He stares so he observes

He stares so he observes,
the backpage is a flip,
dog turns into a man,
lion into a woman.

He stares so he observes,
happy he looks with eyes open,
merely smiling to oblige,
not remembers he started when.

He stares so he observes,
silent objects get quiet,
stillness still,
darkness in a diet.

He stares so he observes,
the detail he cannot find,
inspite of staring at large dots,
those unseen lines.

He stares so he observes,
it was flat and is now flatter,
also hazy, colorless, monochrome,
inambitious and paler.
 

From the Soofies

The black ink I write in Shines,
Reflecting when I stare in it,
the wind I blow isn’t sweet,
it has stories, history in it;
a tone I hear, a note I hear,
a poem broken, like porcelain pieces,
a Poet lost, in the midst of normal,
he can see his death, right here, formal.

The legacy of the Soofies,
the Qawwalli they gave birth to, sung;
is it pain, celebration, or is it exhilaration,
that just keeps enchanting.

Ahh It hurts

Most houses I see are ugly,
cursed by dampness from toilets,
and need rains to be cleaned,
seeing this,
Ass it hurts, for it has been stitched.

All artisans they have ditched me,
my singers and comedians too,
movies don't seem real anymore,
TV too,
Ass it hurts, for it got a wound.

Friends around me aren't there anymore,
even emails they have not wrote,
for a long time,
Ass it hurts, it has broke.

Common man's politicians could never prove their worth,
best to abandon them than to fear,
or hope for them to least get decent,
what can one do,
Ass it hurts, for it now has a tear.

God must have been crazy,
no need to care he exists,
you will only look up or inside, found him?
Just join your hands,
Ass it hurts, for it has been fixed.

Man, when will he know,
he has to do everything himself,
people around are only there to rhyme,
Ass it hurts, to heal it will take time.

Time for Change

Move on boss, become someone new,
your life is torn, you can only sew.

Learn from the ache, learn from the loss,
of the money, limb  or time, boss.

Get your guts to say, 'no, I will not',
evenif I feel the urge to juice, I will not.

Connect more to the empty, become large,
make heart a cave, not like home but dark.

Move on boss, become everyone a new,
first it was straight, now a little askew.

Inspired by Bob's Everythings Broken

paining leg, aching heart,
paining head, aching fart,
paining hand, aching nerves,
paining ass, aching valves,
paining knee, aching tendons,
everything is paining,
everything aching,
Thanks to you random.

From the Hospital Bed

They say, no pain no gain;
so, laying in bed I am thinking again,
various forms it can change,
evolve and then run into drain.
A momentary call for creating something,
shrill, pitch, note, tone out of nothing,
pain contains expression,
for a life being well lived.

The problem of existence: creating and stealing conversations

Starting a conversation is sometimes important, and can happen even without saying a word. You really don't have to make any vocal effort, and, that is the effort really. When mind is tumultuous, try to find the best spot where you can rest, have a little peace, and get a room for yourself to question Existence. In such a situation, an Algerian immigrant living happily since long in Troyes will corner you with his loud laughs, and he will make it a point not to converse in any language other than French. This Algerian somehow just knows Pakintaan government and English communities too well and is indebted to a great insurance sum which his adopter French Government provided him to fix his leg. Man with an iron leg, Bo, I call him, steals the light because he creates conversations; and has a knack in starting one with non-French speaking visitors like me.

Further towards the day, collecting back change from a blonde waitress for the coffee you just bought will get tangled in conversations with her on what a soxiante or cinquante or cent or vingt vahn would mean. Miss blonde, although not comfortable speaking English likes this conversation, but soon realizes she must not waste her employer’s time, so, hobbles to the next client who has just joined the table behind. Hobo, I will call him, for he looks a little ragged and alone. Note, this is France, he starts on a polite note then is quick to shift on a tangle tacky conversation with the young waitress if a combination of soxiante or cinquante will be able to fetch him a reasonable coffee, or rather what it would be. He is well mannered, and makes use of a borrowed conversation. I leave the table, and French to their wits.