On Indian Culture Trading Liberty For Nationalism

wrapped in the starry night
with bone-thin skin
anxiously trying to sleep
all their bleak dreams

looking to be heroes
for a moment
even an ant may believe
it’s here for some grand purpose

politicians divide
with steady hands
slicing in the scalpel
of a silver tongue

left wing, right wing
and on either side
that grows
in the Spring

who knows which word
gets me stabbed or elbowed
or mapped to a cell
all the things that can happen
over a dinner gone wrong

On Indian Culture Trading Liberty For Nationalism

On The Circus Bullshit Of It All

people who are too neurotic to talk, make me want to snatch their breath,
democracy is never no fun!
the silent technicians conspire dream opinions and I want to kill them all
like getting fucked in the ass to get your tongue out
I never told anyone
but communism, hell no, I want more than a Chinaman’s chance
the kind of freedom buffaloes wallow in, in the ejaculate waters of gossip and idle talk –
of all the truths, ones that shouldn’t be passed around
make way through great brass walls, plastic polycarbonate bricks and radiant cool brightness of screens of unrelenting poesy, of battered down wives,
of Inca artwork of mind, people scrounging their brains, ferreting insults by poisonous hand, unmindful double entendre
which to crown this moment – throwing dumbbells of embarrassment
while twisting one’s own affairs along the circus psychosis of social code of Facebook,
No, I’d rather put forth mechanical oath to politician sloths who ration freedom
unless their egos are not trodden on,
I’d much rather my naked belly be dragged atop rotting tincans of Delhi
until I’m at the steps of mudhuts of Buddhism,
I’d much rather die in poverty and tatters and snatch forty winks out of pools of opium, than kissass whomever the limelight’s on,
and whomever – the enlarged prostate pimpin’ gossip – go fuck yourself –
I don’t want a piece of the action, I’m sick of the lies, the sham, the farce, the ultra sugar coated goody-goodyness, marshmallow hugs and furry endearments, I’m sick of being hit by flying hearts, the broken hearts, the Inca sun face smileys, the red corollas you believe ought to stamp a smile, the fake guns, the real war, the knives, the intent behind it all, the virtual kisses by the kissass for the kissass for peace, yeah! Lets all kissass – pathway to peace,
WhatsApp the barren soapbox bringing litanies and rants of tens of thousands of jewelled mouths that’ve done feats in ecstasies of self-achievement, and the rising flood of monthly cunts swallowing up through ranks of fellatio of rosy rosy cliches with glitzy ass buffing gibberish, and not even one free beer, but the hopeless lard of religion spat out of balls of god and everyone a prophet sentenced in the foolishness of millions of disease enlightening electronic pamphlets that shivers the last city of the last youth down to the last skull,
I’d much rather return religion its crown – go fuck yourself with your Lingam – I don’t think you know how serious I am, I’m talking to you India, when will you stop mirroring Western culture with your good looks, when will you burn for higher psychologies of golden strands of original thought instead of listening through walls cowardly in your underwear, when will hip clothes and clip art refurbishments of layers of neon greasepaint bandaging the jukebox of true mental insanity escape the hallucination of superiority, when will sunset dawn over your lily-livered lies of anecdotes of total rip offs of the once proud culture now gone down the sink, when will you grab the golden staff of godmen and stick it to your side like a sceptre, when will you hurl ninja stars at each others eyes to greet the visionary who sticks wads of cash beneath age old mattresses nearing old age hospital beds, when will denim skin ass and empirical upskirt curiosities escape the joyride of the motionless world, when will you sweeten the snatch of a million whores who are whores, when will you smile a toothless little cry immobilized and marooned and flung at the bow of myriad steps of an assload of temples, when will culture whip thongs on bums too faggot to spearhead the fashion industry and scream with joy,
India, feminism, kinky Tony’s parlor for queer etiquettes, all together blotting the eye
I gotta give it to ya, you despise catching yourself think, slavery drips down your veins as does heroin from mine, India your family structure gears mental asylums beneath the floodlight of the moon, at last my ears are filled with marijuana smoke and eyes laced with LSD vision, yes, I have cosmic vibrations, yes, the Tibetan book of the dead swallows all other when it comes to eternal peace and essence of spirit
yes, I smoke marijuana every chance I get
No, I’m not the grown up snake coiling milk out of limp breasts
filling hollow eyed memories of when I was a boy watching the Delhi’s mango tree sprout,
from a seed to a man, to a bum, limbs outstretched, holding open the cathedral door
high hopes baked beneath white aluminum clouds
and people turned smart with cookie watch tied to wrists
I don’t care if you’re 7 years old,
I will absolutely recite my poem in absolute consciousness without a condom
and my poems have no rhyme, incoherent pieces of beating heart gibberish scribbled on the walls of toilets of garbage dumpyard city, shunned out of body of life-sized toy of eternal dolls and metal men pitting torsos in heavenly fire of night, sacred to no one except the battered and bleak eyed broken down spine of man of scavenger of faith, who else will read the verse of psychotic man torn out of Dadaism and newspaper cut outs of celebrities flashing buttocks and pipedream media bathed in sudden beams of illusions of power,
India what’s wrong with you, this ain’t the bombay talkies, this is serious,
why can’t you wrap your head around the reality of what I’m saying
my nuts are in your jaws, don’t you get it,
I don’t want 8 crore worth of benefits
I don’t want tens of thousands of gift surprises, or exciting cash back offers,
I don’t want to be the one lucky winner of a night with your cock,
India, don’t tell me registration is free, and exclusive
I’m not gonna wash China for laundry, leave me out of it,
I don’t care if you touch or torch the feet of the woman who sold a thousand goats to build a toilet
but I fucking care when half of Bihar feels bummed out over having to wash hands
and then to climb out of illiteracy like an ignorant sphinx and run Nation wide cameos powered by silver tongue machinery, is indeed the Indian way – to emerge out of thickness of skull, to scatter freely oratory semen at presidential podium for masses of brown Indian people, to discredit education in light of raising the bronze bust of religion on pedestal, to make babies by deep-throating the dank muck of sewage conveyed in breast milk because it’s Christmas, to make a name for the face behind the white beard by conspiring soggy underwear of masturbation of semen of banana pie ass hole, layer after layer after layer, caked in excrement of narcissistic excitement, to send men, homemade guns and blunt knives after wives of writers of strongly worded articles, to resurrect the tea seller without a graduation ceremony, to hail the capitalists and fascists and communists and have the just man’s head cut off,

