 |
| Sudeep Adhikari |
Few
Existential Winters Ago
White it is, the color of death and the death of colors
illuminates the
silver chandeliers of pain and woes, White it is, the color of death and the death of colors
hanging on the immeasurable of my intoxicated town.
Today is just a day, a mere daffodil nothing. A sound you make,
when you come out of infinite nothing
from those soaring heights. You make the songs of the mute,
the rhythm of the unmoved one. A crippled melancholy
of a geometer who draws those dark shapes of mist,
and opens the secret doors to null beyond. A structure, a shape
which is not there in their space and time. Kisses itself,
self-born and self-effaced. An occult, unthought beauty
vehemently denies to be a mere piece of art. Every redundant
whatever you emanate, right here right now
is an absurd void ; Spanning the space between the heavenly
blues and those seething sewers. And life
remains an awakened lack, a self-aware nonsense
and it keeps on happening, no matter what.
Unconscious, Archetypes and Dreams
you look down on existence with a divine wrath
life breathes you, and thus lives the life of its life.
sweetly cursed to damnation
usually come to me at night
dead-drunk, perfumed with silver roses
and their consort of dakinis
with a talisman of heart of my heart
around their neck
point their finger towards the unholy door
screams !..ohh screams ! of your rapturous dread.
And they dance on the tune of noise
of the oscillating voids
which architects that recurrent simultaneity;
Making and unmaking, unmaking and making,
of the hyperspace of my dreams and darks.
Elegies on death of words, as they sing
thoughts are bewitched to an innocent stop;
Conundrums from underground
viciously reflect my unborn face.
