Street Poet

Just for a night

whether you accept it or not
Let me present myself to you
I will not grow the china rose
out of your navel in your sleep
I will never again take away
the sleep from you eyes with my filthy kisses

Im next to you lying
when you spread your hands or legs
in ur sleep
please be careful
Im fragile
I may break anytime
Im softer than what you are
Just touch me tenderly
I will touch you back dearly

just for a night
just for moment

my hammer

To the ones she loves

She is a cushion

or a furniture.

But to me

She is a hammer

Replacement

In kurta he comes with beard

From north

and replace me

her love comes wearing a hat

from east

then she keeps me aside

Saying I will never change

I weep

then she gives me a tissue

the rain pours as we stand

under the shed

I smile as I have an umbrella

but a man with a raincoat

comes from south

and they walk away

we meet again after spring

she comes from west

but she wears a thing called ring

Ode to Music at Dawn of March 22, 2010

There are too many beautiful music
with which I can Kill myself.

A Suicidal Drama Hero (When spring comes)

a suicidal drama hero

dreamt next to the cemetery

with crosses sending signals of silence

the moon above so big and low

making a vow

to the curtains of his windows

how do the trees know it is spring time

when i dont know what's in my mind

spring be my lover

insanity be my spring

Soko be my insomnia

Charles Bukowski be me

wondering 4am in the morning

what such a lifeless poem

doing upon my white pages of me-peace-lover

dawn time, no more caffeine in my vein

the chinese pencil broke its lead

leaving a hole in my dirty pillow

I heard this purple city

singing colours

and i sang black and white

and the morning sky showered loneliness

and everybody in the streets got an umbrella

except me and i was wet,

wet like in dreams of night swimming

A sucidal drama hero

who was stuffed with songs of fraud in his mouth

at drunken nights of Bangalore, I am

some hopes some loves

some tear drops some spits

I left on the dusty roads

for those who love to pick up

cry for me, spring

with your new leaves of old trees

and the wind shall mop away the fallen leaves.

die for me, you street dogs,

with your howl

showing off your naked vein-full of testicles

in winter morning

save some love for me, lovers,

on the warm benches

where you hold each others' hand

Im going to lie flat on the benches

flower for me, you tiny little red roses,

at places where my lover lives

Im not going there anymore

Sing for me, you beggar singers inside the bus,

the song i have betrayed from my heart

to sing for “Dear Country” and its glory.

Im not gonna sing that ever.

Kill me, you killers,

for i have no purpose nor my poems

burn me alive with my suicidal instinct

like those effigies they kicked and slapped

and tore before being burnt.

Steal me, you theives

from such times of my life

place me at times of innocent laughters

whistle for me, you night trains

the tune that i once listened to along with her voice

at nights of beating my head against the wall

write for me, you liar poets,

with your good handwriting

read them out to your audience

they will have a good laugh,,

Gossip for me, you gossipers,

I am poor, Im rich

I need a stitch

but for every words you have

i can write you a poem

my words shall run faster than your automobiles

my poems shall be longer than your hair

A nest for me, you morning sparrows,

in the tree i can name Home

where i see no chameleon in the morning sun

where i can lavishly write poems of your fallen feathers

and my grey hair

My Blue Bag

I bought a blue bag
on my way to post office
with my aunt
to collect the things
that come sailing across the ocean

I hanged it around my shoulder,
(I love it)
here and there
as i walked
empty and vacant as my soul

Even while reading Bukowski
I remembered it
and thought how wud it be to carry
a quarter of cheap rum in it

i told my friend from sikkim
that i carried it even to grocery shops
she said she would never do it
and asked me to carry my harmonica in it,
an apple or a banana
or a diary and pen;
(but no to pen down this poetry for sure)
or a hanky to blow my nose
remembering the mother goose

I would still love to carry
it to the vegetables market
and fill it with tomatoes
and feel the weight of red

my blue bag is not fake
It got its blue from the sky
it got its emptiness from my soul
as i am a man in Nirvana
who has seen love
and known it is too easy to fall in love

my blue bag
I aint a sad story
lets pluck some flowers
for these streets of my feet

