It Might End Tomorrow

It Might End Tomorrow

It’s easy to be afraid, of yourself,
The weight you carry
Of all these years of people’s bullshit,
Literally that you’re wreaking off
Carrying all those old folks’ dreams,
Of greatness, honor, some more of that stuff
All the normal things like orange juice,
Ice-cream, cricket, and football
What’s good to win and better to lose,
How to call a good game
What to eat, where to run to with wearing what,
So many more things that make the code
The code that we call human,
Some weird code,
I’ve never seen the better of it

And now we’re bored, of the code,
But left with nothing else to cherish
But the stench of our own thousand years,
Of history, violence, peace, and fake romance
Why are we aching still?
We’d ache knowing if there was a way out
But there is no way out,
We’re eating our own vomit in this boredom prison
And dreaming of a heaven with strawberries,
Neat whiskey and crystal ice,
Flowers and virgin damsels,
Dancing to Mozart’s lighter tones
It isn’t happening,
In this life or the next,
And why are we still dreaming?

The problem with poetry,
Is that it feels like weight-lifting
Every line requires lifting the shit,
That’s named in past memories
And unloading it into the dumpyard,
Of your unconscious
And then for each effort,
You get a new line of poetry
That prances through,
Looking wild,
Like a newborn child
Sewed in eroticism,
And might, and, some of those other good things

I don’t know,
This hopeless tale of man and his medley
His long song of suffering and false laughter
I don’t know,
It all feels, very jelly-like to me
Like candy poisoned with orange and apple,
I don’t know
I guess when it all ends,
Most of it will be forgotten
And only rainbows will remind these blind leaves,
Of a strange creature called man
That lived some million years ago
Writing epics, poetry, short fiction,
Singing to jazz music and performing metal songs
Dancing to strange binary sounds,
And romanticizing about the whole being alive thing
I don’t know,
The leaves mighn’t remember
And yet we take our mortality,
With such distaste
Somehow it isn’t plausible,
Considering how far from immortal,
We truly are

Chocolate is good and whisky better,
But these days will be gone
Our farms and mighty structures,
Lost to the dust of stars,
Lurking suspiciously at the corners of the galaxy
Searching for some black hole,
To be lost into forever
The whole thing feels very queasy to me,
And somehow I’ve got this doomsday itch inside me
Like things are going to end tomorrow,
And our unsung songs lost to the distant rings,
Of time

I have for you no good tokens of positivity,
To share with your heart mighty songs of goodness,
To groove your heartbeat into goosebumps on the skin
Today, I’ve just got this doomsday feeling,
And hey, it might be intuition that’s right
Who knows? I don’t
It just might be

Everyday Musings

Everyday Musings

I’ve forgotten prose, structure, eloquence,
Forgotten the art of lies
To turn silly moments of romance,
To beauteous works flowered with bottomless vocabulary
I have forgotten how to walk the path,
Where tellers speak of great histories
Of knights, and magic, and love,
Of little moments where kisses lasted a million years
Of subtle melancholic drama with well-clad women,
On rainy nights,
At fancy restaurants
Making love the whole night after,
At a hotel you paid for with your life savings
I’ve forgotten the art,
Of telling tales that last eternity
Timeless stringing hearts from sorrow to pondering,
To wondering of the depth of the human mind
I’ve forgotten

These days most happenings are random,
Though the sun keeps to its two milestones a day
I see no order in things,
No pattern in the happenings in life
Things just go on, mostly disconnected
With my mind trying to connect the invisible dots,
Trying to sense out some reason from this daze
And the funny thing is, the disorder happens,
In sobriety, in pure soberness,
In daytime,
When all the world seems normal moving about,
With their chores and activities
Sober as a naked duck, at daytime,
That’s when I strip my mind and see the confusion,
That lurks hiding,
Beneath all the romantic dreams that spurned in childhood
Behind the curt and mannerly fellow who wears his clothes,
There it lies, that everlasting confusion
That’s more than a thousand years old

And the funny thing is,
Clarity comes,
In the drunkenness of the night
When the cells in my brain are twisting,
And turning and dancing,
With the spirit of rum
In the absence of thought in these moments,
Without subtlety and confusion
Making all things plain beneath the moonlight
Drunk as a staggering pig,
Smiling like sunshine after three days rain
That’s when most things get clear
But who wants clarity?
Who wants anything at all? For real.

