About Me

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An artist by instinct and engineer by life.
Moving from romantic youth to cynical maturity.
A vagabond in the sea of knowledge ...
Believe in the power of imagination and progress of humanity.
Now struggling to resolve the riddles of time through dreams of future ....

Greetings, Gokul

Friday, October 10, 2014

Poem: Rip Van Winkle wakes up again!

I just arrived at my office desk

Time machines everywhere

Numbers dripping blood from everywhere

It is my sweat, sweet sweet and salt salt and saltier blood

that you simply call by the name ‘sweat’

It is a socket to my nervous circuitry

It is a simple sickle in my stomach

Time is dripping away like a bloody whirlpool

You need not be a world bank economist to know

That money circulates in time

How much ever you obfuscate money

How much ever you mystify money

How much ever mask time with data

And use the equations

Time is not money alone

Knowledge is not power alone

There is a world beyond equations

World of inequalities and perturbations

World of irrational imaginations

World of exponential series

World of irregular tropes

World of truncated silhouettes

World of trapezoidal memes

World of memes and nemesis

World of numismatics and bit coins

World of plagiarisms and forgery

World is not a whirlpool alone

It is simply a whirlwind

Can you imagine what will happen?

When Rip Van Winkle wakes up

Only to see that Don Quixote is ruling the roost

And to see the affair between a pelican and an albatross

There are many stories unfolding

In the polynomial times

Time is just a tyrant, in an ocean of solitaires

Sunday, October 5, 2014

A Night after the Neurosis: A Song for the Mozaic Society

It is a quite Sunday morning
It was a weird outing in the evening

We saw fuming ashes
We saw failed elephants
We heard the tales of fallen petals
We saw drifting continents of love and lust

It was a quite Sunday morning after a tepid Saturday night
I saw many men sulking under the weight of their own dreams
I heard many women lustfully languishing their tongue twisters

They were all eloquent
They were all spellbound
They were castrated

A Carnival in the oddest of the hours
A Caricature of my self and many other selves

Our pulses were travelling to Venus, Mars and Pluto
We were simmering in the heat of the market mongers
We were boiler plates to the typecasted experiments in human nature

Have you heard about Pavlov
Who embarked on an experiment to create machines in human mindset

Have you learned about Vygotsky
Who smiled at the smiling babies and loved their zones of evolution

Have you wept when Maykovsky shot dead himself
His poetry must have been boiling faster than his heart impulses

When I end up embracing the dichotomies of Mikhail Bakhtin
I know I have become a scoundrel, polyglot, a hedonist, pagan beast

When this hetroglossia unfolds and scarlet fevers engulf the nations
Fear of languages, life and all sort of glass house effects will prevail

Do you know the fissures in your palace
Do you know if it is made of marble, mosaic, or even a piece of pitch blend?

Now I know only about primordial stones and shadows
Who build pyramids and prisons in the middle of stone hinged and laggard society
Who are in multitudes, nameless, nation-less, necro-manic living echoes

I live their turquoise blue rings, silver palms, their mythical fear of tortoises
I dig a grave to heal their zest for anarchy, and to unwound their zeitgeist

Saturday, October 4, 2014

Poem: A Venomous Silkworm

I despise these degrees of freedom
Said the neo Diderot and the archaic David

I envy the liveliness of the termites
Said the neo Valimiki and the primordial Achilles

How could they embrace a poetic saint in trance
Wondered the venomous Rama and the Venerable Lama

Who saw the torrid life a prince and the princess
Wicked was the Neanderthal Freudian and Digital Darwin

Over and above my sheaths
An albatross is savaged and an ancient mariner is saved

These pearls of wisdom and crowded imaginations
They strike digits and cubits of wealth in times of diarrhea

Astral mathematics, astralopithicus, astronomic gaze
They were the gargantuan invaders of the Gregorian calender

Rest is known to us, first word is born as a worm hole
No one need to be a snake charmer or a sand miner to unravel the lantern under the rooftop

There is a King cobra and a funnel full of flesh and blood
They are changing cloths of sheep and wolves in hermits of suffocating odor

