Own Reality

what you can, I can’t, even a bird, a river, a mangrove may not… but together we all fly and urinate on the communal poster… see sudden bobbing eyes of the endangered species… every creature enjoys its own reality… in a wintry reality we all look for some rare music and go deep into its metaphysics… some of us get confused as they can’t make out what the rarities signify… they react sarcastically and communally which I can’t understand why, but you deal with it well… I wonder how you do it… next morn you seem to be distracted… without any readability… and try to match people’s reaction with yours, but fail and immediately call on me to know mine… I have seen a dream, in the dream, everything’s fantastic, but when wake up all blurred…

Locked in Darkness

always feeling aloof, roaming aloof… though some candles in between… make us forget to be aloof, but we don’t bother… the candles transform into landscapes, transform into fairies, into golden paddy fields not to mesmerise, but to be something else, perhaps thrilling pibroch… they pass through our veins rendering otherly sensations…but we look down to the distressed river, the river not in fact bloody at all, rather filled up with eternal water… we kiss each other, sexcise each other, but know not why feel traumatic… we try to tear off the dark feelings, dark feelings soon start revelling before eyes… so to escape we again kiss more stirringly with futuristic interpretations, but all goes in vain… our vision turns blacker and sobber and we fall into a cave embracing each other supernaturally…

The Crushed Folk

a naked with coordinating nakeds in power… people are not laughing but crying as they find nothing to cook for their children… the budding flowers too have breathing problem in smog… the naked howls with other regemented nakeds… while baking our meagure breads, it seems the breads don’t get baked… the children remain unfed, the pets remain skeletoned… the plants seem to be changing into desperation… the nakeds have stored caravans of wine bottles and cakes… now found dancing in weltered rains singing for more powers coordinating with tyrant nakeds… a missing link intervenes to set ourselves apart from raising any voice of protest…

Improbable Destiny

keeping a purse is not difficult… one may not agree, others call it a bird, as it sometimes disappears… one keeps it in subconscious and whenever he likes, it comes up to his desired premises… question of it being lost improbable as the person concerned ever remains mingled in it… the purse lost means the existence lost… the man hides his identity… he never allows it getting lost… the purse may be seen drifting far off or flying with some butterflies or lies hidden in a Nazi gas chamber… yet it’s never lost as the owner of it always stays sleepless in the purse… but in a crucial phase he knows not how he reaches the destiny holding his spouse’s hand who too has always been in the purse acting as an ultrasonografic director…

Allegorical Mother

chrysanthemum refused… darkness being saluted… a deep cry reigns over the meadows, over the postmodern bridges without letting others know such promptness… communication zero with a sudden gloom… for whom then such cry… chrysanthemum offered as brotherhood… refusal of which leads to hysteric chaos and that darkness is saluted… salutation of darkness plays tricks with her survival… she, where I am born… all the fallen leaves, even the skeleton of river and deserted nest make her alert erstwhile… not she compromised, as supposed by her, her subconscious saluted the darkness… this is noticed by some political leaders… but they didn’t bring forth any precautionary measure…