Monday, 22 March 2010



In the city of the oceans of crowd, of the joy, of hopes
A super Divine Soul breathes her last, lose of peace gallops
O, Nobel Heart! O, Saint Mary!! O, Guardian Soul--
For the sick and dying the world over since last goal
The Gold of our golden jubilee is lost, loss of souls
That believes, in peace, harmony, love and moral scrolls
The close of century is ever speculating apprehensions
O, Cultural Ambassador of the poor, the destitute, the lepers’ dreadful dimensions
Then Vatican Virgin, Virtue, the last glee of the globe is gone!!!
Gone is the wind, gone with the wind, this winds of change
A world where ideas and ideals run riots, and revenge
The confused chaos, calamitous calls, the modernity
O, mama!! Your divine comedy will guide future humanity
Watch, watch, your daughter Diana’s funeral with tearful eyes with eternity

Now sleeps the flamingo fairies
On the cold eyelids of the dream
She has now shut her long wide eyes
The white soft hair with furry delights
The sensuous lips with Grecian neck
The shoulder so amorous assuring
The diamonds and pearls and gems invaluable
The ears long and widened, the aquiline nose
The feline feminism, the boisterous
Brides of your ophidian opens
Your golden hair, hush hesitations
The doe-like walk and Venus’s kisses
That you would often be seen, heard, tasted
The soft tender Princess of the globe
The most photographed body, the task of the millions
The first illustration of the superlatives in the world
Most beautiful, charming, magical,
A furry fantasy of the millions
The only throbs of the youths on the earth
The dramatic departure for ever
Has bereaved the world of Yog
Now nobody will ejaculate sour-sweet scum
Here begins to flow the salty tears
Pearls drops of suffering and shock
The sky will ever weep like me
I am weeping Diana for your
Year grace and beauty super colonialised world
I am your slave, lost, lost and lost
I am lost for ever, for the loose I offered
O, Annie Boleyn, O, Global glamour
Why didn’t you wait for a day?
I could have told you
I love you than love should be
Paparazzi has pampered with you life
Too hard to live
My Diana Spencer never dies
She sleeps eternity in the fairy land fervor
The barriers of the Buckingham
Could not break you, you broke yourself,
Salute to my eternal agony, somnambulism
Diana now be dreadful dream
The fancy, the fantasy of a Fairy’s federal flee
Your memory is my essence!


She was looking at his
With pale wide charming eyes
She was already operated
She looked at me
Then my mother to be operated
On Monday, she is the Age--
The Calcutta Victorian Memorial
The Taj Mahal, the city of joy--
Calcutta! I know her, I know better than others
The Nursing Home is civilization
The taste of Eli fish
And the Uttam Kumar like
Surgeon young and smart!
The mind spoken general physician
Was benign and stable
My heart was beating
I was out with them
She loved me tearfully
I wept for her tearfully
My tender daughter wondered
And questioned me
I was father
She was my mother
He was my brother
Agony, pain and suspicion are sufferings of the Age
I know not whom I love intact
I was lost in a love
The sound! The noise!! The lost colonial rule

Name, honour and fame
Yet, no stability! My soul is ignorant
‘I can’t see smiles on my mother’
Don’t say. Please don’t say
Science is wonder, quick and C. T. Scan computerized diagnosis
Hospitals swing with corporate civilization. OT’s frequent money
Drained out, hope is pumped in
Between ‘yes’ and ‘no’
There lives a poor soul in me,
Lost his way at Cross-roads on Broadway
The umbrella tradition and the Cell-phone in my pocket, and to rush towards the Metro to see my mother waiting for my love, her food she starved for.
My wife is bed-ridden, my daughter’s away
My lovely son—Ah! I’m the kitchen
While swallowing food my son would say--
‘Baba’ what ails my mother?
Your mother lacks faith
Faith in me, faith in god, for
God has broken her faith-again
My son, I have begin to look at sun
When it rises, and when it sets
Life is an application, an experiment of quarreling paths
Science is life, as predictable as
Your wife But ‘if’ application is an art
An artist is a generous lost away.
I have lost my way indeed.


