o awakened one

O Awakened one! how Do I wish to see,
through your bygone eyes,Those visions of beauty
How I wish My nights be same as yours,
under the blossomed stars and silver tree

I am not interested in relics or shrines,
or holy words ,even yours,or holy wines.
I want the buds of wisdom; fresh anew
in the basket of eternal river,that shines

That luminous ever; and the blameless sights,
The twisted ether; and unseen Lights,
I lust for them in my hearts purity;
grant me the vision ,from your heights..

I write

I must Write , Not in Pity,
never in vanity
or  some celestial duty.
Nay;nor in wait.For posterity
I write for the function of soul,
and endless days ,for them all.

I yearn for living, in imagination;
against the tortures of silence
of not being heard ,
sleeping on the sun.

I fret not or beg not ,
for an ordinary audience ,
I already see much of Angelic world,
beyond the futile dimension

I curse them not,
I curse me not .
No sky to buy with words,
No road to walk .

Its a howl of high times,
And I must write;
whatever little is heard,
By my mortal fingers.

Rest is lost,
In fog of time,
Eternally.

You Mock; as You may,
The seer too has,his final day.

Dream

I have dreamt a dream ,
with an empty scream,
 Scream so loud , scream so proud
 I have seen my ribs pulled apart,
 O Poor Devil ,
Gods have no mercy.
Where in lie my heart ,
hurt and burnt,
Pacing and thudding ,
an insane bud
 And The blood flowered that bloomed from it
, And was lost in shadows of dreamy canvas.

World is an interesting Place ,
 I see it ;
with a window I call Mind ,
 And its open all the time.

 I see roads, with bed sheets of fresh rain water;
 Reflecting the near gray clouds ,
The mountains by busy roads,

And many electric towers Power stations and slums,
 Where street dogs compete with street men,
To survive in daily den.

 I see crowds, unending head counts,
Moving like silent army ,
I see pondering old men,
Sitting by the shade; in pink shirts,
 With their hands tucked under their cheeks,
 And eyes closed, as if eternally.

 I see babies crawling near bus stops,
Tied to a soft wooden pole;
 By their mothers.

I see endlessness of endlessness
 And buses, rikshaws, too much of foul air
 And I see love too;
the young Girl I liked Kissing another man.
I see laughing faces by rectangular buildings,
 Made up of glass and lot of new age jazz

Not to hurt a soul

Not To hurt a soul ,
 The sky emptied itself ,
Of long swallowed tears,
And stars melted themselves;
 From boredom of billion years,
 Mountains flew:

 How easily do I gather;
These distorted but real visions;
And how Easily I develop;
The peasant’s addictions

 But I will Not give up;
This madness; this eternal madness;
 Nor will I ever hurt;
 A soul that has eyes to express.

 Flickering is the nature;
Of sustained ignorance.
 Flickering is the nature;
 Of sorrow’s florescence .

Madness Vomits

And the swollen hearts ,
 thudding with brilliance,
maddened by internet fantasies
, dreaming of right to freedom
, Right to love, sex ,marriage ,
 fatherhood , polished houses ,
 fancy protests,
the books of justice fancy table cloths,
glass of tea and another glass of tea
 or some other such hostel addictions
. Mourning for the skulls crushed,
 as they are thrown off the stage
, mainstream media, mainstream jobs,
 vegan hippies shouting for love ,
uber-cynical guitarists cursing old hags,
madness,madness more of it ,
everywhere,
 the beggared streets and unkind rains,
 unkind winds , unkind saints , imprisoned into the cubicles ,
cabins, the working class and free labour ,
the bonded labour ,anti-corruption rallies,
and holy advertisements
 Looking for salvation in self help books,
 or big porno boobs ,
madness madness everywhere ,
 the stresses and music ,
electric, wired well produced bad produced
 filmstars. peyote lsd weed speed Icaro cocaine,
 tv ,internet ,high schools elections ,recessions,
 presidents,summits cultures, counter cultures
vultures counter vultures fantasy
 bedtime stories

 just madness madness everywhere
 2 dollar poverty line
 for old shacks yet dancing drunk to 97% alcohol
 to an unknown friends' weddings and
 then fist fighting with angels over their
 stolen broken chappals in government
 damned hamlets of 5000 year old countries .
 casting out demons through fake
woodwind instruments
madness vomits.

I recall the paths, Of childhood; of distant mood, That took me to the river. The red soil that revived into air, as hooves of bulls pressed onto them. And the rhythmic wheel of cart oiled by grease patiently made screeching sound. Mixed with these sounds were the calls of birds, that gently cut through even the afternoon forests, and on either side of this road which was hunched in the middle , were bamboos and shrubs that grew not too long;in their pomp. nor too short , lest be useless. but just tall enough to cover the soil, and protect her rich freshness from the father. The rays of Father made mosaics on the paths, ever chanting sketches of times and times , In the morning they were slanting and boisterous, Sketches of kids . afternoon; sturdy and arid . sketches of middle-aged men; with burdens on their shoulder, In evening, the fading mosaics were silent but wise. I took the shadow and i took the peeping rays to, on my face ,my laps, my back,my hands. we played all the time . Sometimes the rifest berry shrub, If It was a May afternoon ,was like black shining pearl , the dance of black pearls , abundant, sweet with red juice inside , I recall all that ,as if it happens before me, right now. O the sweet childhood and its reckless glories, the dreams of impossibilities and the romance with skies the sweet sweet paths that lead to river. And If if it be Monsoons , It would all greens, The soil will be less gay , and more gravity bound . The hunch ,the protective shrubs and their leave's blanket fatter now ,to play with mother rains ,than the rays . The clouds , the smell , the dark chocolaty muddy ponds, and how many lazy afternoon spent

Paths to the river

I recall the paths,
Of childhood; of distant mood,

That took me to the river.
 The red soil that revived into air,
 as hoofs of bulls pressed onto them.
And the rhythmic wheel of cart
 oiled by grease
patiently made screeching sound.

