Tag Archives: art

I am the Individual


I am the problem you could never solve,

I calculate beyond your algebra.

I am that invincible disbalance in your equations

Untouched by your formula.

I am the star which sears the night,

Outside any constellation.

The blind spot in your planetary charts,

That blatant mystery in the sky.

I am the residue after the chemical reaction,

The indissolvable toxin.

Forever moving and making you stir Bulldozing through your foundations —

A ceaseless tornado.

Your theories despise me

Your Language crumbles at my feet.

Your abstractions rupture at each encounter

I revolutionize daily.

I am the sky above your intersections

Beyond your horizons

I precede the Subject of your ideology

Always outside your texts.

I play with your labels

And juggle them like balls

Any identity which you construct

Is yet another balloon

I’ll burst in jest —

A lego brick

With Which I construct a castle

Or throw away at whim.

I am that crude reality

You see with your eyes

Like the sound of wind chimes

I tingle your nerves

But never cross your mind

Like a hum or a shiver

I inhabit your body.

I am so obvious

You recognize me instantly

But your knowledge has Alzheimers

Your logic cannot fathom me.

I am the largest minority in society,

I am everyone.

Unique by blueprint

Overflowing every border and box

Excessive by necessity

Unbound by definitions

Undefinable by any category

Silent but sublime.

You can never put a finger on me

Never crush me under your thumb

I am not something you theorized

Programmed and programmable

Isolated units

Consumer and consumed

Obeying the scriptures you think

Are ingrained in me.

I am not some rootless

Impoverished

Fungus

Desperate for bondage

And categories to define me.

You cant even understand

I can exist without chains.

I am the individual

Discreet and singular

Multiple and infinite

All at once

The greatest silence in history.

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Why Why?


Why Why?

 

If you dive deep into the abyss of Reason and have that insanity in you which drives you till the very end of your wits,

You will eventually ask:

Why why?

What what?

How how?

The questions will start questioning themselves. The circle of Reason will be complete.

There will be no answers. And that will be the real dawn of truth.

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The Gypsy In The Sewer


Cub

Metal bars stuck around the hollow of his stomach since the day he was born – it never went away.
The nomad was abandoned, his mother was the drain. Everybody knew the stranger from the underground.
The gypsy roamed the international sewers trading a part of him with the merchants from the surface.

If you were to be one of them, you would definitely ask, “Where is his gut?”
And there would be none.

Let your name be Alice.

A louse crawled in his flowing, gray hair and Alice ignored it, pretending to be disgusted by the sewage instead. Perhaps she wasn’t pretending after all. Alice was genuine.

A leash held him in. The jail was made up of metal pipes filled with the black bile from the surface which their citizens couldn’t stand. It was made to prevent the traders from stealing the nomad.
The Gypsy from the sewer smiled from the enclosure.
He could stand us. He could stand anything.

The people liked him because he was the only one to ask, and they wanted to tell.
His eyes would gleam with the sheen of dreams, as if his tear ducts collected your stories.

He remembered each one of them.
He remembered the time when the two towers fell as the bird went blind in the middle of the city.
He remembered the boy who left tears on his shoulders when he told him about his brother who left.
When that girl gave him daisies, he asked her how she found them and he still remembers the garden in her backyard where she played with pythons.
He hasn’t forgotten the wall which fell when the cold years went away.

When he slept it all came back.
He walked through the garden, breathing the dust from the towers, looking for the brother who was lost past the broken boundary wall.

In his sleep he lived on the surface, amidst the part of the lives the people left behind.
He worked the hardest in his dreams. Breaking and mending the weak, creaking parts – making a whole which functioned.
He found the answers to the questions they didn’t even know they will ask.

When he awoke, the answer was found in the cage of his stomach.
Each time it was different.
Once, it was the bonsai tree with thin, paper leaves.
The merchants took it up to the surface and planted it in their cities. The plant grew into a metropolis.
Then he made a red star and it made the wall which crumbled.

A tiger cub sat curious in his stomach when Alice told the nomad about her cycle which broke. The cub’s piercing eyes searched her face, maybe looking for the tooth which went missing when she fell, or imagining the white fluid dripping down her lips and eyes. Her stomach was yet not fat.

His pupils dilated, its throat vibrated – its purrs called to you, Alice.

When she finished telling her tales, the other merchants handed him the money.
The cub was squeezed out of the cage.
It trembled with hesitance. Its tiny claws dug into the metal of the pipes.

Alice picked it up; the tiger’s licks left wet, red trails on her neck.

The merchant group walked away – ready to fuel their machine of civilization with dreams that they would distort and promises they couldn’t keep.
This one would be good for a decade.
After which the merchants will return to buy a part of the nomad again.
It’s best for business.

Alice glanced back towards the gypsy again. His cage lay hollow, his eyes caved-in.
He will never see his cub alive again.
The surface which thrives on his organ implants bars him from living his own dreams.
Or does it?