Life! Oh life! You’re like the sight outside a hospital window
showing no interest to pull anyone out
except the kissass who kisses ass not due to crackpot obligation but blown by the idea of love, except those who go fetishizing furry animals because some satellite may catch them doing it, except those whose gossips are red underwear on white hot tenements of highrise steel waving genitals, except those who lionize the woman who goes whoring herself here to there all for a pile of sand, except those who wear saintly odes of self proclaimed angelical brown godmen motorcycling cock into angel pussy halo while wishing for white skin, except those whose coercion is sexy black suit and pubic beard locomotives, except those who invoke the favor and forever lie slumped against walls trying to giggle and then trying to impress platonic bonds with the heavy heel of the heavy judger of men, all for greater medical health cover, and who is the old tree entangled in its own roots, and who is in demented brain of sane man with a wife who serves him her explosions for lunch, and who is the hump surrogate and bland son poet mirroring razor-sharp words to get patted on the back, when all the farts of well fed bellies in stuffed shirts hire biographies of incandescent shrewdness perched in bungalows of rose gardens and balconies, towering over mediocre livestock kissassing the bash for the newly weds surrounded by sycophants and capitals of huge sums of cheesecake money, but when the poet behind satanic intent collides with kissass Capitana Cunt and the velocity of Proud Screwdrivers of Delhi’s slam polemics who chain themselves to reading out of memory, rules become an entrepreneurs’ melodrama crafted with sunny delight, and life yet again opens its ass to the snatch of the sun, and weeping Buddha from whom the Knight embezzles a last charge, is the lone leaf torn in the wind between the poor and the saintly city scrappers
when life pulls the best kind of people out, out into higher skies
lifting above clouds beyond the scope of eye of mind
above the tandav of uninhibited cock and balls of ash smeared naked Indian yetis
and chillum smoke clouds stacking up a waltz with music of wind
there the smoky orange sunset right above horizon doused in mind hallucinogens
there eternity is felt
when a neurotic man does unforgivable things
to be able to live

On The Circus Bullshit Of It All

Walking Out

Today I walked past a man who gurgled a throat full of phlegm and spitballed
it near the pavement, his only courtesy was not to do it, however deep
into the blackening dusk of city ignorance, he turned his head, I heard it.