 Mixed with these sounds
 were the calls of birds,
 that gently cut through
even the afternoon forests,
and on either side of this road
which was hunched in the middle ,
were bamboos and shrubs
 that grew not too long
;in their pomp. nor too short ,

 lest be useless.
 but just tall enough to cover the soil,
 and protect her rich freshness from the father.
 The rays of Father made mosaics on the paths,
 ever chanting sketches of times and times ,
In the morning they were slanting and boisterous,
 Sketches of kids .
 afternoon; sturdy and arid .

sketches of middle-aged men;
with burdens on their shoulder,

 In evening, the fading mosaics
were silent but wise.
 I took the shadow
and i took the peeping rays to,
on my face ,my laps, my back,my hands.
we played all the time .

 Sometimes the rifest berry shrub,
If It was a May afternoon ,
was like black shining pearl ,
 the dance of black pearls ,
 abundant, sweet with red juice inside ,
 I recall all that ,
as if it happens before me, right now.

O the sweet childhood
 and its reckless glories,
 the dreams of impossibilities
 and the romance with skies
the sweet sweet paths that lead to river

. And If if it be Monsoons
, It would all be green,
The soil will be less gay ,
and more gravity bound .

The hunch ,the protective shrubs
and their leave's blanket fatter now ,
to play with mother rains ,not just the rays . T
he clouds , the smell ,
the dark chocolaty muddy ponds,
and how many lazy afternoon spent

आज चौकोनी रस्त्यांवरुनी ,स्मरण पुन्हा तापले ,
कसे होते विष तुझ्या धमन्यांत , पण मरण मज लाभले .

असा उरलो तुकड्यात पूर्वीच्या ,कातून दग्ध निखारे ,
जणू आमावस्येच्या चंद्राचे दुक्ख लेवून स्तब्ध नगारे ,

आठवणी केवळ धुक्यातील स्वप्ने ,मोड्कळून गेलेली ,
त्या सोनेरी केसांची झाक ,निरंतर लेणी भिजलेली ,

शेवटचे वळून पाहतानाही ,लालबुंद डोळे तुझे ,
केवढा गुन्हा मोठा माझा ,आज मला उमजे

निघून गेलीस अचानक , ज्या ज्या रस्त्यान्मधुनी,
तेथील धूळ वाहतो ,आज विराण वारा रडूनी

एक एक भिजक्या कुशीची ,साठवून कहाणी ,
रात्र प्रत्येक वेडी ,माझ्याहून तरी शहाणी

अजूनही कधी मोकाट हिंडतो ह्याच रस्त्यावरूनी ,
पावसात भिजत भरदुपारी ,तुझ्याच स्मरणातुनी

सनातन कृत्रिम काचेमधूनी,
हलकेच निखळला तारा,
लिंपून रुधिराची कवने;
मातीत मिसळला निखारा

सरपण मांडून भिजल्या प्रीतीचे ;
सतीस चढला एक तारा ;
मद्य चाखून रत्नाकरी ,
रात्र झिंगला एक किनारा

when the kisses are returned empty

when the kisses are returned empty ,
its time to wrap the sky and run;
never to fall back
into shadow of abandoned sun.

the papery lips,
cold as ice
and dry as evening'
a great shallow abyss
of pretentious love ;
unrequited,misunderstood;
cruelly oppressed,
by whims of her breast

rage,rage against thy dryness,
O woman,
Your billion deceptions ,
and My confessions

the hearts shatter
and hands meet,
kneed to the cross,
abandoned, too

And then the desires drouth ;
as Man's madness drops,
and coalesces
into the thick original mud
what is found then?
A non-relieving burden;
and a hopeless salvation.

when the kisses are returned empty..

Plastic Coated Bum

I saw a Plastic coated bum,
swimming ,
on a winter morning rum
His hands were cut by leprosy,
begging,
on lifeless early streets,
of a city,
That never should have been,
here nor there ,
why was he pastic coated?
an empty wafer wrapper ,
was he a wafer?
fried to life?
Oh,It was just a protection ,
from winter cold,
and from people ,
like me and you.

I feel pity ,
how pastic coated he was!
Plastic for protection,
plastic for prtoection,
garbage for protection,
from cold winter mornings ,
garbage protects his worms,
from demons and death's charms.

Plastic coated bum,
I see him like a warrior,a samurai,
a persion immortal covered in strength,
Like a robot from special effects,
as his plastic covered face shines,
and leprosy eaten lips vanish,

what a strong man ,
better than us wool covered ,
My hero,my hero.
I may as well worship thee,
you Plstic coated bum,
in the temple of suffering,
I would put you ahead,
of all Gods and other phoney things.

A butterfly on the buttock,
of a Bull,
Is same as that on buttock,
of Mule.
So I have my repect to the Bum,

who shall be my hero,Forever.

Silent ovation

Poetry was a passion , a pejoration ,
A plastic exploration into,
Mind’s empty elations .
Poets are saved from purgatory ,
Because Gods are effectless ,
On Poetic Paganists
Pianists of vast universe

And then Came economico voices,
telling us of their vices,
stories of drowning nations,
into the baskets of recessions,
endless oceans,endless oceans,
of words ,of grotesques protests,
that manifest and insist,
on their own constitutions ,
such a barking glory,

But I like the trees,
obeying to the darkness,
and to the Moon,
to the cats ,
In their silent ovation ,
to the Farce of Mankind.