the age of transition

ground is giving the way

and buries me neckdeep—

the sensuous breeze from the pages of

pritish nandy

and the fragrant similie of kamla das,

however,

soothe my eyes romantically

and swell my desires between the things.

night comes as menka—

beautiful and bewitching.

starry fluid shoot in the milky bleeding

dripping along the legs.

drained and drab.

I wet the land I am interred into.

to-day I turn 29,

little gray and little gay—

cast in the twin roles of atlas & Sisyphus

I am bewildered by

the 20^th century civilization

of oppression and injustice.

the sun is the bastard father

of my untouchable shadow—

it cuts into the scriptures’ authority

and bleeds perennially.

I instantly turn into rebel

to be bruised & beaten & killed.

yes, they would behead me

as children pluck the mushrooms in monsoon.

ma used to sing a lullaby :

grip to the ground my son.

air-travel is as foolish and futile

as building castles in the air.

neither I killed the albatross

nor insulted the diety—

be it manu or kanu.

ma I am burning from both the ends

and between the thighs.