One post-modern brat

Give me a poem, won’t you —
you post-modern brat?
Little Daisy Minx.
Yeah, keep spinning in circles.
It reminds me of my Indie Dream.
Your ikr and ffs…
Netflix and aesthetics…
In a shower of memes,
you self-cure your existential crisis.
And for some reason,
punctuations and capitalisation
don’t exist.
But your privileged existential crisis,
it still does exist.
Oh, ya millennial biscuit!
You drive this Beatnik mad.

Published on Ribhu.live

Anthology of Three

These 3 poems were first published in Kekru Vol 1. Kekru is an Imphal-based publication in Manipur.

Waif

You’re the paradox in my mind,
leaving with a presence,
with eyes that bleed passion,
and smiles reeking of love.

There’s calmness like still water:
creamy fairy with sapphires within,
glowing like petals to bees,
you are a cliche of a fiction.

Will our paths cross again?
I hope.
We jumped but you fell again —
Rescued.

Rescue —
I need none but one.
On our journeys to the Uncharted,
we were halves of life.

***

Phoenix

In innocent time,
when no strings wrap your mind,
you took a picture,
captured with wide eyes, looked up;
saw a fiery red bird,
in bright feathers, with trails of fire.

A fortune foretold, years ago;
a destiny, written and bound,
in the wisdom of ancient times:
Mother Universe made her choice,
you shall break.
Smile, red bird, smile.

***

Sugarcane

I have poison in my veins
streaming like a mountain brook
with hissing sounds,
bubbling volcanic grounds.
This — sometimes I take a dig.
Mining crusty dimes,
I take a prick,
give me myself a sip
from my own wrist with a pin.
Then I force a straw and pluck a hole
at my own neck, let a tap run, flow.
My eyes glow,
whirlpooling into a glass, ice cubes, filled.
My sick fancies — I do them with such dandy.
I kiss it out in mad lust, thirsty.
I suck with lips, purged,
while lips rot like in a witch’s curse.
I have poison in my veins.
I take ’em like sugarcane.

***

Modern Art

(This has been published in the Third Eye magazine of St. Joseph’s College, Bengaluru)

Oh lo oh so —
she is so avant-garde.
Oh lo oh so —
she’s so modern
with an accent
travelled from a land
I only hear of.
She walks around
with a veil of hipster.
But here I am
a half-ass hipster
with modern poetry
on WordPress.
I practice the accent
of how she says my name
’cause even that
how she says my name
is that addictive to my foolishness.
Oh lo oh so —
but she isn’t that of a modern art
’cause beyond that linseed oil
over the surface,
the paints are of tomatoes
and of mangoes,
cherries and blueberries;
’cause beyond her hipster friends
and our circumstances:
I, from a corner,
up in a valley from the hills;
she, from God’s country,
sprinkled with globalised modernity —
but beyond all this storyline architecture
for a drama ever so complicated,
it is written in her smiles
and in her ever so lovable child
I see playing in her heart
that we are lost souls
and our souls are traditionalists
destined to be drunk in madness
and love and chaos; mirrors
reflecting each other’s beautiful mess,
in an ever so complicated world.
Oh lo oh so —
I’m so helpless,
Oh lo oh so —
you,
you Modern Art.
I can read you.
I admire you.
But that’s all I could do.
I stand amongst a million crowd
like that scene in movies
where time and lives carry on
in a blurred frenzy,
but I,
I stand still and admire you,
you beautiful Modern Art.

For M
Neal Y (Phalguni Y)
September 2, 2016