I do not know
My desert wills ever intercourse
With the astonishing cloud-bursts
I do not know
The ever flowing course of the river
Will ever swell into dithering deluge
Perplexing, perspirations, the paper-thin joy
Turn me heavily on, I ejaculate
With pangs of laughter
Laughter, a foolish outburst
Smile, an amassed nostalgia
I hold my emotions, firmly
Closed in my eyes
And let no drop come out from the lovely entrance
Of life-the combine path for delight and despair
That comes out at every shock-shake
I do not know
Who turns down at my sight?
Nor I pine for opening the complex camouflaging
Slits and cleavages some are seen
Some are to be seen in the broad day light at through fares of knowledge and contentment
I do not want to be a god for
He has more sufferings and shames than
I must not tell how many times
I was robbed, for those who are
Really ever robbed, know what fear means,
What it means to lose and to be lost
I lament how my ‘man’ like edibles has been put into the cold storage
My ‘animal’ now animates at large
My guest isn’t much sought after
But a ‘quest’ always quivers the lips
And tormenting tongue to wag and wail


The woman accepted voice of the voiceless
Moon beams and Mona Lisa sparked off
Hilarious human dramas of
Kababs without oil or a mere pretense of it
Here’s how the magic of a yog hurt mix works
The private limited democracy
On rags and riggings
She was married to a husband
Whose face could not ever been seen
He took her to the heart of darkness
Like preparations of the boat race
In the turbulent Brahmaptra
Constitution is an animated inclination
Making Delhi the cartoon capital of India
Freedom is freedom—not mines not yours
Here youths grow pate with
No gate way to a cold sunny desert
Winters are long and bitter
Freedom is always in the news for its near arctic weather
Tagore taught practicality, Bankim did patriotism
The tribal remain house bound with Mahasweta dancing, singing, drinking and sleeping for nights, the nights that slope away movie maker’s Satyajit and Mrinal sleep
We always miss the target to duels
Our dedication in world of maker lifts culture, and white-skin obsession
Reminds the East—‘India company the last drop colonial Hong Kong to forgo But, what else bothers you mama you were widowed long ago will you marry again
Remarriage is no longer a taboo
Society permits time-bound marriage and divorce
Let others be nymphomania.

Poem No (7) “Back to old Grind”

I am coming back from abroad
I speak the truth
I am afraid, again
I get in a mess soon after saying such
Lest a hoary voice should command
Let me see your visa-passport
It’s enough to upset me
I wish to flee far away whenever the sky is blue
And feel for a distant away
All my words mount up floating like
A beer bottle
I think of you
How to bring a rare gift for you
I see the red and green velvettes on the altar
My mother is sitting with pride of governance
On her demand
Every person standing before every house
Raises his hand
I am often mistaken
I step in the house with wrong numbers
I get back when I get no response from them
I recognize my voice
It hardly changes
Returning from the foreign land
Is a story fabricated for funs?
My reception at every house is an event
It’s all a fallacy. Nothing like thee,
When I lift my eyes
I see the throne’s four legs are spread lifeless
Is the void a monarch?
Tell me where you are hidden yourself
Or, else, I will be sentenced to death


Is my land he church of Saint Francis of Basilicas
Or the past port Blaire of the lifers
I know my land that drew traders from around the world, though multi-pioneering reforms
I must know about my land
Which Tagore and Satyajeet held
With high esteems of nations unity--
A tribute to Freedom Fighters
The darkness at noon to day pride and privileged of a strong nation is built on sinews of chastity
Sweeping changes, smashing charges
The undeserving undresses the rulers
Money and corruption are needed to govern the nation with fifty springs.
Money for house-keeping and Aids
Corruption to give birth monster criminal
A system for the people
A system that keeps the fissures and holes
Open night and day for restive recess
India, my mother, how done up art thou
Your only son, Subhash fell to subversive playmates
He was stole off from history
The treason, the conspiracy, the blunder.
Who cares for a Joan of Arc?
When freedom is gifted next to beggary
A France is saved
India is Denmark without having a
Prince Hamlet, a guide to good-bye;
Here titanic survivors turn celebrity
The celibacy of culture and economy
Creating web pages with Frontapage
The hard Disk, the floppy Drive
Mode your intellectual telephone to the world