Always getting somewhere, where? Nowhere.
There’s nowhere to go
Nothing to say
Nothing to learn
Come and sing my doomsday song
And make love to my treacherous tongue
I’ll tell you no lies, give you no gods
I’ll give you just one glass of rum,
A cigarette, some other stuff to smoke,
If you’d like
And we’ll chatter on like kings of the galaxy,
Pretending to know how atoms spin,
What makes them spin and why
Pretending to know all sorts of other things,
Lying like superstars
Suspended like hollow skeletons,
On this funny green globe
In the middle of space

We’ll pretend, until we go to sleep
And wake up,
And repeat,
The whole funny thing,
That we call,
Everyday life

The Story of Creation

The Story of Creation

Sometimes too often stuck with papers,
Some moments when two things are interesting
It’s too often that this daytime job,
Gets to become a string of dull choices

Do I want magic or money?
Food of leaves or golden beef,
Sometimes too often,
I’m wandering astray,
Into a maze in which color is non-existent,
Into a maze with no dance and music,
With no enchantment
And I’m lost,
With no inspiration to tickle my neck,
No fire to burn my emotions

Most people, are stuck

Life is this great LSD story,
At the beginning of which,
God had himself a champion dosage
And wandered off into this endless dream,
Of which we are all so sincerely part of
Becoming fragments and fractals of this ancient dream,
That spurted forth like paint on an invisible canvas

It’s true, life is God’s great LSD tale,
A psychedelic dilemma,
Forged into molecular abstraction,
An atomic explosion,
In the non-existent mind,
Of an eternal being
This great psychedelic story,
In which somehow,
Death became a feared antagonist

Somehow, this whole color show,
Turned out to be,
A social drama around death

Where are the champions of the light,
Who lovingly tripped this Earth up to ecstasy?

God’s tale, his color tale, his foolish tale,
His endless tale, his bloody tale his wretched tale,
A psychedelic tale, after all
And it’s still being told,
By that formless champion tripper,
Who’s decided to get sober for a while,
To get drunk with the characters,
Of his own delusional painting,
Of this life story
Who is God you might ask!
Tell me who’s asking the question,
And I’ll tell you,
About God

And after that,
We’ll take a walk through the garden of the void
As two gods clothed in light,
And start for ourselves another great dream,
Like children at dawn
Sewing cosmic works with Lego toys
We’ll create this other whole new world,
This other orderless color spur
And keep on dancing,
Till shit happens again
And change it again,
And again,

Midday Minstrelsy

So many things left to do,
In this little span of time
Every man tuned by society’s accordion,
To hope for a charismatic climax
Everyday with tears and little doses of laughter,
Little children grow to a heroic demise

I’ve got no advice for you,
No words to churn your spirit
To give you hope of some afterlife,
To tell you that you’re lovely as you are
Such things men do to instill the heroic,
That useless feeling of greatness
For which idiots have battled and died
For which fools throughout time,
Have worshipped strange-looking deities,
And given classes for money

I cannot tell you off your death sweet friend,
When it might come,
When it might tickle and torment you,
Taunting and haunting these better days,
Through which you chastise and murder,
Your body
Through which you ache and bake,
Cookies and cake
Through which you drink your dreams away,
Searching for that thing, that hero thing

When you’re dead, you’re dead, see
There’ll be no pure spirit left to see,
The deeds that were done and the dreams pursued
Cause when you’re dead, you’re dead, see

Why do we want to live forever?
When we find it hard to live one moment
When we need to be taught,
How to appreciate color and waterfalls
How to listen to music and judge the best painter
We need to be taught the things we were born to do,
How strange? Such folly, such deceit,
In this amusement park of thieves and charmers

Spend your days in sweet harlotry,
Drink that last bit of aging wine
Or go to church and light a candle,
Take that pretty shiny thing out for a ride
Would it matter what you blew and what you screwed?
I don’t see change to be much of a fanciful thing
You are what you are,
Whether you screw that one eyed harlot in the subway,
Or you pay your last penny to that unclothed kid,
In that dark street
You are what you are

Don’t do the things that make you irk,
Let what makes you irk, do you
I’ll tell you what magic is,
It’s one word for a sermon,
A little bit of food
Eyes that see nothing but light,
And your breath for a wand

Go, go now and throw your magic,
Cast your spell upon those folks who sit and whine,
Off their daytime jobs,
Go and cast your magic,
On those sober souls

