Traffic

I boarded a bus last evening.

At a time when the myriad criss-cross of the street lamps was as inviting as a sedative.

The bus would take me to the edge of town-

-My unknown destination.

Through a panorama of madness called life.

-Through a tale of failure-success-failure.

-Through the doors of perception & the hall of shadows.

All around me, mundaneness grows.

-Dirty air, diluted souls.

While crowds at streets scrabble for homes, and scrounge for merciless fares.

I breathe in the dirty air.

Quotidian cares, everyday affairs.

I’m just a traveler in time,

Through a labyrinth of routine souls-

-From the medieval arc lamps of sanity.

-To the home of the cleansed sunshine.

Don’t feel ashamed to join me.

There is no more pretension.

Our inner doors of perception are now cleansed clean.

Everything now appears to me it is, INFINITE.

Take my hand, step inside my Elfin Grot.

Our intellects are limited to the chamber of Maiden Thought.

 Aneurysm, come take me. Wake me from my sacred sleep.

Take me to the forest of Azure.

Where the birds still sing and the children still play.

Inside the Elfin Grot, I stepped in,

Found myself a seat and let the journey begin.

There was twilight.

And there were birds, flying to the southern sky.

Penicillin had stopped giving me happiness.

I had written the final letter in dire stress-

-With reference to Helga’s sun colored uterus, my damsel in distress.

So from where the halogen pours down from the sky,

From there did my journey start.

Having seen lust from close quarters, I could have chosen sleep over sex,

If only she had given me the freedom of choice.

The hungry protesting voice-

-Is now silenced with field gray Panzer.

Whatever lies before me is faked, is delusional, and is illusory.

I am forever in debt to that swine Lowborn-

Who made reservation a religion.

I was sitting inside the moving bus.

There was artillery shelling all around me.

While one part of the world was busy making little boy,

The other part still cared for manners and courtesy.

The Duce was killed by a human bomb; I heard it on the radio.

I feared it would burn my trust.

I thought it was the end.

I thought it was the fifteenth of August.

In a country like ours, honesty evaporates fast.

I curse the slimy public servant who puts public last.

Nothing, absolutely nothing pleases me these days

Though I wanted her to live inside my polyvinyl box, she didn’t comply.

It started raining outside-

And my mind kept straying back to that dark knight of the last millennium-

-The night she had taken my virginity as captive.

-The night she had allowed me to see the world through her cellophane hymen.

I’d like to see the world once more-

-Once more through her cellophane hymen.

I can’t help thinking the consequences of the battle-

-Between my conscience and her inclinations.

What if my conscience had won?

What if it had not been broken by the ravages of female concupiscence?

I would have been a loyal citizen of my country, sane, satisfied and serene.

I would have danced with wild Brunfelsia on my ears, in the warm summer rain.

But everything ended with that cursed ejaculation.

 Where Indians and Chinese citizens plunge into black holes of ecstasy

Enemies of the state indulge in million dollar mirth.

The neighborhood friendly rickshaw puller finds solace in his earthen pot liquor.

Angst is the only thing that the youth can possess, and angst can be silenced by rifles.

My bus took a turn and entered red road.

It’s been all over the newspaper, the blood of politics has crept into the milk of social service.

A fire is slowly spreading, but no one cares.

Time has come for the fall of Sodom, but no one wants to talk about it, not even the Fuhrer.

I spot couples dressed in white, walking hand in hand on the sidewalk.

The vanguards of law are going to spill our guts out-

-On the sidewalk.

I hear cries of ‘Attica!’ every time I think of protest.

Poetry of Chaos and Death can only gift you suicide.

But the driver of my bus doesn’t care, and neither do I.

Halfway through the journey, I’ve lost most of my illusions.

Not a day goes by without me asking myself, why I was born to be a crusader.

Why wasn’t I engulfed by the white blood cells patrolling my mother’s hemoglobin?

Why wasn’t I ejected out of my mother’s body as sweat or pus?

I can see haloes of dust building on top of my bus.

Diesel tanks and memories associated with Pavlov’s experimental hogs.

’Achtung!’ babies are born every day, out of the Gas Chamber Black Ash.

I’m like them, if not one of them.

Harlots and Executioners and Troopers and Priests co-exist in a country like ours.

Plus, minus, surds and integers are all forming a veritable bedlam of confusion in my mind.

Regiments of damp sensations are racing through my skin.

I think I won’t make it alive.

If I die before I wake, I pray you comrade, my soul to take.

A storm will arise, and the establishment can do nothing about it.

They can censor my pen, but they can’t suppress me.

The movement can be censored, but suppressed it can’t be.