Poem No( 9) “Glue-Coz”

In spite of the pain
I am more aroused than ever
My love has become hard and throbbing
The world seem to be withdrawing
I often come to secluded spots--
The quivering petals of roses lie lively
Waiting for a deluge of warm hopes
Everyday the forenoon fountaing
Appear before my eyes
I wish to jerk off with limed water
To provide colour to my twisting flowers
Demanding painful insertions of new dreams
I then move up to the low-lying evening
And completely undress her gloomy covers
I place a wet kiss in the soft arena
Between ‘Yes’ and ‘No’
Between ‘today and tomorrow’
If tomorrow ever comes
I shall grab the moon by the shirt
And rip it open
To peep into the sweet smelling valley
How hopes have swallowed them
The divided loyalties ready to become one

Poem No (10) Two Three One

You area there where you’ve been
Not in body, not in the song, not in society
Not in the nation, not in time
In totality nobody knows the sense of void-living
Death brings liberty, the sufferings of body
Bring an ancient times with trees
At the close of the day, the pulsations of heart
The end is the beginning, in the reawakening
Life evaporates to nullity and the endless love--
By endless voyage, sufferers love
No leakage in love
You abide by one you lose every time
He is present in the deep-sea of the soul
The panic-stricken downtown
Morning tells casually by strokes
I can no longer have complete awareness
Yielding place to none ever

Poem No (11)No Kickbacks

The indelible markings of the rich,
And fabulo8us rock n’ rollers,
Movie-stars, supermodels
They reveal the evolutionary tattoos
From bobble gum, transfers to eye catching—
Designer body art Ah! The body language of
The broomstickings, the baldies the Mayfair balloons
Picasso the cubic art Casino the public mart
Pump out, pump in, play pompous play
To compete with the stills and videos
The summer resorts of Tipu’s Srirangpatnam—
The Verona glory lies spread eagled but soft
On the billiards-board, the cubes the cues
Graves out the nephritides niceties
The queue carbureted the machine
We are machines A/C Deluxe-Mega monolith
The comfort of mind rests for its coming under toes
My games are not yet over
Billiards takes time to bill out
Come on! Get at I get into I get out!!
Excuse me sir, excuse my Mississippi’s
Would that I was wrong!
I love depression-free diet
Chuck! Chuck!! Chuck!!!
No kick! Ah, no kickbacks any more

Poem No (12) The Retreat

O, mother… my sweet mama!
The coal tar smeared body of yours
Bear manifestations of obscurity
The lost purity, the lost purity, the humanity!
You were married to Mammoth Morality—
Eagerness of eternal ethics
Sovereign souvenir, frolicking ‘freedom’
Your wedlock ceremony was hurriedly
Solemnized in the thick of night
Reminiscences of Macbeth in forest
And Duncan’s had savvy sleeps
It was not in the lightening, thunder or in rain
The fissiparous night celebrated
In the breaking of the nations
Nights are Negress, nights were Norway
It was the freedom-nights
The first night of the political whores and touts
Their selfish glee of joy seemed a lust
A lust for power, the transfer of power—
India made tryst with destiny
Your most cherished daughter
Bengal was rapped off to pieces
Your most courageous son,
Punjab was savagely split
O, mother I can not forget
How painfully you fled
Civilization like a lady’s cotton
Was soaked with red and white
Your midnight children gone amuck
The Hindus’ hill Hindustan
The Muslims’ hill Pakistan
The bread and butter of Bangladesh
All have turned devils and demons
Yet thy had a few saintly children
The eldest of them was killed by an inept ideologist
They had five thousands of years
In the cultural Bank of the sub-continent
The invaders invaded the great valley ---
The valley of the dolls the valley of the vested interests

