Notes
- to Auritro and Riju
1.
we artists evoke such envy and suspicion
amongst our fellow men
that nothing will please them more
on a Sunday morning
than the news
of the death of one of us.
2.
I have seen the greatest works of art
that could have been,
poems and virtual games
that could win at
every awards’ night,
but I do not remember them,
and that’s a good thing
for if I did,
all art would end tonight.
3.
I would want to know
in all accuracy and detail,
what is it
that a man feels when
his greatest, worst, most sinister enemy for ages
falls before him, cold.
4.
a guitar slides inside my soul,
at the end of a street,
my friends the night crawlers
greet the officers in grey suits
and together they stare at the moon
or remember spectacular feasts from an ancient time.
5.
glancing through my ipod,
the name of blue oyster cult strikes me,
I suddenly remember you
who gave me these songs,
you who carried pills
in your wallet
and songs in those pills;
it’s an old fact now
that you overdosed that night.
I can’t say that I miss you,
for we weren’t that close,
what did we ever really share
but for an afternoon
in park street,
and the mist
of a cheap cigar,
last year on paul simon’s birthday?
6.
ladies and gentlemen,
when on weed,
do not forget to take a rickshaw ride,
now don’t look so embarrassed,
just let it all slide down your body,
your third eye, your heart, your genitals,
and out through your shoes;
now’s the time to kill your shadow,
now you are the priest
of a thousand cathedrals
of glass,
does the city bubble inside your skull?
look up once,
you even got a full moon;
dear sirs and madams,
you’ve got a choice now-
engage in the sacred art of bitchcraft,
or grow fangs
and growl like a wolf.
7.
some day, I’ll just leave
without a poem or a note,
some day, I’ll leave
with only leonard cohen
in my pocket.
8.
never tell your stories
to authors,
they always steal them.
9.
do you too feel
a strange kind of sadness
every time you hear
the night-watchman’s whistle?
10.
a true spirit of brotherhood
is felt
when three people sit in a circle
and remember to pass on the weed joint
each time, unerringly,
after exactly three puffs.
11.
how long does one live
with jazz and jibanananda?
how long does one worry
over the price of cigarettes?
how long does one remember
the smells
of the woman
with an ektara in her breasts?
12.
supermodel,
spotted you on a billboard at bypass,
faking on the trumpet,
I remembered the afternoon
we spent staring at the trains
that passed so slowly,
we talked of chinese horror movies then,
we thought love could conquer all,
supermodel,
do you still stagger around the corridors,
on pills?
supermodel,
do you still listen to those folk songs?
do you remember my tongue
inside your ears,
and my body radiant in sweat?
did you know that every beautiful woman
like you
has a bitch of a best friend?
supermodel,
does your dad
still protect you from guys like me?
does he still drive you around town?
supermodel,
do you still dream of being a strict mother
to your unborn child?
do you keep your soul
in the hollow of the blue tree,
every night?
13.
girl of the rivers,
you appear in a cloak of sand and steel,
and shuffle your cards
to reveal the fate of poetry
on nights of storm and murder;
your neck wet,
your fingers the oars of an astral boat,
and my spine the fret board of a guitar,
our story takes a new turn.
14.
the river meanders
around boulders and songs,
and carves an Adam upon the rocks,
our argument spins
in the night sky,
and paints an Eve dressed in silver,
I never knew
we needed the moon so badly.
15.
people won’t think much of you
these days
unless you start making comments,
so what are you waiting for?
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