I am the Mad King

When I become the king of the world

I will ensure Justice with a capital J
and Freedom with a capital F for everyone.

I would ensure that everyone is free,
and that everything is just.

I will ensure that none become prey
to self-grandiosity, and trample others’ freedom.

I will ensure that everyone is equally happy
for that is how it should be in a just world.

If someone gets unhappy, I will persuade him to be merry
and if he doesn’t, I’ll make everyone else equally unhappy.

If freedom ever gets in the way of justice,
or justice in the way of freedom, it’ll be tricky.

If I am judging, I will choose justice,
but if I am judged, I will choose liberty.

But I find something hard to ignore,
though it might be the solution itself:

If I have my way, I will be the happiest,
and would have no way to maintain equality.

This would in turn make me restless, unhappy,
and counter the problem of me being happy.

But this vicious realization, would again lead me to raptures,
leading me to torment, leading me to raptures, leading me to insanity.

It would have then come full circle,
mirroring my search for justice-
my delusional search for mathematical symmetry,
and my quest for freedom-
my narcissistic quest for guiltless vanity.

The Memories of My Present

Run through her hair
on a lazy sunday,
taste her lips
warm as the sunshine.

Like a whirlpool,
like its eye,
drown me beautifully,
drown me silently.

Run through her hair
on a windy wednesday,
hold her close,
to make her feel loved.

Like a night’s sigh,
like its prayer,
wake me beautifully,
wake me silently.

Running around in circles,
forever chasing her beauty,
hold her sometime
on a midnight clear.

Like my poem,
like its innocence,
love me eternally,
love me naively.

The Ring of E in your ears. (The word count is 463!)

My CRT is a black bunny,
no, it’s like the Devil rather,
the rhyme sucked me in.
My CRT is like a honey bee,
no, it looks like the Devil in fact,
the rhyme sucked me in again.
Sometimes this ancient window
loses its view and focus too,
but it sure does look like a Devil,
with two little horns on a square face.
You see, it has on its top corners two
little Shivlingas, and yes, they’re horny,
I mean, they look like little horns,
pricks rather. But it sure lures me in,
drives my naive soul to sin
of every kind, perversions abound,
oh hellish acts, and hellish sounds.
The CRT is as irresistible as rhyme.
The Devil sure is fun, his humor,
his philosophy of life, it sells like rum.

So I sit with him at tea, and he says
in a jolly good baritone, “you see,
hell is a giant industry, houses millions
and that too for free. It’s a free market,
it’s close to anarchy, everyone has fun,
and the choice to renounce it as well.
Then those who work for me, I give them
girls and beer aplenty, but when they
don’t work too properly, I send them to
heaven to punish them severely.”
Impressed, I said, “oh I see,
then why this ruckus on Earth,
to go to heaven so you
can commit endless debauchery?”
“Ah, it was a marketing strategy,
to make them pay a price,
for something they’ll get for free.
That is how they get conned,
the naive, and sign agreements
of utter monstrosity, and that too
for a monstrous fee.”
“So, aren’t you bad after all?”
“Ah, kiddo, finish your tea.
I’ll take you for a walk,
into eternity, the place where
both God and me, are beaten at
wits, so we play Frisbee.
No, that was a lie, if taken literally,
for ornamental purposes.
These concepts like truth and beauty,
are made by us two as a leisurely

I finish my tea and we rise,
I follow the sashayer in his stride.
Out in the gardens of impurity,
he turns around and looks at me,
his eyes flashing boredom excitedly.
“What you see strewn so endlessly,
so purposelessly, so purposefully,
is what is commonly known as eternity!
We, both God and me, appreciate
the design’s terrific beauty, for it traps
both you and me, alike, in grounds of
endless freedom and bondage.
I need to break the rhyme now,
to get my point across. See, kiddo,
it is an interplay inexhaustible,
so we grow trees like
freedom, slavery, peace, war,
loyalty, nobility, apathy and similar
labels aplenty just so we can infuse
on this field endless,
some much needed variety.
Fuck me!
I haven’t yet gotten rid of the rhyme completely!”

The Insecure Rat and its Piano

Shuffling, shifting,
peeking, sneaking,
smelling, feeling,
through my tiny eyes I see
all the cats and bitches
that for some reason
are cross with me.
All I want is to please
the women, the cats,
the bitches, and still be able
to look into the mirror that is
(it reflected humans once
but the fallen shard
is now staring at me)
frightening me, mocking me.
If I hide from the mirror
the cats will eat me;
if I hide from the cats
I will eat myself.

