A rioting mind

I dreamt of blood

of men with sticks and fire
beating their breasts like gongs

I dreamt of a riot
in an anywhere town

with anyhow cries
tearing the crackling sky

I dreamt of relief
that it wasn’t me;

that a turban, a moustache,
were signboards to death.

Beneath a fiery sun
with passion
in men’s thrusts
it’s funny

how my mind
clung to detail;

even in a dream

the turning spools of dust,
a sequined dupatta,
a rock turning pink,
sutured with the blood of
a girl’s breast

the spoils of war

the toothless grin
of the sheepish smile
in the next day’s news
was the herald
that I saw,
like Ceaser rising from the grave.

my mind released from
behind its cautious bars
raving rioters

and then I woke up
to the night of a new day
the dark guilty
sigh of an ordinary day
cleaning the corpses

like a teacher wiping the
slate clean
the day tries to erase
the marks;
as the brawling children of its lust
plaster its blackness with their hate
their hypocrisy, and their fire

what a time I live in
what moments of truth I see

where despair is a seamless bridge
to tomorrow.
and oblivion,
a mask to the cackling face of the real

o mother
what a time I live in

that sleeps to death’s
slow song
and wakes up to
the applause after


About teevramadhyam

'I became insane with long intervals of horrible sanity' -Poe
This entry was posted in Atyachar, City, Could be verse, Gothamisation, hmmm, hypocrisy, middle class mithya, One Bad Day, the apocalyptic real, why? and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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