this fistful of rage
will bring death despair destruction
on the doors of this dour construction
that has me locked away from my home, my people and me

this fistful of rage
is the nectar of knowledge
that preserves the history of me within its flaming embrace

this fistful of rage
burns away sweat and passion in the dishes i do once a week
i broke a cast iron pan in half on a night when my alter stood meek
unable to quell the dry dehydrating heat brought on by the vision of a future

bleak , endless, toil

this fisful of rage

will one day foil

every smug sage

news

news has always been the battleground
not for ideas but relevance and prevalence
and who gets to decide we address which elephants
that hang in the air of my room my house
my neighborhood
my city

who gets to write and who gets to edit
who gets to know what i said coz they read it
the dog only poops what you fed it
fear only grows when you spread it

goons shouting every night
every evening’s a fight
do you think they drink ginger
to preserve their voices?
i’m a bit confused
and intrigued by their choices

wake up do tea
gotta hit the routine
but what’s that outside?
is that a bird on my tree?

hey bird, go away
that tree is MINE!

hey bird, go away
that tree is MINE!

hey bird, go away
t h a t t r e e i s M I N E !

gimme back the internet

oneplus is the new samsung
samsung is the new apple
but apple grows on trees, i say
day & day & day i pray
for a old dumbphone that don’t run twitter
everyone’s a baby and the sitter quit bitter
gimme back the internet
that was soft as clay
and a few nice games. i want to p l a y

Merit and my middle finger

Rum Lola Rum

This is a cartoon of Dr. Ambedkar that I return to very frequently these days. In it, Dr. Ambedkar is making way for sweepers (I assume this is Eeran’s way of depicting Dalit people) to enter the parliament; and is holding a rolled up paper that says Constitution. We know he is Dr. Ambedkar because of these things, yes but also because we know those glasses, that endearing rotundness of the belly that in other more humane depictions – holds capacity for big, shattering laughter. What’s supposed to shock us is that he is wearing a janeu, carrying gomutra (?), and blessing a line of Brahmin men at his feet.

He is referred to as the modern manu in one place and ‘our new brahmin’ in another.

Context – this illustration was published in Filmindia in 1950, a little after the Hindu Code Bill and twenty three years after the…

View original post 790 more words

Dream

I dreamt of a friend looking for someone to love. Someone to stay. Willing to play. A part in the stories we’re told as kids. Forever.

Auditioning were me and a few other fools. I knew my lines. They were tools. How exactly were they gonna win the role if they weren’t willing to roll over and pretend the best they could to be the person they were required to be?

The audition was a breeze. I charmed her and joked around with the ease that comes from knowing someone’s favourite trees. I was sure I had the part until I heard I didn’t.

It was one of them. The people without the right answers. Without the grace of a dozen dancers spinning stories from their waists, ankles, necks, and knees.

I didn’t ask why. I knew why.

I always know. The right answers are always here, at the speed of thought, but always too late. Always until all efforts are for nought. She wasn’t looking for a player, she was looking a person. Someone who wouldn’t switch off like a light after the fun.

This is what I live with.

The fears I dream.

The dark behind the sun.

How can I be a person, if I don’t know what it’s like to be one?

You can’t blow bubbles with nicotine gum

I remember you from a memory
Half a second before I was born

We met, loved, and smoked the ether eternal
You showed me your heart, I gave you my journal

A hundred and fifty six moons
Shone their borrowed light on us

Some gods blessed us
Others chased us down
Lightyears for a laugh
It was a bit suss. No fuss.

In the running, we found our feet
Clay turns to stone under the heat
29 milliseconds later, we would be meat
Not knowing if we’d ever remember or miss
Beauty; boundless, bare
Bass to the snare

The trauma of the tear hit us, unaware.
Knocked us out like coconut in the hair.

Took me a while to remember you.

But I do.

I remember the warmth of a million suns
That couldn’t melt the walls you did.

I remember reaching into you
Tasting the fruits you hid

I remember being devoured,
In the infinity within you, showered
In the darkness, light
Fighting the hopeless fight

I hope you remember me
With half the ache
That holds me awake

I hope you remember
the other half of that second
spent outside of time.

When you weren’t you
And I wasn’t I

Web Update #1C24VY075JH89

AbstrCAT It ALlLlLlLlL

AbstrCAT n ve r fail

AbstrCAT meowmemeemememeomw

That should be enough to keep the other internet away.

I’m listening to TM Krishna. I like his voice. I don’t know what the words mean but I’m sure they’re good words. The best words. The veena is a weirdly metal instrument. Like, I think I get why people were so into it. In this song, it is a bassy metal vibrating rotating sound playing the same three notes over and over again, providing a nice background for T.M. Krishna to do painting with the precise, finely tuned, bristly brush of his voice.

Is that how critics write?

Did I get it right?

Blegh who cares.

Here’s the album: https://open.spotify.com/album/67NHF4SlbXkcjCuAF0NCty?si=yInCVJvZS4it5MgFyyTE6w&dl_branch=1