Familiarity Breeds Contempt

Have you ever felt a warm breath on your tender adolescent breasts

Like a gush of warmth as if cloaked in the blanket of familiarity

While your bare immature feet froze cold in the veins

Nails grown out of a habitual neglect, outlining your skin

As your soft spine shivers and shudders

Quite much like the first time he had breathed down your neck for the very first time

Shattering the walls of a rented innocence long lost

"Dad, not today" you beg

The warm breath draws itself closer, as the sweaty stench of his aging perversion clouds the vision of your teary eyes

The desire to live piles up some more rust, as your death wish watches on, like a lusty voyeur

Confessions Of A Misanthrope

I despise people

I despise people for who they are 

A bunch of literate morons 

Who can't tell the difference between literate and educated

A bunch of dumbfucks 

Who keep telling themselves they are wise desperately hoping it were true

They crave, desire, and show off intelligence, like it was some showpiece

That they could flaunt through the shallow glass of their shallower cupboards

Somewhat like a desperate man reeking of patriarchy, showing off his newly acquired wife

As if to say, patriarchy had won, and he was the flagbearer of this newly found win

For years and years and years

Stupid people in their ignorant existences have heralded intelligence like it were a gift

As if it was the Midas' touch that could solve every existential crisis there ever was

For years and years and years

Stupid people in their delusional perceptions have thought intelligence is the key to success

As if it was the one thing that stood between them and their imagined glory

Had they been intelligent

They'd have known, the intelligent despise intelligence like the stupids despise mediocrity

Had they been intelligent

They'd have known, the intelligent's barrier to success is more often than not the intelligent's intelligence

Had they been intelligent

They'd have known, intelligence is a cancer to the intelligent, while mediocrity is merely syphilis: it doesn't kill you, but it's rather contagious though

You know what's funnier

The stupids despise mediocrity and yet rejoice mediocrity, only of a different kind

And the stupids think that's what makes them seem intelligent

Putting on plastic faces of apparent intelligence

The lesser stupid ones think no one will ever notice their actual skin

The more stupid ones believe if they live the lie long enough it will be their truth

And all this while, the intelligent look at them, jealous of how simple their shallow existences are

And wish, they hadn't had the intelligence they had, so they could be a bunch of blind followers too

And wish, they hadn't had the thousand demons inside their heads telling them they'll never be enough

And, continue to wallow in their miserable, nuanced existences, struggling to put on plastic faces of pretended stupidity

I despise people

I despise people for who they are

I despise people

I despise people because I cannot be people

Dichotomy

It's always bewildered me people asking me

As much as it has bewildered the people asking me apparently

The question in actuality is simpler than it seems on the surface

How is it that I make jokes and poetry in the same breath of a rather measured existence?

I find it rather amusing that

It amuses you to not realise the similarities as obvious as they are

What are we but pimps

Of measured words and loaned silences

The poet and the comedian are quite the same recipe really

Sprinkled in sarcasm and laced in caustic cynicism that burns you with a nagging aftertaste

I tell a poem

And people listen, because poetry is for the polite

And as words fight their way into the dead weight of sheepish souls

Their clattering claps and behaved beings with their pretended sophistications nod in nicety

I tell a joke

And people listen, because jokes are a legitimate excuse to take offense

And as some lips rupture and the stained teeth show up in sadistic laughters 

Many more assholes clench hard, tighter than the grip of reluctance, their sweaty pretenses and rusty beliefs scared they would be rattled

And you see, I am, what they call a greedy motherfucker

I want the subtle and the whiplash, the tickles and the punches, the bruises and the bloodshed

Watch it all burn as the pretentious mascara of agreement falls off the dark circles of dissent

The dichotomy of comforting the uncomfortable and discomforting the comfortable, all at the distance of a few words

And as the curses and the abuses line up higher than a stack of match-sticks waiting to be lit in the hopes they would burn my words to the ground

I smile, a wide wild grin, from ear to ear, because, guess who really won?

The Bastards' Tale

Have you ever wondered

The gods you kneel and pray to

The gods you call the omnipresent invincibles

What are they really

If not a bunch of self-obsessed narcissistic megalomaniacs

Who you claim are immortals

All powerful and all forgiving

Why do they keep feeding off the faiths and beliefs of mere mortals

The mere mortals who provide for these apparent immortals

And yet, are nothing but meandering puppets to the wishes of their god's flaws

Why is it that

Your gods look like everything you've ever wanted to be but never could be

And yet they look up to your lesser selves like a clueless infant to a watchful parent

When did immortality become so fragile?

For I know crawling mortals without a spine

Who could outlive nuclear bombs and raging wars

But your gods with their spines of religion can't even outlive questions

Your definitions of godliness look like make-believe stories of a fucking lunatic

How is it that

Your gods have colours in pastel shades from a child's crayons

And yet, the audacity of someone who could upturn worlds

For thousands and thousands of years

The mere mortals have killed each other and spilled blood like wine off a cannibal's chalice

And while the whole of humanity danced butt-naked in the mayhem and chaos they called religion

The so called immortals have sat back and watched it all with a grinning smile like wasted stoners watching a dogfight

An all forgiving God and yet all it reminds of, is nothing more than a god-damned parasite, thirsty for some blood and some more

But the mere mortals who made gods of Frankenstein's monsters

And worshipped them in blind faith

Their eyes scraped off their sockets and served as offerings of belief

Their brains splattered across the plastered walls of temples and mosques and churches

Those invertebrate shitheads who needed to cling on to faith because that was all they had

Because accountability, you see comes at a heavy price

It often costs you your larger-than-thou ego, and accept that you're a fucking mess

It takes you to acknowledge your vulnerability that you know little or nothing of anything out there