I also heard myself not ejaculating a spontaneous, what the hell man!,
instead my gaze fell upon the black sedan not too far away, with its trunk duck taped
to white and yellow roses,

the colors I felt were somewhat coincidental of the fruition
of the well known arranged marriage India, where a woman’s authority is silenced
and must not transcend the walls of the kitchen,

who sits in hushed megalomania
like a deep fat fryer, awaiting her husbands impotency and white beard and hair
to recede his intelligence, and then! They all want to be right,

Meanwhile I walked past a man who had sacred hindu chants plugged to both his ears,
and while I nearly stepped over the grimy machismo of overflowing gutters, I recognized
his hunch back, his life had knelt before god, I never capitalize it

it isn’t about uttering fuck dick shit balls or casting starry rebellion on boob tube,
and it right as rain isn’t about rosy ass holes that turn to objects of smuttery
and good manners to be cast in biblical presentations

and as I approached the only pole with rotten animals’ burning fossils,
life lit up in a puddle a mean scarlet, inviting into stagnant waters the full force behind man’s
libidinous screeching laughter, like the sound of ripples being slivered, like a boy
discovering the onset of youth seeks momma’s consent to bring both feet smashing down
obsessed by her blessings, he jumps into the puddle. Ah! An Indian mother’s dream to bear a son
eclipsed under Freud’s penis envy, while momma’s daughter is withheld
from such favors,

and thrown to a fate confined around holy fires to be the good whore who carries the seed of phalluses, of her man’s amour-propre, who expunged from her own flesh and bones, who forsakes her point
of espial in light of rewards she feels she’s promised on the one condition that the rounded, boiled, sweet end of her husband’s stick be the super soaker surprise of free flowing gyzym, and no glove, no respect for women in the workplace bullshit could come in the way of procreating love

before I could turn away from the ugly face of people, my sad self appeared before me
in what one would say a karmic duality, but some truths have to be exposed,
the truth of poetry,
the truth of children raised by faggots,
the truth behind perfect families, the truth of parents
swallowing their children, breath by breath,
the truth when a grown man in his blackened bathroom weeps wanting Allen Ginsberg as father, he wonders how liberating speaking thoughts and feelings to an idiot-proof parent would be, as a tear trickles down his mustache,
the truth behind depression,
the truth that 90% parents can’t help being selfish,
the truth of women sent to whore houses decked in gold jewellery,
the truth that marital rape is an Indian parents asylum of faith,
the truth about faith being the rotten egg of ignorance
the truth about the man who seeks to be fucked in the ass, the truth of auto-eroticism,
the truth of the stars,
the truth every dysfunctional family denies,
the truth of cancerous rituals hung as garlands around a cowards neck,
the truth that makes everyone somebody when they’re dead,
the truth hidden from bare eyes,
the truth of a mother that she cannot stand challenged, the truth of the law,
the truth that dreams pose a serious and grave threat to reality,
the truth I can’t hide from my words, the truth why I drink myself to death,
the truth you choose not to speak but think,
the truth that this world is a mountain of shit, but does not extend beyond the confines of my house, sinking beneath its weight,
the truth that drugs, alcohol and nicotine bring to surface, the truth we choose never to speak,
the truth of the people whose voices are gutted, snuffed, buried beneath walking crowds emptying
their wads of cash, and themselves down the darkest alleys, singing, chanting, crying slogans
and carols to the holy, the holy rock, the holy phallus which is also made of stone
the truth of India written only in poetry
the truth Indians will deny if I say their vedas were meant for endless parent worship, the truth Indian children are recitals of, cocksucker in god, egotist cunt in god, harridan vision in god
the truth about what I can write if I don’t publish it
the truth that turns old Indian people into clerical slobs that would rather make the youth go mad
than abandon their own asylums of fat, the fat in their bouncy bellies, the fat in their perspiring common sense, the fat in their insufferable speech
the truth my words will mark 50 years hence when temples would’ve turned to dust and the priests
and godmen alike would be seen polishing anti-god cock

