About Buddha’s nightmares

Dust is no more IN the wind.
Dust is THE wind now.
And masks,
a new age ornamental,
a trial to push death away;
so similar to the ones
that are almost like
something that descends
straight from the cerebrum
and makes us who we are.

Buddha’s nightmares were used to not being seen,
and that has changed lately.
Weekends and weekdays,
Men and women alike dream
of oil, paper, paper, oil,
toil, sweat, sweat, toil,
chase, or get chased
get bleak and dazed.
Weekdays: coffee and money-making
Weekends: whatever and joy-faking.

One layer of skin is no more enough.
Leather-coats are mandatory for being.
And so are cloying smileys.
Hence a mingling of serotonin and cortisol,
with their chemical brothers,
incited by the colorful lights
that our (smart) devices cast onto our head;
followed by kids booking
two-bed rooms in modest lodges downtown,
and getting caught by greedy, sick cops,
in middle of an adventurous rookie sex making.

Everything is being re-written.
But they don’t need ink for that.
With cheap celebrities
lurking inside a giant virtual pipe,
(Why is it called YouTube?
Why not ITube? Or WeTube?)
these high-class adult youth think they need
attires and apparels to ‘express’ themselves.

Myself,
riding pillion to a friend’s old two wheeler
chasing the alleys and pavements
across bumpy, almost life-changing streets,
throwing random eyes to strangers
and receiving random eyes in return,
all the while listening to Dylan’s tunes
through my headphones
(of which only one ear-piece works)
that were supposed to be tangle-free.

It’s so much like someone’s old man
staring at the chests
of middle-age women,
from his winter balcony-
the drive absolutely irresistible,
and the bait too bold.

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