Tanka 24062016

still alive
in some parts of me
this autumn
of all the songs you sang
the sound of sweeping leaves

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Wondering Where To Go

what snake coiled around an erect phallus
brings deliverance to a spinster
who dreams of wild black pigs
living on land and water
what symbol of transition is Hermes then
of no good to one unwilling to spill blood
move we must in one direction of choosing
or get left behind
the age of the now will not retract
spring is dead no promise of bloom
rocks must wither
and seas unyielding
mold psyche, open antique stores, sit there crying
not everyone’s gotta break their back
generations decay in due time, let them
it’s out of your hands, don’t drink yourself to death
or dwell in pig-ignorant tunnels
you prayed to the god who built heaven
but the grass will turn black
and robes will insult the craftsman’s loom
while you sit on your ass
and pray and chant and rant and exalt in ritual ecstasies
or walk up the pilgrimage mountains of doom

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

Dear Father

is it true the blood coursing through my veins
is drunken in your hollow name
the name for which merit to whom shall I offer
you have gambled yours away for a pile of sand
by the wretched summer when one seeks shelter
I have no roof above my head
and with my belly exposed to the sun, I cry O father
what in god’s name have you done
in whose grand tutelage do the courts verdict
the loathsome acts you have me intended against
was it the alpha of the two whose cold blood
and cunning for brick and mortar sways true
or was it simply the cold-blooded bent of a father
be that as it may, I desire not your stone
neither your silver is of any appeal
that and all can be compounded for the son of alpha
for I have read long tales about unconditional sentiment
but laughably enough none can be ascribed to you
so when nature’s torrid face turns itself to dust
barren of love and human touch
father you may beckon on no one to bear your ashes
and the merit of this is whose save mine to boast

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

…and he wept for whom

if the man of torn reputation
is a ghost you don’t see
until the maiden’s blackened name
spells out golden letters

if the man in a crown of thorns
provokes no thought
until the woman he bedded
critics his stretch marks

if the man who couldn’t cry
then cries for years and years
after his wife left him
in his rusted car

if the man who sought solitude
is now alone and brooding
he wonders where everyone is
in vain awakened Buddha

if the man who read the holy book
leaves no flower in it
does he create the sky above
the view of his grave