Wednesday, May 8, 2013

Please Stay for an Hour.

When your breathe enters into my lungs
its like a January.

My house
becomes like the size of your eyeballs,
my room
becomes a galaxy of your scent,
your voices growfrom the root of my ears.

Please stay for an hour.

This one hour would be a roof of time
under which the fingers of our heartbeat
would hold each other.

Lets travel beyond light-year
as you and me can digest time
and lets talk in white words.

Let white be
the colour of our religion,
the colour of our country
and a chromosome of our gender.

Please stay for an hour.

We will roll hashish
on papers torn from history books
we will smoke it
looking up at the open heart of the sky.

Lets talk
not about the bullets of a gun
but about the bullets of our mind,
not about the missiles in a launcher
but about the missiles of our thoughts,
not about the chemical bombs
but about the bombs of our dreams.

I know you have got only an hour
please stay with me for an hour.

Tuesday, November 8, 2011

The Soul Guitar

My pregnant guitar sleeps
on the meretricious zone of my dispatched room.
The foetus of your heart’s song
tediously grows inside the womb of my guitar.

The strings of my guitar
are like your eyelashes
where I jingle the chords and rhythms of your tears
with the tip of my thundering fingers.

My one-armed guitar
have six fingers.
The extra finger
points at the automatic digital emotion
that lies between you and me.

I sing the song of your red ribbon.
I pluck in the tunes of your shampooed hair.
I taste the philharmonic melody of sweets that you send.

I write letters to the unborn foetus
on the wrapper of those sweets
and I pack a smiling moon
on the remaining wrapper for you.

Your soft feet
gently steps over my chest
and you walk all through my lungs.

let’s count full-moons
on the calendar of our phagocyte minds
and let’s just play a chord
which would make us a double full-moon.

Close my eyes
with your palms
and let me create
a virgin solar eclipse.

Sometimes, you and me
drinking cappuccino in a crowded restaurant.
Sometimes you and me
riding in a rickshaw
with a sweating map of codified city
under your armpits.

Sometimes you and me
eating the reflection of stars.

I see you
with the eyes of roses.
I talk to you
with the lips of roses.

Sometimes you and me
growing just like bush of roses.

I just go for a bike ride
with a hangover of whiskey
under my shoes.

The guitar guides my journey
speaking like a prophet.
It preaches me about
words and music.
It tells me a story
 - a story about a widow and her empty bed.
- a story about a college boy and ashes of cigarettes.
- a story about sex, fame and filthy money.
- a story about branded smiles and wound with price tags.
- a story about hate, anger and mute faces on television.

The front lash of this guitar
is like your face.
The back lash of this guitar
is like mine.

And we melt into one face
in one solitary frame of this guitar.

I turn over
the photograph,
a dusty lens of camera,
few posters on the wall
and bottles of dry fabric paint.

I was a painter and a printer,
who painted and printed
brainless heads of mountain,
who painted and printed
your age, your breath, your whispers.

Your anger calmly sleeps
inside the refrigerator
with some cold curd and pine-apple juice.

Your words
hits the glasses of my window
like the grains of monsoon rain.

We used  to stand together
under the huge church bell..
You often talked about your father’s modesty,
I often talked about my mother’s delusion.

Your bangles used to give music
to some of my lyrics
which I wrote
in the yellowish pages of Peepal leaf.

Those lyrics were bullets
that was never fired from a revolver.
Those lyrics were grains of wheat
that never grew in the soil of pleasures.

I have piles of audio cassettes and disks
where I dig the laser beams of fantasy.

A tea cup falls down
and my lyrics spills
all over the floor.

Do you still search for time under your pillow?
Do you still listen to air stuck in wind-chimes?
Do you still wish to go on a river-side adventure?
Does your daddy still look for a NRI husband for you?

I recall the days
when I listened to jazz in a radio.
My black radio used to yell and cry.

It was a radio
that I purchased from nobody
and I sold it to none.

Last autumn
we just sat near a lake
biting and chewing rows of roasted corn.

