bRAINY

Hand lingers more than
It should.
Eyes go beyond whatever
My mind can't interpret.

Where does the wisdom
Lie though? In seeing things
As they are or re-imagining
Them into something more?

The bricks and bones of this
Dilapidated hut with a brain.
What more can this be?
A hand's yearning for another..

A phallus longing to fit into
Desperation of another to
Produce something that
Comes out crying.

The bare act of feeding
Famished Tongues was
Translated into different tastes
And now we sit here asking

Existential questions like
Condoms having flavors.

Other species must feel
Sorry for us for having a
Brain that overthinks.
Mating, eating, shitting in the
Open and not bothering

About a sleep schedule.
By letting us think that
We're the top in the chain-
They seem to be enjoying
A higher order of evolution
Anyday.

Trade Off

We live on a hill.
The rain ruins the lives of
The people below.

We sneak in at night to
Steal shoes of the dead.

We've got a winter to
Get through ahead.

Some of us succumb to
The snow anyhow.

And people from below
Wait for the hints of
Melting snow to steal
Bones of our dead.

They need them to build
Shelters against the next
Rain that's due.

Abandonment to Adoption.

My cat died. No, no. 

She was wounded.
Contracted an infection
That didn't subside.
She had to be done
Away with that's why.

Taken to a far-off place.
She was abandoned there
So she can't find her
Way back home.

She was a good fella.
But inevitability.
That's how things are.

The rats in the house
Started having a party.
We could hear their presence
After the lights were off.

So Dad insisted on
Petting one more.
Again, we got one from
A far-off place so it can't
Find its way back.

She meows around in
Feeble tones. She's fed
And taken care of till she
Become stout.

This gap between
Abandonment and adoption.
The mercy in our hearts
That sinks away and reappears
Like we really care.

We're masters of utility.
Aren't we?

If it suits us, we might
Bell our cats and start
Adoring rats by offering them
The fantasy of nine lives.

Then sacrifice cats
To a religious cause to
Appease Lord Ninklim.
And go in singing laurels
Of his relevance even
In these times.

Duality

Beyond this village,

The opportunities.

The lillies beyond the sea

Against the marigolds here.

The weight of a livelihood

Like a compulsive habit

To join an ocean.

Salt, depth, dark- lost?

Should the river be

Condemned to forget

Its own taste in search 

Of something more?

Should the Lotus in the

Village pond go on

Smiling daily, despite being 

Ignored by everyone?

The different worlds we

Fancy in our heads-

One leg, very well 

Grounded while the other 

Is placed in the skies of 

Heavens.

The divide forever keeps

Increasing while we piss on

The possibilities that lie

In the middle.

The fleeting moments

Do we ever become worthy
Of something? Love, kiss, a hug?
A decent talk maybe, to be a

Day-to-day person?

Why does the mountain of
Expectations weigh down on
The fleeting moments?

Get a job or earn something
Before you could deserve
Something-

The wait, till you turn 25,
The wait, till your dog goes,
Through second pregnancy-

It seems I waited too long for
Things to happen to me.
Took me long to realize, how..

Life happens between fleeting
Moments. The messy palette
Before it manifests into art.

The pleasure of chaos in mind
Before something thoughtful
Arrives.

The blue, pink, red, yellow that
Passed in front of you while you
Waited for that perfect girl to

Land in your life.
The undermined beauty of
Monochromes before

The rainbow did or did not
Happen and the feel of the
Colors that forever remains.

True Love

I don't believe in true love.
The unconditional kind.

l like the idea of it though.
I like the fact that some
People believe in it.
I like the fact that my friend
Still believes it.

One person's unhinged
Passion for the other.
An almost obsession
That wants to cross
Boundaries.

Longing for each other
Like it's a rage.
A radical communist if
Love was an ideology
Leaning left.

Like belief in God.
Come what may- logic
Science or rationality-
Or other religions that
Denies one's belief-
Thy lord is supreme-

No one stands a chance.
You can't negotiate
Those terms or plant
A doubt in the mind of this
Plain blindness.