Let me coin a mint in their name
And toast a blood bath in their future dreams to come

Friday, September 5, 2014

Poem: Zen's Paradox

A Zen gazed at his mind
That looked at the glaciers
Umpteen levels deep

Zero, Zero by Zero, Zero raised to Zero
Questions surfaced above the volcanic erections

Language of the lost
In the lucky facades and gambling chariots

Neutrino by Neutrino, they neutralized every pinch of salt
Before they were salted and halted in the ionosphere

Curves and cubes, hyper cubes and hyper markets
Zen’s continued to gaze, at the pandemonium of choices
Chance, choice, will, illness, plea, randomness, chaos

You name it and graph it and store it in archives, if not dens
You love bearing fruits of fissures in the veins of my earth

And zen fell asleep wondering the warmth of the worms
In the deepest of the shallow slow time dilation of his heart to eye reveleations

Sunday, August 24, 2014

Poem: Fault Lines and Flat Landers

There are fault lines
In this land I love

They are fever cells
In this yield I love

They are fuming wounds
In these serpents I breed

When there are fault lines
I can see them vividly
I can see their venomous permutations
As I see from above

Above the eyelids of all my sons
Above the grey hairs of all my grandsons
Above the black birds of all those forefathers
Zigzag across the fizzog

When they vomit lava and lashes of wisdom
A few survive to meet the destiny

Puzzles are there from primordial winters
Somewhere engraved in caves
Some where etched in stones
Somewhere buried in calenders
Some where weaved in cocoons
Somewhere someone want to plough my fault lines

Do you think I will look at this like a fool in a proverb?
Do you think I will stand still like a ribbon crow?
Do you think they have rights over my fault lines?

I have seen them growing in pain
I have seen them howling in tremors
I had hibernated for years when they were just seeds of destiny
I had seen their ripples across the peaceful valleys

For them it is just a fault line that breeds contempt
Why do fault lines breed contempt?

Anguish exist beyond my farm
Only that I want them to grow like the flat landers* of the prime

These flat landers have flattened sols
These flat landers have flattened foreheads
These flat landers have flattened lungs
These flat landers are flattered by all
I love and hate their flattened existence

Any ways my fault lines exist today and they were bleeding bad for years
No one dared to seed the flowers of Eden* or Springs of Manasa Sarover*

Now they have formed a design that utters songs
Songs that they need, those who come again and again in vein
Songs that they lick, lust, lash, leap and lampoon on their gardened breasts
I am least bothered as they celebrate the wisdom of the gardenia
I am talking to them, my own fault lines

And they will listen and recite my songs for ever
In the moments of juxtapose, which only I know

We will meet and meet and meet and meet for the miserable times to come!

Thursday, May 8, 2014

Poem: Flood of leaves and a lonely lotus flower

Fury of the soils
Fierce burns on the fingers
Fermenting blood in the foils
I fell down sleeping by the farm fields

It was summer and a sinking season
Fissures in the petals, a lotus is awakened
Only to see the plenitude of leaves
And a depth full of beings, veins of my earth

They are the leaves of a lotus
Born in a mud of dirt and wet sands
Floating so dear to the eyes
Beauty of the fathoms was fuming in the surface

Far from the heart of the clay filaments
The lineage of the airy cells
They carried the silence so long
This time the land is so loving

I am so closed and hibernated
When the whole world of leaves are soiled in happiness
The lotus stood closer to the leaves
Waving smiles at their happening lives

Tuesday, March 11, 2014

Poem: Chipmakers

They are soiled people 
They are oiled souls 
They are boiled shells 
They are coiled coals 
They make living out of soils 
Most of us carry it on head 
Some of us know it is inside and outside 
Few of us agree that we are from soil 
But this group is proud of their foil 
They call it by names 
Silicon, Carbon, Graphene, Lava and so forth 
When we till our earth 
When we tilt our head 
When we mince our mold 
The chip we make steal our earth 
It rains heavy on the soaked blood of many others 
May chip makers know that theirs is soil too