Poem No (13) “O, Mama”

The woman accepted voice of the Voiceless
Moonbeams and Mona Lisa sparked off
Hilarious human dramas of
Kababs without oil or a mere pretence of it
Here’s how the magic of a yoghurt mix works
The private limited democracy
On rags and riggings
She was married to a husband
Whose face could not ever been seen
He took her to the heart of darkness
Like preparations for the boat race
In the turbulent Brahmaputra
Constitution is an animated inclination
Making Delhi the Cartoon Capital of India
Freedom is freedom – not mine not your
Here youths grow pale with
No gate way to a cold sunny desert
Winters are long and bitter
Freedom is always in the news for its near arctic weather
Tagore taught poetically, Bankim did patriotism
The tribals remain house bound with Mahashweta
Dancing, singing, drinking and sleeping for nights, the nights that stole away movie maker’s Satyajit and Mrinal sleep
We always miss the target to duels
Our dedication in the world of
Makeshift culture and white-skin obsession
Reminds the East-India company
The last drop colonial Hong Kong to forgo
But, what else bothers you mama
You were widowed long ago
Will you marry again?
Remarriage is no longer a taboo
Society permits time-bound marriage
And divorce
Is marriage not better those gang rapes?
Let other be Nymphomaniac

Poem No (14)The Soaking Saga

I have faint glimpse of my past
My present has no vivid record
I am between ‘once upon a time’
And the day arrived
As a story untold and unfinished
I think of no future
My fortunes are not fortunate
The astrologer told me
My hopes are full bosomed river
My desires are the quivering lips –
Honeyed and hot meats of memory
Ready to meet to melting
Deep and brutal shoves –
The jerks ease out my pleasure in the glossy passage
The passage of passion
The purity of power
The more the pain, the better the come out
At every jerk, I swear of
Widening the gap into ocean next
The magic casements that opening on the foam
Makes me savage as, wild as dog
Hopes and despair
The past and future
The breast and balls
The frontline, the back curves
The god and the dog
The fearless and the defeated
The compromise to lick the ocean dry
The slit free from mud
Only the flower
Booming and zooming
The bliss and blush
The opening and the clutching
The foolish dream of unpredictable proportion
Stiff, surging, surgicalzing, sealing
Never reaches the mount magical across
Everything so magical
The abyss is lost
The god is forgot
The serene semen smears the white satin
Spread overwhelmingly on the dewy bushes
The soaking saga-
The past and the present clash
Bring out the essence of a future
Unforeseen and unfettered

Poem No (15)The News Paper

The sun rises as ever-
Like the morning edition of
A successful sensational daily
What’s the news on the frontline?
Boat capsizes, beauties disgraced,
Trains collide with buses on the crossing
But only a few suffered injuries
Two gays marry, two lesbians divorce
The big bosses threatens to resign
The houses adjourned twice
The assemblies, the parliament
Make lots of stereotyped versions
Enough to blur the insight, the out right
Basking in the sun sipping the semen foamed coffee
One hand on the brief case on the table
The other inside the desires under
I look for more stimuli
I tiptoe in the boxes and bulging captions
Getting over the
Hangers of rape, arson, terrorism, massacre, molestations, eve teasing-
I sit in the boxes, get into the triangles
Lie on the top of the underlined
The venue of the five year drama is to be shifted
The superman having scams, scandals,
And scores of controversies with least regard for the nation
People guess he would be the next Rob-in-hood
Will bring back childhood, my adolescence
I must look into matrimonial
With a sleek new model automobile
To ease out the tiredness of journey
A journey from sunrise to next sunrise
I have no say- the lies will mate as ever
The truth is to dislocate the meets
I am devised with de-sensationalized dreams
I must carry on carrying
The newspaper that narrates
More woes and fewer smiles