I have never written a spoken word poem,
So let me make one up now.
But is this the now?
Or is the now somewhere in the past,
Where all the nows of eternity accumulate as ghosts
and take a Sauna Bath?
They never tell me anything!
Or I might be lying.
I might know exactly where the nows go,
Where tomorrow waits in irritated anticipation,
Where Flying promises hover,
Where forgotten yesterdays weep,
Where the forevers and the always hug it out in mistaken loneliness,
Where hopes go to die,
And where unfulfilled expectations look for closure under feeble torchlights!
I might have seen the walls that hide our sorrows and our smiles,
Knocked uncertainly on closed lips to peek inside and decipher the secrets of eternity…
Pursed lips failed to open,
And Krishna’s secret universe remained a fable.
See i am speaking without necessarily looking at a white page with scribbled words as interruptions which are hard to decipher from that seat which your butts have claimed as their own!
I might not have a page, a paper, a sheet, a copy or even a phone or a tab!
I might be speaking slowly, savouring each mispronounced word.
Or very very fast,
Eluding proper comprehension.
You don’t know me,
Don’t know how well i lie,
Because all poems lie;
Just very honestly!
That is why all poems are lies,
But all lies, well…. (smiles)
Are you following me?
Are you falling and rising with my words as they traverse the vacuum of this room in strides,
Prancing in and out of your ears, eyes, nose, mouth and bored consciousness-
Tasting delicious thoughts that were never meant to be?
Does my lie of a poem;
Meaningless, now and forever,
Penetrate your curly organ?
Does it move in and out of time’s contraptions,
becoming your past, in this presence, to be remembered in a distant future over a cup of forcefully Irish Coffee, and the nth rerun of F.R.I.E.N.D.S?
Does my poem visit your nows and forevers,
Reminiscing a ‘then’ which is as much a lie as the meaning of this poem?
If I end the poem ‘now’
Without an attempt to explain anything,
Would it explain everything?
Or would that be a lie
That would join the ‘whys’ at the edge of eternity under an umbrella shaped out of question marks?
Supposing that the room is the universe,
The whirring fan above my head,
An Absolute, defying description,
Making Hegel turn in his arrogant grave-
And the words in numbers
Are the waves of an inherent vice,
Spreading curses along parallel worlds-
As the spreadsheet of time is ripped to shreds,
Allowing the ridges of space,
And the genitals of the universe,
To lock in a fierce carnal expression
And the light-
White in its burning agony,
Covering the dirt and dust of the room,
And the cannibal cells that live
Of decay and death,
And utopian worlds
That collapse in satisfied bliss
Of smoke and earth!
Splinters out of existence
Trying to reach darkness.
What a tragedy…
– Shakya Bose
You should go-
I should work.
Because my lids are like the sun and the horizon on a windy afternoon;
Aching to meet…
All I think about,
Are how your chocolate fingers slip through the mess on my head.
My own queer appendages wrap around your throat;
Around the belly of the sky…
In crimson dreams,
How your little baby breasts look
My mind opens up to the body,
Like a sunflower…
What am I,
If I don’t see
The depth that separates the border of your breasts
From the boundary of your tummy
With the tip of my fingers?
I trespass the no man’s land
Navigating what can only be a world
I was not supposed to see…
And through closed eyelids,
I see stars on a night sky,
And the moon,
Floating like a flag on a pirate ship…
My body is a slave to the endocrine,
As logic and all of her secretaries take a holiday,
And I walk home through ordeals,
Like Odysseus after the Trojan War!
But I am already home.