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.