Alice strutted away.
A leash has its way.
A louse still hangs on his silvery strands which may never shine with Sun rays.

The light awaits the nomad.

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The Age Is Lost, The Genius Has Escaped


The Post-Modern Genius Will Write His Obituary Like This…

It is a loneliness of a special kind
Which is born out of this opinion —
I am better
And it is true.

How surprising is it,
That a whole age can fail you?

That an era can give you no heroics to be inspired.
That your need for grandeur is so dire,
That you have to dream up your gods,
Because the real ones never existed.
When geniuses are just inflated mediocrity,
You become your own apothecary.

It may seem so romantic,
Running alone in a race for greatness.
But the truth is this —
I am great
But it’s not enough.

I wish I could forge this
Into one of those famed solitudes;
The betrayed lover of humanity
Having an affair with his alienation.

I wish I could mould this
Into an obsessive depression,
Forcing me to fry my brains in a microwave;
A death which would’ve made me immortal.

I wish I could hammer this
Into a toxic disgust —
Spitting on people’s faces
With my poetic revulsion.

But disappointment has no grandeur.
Boredom is not glamorous.

When you uphold my skull
As an idol of worship,
Know that all my artistry
Was just an attempt
To escape You.

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City Introspections: The Pebbles


He can read the pebbles.
Like scrolls written by the river, he reads their stories and weeps.

Some pebbles are old. They tell stories of a time when the river was clean, healthy and alive.
The pebbles’ smoothness tells him of the joy the fishes, snakes and the naked girls and boys used to have a thousand years ago.

The pebbles are like totems telling mythologies of times when the earth was respected, the city was dead and the river was alive.

The majority of the pebbles are now black; in places which was once a river bed.
The river is now dead, the earth disrespected and the city is alive.
Or is it?

Some little children stack them up like little skyscrapers and kick them down for fun.
The stories the pebbles tell are unheard by them.

Listen to the pebbles.
What do they whisper?

We have witnessed the jungles and the villages.
We have captured rivers in our grooves.
We have seen you take birth.
We have seen you grow.
We have seen you become a monster.

Beware.

Don’t throw us away when we warn you.
We are the stories which make up your boundary walls.
We are your protectors.
When we fall away, the wild will devour you.
The snakes you killed, the hyenas you slaughtered, the wolves you ate — all of them will return.

When we fall away, nature will return.

Who will protect you from the storms and the sewer-floods then?

We don’t ask for much.

Heed us when we talk to you.
Don’t piss in the river.
Don’t blacken it with your shit.
It is the life source of you retarded millions.
When it will truly die — you shall cannibalise on your life.

We love you.

Love us back.

Or go fucking die.

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The Room Is Not Empty, It’s You


Empty: It’s You

Is it the room that is empty
Or is it you
Who can be hidden
By a box of five walls
And a granite floor
And negate
Your body
Your Breath
Your existence
Your soul?

Stop blaming the world for its blindness
When you yourself have gouged your eyes out.

See.
Hear.
Touch.
Smell.
Taste.

Exist.

— X —
If you liked it, the baboon shall very well want your comments below.
Want some doughnuts?
Lobsters!
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We Have Survived


We have survived.

We have survived your gas chambers and your World Wars.

We have mutated and lived through your nuclear explosions.

We have taken bullets to our heads to fight the ignorance you preached.

When you decided to bifurcate our homes and cleave our hearts to suckle your emaciated, infantile egos, we were the bridges across your borders.

In your carnival of riots which celebrate your manufactured hatred, we provide sanctuary to the refugees of sanity whom you betray.

We are the ones who pick up the pieces and bury them in our bosom after you decide to smash the head of that 5 year old in the name of your religion.

We are the rumbling in the streets and the roar of hope which you seek to suppress with your pitiful water canons and your police.

We are the geniuses whom you behead and later on uphold as the icons of your religions which we rebelled against.

 

We have seen you destroy our world;

And we have lived through it all.

 

We have survived.

We will thrive.

Beware!

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The Artist Of The City


The artist’s tongue is as long as the skyscraper.

She licks the streets, the cars, the roads, the wall with piss on it and the beggarly children infested with fleas.

She takes it all into her belly.

Digests it in her stomach.

Pushes it down into her womb where it gestates.

She sleeps on the floor covered with a snowfall of white talcum powder.

She borrowed the powder from the eunuchs of every neighbourhood.

She lathers it on to herself everynight.

The scent makes her orgasm.

The powder is the dust which flows freely in the city.

It is unseen because it is never too much.

Just a thin layer floating in the air like mist.

Just enough to let people breathe, just enough to suffocate them and yet not kill them.

One can see the powder in the artist’s art work.

One can see speckles of it in the hair of the corpse which she made.

One can see it in the frozen orgasm of the gigantic penis which is installed on the streets where the sluts come to mourn their lovers.

