
as flames are friends of gods

The Highway is for his
As you know so he block it from sky
by making a glance

The runaway kid has come back
being god;
so the houses are burning incense sticks
so they open the gate
closing the other

the folk singer is singing
"Oh Chingkhom Philave
Her bosoms like mangoes"
It is the return of a hero
but you never had a hero
Let them celebrate the hero's return
Let them drink down now what they couldn't digest
as past seemed to favor you

The highway is for his, the god,
so the one who prays can block
you are a turtle in dry well
you are as brittle as cheap bangles
learn to get broken once
the fragments will eventually dance
left n right up n down

Every god wants you to fight
Every god wants to grow his clan
Every God wants a flag too
Every God wants to slap you
Every god wants to erase the history
that gave him no space

the radio is playing Leonard Cohen;
"Jesus was a sailor when he walked upon water"
But no one knew he was sailor
but The god is playing his game
and on history you blame

wasting around

who will see the light in me
when they are blinded by their own little selves
the night is roaring and waking me up
but they slumber for the dreams i call waste
Call me a man in thirties
but Im young to waste around in my style
Im gonna walk the road Wild
beware if we meet again I may shoot at you

A Poem

gimme a liter of kerosene

Give me a Litre of Kerosene
I will burn down this university
for all the things it taught me
for all the years i have spent
like a beggar walking from table to table

c me beautiful

See me beautiful
Im no longer a fool
Im no more a fat girl
See me beautiful in ur dream
if you wanna see me fast
sleep soon
Im already in my sleep
and my toes are digging the sand
of your love river
my throat is thirsty of your love spring water
my eyes want to be blinded
by your unwashed dirty long hair
tell me the story of Seoul
tell me how it aches when your love left you
tell me how you deny the morning
when you find no one next to you
tell me I m the only beautiful soul
promise me you will see me beautiful
in my wet hair in my wet clothes
in my pink slippers in my lips with songs of you

See me beautiful hey Nupa
I m your nupi
lets meet on the bed of yellow daffodils
lets wet this land with tears of laughter
hold my hand hey nupa
stop thinking of Naropa university

Please publish my poetry

Please publish my poetry
they are about trees and bees
How can my poetry be of my home?
My home is now a tomb stone

Please Please
They are about Indian Classical Dance and music
They are not even about Harijans or Hijarahs
They are not at all about India throwing Hussain out of the country
They are as soothing and emotional as the national anthem
They are about Tagore murmuring love in April's evenings

Please publish my poetry
They are about flowering mango trees
They are about the boots dancing tango
There is nothing about me and my home

Please publish my poetry
they are readable at Leaning Tower of Pisa
while you eat a slice of Pizza
They are as universal as sexual instinct

Dear editor please consider my poetry
How on earth will i write of blood?
my brothers and sisters have bled it all
there is nothing left for such minimal poets like me

Dear editor
my Poetry don't haunt
my Poetry don't scare
my Poetry don't kill

above these
Mine is about lovers and dopers
who defy the truth of living among firing bullets.
such courage where on earth will you find?

Story of a Slice of Uhmorock

Necha cut a slice of Uhmorock
listening to the Sicilian
boasting of his Italian roots
As he talks he put the thin slice of uhmorock
in his spoonful of rice
after a moment he drinks a glass of water

and said "what was that?
It whispered in my ears,"Dont fuck with me""

one day in March

One day in march
I marched these streets
tearing every page of my notepad
splattering my poetry
like blood in battlefield
but none looked at me
my words were foreign
my steps were foreign sound

One day in march
i marched these streets
slinging my old blue
Signature Guitar
i sang my song of Seaons
but none heard me
my words died in the sound of their motorcycles
my strings were too old
to make an audible sound

One day in march
I roped my own neck
and jumped down from a lamp post
unlike shri tomba
then the city was frozen
beneath my toes
No chaos No noise
they all looked up
at my feet

O loktak when will u stop being a myth

O Loktak
When will you stop being a myth?
every myth around you has become real;
Lord Thanjing committed suicide
seeing Thoibee bleeding by the roadside
of Kwakta as the armies patrols
zipping their camouflage

O Loktak
The poetry i studied too was a myth;
It is not the gentle breeze of Kwakta
that push back thoibee's hair
it was their hands
I have seen it in the play "Draupadi" too

O Loktak
when will stop being a myth?
but the thorns of your heikak made me bleed
but the lives of the fishermen and women
in your fumdi are as hard as anything.
should i see it as stories of your mythology?

