Caw Caw

Boredom is a crow that

Sits on the clothesline 

And caws.

Caw caw to mess with

Your head.

Caw caw to draw your

Attention to the things

That are better left

Un-attained.

And caw caw to trigger 

Your anxiety with 

Rounds and rounds

Of FOMO.

Hungry, desperate 

And utterly restless-

Ready to push you to

An edge-

Caw caw in your fingers.

Caw caw in the eyes.

Certain cold in the thighs-

Butterflies in the belly 

That want to come out.

You try to scratch 

Your nose thinking it's 

Just an itch.

Just a notification 

You say to yourself but 

Ain't that a bitch?

Time stretches like

You're sucked into a

Blackhole.

Attention spans,

Bombarding thoughts-

Mere excuses drown

You in a whirlpool of

Dopamine.

Caw caw for the hours

That have passed-

Time-jump like there

Was a wormhole-

Age is just a number.

Caw caw for the years

That have gone.

To a Baddie

She lights cigerettes

To burn matches.

Kills doves to invoke 

Desire. She's an overused 

UNO reverse.

She's obsession on 

Steroids... Bukowski minus 

The beers and whores.

But the dick still intact.

She's prayers yapped 

Backwards.

Satan seeks her mercy 

To doze off at night.

Jinnxed blood and 

Marrow. Crows mourn in 

Her shadow- she's doused 

Hope of tomorrow.

Every soothsayer's refuge

Before they went terribly

Wrong. She is till today 

Shukracharya's daily riaz.

Tamraj Kilwish once said

"Aditi Kayam Rahe" to

The dark and the mangal 

In Lord Shani's horoscope 

Got misaligned.

So this is a wake-up call.

There's a new force in town,

God/Demon as pronouns.

Pray or cuss- it's your choice.

But be careful while you

Open your mouth-

Stupid is allowed but not 

Boring. Roar/ cry but

No pretense.

Smut or dirt-

You'll be killed if you'd

Be cliche or cringe.

Demons

So the demons visit
Me in my dreams.
They force me to
Pose for pics-

Sometimes against the
Hazy background of my
Mind or sometimes
Against the hormonal
Patterns in the night.

There's one against
My growling belly and
One against the worms
Crawling in my veins.

Every morning I find
Them hung to my gut
And I've to look at
Them real hard before
I begin my day.

Night by night and
Day by day, years have
Passed like life is a
Compulsive painting-

Dark strokes everywhere.
No room to breathe.

Light hesitantly enters at
Weird angels and leaves
Before it can brighten up
Within here-

I found myself clicking
Selfies one day.
Habitual, conditioned-
It was unbelievable.

Maybe possessions
Work like that..
Demons work like that.
Maybe art works like that.

Your face constantly
Shifting to fit into
Whatever the heck you
That wants to come out
Making a noise-

Till one day when you're
Convinced that the
Demon that chased you
Was versions of yourself-

And all art is looking
Daily in the mirror.

Narcissism ft Global Warming

Why can't I write
Something emotional.
Something vulnerable?
Have grown numb?
Do I feel nothing?

I scratch myself. Bite.
I bring a spade to
Dig up my chest.
Split it with an axe to
See if I make any sense.

I search for drops of
Emotions restlessly.
I go deep and deep
To find nothing-

Aridity reeks in here.
And I seem to have
Stranded here for so long
That I've built an
Ecosystem for myself.

The date trees.
Camels to hitch a
Laughter riot.
Caravans pass by-
No strings attached.

My distance from the
Rains. Distance from
Any attachments to
Water-

There's an Oasis at
A far distance but
I only need that to
Quench my thirst.

There's lots of
Cacti infestation says
My therapist/ecologist.

I say it's just harmless
Humour and sarcasm.
She says that's coping
Mechanism of a desert.

So I am trapped inside
A character?
And how she goes on
About how Cacti are
Designed to trap
Others for moisture.

You mean I trap people
Who are emotional?
She declares-
Narcissism is a proper
Desert ecosystem-
It's global warming.

Craving

Conquer my bare body

And thrust your fingers
In my mind.

Play with the thoughts
Of mine and teach the
Art of passionate desire.

Wound me in the right
Places and hurt me
Like I want it more.

Treat me badly and
Make me beg- I always
Wanted to be your slave.

Sell me to your dirtiest
Fantasies at a lowest bid.
Lemme experience-

The drains of your
Sweet sins. Hope they're
Full and flowing to

Readily drown me in.

Unwanted Closure

The angel you are.
The obsession you've
Become.
My attempts to quench
This longing-
I've brutally scratched
Myself to bleed.

