I acted like I was possessed,
on the way to the dragon’s mouth.
They asked me to be committed to the one sedate sector I had made my own and hence I spit out the poison, straight from my gut.
I was handling the world and all the miscellaneous miseries of my existence spilled out of the little cotton bags I had stored with condiments of despair,
leaving them to dry out in the damp, moist spot behind the door and sprinkling them on my wounds everytime the end of the world was near sight,
the end accustomed to parental egos and sarcastic resolutions.
“ANGRY YOUNG MAN, settle down please to sweetness,
Listen to us, we think about your very best”
Then why this dutiful continuity in never having to read any of my works,
Or even bothering to turn around a page.
It’s worth nothing, the pulp and the paper,
the intellect and warmongering for recognition.
“HERE HE IS, the prodigal son, dutiful, bountiful, a little better looking than before and always concerned about filling water bottles, keeping clothes in shares, cleaning up the dust, running errands, running the office, writing on multiple media and yet taking out time to go for a brisk walk and checking the lights and their sleeping faces”
This callow is just too sensible, too alienated to think about a move to the outskirts or a green card.
He thinks a lot,
his furrow lines worsening and becoming coarse
He should have taken the psychological counseling instead, I say to my inner head soul.
Scream, be feral, shout at the family tree that presents itself as an Eden.
But gagging my pain took a little longer for I had conquered my self hate and my self hood,
sublimating myself in the dwarfed inches below the head at the table and other assortment of faces and voices, with the white noise for melodies of assurances.
They sang and laughed,
I sang like a minstrel and gagged my inner voice like a beheaded antelope,
as he sat at my heel and attempted contact.
The natural world, for all its worth, still hummed and buzzed.
Till a giant agony the size of Awadh rose from the pit of my abdominal divisions and painted stricken lines of Picasso and Munch on my ebony set.
Everything is in the same place
Except my youth, more elusive than a Rosebud.
My gut has cleared up but my soul is a lake in the urban desert.
And so I growled, preparing to meet the rush hour traffic at nine, like the aggressive omnivore I had become
and picked membranes of concrete fingers and toes that had grown out of my feeble skin for four winters straight.
Sublimation, tis the solemn occasion.
Reins of a son
The thin shoulders now made stout by responsibilities, apportioned with neat shares.
The grass is greener on the oval ground, squared with too many key boxes to remember and drive ins.
Crickets sing and hum from way afar
and the wooden work tests my bones.
As for my intellect, it is lonely at the mid point,
Publications and posts all my own.
Not one look at my pampered papers, piles and reams of my words.
“WE’LL GET YOU TO THE PINNACLE,
YOUR WORDS ARE NOT JUST FOR SELF MEDITATION,
YOUR TIME WILL COME”
At 26, all I want are your hours for reading my writings and accepting your failures.
Admit it world and the frontrunners,
A race with commerce, economics and science would have balmed you all.
What’s to be made with mighty humanities?
My voice is hoarse, not a child’s, not a man’s but a Munch’s, that I know.
My inclination is towards warm skins and affectionate touches.
Sublimation, tis the occasion to apply monochrome to my existential angst,
Sublimation, I am your fruitful claimant, for now.
But what is sublimation?
If not the renunciation of youth,
by a soul yet to be uncouth.
Sublimation, tis the professed occasion for it.
This poem primarily appears on my Wattpad poetry collection FRONTIERS and has been published here as well. It’s a deeply autobiographical work for me, primarily about a writer’s frustrations with an unfeeling, indifferent world, the refuge of so many poetic works.