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  • ministry_of_insurgency 5d

    Type II error

    Wrong place, wrong time
    You were caught
    And you called it your home.

  • ministry_of_insurgency 1w

    Very old walls
    Standing still and naked
    In dark alleyways
    Shedding layers of plastered skin
    Grey after white
    Black after grey
    No color

    [ The Wrinkled Bricks ]

    And my mind
    As blank as ever
    Throwing empty gazes
    At the setting sun -
    A sky closing his eyes
    And raining.

    But look !
    At those flickering streetlights
    Flickering in harmony
    With our cataract vision
    And our hopeless blinking
    And with
    Our crawling heartbeats

    [ Without Prosthetics ]

    Alive but meaningless
    Like moist winds over muddy terrains
    For the dew to fall
    To settle down
    Or for the day to break
    To evaporate.

    Waiting endlessly
    For anything to happen
    But sun once set
    Never rises
    Never rises
    In the dark alleyways
    Of old walls -

    [ So Come Back ]

    To me , my dear friend
    Its 7 O'clock
    And my hands
    Wide open
    To hug
    The westerlies.

    Come back
    To stay this time
    And I will show you
    How my hours
    Pass by
    Clinching meanings

    [ Of Your Long Lost Eyes ]

    The mirror that drags you in
    And crushes your soul
    In fine pieces
    Over coastlines
    And over blue skies

    And meaninglessly
    You find the easterlies
    Blowing sand to polar highs
    Leaving nothing
    But cardiographic footprints

    [ So Come Back ]

    To me, my dear friend
    Behind the old walls
    And under
    The flickering streetlights
    And I will show you
    How rain
    Washes the memories
    Of this long long night.

    Come back
    For it's 8 O'clock
    And my hands are closing fast
    With each heartbeat
    You give me
    By being far
    Very far.

    I am your time
    And your pain

    [ I'mposter ]


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    How times change, old friend,
    And how little anything changes.

    -William Carlos Williams

  • ministry_of_insurgency 4w

    Open the gates of hell
    A sinner is coming.
    Open the gates of hell,
    A white walled
    White floored, hell.
    A sinner is coming...

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    A cluster of galaxies
    A lackluster of galaxies
    Were singing
    A silent composition
    Of first philosophies
    When a hairline fracture
    Right in heart
    Broke them all
    Stroke them all
    ( Can you be-leave it? )

    And what remained
    Was all existentialist pain
    All existentialist pain
    Very central
    Very centralized
    ( Till I realized )
    Till I met-aphorical man
    Till I met-a-physical man

    Waiting neither for death
    Nor for life
    In a meaningless time
    Boozing around
    Bottled moonshine wine
    Processing new divine
    Processing new divine

    Down like sentiments
    Down like sediments
    In a long long catchment of
    Fine aged play-tonic love.


  • ministry_of_insurgency 8w

    Bye-bye a decade with a sonnet. ��

    Happy-happy 2020. ��

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  • ministry_of_insurgency 8w

    Lost In Interpretation

    Soul dies with body,
    And a clan of holy books cry on cremation.
    Meanwhile science
    takes a silent corner to hide
    And whimpers silently.
    But I laugh,
    Right on every faces of them;
    Mortals! Hah! Bollocks!

    Enough of politicians writing history,
    On blank pages of time-
    Cheap pages, yellow pages, diaries,
    Constitutions, pages with golden embroidery,
    Black pages, red pages, account books;
    Huh! Damn!
    To all pages,
    To all politicians;

    All served by economics,
    And all cost was a tax,
    Imposed on poets and journalists,
    Or !  Well !  Yes !
    Not quite equally.
    Poets had to pay with their souls,
    Empty souls,
    Like coffers without a coin,
    But brimming with poetry;
    While journalists,
    They also had to pay with their souls,
    But wasted souls,
    Like drunks without debauchery.

    And you!
    I always saw you,
    Throwing your heart away in vein,
    To poets and journalists equally,
    Or maybe
    Not quite equally,
    But now the souls are dead as bodies,
    And you have nothing
    But the tears of holy books,
    Flowing like chemicals in holy rivers.
    And I ask you now-

    To quench your thirst,
    Will you call for science,
    Or economics?
    For a mortal like you,
    You will surely find guilt in your thirst,
    Or thirst in your guilt,
    Of not paying taxes,
    And sitting on welfare,
    Like a bird on another bird's egg;
    Will it hatch?

    A mortal like you will never understand,
    This cremation is not reincarnation,
    But just a soul,
    Being lost in interpretation.