but when the truth that a sunset is sought, more after its time, people let out thunderbolts
bowing their backs at the crack of doom and tears run down their eyes
And by the ganesh of aluminum and concrete every man’s skull is bashed open to the world, the void, the abyss, the vacant spot left when brains and imagination clock back in time

not the kind people call nostalgia, but more of an unforgiving, atomic finger
happy to push reset
and as god fearing as human kind is, he ought to owe the same courtesy to the people he wishes to touch, but check out the hormones on the BAFTA red carpet, alienated genitalia, world’s brain
is like a knee cartilage, thinning, thinning, thinning

so, on my way back I find for Dr. Timothy Leary, Ph.D (1920-1996)
these words: the world has relinquished its personality in the wake of its good looks
and what remains is the kind of peculiarity of sizzling plutonium, everyone has theirs ready
ready for mission, mission kaboom, the ministers always dress ethnic,
their message stands erect,

erect in intolerance, no secluded corner is left unlit for anyone to hide,
except when I watch her walk to and fro the lane I frequent for obvious reasons
there’s nothing more I can say than the thrill she sends down my spine
the thrill of not knowing what it would be if “hello” was a thing to say
in this intolerant intolerant world

Oh! Marshall! Who else could be as selfless as you
Who else
In these fascist walls that put me through psychotherapy, electric shock therapy, occupational therapy, behavioral therapy, therapy, therapy, therapy, cracking my skull one way or the other to be more livable
Who else
In their tears I hear their obsession for blowing their own trumpet
Who else
In their demands of signing me up for lobotomy
Who else
In their arms of unopened love because my brain does not meet their levels of dormancy
Who else
In the sounds of poetry born from machine gun jaws to my silent ears
Who else
When they hammer my words shut threatening loss of affection
Who else
In the moment they rob me of my share of dopamine ranting about their own right to independence
Who else
In every hour I’m obligated to feel the guilt of their flaws
Who else
When I must smoke marijuana
Who else
who else can accept the things I’m incapable of psychologically
when every mother thinks her son is Hercules
Who else
I’m with you Marshall and to you I raise my glass, companion, you stand by me when I’m rheumy eyed and looking for a sunset

Walking Out

A Very Indian Affair

two strangers engage in wedlock
and fritter themselves into promiscuity
they boast designated insults
a lecher and a filthy cunt
all they wanted was to explore
each others bodies
their pretence to fall in love
it all began the night the white horse
got her someone to blame
she martyred her virtues
upon matrimony
slapped her hands on the sides of the bed
let out a piercing cry
as if his member was a doctor’s needle
next morning she called him a brute
for he had left her sore beneath her springy pubes
blood smeared the bed sheets and her thighs
in sticky mishmash, they were creatures of consequence
he was a lustful man and curiosity
spared her her ignorance
until she sprang back on her feet
feeding herself what memory she craved for more
under the moonlight she said for the world to see
how ample beneath her gossamer
when it clung to her skin
he stiffened emptying his eyes
and himself into her, it was a swift adventure
he slumped like a corpse atop her musky squalid
and she with a grunt like a cow at the time of slaughter
had had her fill
they were a match made in heaven
ploughing each others middle
at every libidinous impulse
until they ran out of the goodness behind dowry
which laid the first stone of his in-laws’ intent
to mollycoddle their baby daughter of twenty four
with hopes to restore virginity
lest his messy affair sour the sanctity of marriage
so it did
she was the reason he took up Scotch
and his was the guilt of pinioning her snatch
a villainous act, once the seed has been sowed
pronounced her mother
was bound to transgress tact and civility
they had spent each other entirely
calling names in a fitful blitz
until she heard the sound of thunder
the man he was had to reprimand her
she felt she was treated all the same
they heard the trumpets play the illusion of love
and the pipers let out a hankering for both sides
to employ society’s only cultured offering
on how to put an end to years of icy silence
the light had shone, he took his freedom
and granted her her preference
to fulfil papa’s pocket
with a precious precious grandson

A Very Indian Affair