That was the day
when thousands of farmers died in the country.
Maybe the corn tasted like some dead bodies.

You are an orphan of two hundred weeks,
I am a father of nobody’s child.

Just remove the cobwebs
from the rotten windows and creaky doors.
Heat up the freezing silence from your mouth.

I have some pills full of songs.
Take it. Swallow it. Sing it.

My pregnant guitar sleeps
on the meretricious zone of my dispatched room. 
The foetus of your heart’s song
Tediously grows inside the womb of my guitar.

The X-ray World of Khadakbahadur Daju

Khadakbahadur Daju does not own a motor-bike
but the story of his forty-eight year's of his life
is written on the alphabets of his cracked heels.

He has newly made a BPL ration- card.
He was overjoyed to get the card
like he was overjoyed
when he sewed his first

He enjoys the melody of that
"tir tiraay dhara."

The ever-flowing water of the
made him strong enough
to lift
"doko"-full of grass.

Sometimes, when a high fever strikes him
he crushes handful of "titaay-patti"
and snuffs it through his nostrils.
He feels healthy as a teenager with the grass- therapy.

He shouts aloud
that the chemist and the pharmacist
cultivated drug- addicts all over.

When his village was electrified for the first time
Khadakbahadur Daju was sad
that , the television might seduce and loath
the sober and innocent face of the village.

With her fist clinched tightly
Khadakbahadur Daju's wife exhaled her final breathe
while she gave birth to their only son.
Khadakbahadur Daju weeps self-lacerating,
resting his head on the unfired
sipping along his

On cold inhered evenings
he drinks bottle of
"guraas ko raksi"
and tenuously and tentatively
he kicks the scavenger dog
that shits on his bed.

During the village
he plays the role of a
and dances with female's garments and make-up.
Somebody offers him money,
somebody offers him
"ghaar taruul."

His anger is hot as
"dalley khorsanee."
His jokes are pattering as

Maybe someday
Mc Donalds will brand his
"iskoos ko subji."

Now the colonial town
has silently entered the village.
The electric guitar
has stripped off the clothes of
Lethargic e-mails and SMS texts
has stitched the lips of
"chitthi patra."

Crooked dreams shakes
the delicate hut of Khadkabahadur Daju.
He wakes in the midnight
and searches for his
"kyatish", "tusaay aaishelu", "murai ko dalla" and "ambal- dambal."

Today Khadakbahadur Daju sits smitten
on the edge of his
smoking round puff of his

He is waiting for his son
who has gone away to town to earn.

He is returning after four years
but Khadakbahadur Daju is afraid
whether his son will return
or, some post- modernist punk will return
with a label of his surname.

Monday, March 15, 2010

Shellac: The Schoolbag Story



Her father never wanders
that how do stars shine in school
and every time she looks at her heliograph
in broken riffed mirror
she can see her damn egoistic beautified ugliness.

its the ordure of odium in her rough clothes
that grills the her slummy poverty.

the sanctimonious devil is overdosed
within the incinerated book of her schoolbag.

Her schoolbag can never see her malnourished spits.
Her schoolbag can never sing her the tunes of salty sweat.
Her schoolbag can never listen to her precinct footsteps.

Her schoolbag can never carry her school.


Breathing a fugue to collide at pinprick
no one delivers the tangy taste of roadside kulfi
to her mouth.
The Finance Commission can never bridge the gap
between her childhood and the kulfi.

Who was Alice?
and where was Red Riding hood going?
-its mandatory questions that burns her eyes.

Icosahedrons culture struck above her ground
emigrating impetuous loads of
twigs and branches on her head
and the wind shall borrow
few of her tears from the village well
and the stars shall scratch
whispers of her dream song from her bed.

She can never plunge her nerves
watching Tom and Jerry fighting each other
- cause she herself fights
with unresolved arithmetic
holding broomstick in her hand.

Her schoolbag can carry the smell of her body
but it can never carry the unexposed desires
within that body.