And every time I do that,
You plant your red flowers
In my wounds.
Desire is a cocoon and
I've happily become
Your prisoner.

Pour the wine of your
Eyes. Trap me in
Incantations of thighs.
Punish me. Make me
Scream your name.
Gag me, choke me-
Beat me up.

Dig into me and soak
Me up in your lust-
Love is overrated anyway.
Haunt me like passion
Project gone wrong.

Put your fingers deep
Into my mind.
Touch my thoughts
Inappropriately.
Infect the dark corners
And hydrate the
Empty ones.

And deep in there,
If you can find a child-
Hug him up and don't
Let him cry.
Pour more whiskey
On him and make him
Talk-

And If it is about love-
If it is still about love!
Slap him hard.

Give him unresolved
Yearning instead.
He doesn't know it
But he needs an
Unattainable wanting.

Forbidden fruit

It took lots of attempts.
Lots of coxing and
Cajoling. Flirty texts,
Superlative poems.

Treating you like a baby
When you turned
Vulnerable and
Cunningly slip in a
Sarcastic comment
That almost hid my
Intentions.

I'm no saint, you see.
I needn't be but
I'm a bit self-reflective-
My feeble vices,
Wild desires and longing
To commit sweet sins-

While I improvise to
Learn, re-learn, and
Cook you up on low
Flame for long-
Pampering you was a
Culinary affair.

And for the first time
We breathed close-
As the strands of your
Hair brushed my cheeks.
The lips quivered
And tongues battled..

You almost let me touch
Your bosom.
But it felt so wrong
Somehow.
I kept overthinking about
The boundary I should
Have crossed.

But when the next time
It happened-
Like my hands acting
On their own-
It was so good.
Heavenly.

The beauty of this
Evolutionary compulsion-
Seems in the Garden
Of Eden, God was not
Angry about that one
Forbidden fruit.
But of two.

Premature Intimacy

The desire in the mouth
Dripping to lips-
Almost undressing you
With my eyes.
My gaze would always
Try to devour you
Like you're a feast.

I read you page by page.
Touch every word with
Fingers to taste your
Meaning on my tongue-
You're a book of riddles
And how I wanna be an
Egyptian cryptic.

The bombarding wild
Thoughts in my head.
Getting shaped and
Reshaped- smeared
With wet passion-

I would leave no
Opportunity to thicken
The air between us
With my wit-
Love the way you look
When you try to hide
A blush.

This compulsion of mine
To intoxicate myself on
Each of your breaths-
You're almost a landmine
I wanna accidentally trip.

But I know you want me
Walk away at the right
Amount of heat-

I see you explode alone
From the sidelines and
Ohh! How hard it is to
Contain myself from
My own ruins.

The Dead: This is business

To improve the general 

Level of empathy.

To increase the standard 

Level of dignity of the dead-

The government made

Necrophilia compulsory.

You gotta shag at least two

Before you got your degree.

You gotta shag atleast four

For your Social Security.

A whole industry came 

Came to life to cater the 

Needs of the public.

From half-dead to 

Fake dead. From just

Stinking to rotten for a

Month straight-

Different packages and

Flavours-

Champions were 

Announced based on time, 

Place and weather-

Did it in the dark of the

Night on a grave to

Doing it deep in the rain

And thunderstorm-

The tax proceeds on every 

Events and activities was

Pumped to finance a

War elsewhere.

More bodies and more 

Empathy for the dead

They declared.

Necromancy is next in

The line revenue-wise-

But that's only allowed 

On the corpses that are

Shagged atleast thrice.

People are on the streets 

To have the limit reduced.

For quite sometime,

They want the government 

To at least consider

One count if it was done

When the body was alive.

Family

I'm gonna have a wife who

Would wrap herself in a 

Two-meter saree.

She'd pull up the Ghungat

At my instance and 

Respectfully give up her

Last name to get mine

Gracefully.

And she'd worship me.

Toil in the kitchen day n

Night coughing-

Make me rotis on a

Chulha as they'd not be 

Tasty on the gas.

The right tea and 

Hot water at a precise 

Timing every morning.

Body massage at will

And all the other free

Services one can avail 

With a marriage.

We shall have a son who

Would hate me for being 

Unfair to his mom.

I'll not waste my time in

Justifying my acts-

He'll have to tolerate it all.

Live up to my expectations.

Study hard to become 

A corporate slave and force 

Himself into a marriage 

With the girl I chose.

Maybe he can carry all

The soreness to stop

Looking me in the eyes.

He should have at least one

Victim card to play-

Can always go on about 

How unfair I was.

I hope he'd teach his son

How to treat his wife.

