This place of time
is empty of convictions
of common air between trees
and between forests and cities
everything is lonely, rooted
in a past hazy and contrived
whose days in a hurry
run past your heart
whose hunger grips you on empty roads
and shakes you fiercely
with the restless chatter of the lost
I pity you, you who occupy
this place of time
and call it your home –
I pity you, you who dismiss
your longing for those days
which glint like diamonds
through the running film of delusion
This place of time
which you endure with sedatives
painkillers and balms
you have to escape it, flee to someplace else
where the talk of people
still stirs the life in your gut
where words are not rehearsed, faith not false
and feeling not polished by age
to the point of oblivion
This place of time will soon
see its end
but you should first end
your picnic in the graveyard
enough of your worship, the dead are pleased
and their ghosts are tired
of stalking you in your dreams,
rest and relax
build new homes away from the ruins
cast off the borrowed shields
heavy with hatred and wars
come now and kiss the seed
waiting to be born.
An ant is trapped within the boundary formed by my hands
that is open from either side.
And yet the imbecile creature sticks to the hand-walls
to find a way out.
All such ants (and people) disgust me
who have exit points available
but succumb to the blinding immenseness
of surrounding walls.
The mindless, insipid barks of people
the sweetness of sweets
the sanctimonious souls and institutions
- make me want to puke,
make want to spit around.
For I would rather concentrate on
forming patterns on the ground with my own spittle
than indulge in worshipping anything chaste.
There is voluminous filth in beauty.
The word beauty stultifies itself
as it tries best to be enslaved by homogeneity.
Cosmetic advertisements pasted on the insides of ladies’ compartments in the Metro train
practise voodoo on me with needles of hatred.
Then I look at my own reflection on a window pane
and despise clothes.
Fucking bras leave elastic marks that are so itchy.
Every symbol and every sound disgusts me
for it has been used and overused
beyond the point of redundancy.
And people who find expression within these symbols and sounds
they lack creativity to weave with their own threads.
At night I have dreams,
dreams of wild, deafening squawks that tire my lungs out,
of crushing all uniform marching bugs under my stomps.
But the morning which extinguishes the stimulation of such dreams
I, Raj Rao, 32
Am a festering poet worn to the bone
Lice live in my hair, mice have bitten my toes
I have protruding teeth, a fungoid groin
I smell like a horse
My nails with which I sometimes scratch my verses
Are grown and black and twisted out of shape
There are holes in my teeth that let out slime
My nose is a clogged drain.
I'm yahoo in sex: i drink even your urine.
My beard is stubble.
My feet are huge with patches of white.
The sputum in my throat poisons the air.
Worms crawl in my stomach.
I belch in public, retch after meals.
I think everyday of death.
Awakened by nightmares, I often howl at night.
I claw at my hair, bite my own flesh
And scream until my voice cords snap
Smashing everything I can lay my hands on.