CHLADNI FIGURES

Everything is in motion.

The heavens, the mountains,

The atoms.

Everything.

Beating to its own rhythm.

The emptiness, the sadness,

The pain,

Inside you

Beating faster than your heart,

Echoing excruciatingly.

Outside, 

The world appears calm, so serene -

You smile, greet people,

Listen to them,

Display the chladni figures

Of your face,

Pass the beating as sound,

As music,

As art.

SLAPSTICK LIFE

School, University, Airport, Bank and Prison - 

A same beam runs through the ceiling . . .

One day you stand in a long queue

To deposit the university fee

In a bank

An airplane takes off  beyond your control

One day you work through life

The penal labour 

To pay the bank

Before you are admitted to the hospital

(This all happens easily

As easily as a School or a University

Is converted into a Hospital or a Prison 

During a pandemic).

You are the patient, the student,

The passenger, the defaulter, the criminal -

Helpless!

A dot entagngled within

The colossal rib cage of iron and emptiness.

Just look inside those eyes -

Those Buster Keaton eyes

Hiding the pain

Under the sheen of vaudeville stunts.

KISS

I taste your lips 

On my tongue

Like dentist's tools

Long after the tooth has been

Extracted -

The throbbing

The wound

The blood

The steel

INDEPENDENCE DAY

The waste should go

Into the dustbin

Lying across the street

Sitting within its own rancidity.

Add a barbed wire.

A brave army person.

A poet carrying trash:

A heated argument.

The army moves

With rifles and batons

About to hit the poet;

Everybody knows

Where the plot of such situation goes.

But, in that frozen hanging moment

The poet IS the trash.

One angry syllable 

And he will go dead down

Into the trashcan of a rotting nation.

THE PLACE BENEATH

Beneath the scatological architecture

There's no breathing

The windpipe shoved down the mouth

Is the rectal passage where

The shit of politicians and 

Piss of leaders is cunningly whisked

With the blood of martyrs 

Beneath this shitty metaphor

There's no smelling also

You can pass

The putrid smell as fragrance

Make the roses blush -

Kiss the windpipe clean

And call it all a holy structure

Beneath this beneath

People live

And survive