One can see it in the crucified dog who hangs on the dome of the parliament, refusing to die.

The powder is the city.

The powder is the artist.

You hate it.

But it is in your breath.

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The Forest


It has been here forever.

 

A narrow strip of trees, caged by two walls on the either side – the remnants of the forest which gave way to the city.

 

It stands stubborn, arrogant and indestructible.

 

The bulldozers never touched it.
The axes were all impotent.

 

In its bosom it holds a parallel civilization.

 

From the windows of the high-rises all around, one can see the birds – its airforce – keeping a vigil.

 

Often peacocks come out of hiding, weary of the incessant love-making.

Often they will fly towards the city, peering through the windows at sexual violence and erectile dysfunction.

Their call rings like laughter.

 

They can see through the hollowness of your eyes.
The systematic draining of your soul has made you incomplete.

What happens when you realize that with all that money you can only buy Lamborghinis and 12 Storey Palaces – but these are far from enough.

 

You sleep with a hundred people, but the sex is dead.

 

You peer into the eyes of your lover and your lover needs another cigarette to stand you.

What happens when you waste your life to get to the top and realize that you’re already dead.

 

What happens when even your death is just another event, even for you?

You blame the concrete and the machine.
But it’s you who is broken.

 

The forest knows.

And that is why it refuses to abandon you.

 

The walls on the either sides have gaping holes with open arms.

 

Take all your drugs and alcohol and cigarettes there.

The forest will let you intoxicate yourself.

It will let you vomit and spasm and even let you die of an overdose.

 

It will let you mourn, for you should mourn your death.

Its mosquitoes will suck away all your blood.

Let them.

 

If you die she shall bury you in herself.

 

But if you survive, find a lover.

 

Make love in the forest.

 

Feel the skin instead of the designer clothes.

 

Kiss with love and not with technique.

 

Taste and not just lick.

 

Do it with love and passion and not for duration or achievement.

 

You will know pleasure and not just a fake orgasm.

 

Do not sleep in the forest.

Stay awake and watch the trees.

 

They will shower their dew on you.

 

Look at the stars peeking from behind the canopy.

 

Let the dogs sniff at you when they come.

 

Know that you exist and you are not your name, or your position, or your popularity or your money.

 

You are worth the labour of the Universe even without those things.

 

Go home.

 

Take a bath.

 

But don’t forget the forest.

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Filthy Delhi Lover


Do me in the doggy perv,
Take me in your lap and surf,
Shit’s the lube there is to fuck
Your Filthy Delhi Lover.

Hussain will paint us nude, my love.
With every thrust with every shove,
We climb up their towers and call;
Let the cameras cover.

Let the celebrities clear the way,
When legends walk they shall sway.
Bow before us ye bitches
You slaves want us as rulers.

Quote me in the Time, I say.
Hear me talk about that May.
When i groped you in the train, that day,
Your kick made me cower.

But thank god you are still potent, douche.
I like it when you fill my pouch.
Your ass is not forgiven still
You ask before you savour.

Cheap Bra,
Easy Rip.
Wet Cunt,
Take a Sip.
Take me in,
Don’t make me dig.

My Filthy Delhi Lover

You’re hard
Let me help.
On Top
Ill make you yelp.
Lie down
And you shall delve.

My Filthy Delhi Lover

My staff
But your crown.
I am your slave
Wipe off that frown.
You are the Queen
When I am down.

My Filthy Delhi Lover

There are some nights when you don’t sleep,
My poet, I shall let you weep.
Meet in me Hauz Khas you creep.
Ill show you how its done.

Ill ask before I rape you,
Bring some ropes, take the cue.
The stars shall know we were there,
We shall leave our mark.

Delete that clip, you will be slayed
I’ll break your apple if it will be played.
That MMS is useless son,
Stars perform live.

Take me for a Royce Ride
We’ll bitch about Joyce with pride.
Your piss on Ulysses my Aphrodite
Makes me wanna crash.

Lets go to some art gallery,
Lets make out amongst snobbery.
They’ll call our piece performance art
And sell it for a million.

Or we shall buy a red light,
Put it up, make the city bright.
We burn the khadi, win their game,
Parliament is now planetarium.

We shall orgasm seeing the Mars
Claw my butt, leave your scars.
Plan a party with the chamars
And dance with the hijras.

Its sexy when you talk society,
Justice shall be your piety.
Its nice when you worship none,
But love and freedom.

This is how you make porn,
You are wet, your mind is warm.
Dream me up when I am gone
Your Filthy Delhi Lover.

–X–
*CAUTION*
The names of certain communities, which are used as abuses, are not used in the same sense.
The poet doesn’t intend to hurt anybody’s sentiment. If your interpretation of this poem hurts your feelings, then you shall solve it yourself.
This is a dialogue, not a monologue. Meaning there are two speakers.
The poet doesn’t condone rape. The ‘rape’ used in this poem shouldn’t be taken in the literal sense.

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