purple haze

....hence our test tube children steadily giggled
at unfed hunger wrapped upon tiger's skin
spilling from harry potterian lens.

brahmanya karmani sangam tyakta karoti yah lipyate nesa papena padma patramivambhasa.
scene: one

a bluetooth smile hung on aphrodisiac lips
empty he came, empty he went:
drifted across cyber tsunami
softly kissing those allergic rashes on her vedic feet
but still, never removing moonwalks and catwalks
cruncher by a pair of pigheaded shoe.

someone sowed black seeds of asthami
by the shores of hiroshima and nagashaki
hoping that krishana might sprout.

scene: two

failing to reproduce eternal offspring
many vasudeo circulate their sperms
before each meal, twice every night. on circulating table.

gopala! shackles of 9/11 might be creeping
from polyphonic ringtones of your flute
much strolled by the bubbles o coca cola
which are similar to those bulged blisters
in agile palms of a negro planter.

scene: three

a naked colour pallet: puberty on brush strokes
and hussian painter goddess kali hidden behind bikinis.

mimesis beam pass away through smoke
reading aloud few vulgar messages, flasher over
his multi-facilitated cellphone
which merge silicon thought clustered in mind.

a dungeon photograph of capitalist carpenter
mesmerized over privatized divinity
offering branded holiness.

nowadays they celebrate, days out of night.

still and silent lies a dress less dressed chicken
for spiritual maceration.

scene: four

o lord! hold those wooden logs: till those marks
and see thousand eyes provoking
garnier; revlon; lakme....
cuddly beauty of one's wife.

let battalion of pain march over your wound; uttering
"NAIL MY PALMS, AND THINE SINS SHALL BE CLAIMED FOR CREDIT."

every morning the moss eaten folksy sky
of our village
is offered pestilential enlightenment
through the american sun
shining overhead.

cartridges pierced he socialist chest.
curing composite smiles of those peasants
gorky's mother died at the rice field.

peering chunked economics of amartya sen
mild air shakes the surrealist heartbeat of stock markets
but the old beggar who is awaiting his lifetime
maturity fund
never knows his name.

every winter
curtain of desires
are hanged till death
against those broken windowpanes.

the soul of our god departed
tasting contraceptive pills in his mother's womb.

our god died an unholy death.