Soul Sewage

Soul Sewage

You can’t help but wonder,
If a writer writes because words are his drugs
If you look harder,
Deep into the chasms of individual intention
We look to excrete the things,
That bind us
The very knowledge that we hold dear,
Is what binds us

Most concoctions of lingual wonder,
Are blasphemies in time
Decorated with candor and innocent chirping,
To instigate the wondrous
In seeking hearts,
To captivate the broken,
The mad in the heat of life’s sun,
To show the way to stars,
With a sense of gullible decency
To elate and intoxicate the curious,
And to impress the bored

The world cannot exist without inspiration,
At least the way we know it
Every man seeking fervently,
For the heroic
For magic in these years of endless bore,
For a sense of the excellent,
When every movement,
On this dull canvas of activity,
Seems gray, distorted,
And somewhat senseless
As we are tossed above and below,
From summer to winter,
Unknowing of ourselves,
Of the true things that we are,
Not simply packages boned into skin and flesh,
Not simply that,
But with a hope of being,
More heroic, or at least, lasting

We cannot help but wonder,
Over that evening whiskey
If this entire hoax of living,
Was made by us or something else
But wondering is that very thing,
That creates this torment,
We’ve so lovingly named,

It’s over if you look at it once,
At the whole sham of things
Without whisky and rhyme,
If we see it once,
It will be over

The delights of sweetly-clad women,
And candy and wine,
The many tastes of ice-cream,
And the stench of war and poverty
The many romances of art and revolution,
The chastities of morality and culture
If we see it once,
It all ends

But it ends to begin what?
There is no question like that,
You cannot ask such things
It’s over

Rabbits eating carrot at midday,
Know this truth,
And still love and eat,
And run around,
Like yesterday never was,
And tomorrow will never be

Whiskey teaches you nothing,
That the pale winds,
Of this virgin summer,

Just one look,
It will be over

Bra Strap Wonder Skin

Bra Strap Wonder Skin

You can lie for courteousness,
That you never look
But I know where the flame begins,
In that private space inside you,
In which you can never help but look,
At that pretty bra strap of hers,
Peeking at you,
Begging you to be tugged,
To come and explore

Forget all those sweet manners,
That hold you from your aches
That never give you enough vision,
To appreciate your animal self
Look at that wonder skin,
Decorated in clothing so tender
With those two black straps,
Peeking from within,
Asking you to come tug at them

You can’t hold back,
Because you know,
You’ll dream of those hidden gifts
Through nights when you’re lonely,
Wishing to lie at some woman’s bosom
With wine,
And chicken by your side
Watching bad television,
And speaking absolute nonsense

Those bra straps bring back nostalgia,
Of love lost,
Of things said at soft bosoms
With that pretty young lover,
Who promised you the world
Those bra straps,
They make you feverish

What is it that the breasts of a women,
Tinker with in the insides of men
It’s more than just touching,
More than just holders,
To embrace while making love
They symbolize tender care,
A hospitable pillow for tears
And those bra straps,
They conceal man’s hope for peace
A false hope

Bra strap and wonder skin beneath,
You must touch,
The things that make you tingle,
Life’s not a moral struggle,
It’s a little tale of wonderful things


A Nowhere Song

A Nowhere Song

So dreaming of flowers,
Most men want machines on this side
Torn between a soft dream,
And a pretty hefty ambition
We get lost in silly abstractions,
And drink wine for clarity
Smoking leaves through lives of melancholy,
And asking for more verbalisms

Every little fool who talks of the best,
Every piss off at evening who lies about the sunset
All words that come dancing,
Like simple sounds barked and meowed
Are nothing but themselves,
And mean nothing more,
Than the noise that they make

The clouds are the sticky notes of the ocean,
To remind itself that it can be many, yet one

Trying to be better while being only what you are,
You miser yourself and live with tea and books
Searching eternally for something non-existent,
You turn to kisses in sunshine for fulfillment
Seeking women and whisky in large clandestine palaces,
Seeking magic in lifeless dancefloor lighting

Every poem is a well-crafted lie,
Meaningless swimming in the darkness,
Of a soul lost in time
Where is time?