O Loktak
Now another myth
of dissolving Rs 224 crores
in your name into their dirty pockets.
what connections do you have with Russia?
Have you ever read Mayakovsky
denying Thangjam Ibopishak's poetry about you?
Do you want to be a Black Sea
when you are already so red with blood
and sour with sweat?
Why Russian?
Do you also love foreign sound?
Do you need to be cleaned or
are their blood stain from the Operation Summer Storm?
but i believe the sharks you have been housing
have to be killed first and share their flesh
among the deprived ones
O Loktak
How can i save you from being a whore house?

watch ur head

Watch your head
there are heavy thoughts in the sky
thoughts to suicide, thoughts to revolution
thoughts to steal, thoughts to kill

"Your eyes are in your face
how will you watch your head
will the government watch it for you
for the ballot papers you have stamped on"

and she never came back

and she never came back
and they say i am fucking going mad
as i lick the tea bag
but they don't know
i can talk to cigarette buds
and i can rebuke humane
looking at the chopped woods
I can mop these clean floor again
i can wait whole night for a three line poem
i can fuck my hand like i am in french whorehouse
i can cook the korean pumpkins in my own style
I can heal my own pain whenever i want
i can lie to my love any time

Call me Drunk
Call me faggot
Call me Loser
Call me lover

but the night is mine
the bed is yours
so i unfold the night sky
and give away the stars
to the burried soldier
Mother earth is pregnant
with dead men and women
and she never came back
and they say i am fucking going mad
as i want to kiss all the cracked sad lips
of all girls in the world
but they don't know
i am the first flower that blooms
in Zinko tree in March
they dont know
I am beginning to convince them
with my kisses that they refused
on their way to their pointless point
where poets painters singers
revolutionaries, bureaucrats meet
greeting each other like they are the best kind
and i am never there
and they are beginning to fear
and she never came back

happy cheiraoba

Happy Cheiraoba"
The Government greets us
The extortionists also greet us
but the body is there
chest, half opened
to stuff their lies
"Happy Cheiraoba"
they pray to their ancestors
for they were fools
"Happy Cheiraoba"
But the cries are lingering in air
and the father is still waiting

wat am i to do now?

i spilled cooking oil on my jacket
and my other woollen clothes have been soaked
what should i wear now?
the road is calling me out
the whole city is expecting snow
what am i to do now?
my finger tips are deprived of music
my life is a sad song of a tired man
what am i to do no

A Windy Day in March

plastic bags are dancing
but not in my songs for sure
but may be in Ani Difranco's
Untouchable Face's fuck you.
the wind snatches away
the smoke from my mouth
and i don't regret it for sure
the chirping birds are flirting
so the trees are watching
I got a crush on the clouds
so it pisses on me
and the sun shines bright
so are their lips and hips.
like physician's prescription
i write one poem a day
but today the wind has written
my share and i become
a line that stops with a comma
i become the one dancing
with the plastic bags
so i light a long fag
and wear black hat
and jump over "Use me"
crashing their camera

elope wid spring

Me and the Spring
sit together at the bench
of Cheongnyani bus stand
as i wait for the bus to home
while Spring waits for the rain to go away
Spring says to me
"can you please get some leaves
or paint the tree bit greener?
It will make my job easier or faster"
"No, I am sorry, i don't know how to paint"
"can you please stop the rain?"
"No i cant, if i could i would have walked
away long ago"

"My bus has arrived
Will you come with me to my home?"
"Do you think the trees will mind?"
"No i don't think so"

And the Spring and i sit in the bus singing
"Seoul, how are your trees gonna flower again
I'm stealing away your flowers
I am eloping with your spring
I am wearing all your flowers in my hair"

"O home my home
spread the fields wide
Wash the trees please
here comes your spring

Hello Seoul

Hi Seoul!
I have come to you
after standing fifteen days in queue
at Passport Office, at Visa counter
after i almost felt in love with the lady in Visa counter
after i said "I love Korea"
after Cathay Pacific left me stranded at the airport

Hello Seoul!
I have come to you to gather your love
and take home and fill the pockets of my country men

Where is the love you showed to me in your movies?
Your Classic was excellent
Your Full House was always sweet
even when my home was starving
Your actors suffer from Alzheimer
Me too nothing I remember
about my past all i know is about my lover.