Layers of horoscope are liquidities in the cake
waning the plutonic bastard
and scandalizing few childish imageries
of sky, sea and earth.

Pageantry alphabets remains intoned
on a display board of five star hotel
which illustrates
an upper class booty shake and discotheques.

Did she hurt her face?
or is it the lips that one bloomed
or fatally drooped to ellipsis?
How can blood and urine be cocktailed?
on psychedelic monolith of her hair snip?

Her schoolbag can carry her lunch box
but it can never carry the hunger of her starry nights.



But world is dump show of lies.

Who can guess about her first crush?
Who can say about her first date?
Who does care about her first kiss?
Who knows about her first boyfriend?
Who has ever seen her marriage ring?

She is never going to school again.
Her schoolbag is on the table
and she deeply inhales inside the bag

- it still smells
like the first nervous day at school.

- it still smells
like her teacher's loving and scolding words.

- it still smells
like the pranks and noises of her friends

- it still smells
like the first poem that she recited in the class.

- it still smells
like the printing ink in the pages of new books.

she wishes to carry her schoolbag
but the schoolbag never wishes to carry her world again.

Saturday, May 23, 2009

kissing the air

miles of lonliness

in front of me.

acres of crowd

at back of me.

in between

i stand


my lips


to your lips.

hangover 0:00hrs

last night i boozed
and talked about
a farmer's daily wage.

italked about
a cut at his knee.
-about his blind daughter
who can vividly see
the hunger of her old mother,

last night i boozed
and talked about
you and your people
those people
whose dreams
cannot fly above their dusty hair,
those people
whose smiles cannot
shine with their unbrushed teeth.

i talked
about their hand made cigar
to which the goverrnment cannot impose tax
i also talked
about their home- made wine
which needs no sanction of the government.

the government cannot
tax their labourhood
the government cannot
tax their enjoyment
the government cannot
tax their sorrows,

their poverty has no country,
their frustrations has no empire.

yesterday i got boozed
and said that
they are the emperor of their soil and sweat
i also said that
they love and touch
the immature handwriting of their kids
just like the green crops of their field,

i talked that
how they miss their birthdays
and how unfinished are their festivals.

but then
i was only boozed
and yet
i only talked.

Sunday, April 19, 2009

eyes (three)

i can see
my warm breath
within your eyes and you can just feel it
that i am breathing
through your eyes.

let it stretch upward
to reach upon
the peak of sky
believe me
that eyes have
no horizons
to divide
the ground and height.

darkness stresses over me
you do
come to me
so that
in your eyes
i would revive my life

and compose
my death.

Saturday, April 18, 2009

eyes (two)

when shall
a pair of eye meet
to see the world as one?

why do eyes
cheat each other?

why are eyes still alive
even after they drown with mysteries?

bring your ears closer
and just listen
that how many lies
have my eyes spoke.

eyes (one)

a pain resides
within those eyes.

a road begins
from these eyes

how many journeys of pain
do these eyes travel
closing its lid each time?

if these eyes had a voice
it would sing
every songs of tears.

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

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.

Thursday, April 16, 2009

unplugged version of-"THE WORKING CLASS HERO"

take out their eyes
they no see my blood and tears,
broke their arms
they no lift my dreams,
stitch their lips
they no utter my pain.

my father death bed
>their father night disco
their brother die without hunger
my brother die without food.

and no money in my pockets
they make pockets in money.

their money and property where take?
-my bare feet no go.
my hardships do no mistake
but they punish my sweat.

my soil,my care, my hot breathe
locked inside their bank.
my songs cleaning their drawing room.

i so sad
my sickle so sad
my hut so sad.

i love that reaper girl,
they sold that girl at the whorehouse
but i no cry, cause i am so dry.

i have no name
-they keep it.
my road where?
-they take it.
my story what?
-they make it.

they say - i listen.
they never see my soar
in their television set.

cut off their hands
they no cure our sky.
burst off their hearts
they no feel our face.

(Photo of harvest in Kagbeni)