It was a morning at the hillside
It was Kafka in Hand, coffee on the table
It was junk in the bedroom
It was all perfect.
The graves were still and the grass wet with dew.
Woe to formalism I was allowed to smoke two joints of marijuana as I woke up,
I was allowed to drink ten bottles of beer and throw up at 10 in the morning.
I was allowed to kick off my shoes and run through fields of wheat
Nobody to stop me as I trampled on standing crop.
The men who grew them were busy committing suicide.
In our democracy it's raining.
It's raining in Kerala, Kerala and Assam, Assam, Assam and Gujarat and in Karnataka.
Where are thou O banana moon?
I dream of a sheep-skin clad shaman illuminating a room full of mirrors, it reminds me of the Holocaust.
Restless minds are screaming at ringing cell phones.
I read about Allen Ginsberg, and I read about mutual funds
I read about belts of marijuana and about shopping malls.
My ex-girlfriend calls up to tell me that death seems so alluring.
Reading about tranquil minds wanting to return to the womb, experiencing anti-Semitism.
Will you ever make noise democracy?
Will you ever stop selling yourself to nuclear hegemony?
Will you tell the white man not to kill the likes of you anymore?
Will you tell Uncle Sam that justice is not what he dictates?
Will you speak about Mutiny with pride ever?
When will you get drunk democracy?
When will you do drunken crazy things?
When will the Time Magazine recognize you democracy?
When will you hear millions of mothers crying in your villages at vermilion dawn?
When will the lights come back in Vidharva, In Vidharva, Vidharva, Vidhrva and in Andhra Pradesh, And In Bengal….
Will you ever get stoned and stone the barbwires in Singur?
Will you ever be happy with you life democracy?
Will you be Pagan once more.
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