- #poemaday ananth aranya Atyachar beauty Bombay City Could be verse epiphany forest Gothamisation hasi to fasi hmmm hypocrisy I Quote It is written I want to ride my bicycle kaha gaye woh din Lou middle class mithya Music nasha nature night nostalgia One Bad Day poetry Prosepoetry the apocalyptic real traffic Uncategorized vignettes why?
tagsanger aranya auteur beauty birdsong black Bombay bombay streets cars chauvanism circle city cityscream creation crows cycling death detergent development dhrupad Eco ecstasy evening eyes fear fight flight forest forests frustration Ghalib grass guilt insomnia kachra Kanti uncle Krishnaa liberated life lost lou Love madmast marine drive masculinity metaphors minisha lamba mirrors music nasha night nirma nostalgia observer phallic symbol PoMo Rain rant relationships safedi ki jhankaar silence sleep soar solitude space spirit the sea three traffic Ustad voyeur water white wild worm
Category Archives: Atyachar
the ocean froths In the empty ghada a Shrill whisper rises Like piss in the stream The fawda picks away at the clod Darknesses converge Upon the decaying carcasses The dead stink Louder than blasphemies In the sacred chamber And time, … Continue reading
There’s something about him – the way he conducted himself. No. Conducted is the wrong word. His demeanour is a stage without a curtain. really. There is no membrane. Nothing that complicates his serious play with the system. (haha. system … Continue reading
I’ve watched black rain sow its seeds in fields of tarpaulin. pollinate the slum roofs with the manna of kali’s blood. and the angry gods in them come laughing out of blue urchin tongues. poverty’s a bitch, yo. I’ve watched … Continue reading
In the marketplace of time, buying cheap chappals woven by blind hands, tresspass Propriety’s red cloth taunts the wild bull euphemising the truth, Don’t just stand there, abuse Ride her back, and as she throws you like so many grains … Continue reading
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 … Continue reading
This tumult of newspapered violence ravages me an incessant fist a thronging orchestra of despair Tired, I turn away and drink the evening swathed in birdsong aah! a believer salvaged.
(with apologies to Ginsberg, Eliot and the rest of the gang that’s been looking for an angryfix)