  • ministry_of_insurgency 10w

    अधूरी कविताएं - २

    (विविध भारती)

    पर आज फिर कुछ ऐसा हुआ कि तुमसे एक उम्मीद सी लग गई । आज रेडियो पर एक बहोत खूबसूरत कहानी सुनी मैंने । मनचाहे गीतों का कार्यक्रम था, और फरमाइश थी मुकेश की आवाज़ में शैलेंद्र का लिखा गीत “जीना यहाँ मरना यहां” । पर तुम्हें पता है, ये गीत भी अधूरा था, मेरी इन अधूरी कविताओं की तरह । आखिरी पंक्तियां हमेशा ही छूट जाती हैं किसी आखिरी ख़्वाहिश की तरह । कुछ ऐसा ही हुआ था शैलेन्द्र के इस गीत के साथ । जीना यहाँ मरना यहाँ लिखते वक्त शैलेन्द्र ने इस दुनिया को ही छोड़ दिया । और इस अधूरे गीत को पूरा किया उनके बेटे ने,

    “कल खेल में,
    हम हो न हो
    गर्दिश में तारे रहेंगे सदा”

    इस से बड़ी श्रद्धांजलि और क्या हो सकती थी भला ।  पर इस बात ने आज फिर मुझे झकझोर कर रख दिया । मैंने तुम्हें बहोत प्यार किया है , इतना कि आज सारे मौसम तुम्हारी ही यादों में पिघलते हैं । इतना कि आज मेरे शब्द भले तुम ना सुन पाओ पर मैं आज भी हमारी भूली हुई दास्तां अपनी नमकीन स्याही से लिखे जाता हूँ । इतना प्यार कि अगर ये दास्तां पूरी हुई तो तुम शायद लौट आओ । पर क्या ये दास्तां कभी पूरी होगी ? क्या तुम मुझे कभी इतना प्यार कर पाओगे कि मेरी अधूरी कविताओं को पूरा कर पाओ ?

    - सिर्फ़ तुम्हारा ,
     सत्यम ।

  • ministry_of_insurgency 10w

    अधूरी कविताएं - १


    देखो ना, आज फिर एक कविता अधूरी रह गयी । आज फिर दिल घबरा रहा था कि शायद तुम्हें ये शब्द अच्छे लगेंगे भी या नहीं । सिगरेट शराब तो छोड़ दी है मैंने, अब कलम पकड़ने से हाथ नहीं काँपते, पर दिल ज़रूर काँपता है, अनजान से शब्दों की आहट सुनकर।

    आज फिर वो आये थे, अपने आधे से क़िस्से सुनाने । आज फिर वो एक आधी सी मुस्कान चुपके से मेरे तकिये के नीचे छुपा गये । क्यूँ करते हैं वो ऐसा ? सच पूछो तो इन बेकार की चीज़ों से अब मेरा दिल नहीं बहलता । अब जाड़ों की रात का चांद भले ही थोड़ा ज्यादा चमक ले, भले ही पेड़ों से लिपटी रातरानी आज कुछ ज्यादा ही इतरा रही है, पर मुझे इनसे क्या लेना देना । क्या तुम्हारा इनसे कोई भी वास्ता है ?

    अभी अभी बारिश भी आयी थी । उनके अधूरे किस्सों में तो मैं हमेशा ही भीगता हुँ, पर सच कहूं तो भीगने की मेरी उम्र नहीं रही अब शायद, और शायद तुम्हारी भी नहीं रही । सूखे हुए मन को कौन भिगा सकता है भला । अब तो जैसे सदियां गुज़र गयी हो जब बारिश की पहली बूंद सीधे आंखों पर टपकती थी और दिल खामखा रो पड़ता था । तुम भी उस वक़्त बहोत रोते थे, और मैं तुम्हारी सिसकियों में अपनी बेवजह सी रातों को पिरोता, तुम्हे गले लगाता, तुम्हारी ही बाहों में सो जाता था । अब नींद कहाँ, वो बारिश कहाँ, तुम कहाँ, मैं कहाँ ।

    क्रमशः ...

  • ministry_of_insurgency 10w


    “Remember me?
    We were making love,
    But just getting started.
    This is foreplay.”

    You made your hair frizzy
    Cascading curls
    Kissing your shoulders
    A little slow
    As I touched on your heart
    With a thump.

    Everytime I touched
    I kissed
    a fragrance of ecstacy
    As you were some
    First sips
    Of Daniels
    Honey blend.

    Slow burn, slow burnt
    The trance
    As I went downhill,
    As I went
    To the gardens
    Holding hands
    Friction and gravity.

    Oh gravity
    Slipped from my palms
    To hiacinths
    As you will come back
    To play
    A foulplay
    Again and again
    As your side of bed
    Is still warm;

    Come play!


  • ministry_of_insurgency 12w


  • ministry_of_insurgency 12w


    ~"Its okay, but I am sorry, for the incoherence."

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    Psalms Of Immortality

    Premature ejaculation, on infertile sand;
    None of your business, wash your hand.

    Premature revolution, thing of a prophet;
    Spring out your head, it's tail of a comet.

    Ours God is a fabian, coarse and ground;
    Insolvent mistress, his hobbies profound.

    Rock the cradle, high into enormous sky;
    Your tasteless laughters, shall wish to fly.

    Satan is in bondage, coughs mortal blood;
    Spank him harder, harder his eye’s flood.

    Storms diffuse, along the Mediterranean;
    Our kills are modern, a copied Caucasian.

    Storms diffuse, souls bereft of convention;
    Ours God smiles, to losts in interpretation.

    Divine constitutions, overlooks ours guilt;
    Cathedrals of morality, must shine unbuilt.

    Wash your hands, of every construction;
    Not a rough debacle, a failed integration.

    A mind that seeks, a mortal immortality;
    Reads these psalms, dreams a centrality.