কাটাকুটি

কাটছে মাথা
কাটছে বুক
মিষ্টি তুমি
সৃষ্টি সুখ
কাটছে দিন
কাটছে রাত
দুলছে সবই
ক্যায়া বাত
কাটছে গলা
কাটছে হাত
কে বা কার
বাজি মাত
কাটছে টিকিট
কাটছে চুল
হৃদমাঝারে
চক্ষুশূল
কাটছে ছিনি
কাটছে মিনি
আমি তোমায়
বড্ড চিনি
কাটছে বেলা
কাটছে ক্ষণ
মনের কোনে
দিনযাপন
কাটছে মেঘ
কাটছে ভ্রম
স্বর্গরাজ্য
অতিক্রম।

Fly High

It has been a long journey. From ground zero to a heavenly flight. A bird learns to fly. The first time it takes its heart out to stand at the edge of the depth that it wants to dive in, his wings unknown how does the air feel beneath them. When it takes the plunge, the feeling of death forces it to unfurl the wings. It never knew before how does it make one feel with death awaiting. Before the insticts drive it to escape it, a strange feeling grips it all and the bird for the first time feels that it is a bird and there is wind beneath its wings and it can fly like a bird. It can breathe, it can swing, it can twist, it can writhe in extreme friction between its downy and the air passing. Controlling the enthralling slavation would make it suffocate and feel like needles piercing through each of the tiny pores on its skin. It is happy, it can fly.

I have stopped asking where is red...or for whom there is red. When the flames gulp me all day long heading me towards oblong pyres, the yellow flames I can see entailing upwards...yellow...orange...red...black and vanish...like that little round plastic boxette of vermin which was emptied out and there was nothing in it. The line between the real and the unreal get smudged to percipitate into eternity. It surely filled me up with much of conviction and made me stop worshipping all and everything again with the mantras. Throw me up in the air. I am losing my weight, like the bird flying. But I have stopped to set on to the ground anymore. I would rather hit the ground with my wings stretched. The catastrophe would be marked.

No one would have the perception that the skull was broken into pieces, when it hit the ground.

Actually when the ground was hit, its mind was still in the eternity of a vast truth, that someone named unreal, though.

A Reverie

In a half-awakened state I feel my poignant feet come sobre. My whole soul rests on a platform barbed with sharp needles of 22 gauge, injecting in me some warm soup of alcohol. I turn dizzy, if not numb. The sky and the stars with the moon start cracking into pieces. The Wallflowers-lead keep on humming from somewhere in the litter-bin where I have restored myself like a pinkish white pig looking for some memories to be reverted. A crow sitting on my back cleanses me of the lice. a blue litmus paper is dipped in my nose to test the colour, if am still alive.The balls in my eyes shoot out from its sockets so that all the tears flood out for once and all. It makes my skin on my face feel like a dried-up song of innocence. I take a pen and paper to scribble a few lines on me, like a tattoo on my neck. The Egyptians start dancing to the classical beat. How about a million terabyte leeches sucking the bone-marrow in an abductitrillum with a constant valency of insignificant attention deficiency? It feels like a sand dune in a porous heart, a clot in the smoked lungs and a car radiator frozen with a chunk of diesel cake. Ulysses feels to be Phoenix. The fire from which it is reborn is the wooden planks of a cremation where the feet of the dead soul are gutted out grotesquely like a scanty blanket on a man who shivers in the cold and looks for a pint of skin of human affection of ubiquitous playfulness in quest of complete salvation to sleep in the colour of red, no, pink, it better be. Code-pink myself. Dead-pink thyself. Soul-pink -- she ever lives in the heart and mind who never had the natal sublimity and lost itself somewhere in the middle of the earth and the heaven before it had a pulse to beat. In the maze of the ductrillium it lives somewhere like I get lost in the delirium of a billion suns glaring like a single truth of existence of paternity.