Thoughts in Kongu Express

carried a bag on my back
wearing an old pair of slippers
i stood waiting for the train
while the cobbler came
looking at my dirty slippers
so gave them away to be polished
while he let me wore his chappals
my feet felt the softness of his feet
for ten ruppees...

the train came howling shining
unlike those which go to Guwahati

of the crisscrossing dirty tracks
i did not care
all i saw was the starving crows
as it was not the season for farmers
to commit suicide

the fields were lifeless
like the farmers
but my yellow mustard flowers
all over spreading
like my dreams of daffodils

i let the wind blew on my face
through the rusty iron windows
let the wind wrote of a new face

the monkey shook the branches of a dead tree
waking the death out of it
like a mother in my valley
shaking the body of her dead son

the railway track labourers squat
holding empty water bottles next to the track
showing off their sad smiles
as if telling me like there is nothing ahead
except emptiness like their bottles

the far away chimney smoked
against the empty sky of blue
like an old man with his naked chest
that coughs out blood for the socialist poets
to write poems with their propaganda

Bhopal arrived with hot sweet little samosas
but i had bolied chanas with green chilli
Smell of hot biryani carried the train further to Hyderabad
I wanted to take Charminar with me for my lover
but she didn't want it as she had no place for historical monuments
in her heart as it was already filled with stories of "You wont believe me"
So i just smoked a Charminar Cigarette

And Egypt turned so cheap in the Newspaper
every page talked of it
"Mubarak, We have go to take bath"
I saw a man reading tehelka next to my cabin
here again they showed the face of the man
who begged for his life with joined hands
and the caption said "One man that made the nation cries"
but who made him cry?
everyone knows, he who sits upon lotus like god.

trashing away the thought of Gujarat Carnage
i looked out again across the fields
the crisscrossing of the wires and tracks bothered me

'i want to own a sugar cane farm in cuba
not in india
as lives of farmers last only a season

I have a friend who is pink
His fists are red
University never let him hold a chalk
to write on black board
Now universities are teaching Pornography
calling it sociology'

with my mind like dirts in a pothole
I arrived here in Bangalore
That night I was just a whore
raped by my own existence
with my own poems and thoughts

Sorry Preety

My sweet freind!

Poetry comes to me

just like you came to me last night

out of darkness

of a strange city

but now Im stuck

i want to write you a poem

my fingers tried hard

but they are like a child's fingers

upon a Beethoven's piano

Sorry!

Preety!

This night is silly

it gves me nothng

just asking me to chat with you

telling you how the paranthas i had

were withered inside the pastic bowl

tell me how many eggs you had

did you stick out your tongue again

for the your friends or your lover?

Sorry

preety

Im so blank at the moment

just lets chat :)

Ode to my friend that comes smiling with the dawn

I left the city behind with my broken heart

with those empty whiskey bottles

with my bed with wrinkles from sleepless nights

Again here im, stranded in a sleepless night

in another big city with thoughts of life and death

suddenly she pops out of thin air

and say hello when i am so hollow

we chatter and chatter like morning birds on electric wires

and i stumble upon her sweet little photograph

with her tongue out and i say “you look beautiful”

and she says “dont flatter me ”

and we go on with the lady from south next to me

questioning to me like i was a prisoner of war

but who cares, the dawn is here we have day long ahead of us

we have a life ahead to chatter and swallow what life is

A RAY OF HOPE - A poem for me by Rosemary Moore (Thanks Rose!)

Hope in hopelessness
speak silently to me,
pour words into my heart
to help me understand,
what is the reason for
the behaviour of man.

Doom, doom
you scream at the moon,
counting the hours
until daylight returns,
as the one leaves,
the other one yearns.

The twisted and torn
and still the unborn
lie in wait, left in the
hands of fate,
who forgot to close
the latch on the gate,
and now its too late
and they cannot wait.

Money is the menace
when greed is the master,
when the two go hand-in-hand
it can only lead to a disaster.

Unbalanced and chaotic
the world is shifting on its axis
pay up, pay up
your sky-high taxes.

When lies are the weapon
words are the cure.
In the desert of time,
it seems like nothing grows.

Look at the cracks in the tar
where the grass pushes through,
aim higher for the sun
before the woods close on you.

Even as the last man is standing
and the last tree falls,
a ray of hope still covers the earth,
light in deep darkness
until its rebirth.

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