Every effort at midnight for romance,
Stings a dream and tears it to two
Angels at noon sweat out the truth,
There is no truth

Whiskey is the best friend of a word-constructer,
Everybody wants attention
Everybody wants to be loved
Everybody wants to smoke that cigarette in the twilight,
After making love to that perfect woman
On a cold winter night,
Beneath a thin moon,
In a cottage by a lake hidden from the sky by a forest
But everybody fails to understand,
That the lighter moments in living,
Come by themselves,
Unwanted and untouched
Everybody wants to be touched

Wanting flowers we sew new dreams,
And leave reality,
To bathe in the ignorance of our delights

Everybody wants to be loved,
And yet,
Love seems to elude us so easily,
Escaping eternally from our clutches,
Laughing like a little child,
At our complex matters,
Of sentiment, attachment, and emotion
Laughing like a child,
At our endless folly

All poems are lies sewed meaninglessly,
Like shooting stars rocketing toward nowhere
Yet shining with hope,
Bright, intelligently
Yet, heading nowhere

The Mortality of Culture

The Mortality of Culture

History has seen a great number of traditions passing with the progress of time. When traditions coalesced into a socially acceptable collection of ritualized behaviors and actions, humanity called it a culture. There were cultures that had witch doctors healing their sick, those that openly kept their women within the possessive needs of men, those that richly celebrated dance, music, and art, and the advanced ones that had all these elements incorporated. Inevitably, culture was something native to its region of origin, rarely moving beyond the boundaries within which it was found to be rational and a thing of heritage to be protected and nurtured as time moved on. Culture is vital to building societies that need to be decorated with human intelligence. It gives a society the platform on which every individual can express his or her subjectivity and do it with the support of the community. It gives human beings a platform on which there can be recognition for subjective expressions of art, music, dance, and several other talents. However, this platform is created with the help of collective ideology and very rarely through spontaneous understanding. It would seem only plausible to support and help build such a thing as culture, but like all primitive things such as cannibalism and living in caves, culture must die. When an artificially created ideology meets with nature’s fierce forces of evolution, the mortality of the human mind is revealed, and the mortality of all the things that it has created.

Indian culture is one of the richest heritages not just the country, but humanity as a whole can cherish and exhibit as a beautiful development of intelligence through history. This culture saw the fruition of the world’s most intelligent spiritual seekers and spiritually realized men who not with their ideas but with their pure presence and articulate poetry showed this world the meaning of life. Civilization dates back to very old times here, and some of nature’s oldest secrets were discovered and revealed in this country. The spiritual texts here are rich and the purity of their interpretation lies entirely with the discretion of every individual. Like every culture, Indian culture has always had its flaws. The world for a very long time was ruled and grown by paternally dominated structures of society that failed to understand the role of the woman that was very vital to the growth and care of humanity’s most prized gift, intelligence. Several cultures around the world, excluding a few intelligent ones that had people who lived and taught much ahead of their time, entirely neglected the role of women in the evolution of this race. Using the lowest forms of power, physical and logical power, men through the years repressed women and eventually developed a strange sense of contempt for the opposite sex. If we scratch a little deeper through the layers of our conscious mind, deep in the unconscious, even the most open-minded men will find the psychotic attitude of dominion and power toward women, secretly camouflaged behind all the other ideas of poetry and romance that are associated with women.

While the rest of the world has socially been able to transcend the primitive attitude of the subjugation of the woman as a social sensibility, a few countries of which India is one have found it hard to do the same. The problem does not lie with failed holistic approaches toward the improvement of this social situation but with the inability to clean the inner psyche of a very stubborn past. The logical approach to solving a problem is to take into account all the factors on which the problem is dependent and then to take appropriate action on each of these factors to arrive at a reasonable solution. This approach does not work when the entire source of the problem lies not with the factors that create the problem but with the attitude which fuels and supports these factors. In the past, through ideology, men repressed women and kept them within their control. Ideologies are eventually nothing but relative ideas that connect and seem sensible to a thinking mind. But sensibility is dependent on thought and thought is nothing but a partial perception of an observation, and is wrong almost all of the time. The problem arises when we take our thoughts for truth and develop the attitude of absolute trust in our thinking processes. The time has come when our evolution has reached a stage in which we can look beyond thought and understand the follies of our past. There is no need for the empowerment of women, we need to understand that women have always been empowered. It is through the foolishness of male ideology that we failed to understand the inevitable fact that the equality of sexes is not something to be brought about, but something that has always been inevitable. If we can see this fact, the idiotic attitude of the majority of men toward women will disappear not through effort but through common sense.

