The God’s Son


Ravenously life proposes the dictums of love,
What there could be without love of a lady?
and the stars foretell the white umbrella,
Beneath which the God sits in heavens,
Marking the days of the calendar when,
Beautiful ladies meet their shadows in September,
The Sun dial would report the activity,
of visible light shedding the whiteness,
on edges where the ladies’ parasol rests,
in their white slender and puny hands,
playing ghosts to the blue light arcing,
on the third district of love,
in the southern skies, God’s son drinking Bacardi,
and getting light on the emotion of love,
for he has lost his heart to a damsel,
who lives on the sunny side of heaven,
What could be the fate of God men?
who are busy fanning the love to God,
as if God’s son is the last of the lovers,
dreaming of the velvety sand besides heavens,
With her hand in the bell jar , the fairy who
stole God’s son’s heart is serving five trays,
punishment in the hell,
This could be the fate of ladies who,
swear by thundering to see the light instead.


Future is fiction

Fiction is unreal as we all know but it might be that what we see is fiction, an illusion of reality. Fiction is when no true events account for in space and time but is the product of our imagination. Now abstract concepts as glory don’t happen in time but there is in reality an event corresponding to abstract glory so abstractness alone is not sufficient to define fiction.

Future is fiction. There are no events in real time that correspond to any in future so future though exists has no real event associated to it. Hence is unreal. While our present is realization of future so that fiction that is future finds expression in realness of consciousness and as is fictional existent implying fiction is really existing in nature in what’s happening now. Past is but a memory stored with us. So past, future, present doesn’t exist.

Present is abstraction of future whatever I am seeing has been abstracted from future such that I from a continuous film of reality. But future itself is fiction so future is not existing. Hence I am abstracting something that doesn’t exist so present doesn’t exist. So what I see is an illusion of abstractness of future. I have through my consciousness all the abstract concepts into future and make an instance of these abstracts to form a picture of reality. Everything that I see is present as abstract reality in non existing future. Hence reality is an idea in future. So I hold an idealist and futuristic view of reality.

The Sunken

There is death that puts end to all means,

whether glaring in the sky, the light shuns,

first the mountains, then the meadows and finally the sea,

it comes over in like a rush for the Violin,

that puts up dumb charade to singing,

The rain emotes all the feelings as if sunken in black,

the  death is awakening to sing the cheers of men,

there is no more life remaining but the ghost of one


In the middle of the night the flame was lit,

Only to be snuffed within an hour,

She wept by the window sill with a drink in her hand,

Much courage is of no use till you live grand,


He was a silent hero of another cage,

Where all wept profusely for mammoth age,

The stories of his courage was popular fiction,

He having mastered the unsurpassed diction,


She still was biding night,

When he knocked on the door,

There she opened the chamber,

Into her bedroom like never before,


They fell silent into the solemn night,

Nor ever there was a sound,

But the electric beat of mandolin,

Mixed with hard feet stretched around,


They were like frozen lake,

Having run off the frozen ground,

There they rested in each other’s arms,

To be paupers on starry alms,


Till the day arose,

And he having a lamentation spoke,

Forbid this land as golden haunt,

I live no more off your love rose,


The flame is long gone,

Now her chamber bore of no more love,

While she spends her covetous days,

In the memory of his lamentations like doves.



How come I am an intellectual on the move?


I think heavy but deeply about love, life and reason to believe the world as it exists in front of us, as an indomitable reality. How to decode the hidden code existing in the nature of existence? It has been decoded by many philosophers in their own philosophies then why to reinvent the wheel. The reason is thought unlike wheel needs no road to travel on. It is like jet coming and going in an instant. Thus there is sense in discovering a new philosophy as we deem.A new perspective to look at the world and I have chosen to call the new perspective as fictional existent, the fiction we see the reality to be made up of. The fiction we abstract from the domains of time to satisfy our existential needs. Thus the need to abstract precedes the existence itself. What we abstract is our personal reality that is bound to the common existence of humanity through principles that we agree upon in the first place. The fiction of circle is that there is no one particular instance that we can call the circle. There are umpteen numbers of circles as abstracted by every person in his own personal abstractions. Like time is relative so are these abstractions with each abstraction being a fictional existent of the abstraction of circle itself.

So I forming the philosophy of fictional existent, I am an intellectual on the move.


The Dead leaves

In this world there is morphine,

To silence the thoughts and lighten the spirit,

What comes to me in circles is love of yours,

Though you have denied my corpse,

In garb of myself in the mirror, laughing,

Like an ascetic on rounds of the forest,

Where love hidden is scared from the vultures,

And they want to eat me,

In full bright light of the noon,

But I deny your love for me,

And let me be eaten by the birds,

At least they fly away from stillness, the death,

Love conquers all, even the spirit of dying,

Who live the life after death only to be buried in your garden,

That’s my only desire,

To be mocked by the mocking bird,

And silence the silence upon grave’s,

Dead leaves of the grass.