look at me i am as sweet as your girls
my undergarments are torn
now they look like your expensive thongs
my shoes are colorful too,
they match your roads of yellow oranges
my hair is long, and i don't feel that cold.
the cold of death
i have felt every summer in my hometown
the teenage boys and girls in my town
they are as beautiful as yours

I sleep in Korean time
but wake up at Indian time
with Imphal chewing my brain.
Give me something new Seoul,
I too, have been the soul of my town
like you call yourself the soul of Asia
I represent the poetry of the hopeless
I represent the poets of my generation
who are selfish and proud
who are gluttonous and patriotic.
what are you gonna do with me, Seoul
I am right here writing poetry in your soil
inflicting the dirt of my land in your air.

Hello Seoul!
Snow upon me cool me down
i am a burning charchoal in poor man's fireplace
yet i get cold in the rain of imphal
Dye me white
i will leave red for the poets
and to the tomatoes in the market

Hello Seoul
Let me carry you on my back
when you are drunk with soju
I wont let you fall here and there
like your girls in the subways on the bridge
in the bars in the streets.

My land the poets have carried away
and sold it off to a thing called Literature..
since then my back has been emptied
O Come on Seoul
it is 4 am..you are drunk enough to be on my back
Come on
a lullaby i will hum for you
i will sing to the moon as i walk along
i will dance as i walk along
Come on
Let me kiss your lips till you know i don't cheat
Let us share the Utongchak
i haven't shared anything with anyone
i was once a bull on parade
I am one of the names that the bullets
promise to kiss in lips
Hi Seoul !
Say “Sarange”
“Ei yam ware”

Ode to Snow

O Snow
Come fall in my valley
and flower in the bare trees shorn of leaves
Come cover the fields of dead bodies
Come cover the lines between Nagas and Meiteis

O snow
Come flow in the river of red
Come freeze the fingers that triggers
Come freeze the Loktak Lake
Come cover the chapter of Meiteis
who live in the past of great culture
Come color everyone's hair grey
to remind them they all will die
without their fights to kill too

O snow
They don't know
Time beats everything
O snow
Come flow in my vein of warm blood

korean night

Sitting calmly like the Korean moon
above the curtain of clouds I spoon
what i had in my mind on such a night
of wails and laughter of drunken girls
with faces underneath the powdery
layers of cosmetics and lipsticks,
Find nothing but a naked image of myself
in the mirrors of their colorful lives

Ode to Yaoshang

Look at them
they were the ones
who march the streets
with tearful eyes
look at them
in joy with laughter
like a spring tree in evening wind
they are burning the sungs
in every leikai
they are walking house to house
stepping from doors to doors
"Nakatheng, Nakatheng"
breaking their usual path
from Morgue to cemetery

Look!
the night is celebrated with drums,
tube-lights, with local liquor
pouring into their justice thirsty mouth
like a peasant in field
in the first seasonal rain
If the whiteness of boiled eggs mean peace,
this night is a feast of peace
cooked in the kitchen of the poorest of the poors
with flames from the burning pine trees from the hills

Look at them
They have moved on
departing my poetry of blood and anger
Everything changes now.
look at them shining in the light
encircling them in such times of darkness.
have they given away their past
to the evil spirits on Lamta Thangja?

How well dressed they are
they were ones the naked children
of the naked mothers.
they have blocked the roads with ropes
with their sweet smiles
so there, the cars, the bikes, the buses spray the money
in their Joypur;
So unlike the highway blockades
and daily robbery at gun points.

Look at them
they are as colourful as the forgotten flag
of the seven colours.
the fragility of the land has been replaced by Pafor
politicians can be seen in the fancy dress show
and you can laugh at them
revolutionaries are falling in love in Shumang leela
converting their demand letters into love letters

Look at them
I must stop my poem now
before it bleeds

Dated 28th March 2010

missa you

Missa You
my winter dew
on my grass of happy blues.
this night i am gonna chew
the lock of hair you threw
in my cup of coffee bru
as i know no way
to bear such pain of being away
from You

It is already february and no more cold in the capital and you arrived here ...wearing an overcoat or is that a bullet proof jacket? but there are not stray bullets in the capital only rapist and they wont know how to rape you as they lack taste of good things in life

It is already february
and no more cold in the capital
and you arrived here
...wearing an overcoat
or is that a bullet proof jacket?
but there are not stray bullets in the capital
only rapist
and they wont know how to rape you
as they lack taste of good things in life