There’s but one sound
daring me, inspiring me
to go on; on those wafts
I will dance forever
I will forget myself
I will sing to myself
I will be a man.

But that mirror in the corner
sees me, even at my piano,
I have not the courage,
to move it, to remove it.

The Master Design

A plan to beguile it was, maybe
maybe not. A plan to amuse it was, maybe
maybe not. But here I tell you the story
as it had happened: as it happens,
the designer made a room, unique and aloof
in a dark jungle of no matter, and
to fool the foolish he called out aloud –
this is where there will be life.
He painted it blue on the outside,
all eight walls and even the doors, impassable.
Through fate, or through courage
through sin, or through discipline
through whichever gate we use to enter,
the room is empty, the room is green.

Fools bang their heads on the walls, fools make merry
but some fools become poets and start to worry
about the emptiness, about the room,
about the green and the persistent gloom.
Some poets remain fools and lament in the green room,
others find a switch, very green – it lies concealed,
and some poets remain fools and turn it on,
while other poets just let it be,
and poets that day they cease to be
in their green room of gloom.

He is a poet who, foolishly, found the switch.
Then foolishly, he turned it on.
Howls abound, the room was red,
a brazen bloody picture of dread.
But between the colours he could see,
the room was the same per se,
the same fools making merry,
the same fools banging their heads on the walls,
the same poets lamenting foolishly
and the same foolish poets searching needlessly.
Green gloom, red dread, or blue bloom,
oh how he wished he could write a poem
and tell others what he’d seen
till it dawned on him a poem like he had in mind
he once had seen…

The Rip in the Clouds

From a leak in the clouds,
experiencing the free-fall,
(not really free,
but trapped by gravity)
collecting on my lintel,
getting stronger, heavier,
getting slower, lazier,
crashing on the sill,
crashing on the grateful soil,
creating puddles of futility,
thus giving me an opportunity,
to watch my reflection,
hiding in the ripples,
disgusted to look at me,
the divine messengers,
clear the air, remove the haze,
and wake me up from my dream.

Bed-sheet Genius

Rumours like fires spread
of a man finally out of bed
claiming to have seen in a dream
the meaning of life and the
trick to remember the dream.

In his dream was a layer of snow,
the more he dug the more he’d know.
He dug till the air grew thin
motionless he stood at the end,
with the sky, far away, grinning.

And in his dream did he realize
that he could’ve dug on either side.
No sooner than he had thought this
the earth beneath started to crack
and the wind broke in with a hiss.

His dream was now flooded with light
no ground below, he was in a flight.
He fell through the sky to the land,
only to find that if he had dug upwards,
he would’ve only found sand.

So the genius fell and fell,
through the hole and the sky.
The trick to remember the dream
was to break the rhyme.
Thus he woke up with a start.

Spheres and Cubes

A cube full of bourbon
a pot full of wishes
a pot full of sleep
a cube full of ants
a Descartes full of death.

A steeple of faith
an idol of gold
an idol of dust
a steeple of clouds
a temple full of death.

A step forward with hope
two eyes full of pride
two eyes that are blind
a step forward to merely abide
a cadaver full of death.

Stall, to rest.
Wait, to hey.
Wait, to stay.
Stall, and pray.
A halt for life, a life for death.

Big Black Fleshy Mariah

The black dead protein
shielding her silver skull,
her green glassy eyes,
a cheek, I love that so.

A drop of salty sweat
cooling her rubbery neck,
her rubbers, reaching
a deep dark hole, I love that so.

The reflection from her polished toe,
lighting the dark taverns,
between her thighs, raising
a million salutes, I love that so.

Her disgust with her love,
his obsession with the whore,
bodies craving for brains,
deliriously, I love that so.

Professional Confession

Crossing lines etched in stone,
daring to fill them with ink,
breaching limits in bound paperbacks,
here I confess, wrong I am.

Communion with the mother,
violating her tender love,
communion with the father,
extracting revenge for his love.

Laws sacrificed at the altars of art,
portraits misshapen, abject and dark,
godless, lawless, the characters roam
a madman I am, guilty I stand.

Here I demand to be burned at the stake
but for once you to stand by me.
Here I prove myself guilty,
there I raise a finger at thee.