36. The Millennial Angst
In the intermissions of life
Shall we scamper like ravenous rabbits
For ten ways to become better slaves
Or online internships?
Shall we browse our curated jails
Those bubbles of algorithms
We are too tired to escape?
Shall we filter out faces
With fat hips and swollen noses
Swipe-right the lovelorn,
Born to pad our arrogance?
Shall we shatter our families?
Shall we wed our anxieties?
37. Slave Learning
As the ball of flatulence
Wheezed sentence after sentence
From his runny nostrils
His slaves jotted joyous scribbles
Awed by the commandments
Of their Moses.
The fool of the classroom
That nonce with learning bones in his body—
Knowing not the important things of life
Like grades and sycophancy—
Raised an arm in protest
Before it was shot.
38. The Political Tug-of-War
One day, all potbellied social media merchants
Lurched from their red and blue armchairs
To play a game of tug-of-war.
When foe met foe and friend met friend
Political hostilities did not end
But hid buried behind soft hellos and
Mellow musings on the weather.
However when the toot sounded
Minds were grounded not in hashtags
Or in retweets dissing Marx or Musk
But on hogging the cord from those
Deluded frivolous-minded fucks.
They huffed and puffed from dawn till dusk
As free men hating comrades hating free men
For it was what they knew best.
Some say hands have welded to the rope
Condemned to their silent absurd joy
Without a moment’s rest.
39. Genesis
By far the worst form of megalomania
That not only forged flesh with blood
But had the audacity to spread Its legs
And procreate crawling horn-headed demons
From Its monstrous bowels
Occurred when Zeus, Jesus, Darwin,
Dagda, Shango, Krishna,
That fat baron tossing debts at your face
(Or whoever else you call your God)
Gave the first human being a brain.
Regulate your passions! Unite all divisions!
Interpret my words! Build a paradise
In My name!
It said, cruel curl on Its lips
Knowing we would hilariously fail.
40. The Servant of God
Born a fish without fins
In a straggly something cabin
Like a mole or a mound
On unhallowed ground
I stand, raised by brainwashed cells
That shove vices down my throat,
Hoping to turn it into virtues
That don’t make any sense.
My heart pumps love like Kool-Aid
While my tongue and teeth are forged
From flames of pity and kind words
Which happen to obey and simper and please
It seems.
Sometimes they linger with doubts
And blasphemous flouts
Which grow poisonous weeds
And creep over the spire and the steeple
Sinful and abhorred,
Like a man with a tired whore.
Just as the gardener tears the virus tree
Free from bud, root and stem
Before blazing it into ash
And cashing it in from the local priest
Who brands a plus on fried foreheads
That think their minds inside
Have not yet blotted and died,
Must such thoughts be crucified.
P.S. I hid behind the moniker of TINTA since the account was opened on Instagram. Truth be told, this has always been my natural impulse. If I had my way, none of my works would be attributed to me. I write a lot of miserable stuff, which I don’t want attributed to my character. I am proud of my writing, but it is also comfortably the worst of me—where my most cynical, nihilist and antisocial tendencies come to fruit.
For a while, I hoped I could hide behind TINTA forever. Perhaps anonymity is cowardice, but it has always been my impulse. But people tell me there’s nothing sustainable about the moniker strategy—that I must put my name, centralize my content, ensure I take credit for everything in a brutal industry, blah blah blah.
So, briefly, let me introduce myself: I am Neil Nagwekar from Mumbai, India.
I don’t plan on abandoning the moniker TINTA though. Because there is a story behind TINTA, and I think it will take quite some time for it to be completed.
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