The tradition of toxicity 

Should go on and on.

The masculinity should 

Thrive. Chauvinism is

A fetish one has to

Aspire for.

Thick Necks

There's a war in the country 

That produces jute.

The supply of ropes is hit. 

The suicides are down

For two quarters now.

A matter of serious concern

For a democracy here.

Fresh diplomatic conciliations

Have to be initiated.

Interim arrangements have

To be made to revive 

The wisdom of nooses.

The glut of thick-necked

Opinions in the market.

The boneless tongues 

Blurting whatever their 

Mind suggests-

Students, farmers,

Labours, unions.

Bloody freaking onions

And oil prices-

Everything has got a

Brains these days.

When they feel they 

Run out of options.

When the choke of their 

Many opinions tighten

In their throats-

They would need a

Good catharsis.

So the ropes are needed 

Before the shimmering 

Hits the street.

And if protests break

Here-

The blade production

Will take a hit and

The other governments

Relying on us would be 

Pissed-

The free voices there

Will have nothing to

Rely on you see.

Blood-letting is still

Deemed as legitimate 

Treatment there for 

Whoever freely speaks.

Fart Philosophy

Bacteriophage is a virus

That infects bacteria.

But for its population 

As whole-

The effect is just a fart.

Bacteria infect humans

As well. There's a talk

Of even superbugs now.

But at a species level-

The effect is just a fart.

We humans fight for 

Land, go for wars.

Ruckus over a marriage 

Sex and children-

But the Earth goes on

Rotating unbothered.

At that level-

Even we're farts.

Issues of planets are

Farts at star level.

Issues of star are farts

At Galaxy level.

And ultimately, when

Everything stinks down 

To one thing--

All existentialism is 

Is a way of saying how

How we're just farts.

And all amped-up 

Self-pride is just 

The other way of saying 

How we're 'The Farts'.

Invasion

Everyone has heard every joke.

Everyone knows every fact.

All the stories are familiar to

Everyone and trivial knowledge 

Of a person is no surprise.

The reels and long streaks

Of scrolling have pounded 

Our heads in n out into a

Submission and there's 

No space for new music.

Everything looks hopelessly 

Familiar. Everything sounds 

Familiarly heard.

Where are the age-old

Storyteller? Where's that 

One person in the group who 

Knew all the dirty jokes?

Do we still have a someone 

Who brought all the unfamiliar 

Gossip from distant lands? 

Did every distinct character

Of a group got dissipated 

Into an influencer with

Millions of followers online?

Has the Internet killed it 

For us this early?

The distinct stories we were

All supposed to be- slowly 

Heading into a singularity.

Soon every tongue is 

Gonna be bleached.

Every personality will be

A giant monochrome.

All languages will fade into 

The monotone of English,

Our dreams will be coded

By a big corporation and-

We'll have to skip ads to

Have access our crude 

Thoughts.

1799

I'm a 10-year-old boy.

My mother died last week.

It's hard to see my

Father sulk alone in

The Haveli.

The British are eying 

On Thousand-acres of

Zameen and these days 

Some of our own people 

Are 'Woke' overnight-

Ram Mohan Roy 

Specifically. He wants 

Us to voluntarily give up 

Our Zamindari like he did.

And of all other things, 

He's against child marriage 

And propagates widow 

Remarriage-- Chiii.

It boils my blood.

But I can't see my father 

Suffer you see.

He needs something to

Hold on to.

Someone to rely on.

So can you marry him

Please!!!

Since we're of the same 

Age and interested in

The same games..

If you kindly accept 

The proposal-

I can demand the toys

We need in Dahej.

The empty Haveli will be 

Our playground and 

We can forever be

Friends.

Apathy for Local News

Russia bombs Ukraine- 

1000 dead.

Earthquake in ASEAN- 

40O buried alive.

Crossfire in the border-

War is about to break.

Trump has put up

Sanctions- economy 

May tank.

What do you mean there's

A rape in next street?

What do you mean 

Three people died due to

Potholes this week?

Bring me a bone-chilling 

Disaster. An epidemic.

Bring me a recession.

At least a genocide or 

Plane crash with at least 

Hundred deaths.

Till it doesn't come up

In bold letters, heinous 

Graphic and an amped-up

Voice of a sold-out

Prime time anchor..

It's not news.

Not for me at least.

Suicides due to bullying. 

Child labour in a factory.

The broken roof of a

School in the village.

A dalit stone pelted--

How dare you expect me

To waste ounce of my

Sympathy on petty issues?

Give me a sex racket with

At least 200 minors involved.

Bring me a cave collapse 

With 100 trapped inside.

A train crash, a gas leak.

