In-vitro imagination

You have been hooked to your
tube for my days in the tube
the spectacle of my conception
has been your favorite reality
show and when I became the
whole lucky enough to be more
than the sum of my stolen parts
you sentenced me to my term
in the womb ,a mere rite of passage,
another tube .
Soon,you will pluck me,
for your own consumption
through the tube of my life
the walls of which are as
deceptively transparent as
the one I was conceived in,
the only difference being I
now harbor a wish to break out
so that every now and then I
have run headlong onto it.

That night of total darkness

Overnight the holy truths broke
out of the prison of sacred texts,
the farther they fled from prison,
the tinier they became,till all that
remained of them was an army of
a million mice hurrying for a mass
suicide in the high seas.
Splash!!
And the world ,still sleeping sunk
in the waters of ignorance.
Books and archives,now emptied
of weighty knowledge spilled over
from the shelves,triggering a giant
tsunami of lost words and phrases
in which you feared for the life
of friends and family.
Life or Death,you thought.
but as you saw the city rebuild from the same
ruins,you could tell it was all a matter
of choosing Right or Left like always
You never need to live
upside down in an inverted
world,as ants scaling falling
towers will tell you.

Land of far too many clothes

History has always worked
day and night in invisible,underground
sweatshops to stitch up new clothes
for men,with a such a rare diligence
that there came to be too many clothes
and too few men.And even fewer Gods
and just one,sole piece of land.
The clothes have begun fighting
among themselves to dress up
the Gods and cover up lands they
cannot dress.For how can a piece
of land ever slip into a cloak like man
does?But clothes keep fighting nonetheless
and you can hear the blows loud and clear
as the pants kick and the sleeves throw
a punch .You know what a wizard
the tailor named History is.
So,undress at your doorstep
get naked and stay ,locked up
inside your houses while the clothes fight.
Do not step out or the clothes shall shoot
you at sight.

The Hostel

These thousand rooms are
leaves drooping from branches
twisting into one another,where
windows watch each other and one
wakes up to the knock at the door
of the other, the convenience
of flushing our differences down the
common toilets,letting our quirks lay
dormant during these dormitory years
the consumption of dogmas dished
out in the mess where a thousand mice
gnawed off a monstrous block of cheese
daily,
This panopticon though deserted still
contains in each of its cells a mind
leashed to a machine and when one
knows that this is the only life left
to live and love,it is only obvious
that these released convicts cherish
their jail years,prisoners as they
will always remain to some convention
or other.

When bombs sit down and talk

Little Hans followed his football
into the thicket to find a
sleeping bomb from that war
that war of our times,times
when we danced in the bar
to the music of the distant gunfire,
a music still lingering in my ears
as I see Little Hans dancing over
his discovery-this reclusive piece
of metal might just be the last surviving
member of a family which wiped out
millions(of lives)
And thus I tell little Hans
how every day we should be reminded
of the modesty of these unexploded
bombs,in the shadow of whose mercy
we live on.
But then I see his blue eyes full of
hope,and I fail to add
that there might come a time
when all those favourite alien archaeologists
of his,
who stop by our planet
will have only unexploded bombs
to excavate.

Inspiration

The Last Speaker's Last Words

The tongue-shaped tombstones
of the graveyard where my
my modern cousins wait to bury me
with honour and walk away ,
my tongue still trembling, trying
to free away from my dying body
and float in the air full as it is
now with the voice of my clan
I know this death shall silence
something more than me
but there is always the hope
that with my ears touching
the walls of my coffin I can
keep listening in to the music of
the rest of my dead kin talking.

Between the Corners of a Lost Room

Last time they barged in,I had been the
lizard that scurried out between those
big,nasty boots at the door and every
morning since the papers materialize
and unopened,unexplored they add silently
to the stack rising by the days in a corner
of my room where the news of the world
lies languishing ,the dark headlines of disaster
leaping out at me only to bump into the
mountain of books protecting my self
and even in the night they flutter restlessly
their pages grazing against the wall,nearly
waking me up,while I keep up with
my reading ,thinking of how the next time
they march in,searching for me,
I will have shrunk myself to the spaces
between the words I read ,I will feel their
hands rummaging my shelves and before
giving up,unwittingly riffling the book containing
me , then flinging it aside and shrugging their
shoulders before walking away,leaving me
as unread and lost as ever.