I hate, I can't do that.
I hate, I can't believe in God.
I hate, I can't truly fall in love
With you and worship you
Like you're my Almighty Lord.

I hate, the fact that I can't
Truly surrender to you
When you say- "Lemme
Love you" and when you ask
"Who's your mommy?"
I hate I can't truly be a
Child.

Playfulness

At first, you battle with your mind-
Trying to enslave your thoughts in
In tough words.

Forcefully attempting to knit meaning
In metaphors. Hoping they would
Grow wings one day.

But can clipped wings fly?
The caged birds sing?
The arrogant poet you're initially-

Not knowing the art of letting go-
The edgy arrogance smoothens out
To give way to a playfulness eventually.

You surrender to your mind and
Let yourself flow in uncharted
Territories.

The erstwhile Lake becomes a river
And you give it a chance to join
The ocean. Standing on the sidelines-

Slow, observant. Ready to borrow a
Glass of water from the eternal flow to
Make it into a verse.

Unsure always to declare it as a
Full-fledged poem-- Not being sure
Opens up innumerable possibilities.

Now you can be the Beginning, the End,
Or the middle. Or All of it, None of it or
Simply the in-between.

Quietude

Somewhere there's this quietude.
Waiting on a hill, looking at a nullity-

Sitting by a lake, waiting for
The ripples to come, touch your feet-

Imagining yourself in a dark room,
Eyes closed. Searching for something.
Searching for what?

This quietude you can't listen to.
Quietude you can't feel or touch-

Trying to translate it on sheets and
Sheets of paper. Not satisfied with a
A pen or colour or your intent.

Ending up relating yourself more to
The blankness of the paper than any
Of the stories written-

Each paper, screaming, louder than ever.
And you, growing quieter every time
You scribble.

With each appeal and attempt-
Between the noise and silence.
The void, getting bigger and bigger-

The artist in you, smaller and smaller.
Till one day when you disappear from
Your art. Consumed by the void.

Only then it's complete.
Only then peace. Only then a poem.

Life Goes On

Happy or Sad. Married or 

Unmarried. Homeless, 

Broke or abandoned.

Everyone finds something 

To live by in the end.

Everyone finds their niche,

To operate around at least 

Some minimal needs. 

And after a point, it's just

One more day of breathing. 

One more night of surviving,

Before seventy years go by 

Without you realizing.

 

Yes, death is inevitable.

But even life, the very 

Act of living or surviving-

It's stubborn. One can't 

Simply give up, can we?

To live somehow. 

To find love, even if it's 

Just a bit. If not in a mansion. 

By a roadside shelter-

And if not under the 

Streetlight. We manage it

Under the flicker of a lamp 

Discarded by a passerby.

Introspection

In the desert of my

Solitude. I watered my

Silence once.

And it sank deep,

Imploded. Exploded..

It grew eerie though,

I could hear it now

And then. A couple of 

Years passed,

I could see it from 

My third eye.

Eventually, when an

Invisible hand from within,

Started to extend itself,

Into the abyss in seek

Of a connection.

The silence touched

Me for the first time.

And that's how,

I found myself.

Redemption at last.

Odds Against a chance?

Do we realize?
We're all a part of this
Giant experiment of odds
Against a chance?

The smartphone in
The hand is a direct result
Of calculus, we learn
In the school maths?

Rice on our plate is the
Result of the first caveman
Who wanted to settle down
With his girlfriend.

Odd probabilities working
In our favor. Series of
Random accidents in
Right time and place.

Millions of moons died before
One got set on the right path.
And the floating debris
We were before the cocktail of

Some elements got high
On oxygen. Now we sell
Insurance to each other
In fear of withdrawal.

End

There are no new wells
To be dug every day.
Or no fresh trees left
To be cut.

No places to explore
Or names to forget.

A fistful of heart.
A handful of brains and
A tattered soul that's
Never satisfied.

No matter how deep
We fall or how high
Is our flight. We always
End in ourselves.

Tragedies. Comedies.
All the drama, dread.
We're our own
Sunshine, and rain.

Trust

Sometimes when you
Return home drunk.
Father opens the door
And let's you in.

No questions asked.