Better-- a pandemic.

Till the TV anchors and

Social media algorithms

Don't take up a pickaxe

To dig out my chest-

It's not news enough.

To damn with domestic 

Violence next door.

To damn with the cylinder 

Blast in the next street.

To damn with the honour 

Killing in the next village.

I've my Woofers On to 

Tone it all down for me and 

As of now I'm curious about 

What Jeffrey Dahmer does

In the next episode of

His Netflix series.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

He rubs a pinch of tobacco
In his palm and claps out
The coarse chaff.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
Puts the tobacco in his
Mouth. It's midnight.

He rubs, claps, and puts it
In his mouth and abuses
My mom at night.
Clap, clap, clap in the
Dead of the night.

It's 3.15 in the morning.
The sound, slashing
The fierce dark.
Piercing through the sleep
Of mine.

Piercing through my skin.
A cold knife down my spine.
It's a masterclass on
How you ruin a young
Lad's life.

I hear my mom trying to
Hide her sobs.
In the morning, she
Looks away and doesn't
Look me in the eye.

It's sad that no one
Intervenes. It's sad days
Become years like that.

Clap, clap, clap in the
Dead of the night.
Tobacco should cause
Cancer.
But why hasn't it yet?

And thirty years go by.
My brother says how
He still grows weary upon
Hearing those claps.
I do too.

The trauma doesn't pass.
So doesn't my dad.
We go on carrying a
Broken glass in our bellies.
And clap, clap, clap..
It churns our insides
Every other night.

Baba of Undies

My friend left his underwear 

In my penthouse.

I'd to use it to clean my bike.

He cracked a good deal 

At his company after that 

And got sponsored for 

A free Bangkok trip.

After a year, another friend 

Did the same. I'd put

The cloth to some use.

His business boomed too.

The word got around and

Suddenly all my friends 

And their friends paid a visit 

To leave their undies in

My house and everyone's 

Fortune turned.

Did I just become an

Underwear baba? 

Beats me but

People started visiting.

Sometimes, I had to 

Symbolically clean stuff with 

Their undies and they did

Well in life after that.

Then came the skeptics

A professor, a journalist,  

A man with a clipboard.  

They left nothing behind,  

To check my validity.  

Their stocks plummeted.  

Their lovers left.

One man misplaced  

His entire career.  

Now they, too, return,  

Sheepish, contrite,  

Holding their offerings  

Like wilted flowers.  

I nod. Accept the fabric 

Fate has woven.  

At this point,  

Who am I to question it?  

When divinity passes

Through you to lead a creed.

You accept the prophecy

To happily become a 

Baba of Undies.

Stink

You meet someone online.

Talk for days, fall in love.

Discuss dirty stuff and

Get naked on screen.

You fight, you argue 

You figure it out and fall

In love more fiercely to

Shag each other on video 

For months.

You then fall apart. Breakup. 

You just close the screen 

And there's an eternal divide.

Moving on seems easy-

But it gets to you.

Heart is heart, and you get

Frozen in a period of time.

You miss her eternally.

Her face, her eyes.

Hair, skin, bare bust 

And the way she touched 

Her crotch-

You imagine the way she

Would have touched you.

But how can you?

Touch is what you're

Most deprived.

This two-dimensional love..

The deprivation it came with.

It haunts you.

You shag yourself in

Her memory for years.

Her face fades. Letter by

Letter her name fades.

And one day it hits you.

She remains only in what

You can smell.

She's fused in the smell of 

Your semen with a hint of 

Urine.

What else could have 

Filled the vacuum?

Maybe that's the smell

Of all the hopeless romance.

Maybe it isn't.

Maybe it would have been 

Different if you had

Held her hand once.

Maybe be this is loneliness. 

Maybe that's how a 

Break up stinks.

Maybe that's how a

A touch-deprived story is

Supposed to end.

Maybe that's how 

Best of memories smell.

Maybe you never know.

Maybe that's why you

Take things in hand 

And do it again.

And maybe... that's why 

Everything goes on 

Smelling the same.

The first time I knew I was alive

When you cut a newspaper in
A square and place a bow and
Arrow across two ends diagonally.

And paste the ends well with the
Rice paste prepared by mom.
You get a skeleton of a kite.

Then you poke two holes at
The junction of the bow and arrow.
And two holes parallely down-

You pass a thread across the
Holes- double the diagonal length
Of the kite.

Pull it out at the posterior end
To tie together the entire structure
To balance the centre of gravity-

You would need a reel-thread
From mom's sewing machine to
Set the kite in its course.

And for the first time, when
My kite soared high, it was
The first time I knew I was alive.