We must begin with the understanding that man and woman are not opposites, they are two different functions of one process, human life. The opposing polarity is a superficial difference created by nature for the deeper understanding of union and love. The polarity is an illusion created to understand a reality that is much greater than the illusion. I understand that in the past, the collective human mind dwelt in a state of consciousness that was at a very low level. In this level it was easy to succumb to psychological illusions of separation. Look at where we stand now, entirely able to analyze the mistakes of our past as a species and to effect change in a manner that can be momentary and genuine. The difference between men and women is very superficial, you can say a man and a woman are like two waves that wave differently, but are both made by water and supported by the same ocean which is life in this universe. Look beyond these foolish social and political ideas, look at the utter truth that is burning before you. Isn’t such a thing as women empowerment so foolish? To even conceive that a culture would treat its women with such despicable and unevolved understanding is a shock! The woman is empowered, she is grown from the same soil that a man is grown from, nurtured and cared for by the same sun, wind, and water. If we cannot look beyond the patterns of form that dance on the canvas of existence, our illusions will lead us to much greater suffering, not just the suffering that they have created for women. Humanity as a whole lacks awareness. We have limited our intelligence to intellect and failed to see that spontaneous observation or momentary perception is the only reality that exists. Instead, we dwell on ideas of logic and morality, leaving our hearts to rot at the hands of the politic.

Morality is nothing but an idea, just like how the repression of women was an idea. The time has come when we have no more place for ideas. Intelligence is not born of thought, it comes through awareness. The man who believes in backward ideas such as repressing the role of women in society is like the Neanderthal who will find his place in the graveyards of this planet. If as a race, we do not take responsibility for our own evolution, and still put our faith and trust in the ideologies we have inherited from our ancestors, we will lose this game. The Earth is a mother, but she is as strict, as she is kind. What is our race but a virus that is creating so much trouble for the rest of Earth’s children? The beauty is we are a virus that is self-aware and bursting with intelligence. We have the ability to turn things around.

Like the human body, culture is mortal. Remember how we had to give up beating up people who were sick because we thought they were possessed by demons? We must give up culture when it turns out to be dysfunctional. Culture is ideology, it is not fresh, and it is not bursting with life! Look at the trees how they dance to the ever-refreshed breezes that beat through nature’s lovely painted skies. These dances show us what it means to be alive. Life begins when history is forgotten.

We teach our children how to value money, success, and reputation before we teach them how to value themselves. Self-dignity is not something through which you value yourself, it is a process of intellect through which your ego establishes itself and separates itself from the source of life. Instead of self-dignity, try self-enquiry. From the youngest years in school, society needs to encourage its children to look within for answers instead of looking outside. The outside world is a dysfunctional drama, a terribly damaged record tape repeating itself again and again. The answers to change are within each individual. We need to teach children to uncover the unconscious processes that still work inside. It is this that we can call ‘original sin.’ The unconscious tendencies and processes that are inherent in our very DNA! Through self-enquiry, each individual can understand for him or herself the dysfunctional working of the human system and take the responsibility of change unto oneself.

Understand this carefully, through the social and political approach, no change will ever be effected. If you have not understood this yet, you need to understand it now. Women will continue to be ill-treated by men, and they will continue to retaliate and fight. This fight is superficial. The inner psyche of man needs to change. Men need to understand the need for this change. Men are unable to understand that the repression of women is the repression of evolution itself. Man is afraid of the woman, for she is an aspect of the species that can look through and beyond logic into dimensions where man is almost incapable of reaching. To conceive that a form of life so tender, so easy to defeat can behold intelligence so great was befuddling to ancient man. He could only conceive things such as power and dominion, he could understand the axe but not the flower. Intelligence has evolved now, power has become a thing of the past. We are in a stage of evolution in which we need to pay attention to the subtle, the gross has lost its utility. Through forgiveness and understanding, our society can take a step forward to developing a world in which competition shall exist but lose its absolute value. The woman is inevitably equal to man, teach the children this, teach them to look beyond separation and understand their connection to their fellow beings and the rest of existence. Stop teaching them how to make money, how to be successful, how to develop a great reputation, these are things reserved for the miserly in understanding. We are gods of the galaxy and we shall step up and take our responsibility as sentient beings and live with love.

Culture is dead, you are alive. Wake up, the universe is calling you to dance.


“We have to stop consuming our culture. Create your own roadshow.” – Terence Mckenna