It needs you to be okay being lost, in an attempt to figure yourself out in this life of randoms and uncertainties

But then, religion is so much easier, so much more convenient

And so, the faithful bastards of the faithless gods sing the bastards' tale

And so, the living bastards of the faceless gods sing the bastards' tale

So many bastards, so many gods, so many tales

And yet, all it takes to watch them tremble in their knees and shiver in theirs spines, is an inch of a doubt born off a single moment of reason

On The Death Of A Species

Once in eight-ten years, every now and then

A name becomes the name for a revolution

The life behind the name lie still, a lifeless massacred blob of rotten flesh

Self-claimed intellectuals and activists masturbate to the idea of a revolution

Months go by, and as they say, time they say is a great healer

So much so that, the revolution is forgotten and healed in the need for newer news

Revolutions today are as short-lived and fickle-minded as the breaking news

Until a decade later, another name rises from the ashes, and the same cycle repeats, all over again

A woman is raped in this country every seventeen minutes, three lakh women in ten years

One name becomes the reason for candle-light marches and social media hashtags

But, who gives a fuck about the other two lakh ninety nine thousand nine hundred and ninety nine women? 

Do you want to know the filthy truth? 

No one, no man, no woman, no one in a country of a billion, except the ones who lost their own

Some are lost in space-stricken thin columns of forgotten newspapers, a lot more, lost in the dark alleys of anonymity

And yet women want women to believe, it's a battle every woman is fighting for another woman

Men have raped women while women have watched men rape women

Every time a woman has kept quiet, every time a woman has chosen to unsee, every time a woman has pretended like it was nothing

A woman has wronged a woman, a woman has raped a woman

Men have raped women for years, decades, and centuries in this country

Every time a voice has spoken out the uncomfortable truth, they were labelled government-approved anti-nationals

Every time a man has crawled on the skin of a woman like a lust-stricken leech

Every time a daughter, a mother, a sister, a wife in this country has had her skin measured in the sick eyes and fragile ideas of masculinity of pervert men

Governments have blamed the women, and oppositions have blamed the governments

And yet the governments of today and the governments of yesterday want you to believe rape is not political

Men are assholes, men are sick bastards

Men are what pieces of shit would look like if they were living and breathing

Every man who's cat-called

Every man who's breached consent

Every man who's slipped his hands in unwelcome spaces

Every man who's pulled out their penises watching hints of cleavages

Every man who's defended these men, pretended like it was a woman's overthinking

Each and every one of them, every last one of them, has raped a woman

My insides burn with the fury of hell

When will we have had enough? 

When will we finally keep aside our agendas and gains and politics and faith systems?

When will we act human for the sake of this fucking species?

You know what scares me the most? 

The answer might be "NEVER"

Dead Mass

Once you've woken from your slumber

Of hopes and dreams, killed and buried

Of measured breaths bruised in insecurities

Of a brain rattled and a spine shattered

Of eyeballs gouged out in a morning coffee

Put on your expensive linen and pretentious shadow

And walk out that door like you are one of the world

Filthy scumbags raised and rotten in money-spitting manholes

Inglorious bastards swimming in stinking commodes they call governments

Pretend like you're one of them, one more of them

Keep your eyes wide shut, your lips outlined for a faked smile

And bend over for a bunch of society-approved somebodies  

Watch them take turns tearing your asshole apart until it bleeds money

Die rich, drowned in your blood and shit-stained money

But then, if one day all of it seems a bit unsettling

The scabs of success falling off, showing the shallow, scarred flesh within

The shackles of a clock-timed independence smelling of rust and tears

The illusion of a good life, shattered, scattered and spread like the last pieces of a broken mirror

The aftertaste of tanned leather and cheap shoe polish, lurking till your epiglottis

But then, if one day if selling your spine finally begins to hurt like you were being skinned alive

Don't sit down and write some shitty poetry on a paper as crumpled as your being

The wise ones who said the pen is mightier than the sword, were hopeful dumbfucks

When have words ever won world wars or healed bullet wounds

Take that goddamn pen, clench it with every last bit of anger and despair

Stab it right into the fucking throat of this shithole called society

And you'll see, the pen is mightier than the sword, just not the way you'd liked to believe

But then, what is the need for beliefs and faiths and religions for an agnostic

But question them all and watch them crumble and disintegrate into a dead mass

The Liars Called Poets

 You mourn of a dying democracy

In your borrowed words and acquired poetry

To some cheap claps and gasping hypocrisies

You think you have made a difference

You believe your three minutes of poetry is the ointment

This corrupt cosmos of rotten flesh and buried dreams needed to heal

Your soul touches your penis of an intellect

As your fragile ego masturbates into a commode of mediocrity

Wallowing in your made up pride

You gleam in shallow sweats of an assumed poetic genius

And as you walk back to the comfort of the four walls you call home

And as you light a cigarette sighing a breath of relief as if you've moved mountains

And as you pat yourself to sleep in the content smile of an imaginary win

Democracy dies a little more in the very oxygen you breathe

While you sell your poetry in the name of revolution 

Capitalism looks right back at you, and says, "Bitch please"

You care about democracy only when it earns you the label of a rebel

Revolution doesn't start or end with your poetry

You talk about politics and philosophies and transforming the world

Change doesn't begin in the comfort of inexpensive internet and affordable single malts

The truth is, you're just another privileged cunt

Who hides their privileges beneath a make-belief victim card

An utter piece of shit who cares for democracy as much as for dogshit

Whose faiths and beliefs are ingrained not in their blood but in their conveniences

And if, even for a brief moment, the tables were turned

You wouldn't hesitate to pull the trigger on democracy

While you pee on the very poetry you once wrote and called revolution

Because, who needs poetry when they have power?