This thin line where
He doesn't confront and
You don't outrightly
Reveal your habit.

He knows it's harmless.
You know it's not
Beyond manageable.
This boundary you respect.

This line of belief in
One another.

It's a lamp on the wall,
Serving light to both the
Sides. Flickers, dances but
Keeps a balance.

A little rush and there
Would be darkness on
Both sides.

Transitions

The smell of one city
Before it gets lost in the
Newness of another.

The nostalgia of the previous
House before it gets
Consumed by the aura of
The next.

The late night's hangover
Of a Sunday brushing its
Madness on the face of
Monday.

Failed resolutions of
This year trying to coexist
With new ones in the first
Week of next year.

Transitions are fleeting
Dungeons, where a little bit
Of both sides exists in
Peace for a brief while.

Like the warmth of palms
On one another after a
Shake-hand and the hints
Of your face on hers-

Before I kissed her.
The poems I once wrote you,
Show a way to new ones
And how I wanna write her

A hundred more now.

Boundaries

A wasp goes astray,
Stinging my insides.
Bombards around wild
To find a vent out.

I clench my belly,
Pour out my lungs.
Heart pounds like it's
Stuck in my nose.

Sweat finds way out
Of my skin, but then
The feet turn cold.
Caught between the

Embargo of fight or flee
The legs quiver like
They've seen
Wolverine's zombie.

But can you escape
Yourself? The boundaries
Of yourself in your
Third eye?

Can you ever be free?

These inner revolts that
Are always squished...
Zombie apocalypse with
A happy ending.

For better or worse,
We always end in ourselves.
The Self is a dictator
Of third degree.

Sneezable Sneezes

This euphoria doesn't
Subside. Sticks like
It would never end.

Heart beats fast.
Blood rushes to head.
I can feel it thump my

Scalp from below.
It feels something
May breakout aloud.

But it doesn't.
It's like a sneeze
Poised to rush out

But sticks in the nose.
You conjure all strength
To get it out but

It dissipates.
The moment is gone.
Now you're tired.

The big event you
Conjured your energy for..
The sneezable Sneezes

That go unsneezed.
The un-ceremonious exits
Hurt the most.

AI

The only virtuous man tied
A rock to his soul to drown
It down the village pond.

The fish fed on it to cry fire.
And day there was a
Serious drought.

That only happens in
Dystopian movies.
The kids in the street laughed.

'And Cut' said the director.
For the movie written for bots,
To surpass the captcha.

Praise to Despise

The dark grips you and cold
Seeps down to the grit of bones.
And buried in your palms you'll
Pray for the Lord of Warmth.

At the break of dawn, the first
Stroke of warmth on your face,
Paints you orange and you can't
Be thankful enough.

But by noon, he gets overhead
To hail upon your skin to bow
You down in a sweaty submission.
What was a prayer once, turns

Into a curse and at what you
Beseech for now is what you had
Despised a while ago.

Deception

The Oldman sits on the embankment
Under the neem tree to ask
The sparrows if they have any stories.

Of the winds or the oceans or
Of the skies or of the lands
The sparrow asks.

Of you feeble-hearted. Of your
Wings and the the flight.
Of your mates and children and
The nest. Says the old man.

It chirps and picks on the grains,
And talks of her songs composed
In vain. And the flights that didn't
Fetch her any grains.

Of the rains that assured no gains
And mates who betrayed her in
Games that were together to
Be played.

He brushes it's neck and grabs
After a deception saying,
Someone didn't learn from her

Last lesson.

Evolutionary Serendipity

More often than not, I've thought
About the inevitability of death.
The ultimate degeneration and
Decay and sheer apathy that
Runs through the brutal expanse
Of the universe.

But the possibility of life.
In fact, the impossibility of it.
The rarity of it.
A tiny little insignificance blown
Into a walking, talking entity-

Having a corner in the world and
Loving, and caring for each other.
And almost forgetting the crushing
Indifference thrown at us by
The universe.

If life hasn't amazed us...
The sheer breathing and existing
Exercise that's offered to explore,
Further possibilities can open up-
If it hasn't amazed us..
What will?