A shadow that hides.


I am sloshed,
barely walking,
This warm air makes me dizzy,
“A-12″,”A-12”, I keep repeating
to avoid being the uninvited drunk poet
in the wrong hall.

It is time
I settle down on a chair
four rows are empty in front of me.
I curse the whirlings
and the whooshes
and the random fucking noises
in my head:
The Bubbly(Beer) shall drown all of you tonight.
Just wait.
I am death, I shall show you.

They announce, the best five poems.
I do not remember anything after that.
The Beer certainly helped.

An abnormal life
turned to 5 repeated deaths sentences.
I hold a friendly grin and
leap onto the burning ground.

I lit a cigarette
and think of reading
more of Celine.
My shadow hides a little more today,
I can’t blame him.

That crazy French doctor who wrote sometimes
was right:

The Beginning of Genius
is being scared shitless

Is the Bar still open? , I think.

Damn! I again forgot to ask,
When to submit next.

– Shashank Bhardwaj


A Few

It was good in the old days.
The poets were poets.
The writers were writers.
The artists were artists.

Now we have men and women
who under a comfortable roof
and closed doors try to look different
to this world.

They paint, write and create when they feel like.
They call it a Balance.
A Hobby.
A Stress relieving mechanism.
It makes them feel different.

Differently dead from one another.
Dead throughout their days
from the everlasting stupor
induced by the attention of others.
It ends in their dreams I feel.

They don’t have desperation
nailing their back.
The desperation to create something
that shall last a thousand years.

It comes in a few people only.

those who just care about creating.
those who dissolve their souls
on papers and paint it with their blood.

They do have the same passion as others.
But what makes them really different
from others is that they know
passion is like Gasoline.

You have to pour it over yourself
and start the fire
to really feel it.