Assumption: Or, you better poison the death. by Sanju Clement

Because,
without giving to the living ones
to reflect or to forgive,
to correct or to bleach off
your war crimes or vices

the holy oblivion will put
an eternally overtaking gear
to e-race or to erase
such hateful,
intercontinental venom-
weaving soulless spiders,

from the gloriously growing
screen, script, literature and tradition.
from a noiseless-day on . . . .

they will never ever get
a good birth or a good death
a good burial or an e-salvation

in any lip, in any ear, in any eye,
in any road-name, in any story, in any song
or, in any holy-dust/ash.

oh, leave all those . . . .
but, the unhappy truth is that

they will never ever get
that name ‘Human.’

Ancient people called such births . . . .
evolved-animals, wasted-births
or, rejected-dusts from the DNA
of Paradise.

Oh, come on and get enlightened
ye crestfallen sons . . . .

Evolutions failed mankind
with daydream, allusions, bullshit
and Trumped-up story.
but,
Revolutions revived mankind
with reality, civilizations, blood
and Promethean-fire.

So, choose heavenly wisdom,
because,
you can’t poison the death.

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Assumption: “Oh, Poets where art thou?” by Sanju Clement

Oh Poets, now,
we don’t have Nature-
delivering lands or Spring
swimming streams for you.
we have many mounts of the dead
like in Mohenjodaro,
many fears hanging faces
like in Guernica
between our daily walk and way
of every up and down life.

but, if your pens are dry, come,
they can have enough blood here!

no parrots, sparrows or mynahs
flying blue sky overhead.
packed demons fall
as explosive-eggs
from their angelic but heartless-
duralumin-birds
and they will bombard
in our sleeps and symmetries too.

Oh Poets, come,
with your dried-up pens,
they can have enough blood here!

no petals’, dews’ or meadows’
hanging and kissing tales under our feet.
writhing skeletons and wailing skulls
grow everywhere.
our feet now familiar with red cry

and hell well,
know the blood of men,

of animals, of birds, of leaves,

of water, of sky, of fire
and very well know the thick blood of blood
trampled by myrmidon boots,
speared by uniformed bayonets

and senseless bullets.

Oh Poets, come,
with your dried-up pens,
they can have enough blood here!

for our land, for our routes,
for our truths, for our family flowers
and for our black gold,
the eyes and arms of their drones
erase our innocent shadows,
and give our departing breaths
to the already polluted lungs

of News/History.
they fell the breathing breasts of our lands
upon the pristine plates of our faith

and serve them to the mouths

and feelings of our helplessness.

Oh Poets, come here,
come with your dried out and thirsty pens,
they can have revolting blood
from our massacred mass’s mounts.

we don’t want manna
we don’t want miracle
we don’t want martyrs
we don’t want missiles

we don’t want life . . . .

we don’t want this wrenched life.

just let our unsuccessful blood

and unheard tears flow through

the backbones of your pens!

Assumption “The Begging Child” by Sanju Clement

She is a light in this eyeless world,
A garment on this torn civilization,
A fallen leaf from that human right,
A broken reality under that bridge,
Or, a profitless story you avoid, or, find
On every sunken sideway.

To download her own little smile,
Or, to publish an aromatic season
On the petals of life and honey,
She is pale and fail from every dawn,
Baked by every shouting society.

Always sobbing with her sibling sorrow,
Always begging to battle for her bale belly.

When she was a baby,
Life turned off her joy.
Trapped between life’s minus and minus,
Finally, she stood on roads, yes,
Hunger-on-her-palms stretched.

And, she begged for a “ Bread ” or a “ Tea. ”
Your natural ” GET LOST ” ripples
In the illiterate-innocence of her capital heart,
When it is full of air, long explosions and drops
Of hurt.

Sunshine and Moon are always same for her,
They always come and go without investigating.
Still, she wakes up for a green day, a bonsai day,
To transform her infinite-hunger, living-form,
And her ancient-gloom into blossoming smiles . . .

Oh, smiles may visit her once in a year,
Haves have those hundreds a day.
But not the case with chained-misery,
Because, they are born together,
From the same unlucky and poor womb.

How many faces has she won ? Or recorded her ?
Or how many coins has she earned ?
Or minted for her and the have-nots and the vulnerable ?

“ Very sorry,
I am politically too busy to tour the world,
(To get political, economic
And warring orange-monkeys’ support)
And to post modish selfies with other suit-wearing-
Terrorists like me, fascist-leeches,
Federal-foxholes, uniformed-hyenas
(T)ruthless-venoms, blindest-weapons, empty-publicity etc . . .
I really don’t have time and tune to domesticate
The opposition and minorities
And this and that and the subcontinent.
My people are born to suffer, burn, forget and die ” :
The Prime-(Tea)-Minister declares like a tyrant
Of a nuclear-tea-shop called India
And prepares another strong night-tea
For the white days of the withering people !

In sooth, nothing left to lift the child,
At least to a 5 kgs of sustainable long laughter,
From a weary loss and file of every intolerant day.

When she fruitfully interpreted that lesson,
“ Pauper, the poverty people,
Can’t choose cash, cakes,
Meadowlands, fearless-rest, technology and PPP,
Then, she was already the remote control
Of political-poverty.

Yet, hope knows that she too has dreams . . .
And in her dreams like a Disney princess she is.
But while she watches her on the mirror of Life,
Ah, that always implodes like a Touch-me-not

And

She

Explodes

And

Explodes

Like a universally neglected (t)ear !

..

Sanju Clement is a Promethean—poet—painter who hails from Kerala (India), land of gods, devils and monsoon too . . His poetic and artistic invention is that he starts from the zonal heights of the light of Metaphorical Surrealism but he will land on the realistic feet of Metaphorical Realism, which truthfully mirror in almost all of his poems and paintings . . He is compiling his books of poesy on Love (“2020 Drizzling Green Poems & A Melody of Melancholy”) and Ultra-Hyper Political/Protest Poems (“101 Promethean Assumptions”) themes.