Flying to Byzantine

There is no country for young. The old,
in the parliaments, birds in cages,
– Those budding generations- at their fluttering,
the flesh-markets, the beggar-crowded streets
drugs, dope or douche, sting all summer long
whatever is brought, is sold and eaten,
caught in that agonic music, all meditate upon
monuments of aging sensuality.

A young man is but a poultry thing,
a tattered hen upon a grill, unless,
age claps it’s hand and mourn, and louder mourn,
for every tatter will be old hence,
nor is there a mourning school but meditating,
monuments of its own scornful surplus,
and therefore I have flown over the sky and come,
the fuckin city of fluctuatinople.

O morons sleeping in Satan’s hells’s fire,
as in the stone carving of caves,
come from the hell’s fire, prene is a gyre,
consume my passions away, sick with desire,
and fastened to an enthusiastic beast,
it knows not what to do, and transform me,
into an old man of wit, treason and lust,

And then I’ll fly back, and will take,
a chair in the parliament of owls,
and such a chair, as was of Lucifer’s Bilail
of accumulated power and seven sins,
to keep a drowsy public enticed,
or set upon the golden bed to rejoice,
to my life full of greed, and lust,
of what is past, or passing, or to come.

published in The Criterion Journal,


By the road i stood

I stood watching,
watching where we are,
watching where we were.

By the road I stood
gasping, struggling,
reminding myself of Kashmir.

Where people were humane,
where discrimination was taboo,
where brotherhood prevailed,
where harmony ruled,
where corruption was a crime.

What could be done,
was done without money,
what couldn’t be done,
was never done with money.

By the road I stood,
it was not a common day,
cause Kashmir was missing,
cause Kashmir was lost.

Published in Kashmir Life, 2014

poem, poetry

Ghosts of Freedom

I am not blind, no, I can see you
see you tear apart the scarf from her head,
I can see the bangles broken
Laying on the floor.
I can see your hand searching her,
her ripe bosom;
the lust in your eyes
is visible to me.
I can see the smile on your face,
full of disgusting pride you carry.

I can see, until I become one of those,
those hit with your pellets.
Those who can’t see!
And I will cease to see further.

But I will still be able to hear,
her screams,
the sound of the bangles falling upon the floor,
your laugh and furthermore,
the stories of my fellows;
seen with their eyes until every last
of them is hit with your pellets.

And when nobody is left
to hear or to see,
our ghosts will fight, for our


First published in WithKashmir.

poetry, politics

For Masrat et al.

Il miglior fabbro

Deep purple is not just a colour,
but an award, under our clothes,
that shines,
brightly but painfully,
awarded to the woke, for excellence
in resistance and dissidence.

How do you speak?
and why do you want to?
only inside the mouth,
a tongue is a tongue;
no bone, then how?
how do you make it stand
on its feet, and make it march,
restlessly and tirelessly.

What do you want to muckrake?
for expression is lost,
upon expressing, it ceases to be,
the moment a tide of reckoning hits it
with waves of misinterpretations
and it is pulled into the cesspool
of allegations and arguments, and is
trapped forever in the quagmire of
ambiguous desolations.

May-be you too are haunted,
by the ghosts of azaadi,
or may-be you are a troubled child,
of an unhappy marriage between
concealed fascism
divulged freethinking.

First published in The Universe Journal

Subsequently in Asian Speaks.

Photo by getty images.

poem, poetry


An imagination, a thought
embroiled in a simmering flame
an ocean of raindrops.

Kohl spread under the eyes
and amongst them a nada
a seed buried, waiting to erupt.

Which would have bloomed.

But who’ll water it,
who’ll filter the weed,

that lives off its share
stealing it’s air and water.


It will pass!

Under the sordid sun we sat,
repugnant rays bathed our skins.
Black clouds in the distant sky,
overlooking a canopy of redwoods;
omen of what is to come.

‘Don’t speak, its prohibited,’
she muffled in my ears,
‘confine your words dear,
for, to speak is to boor’.
Hold! It may pass as well!

The wings of wax had melt,
and then Icarus rose no more.
And Phaethon fell to earth,
burning all it had, but then
it passed, as all things do.

For ashes of the martyrs
give birth to martyrs again.
And from tyranny arises-
tongues and arms and shoulders-
which turn the sun immaculate.

Painting_ Jacob Peter Gowy’s The Flight of Icarus

First published in Asian Speaks.

It may pass as well



Sickles, spades, stones, sticks!
I cry dissent; they hear hatred.
I bleed nauseously and ooze panic,
they rub me with pellets and bullets,
to close my wound, they welt my skin.

Sickles, spades, stones, sticks!
I paint dissent; they see hatred.
I eat grief and breathe pain,
they feed me laws and rules,
to fill my stomach, they keep me hungry.

Sickles, spades, stones sticks!
I write dissent, they read hatred.
I hear mumbles and whispers of despair,
they sing me fire and pepper gas lullabies,
to tune my ear, they pierce my drums.

Sickles, spades, stones, sticks!

Pic by Paul Becker by CC2

First published in Inverse Journal


poetry, video

Yeh Hidustan hai Bawa, Yahan Sab Chalta hai


This poem is written and performed by Wahid Rathore. A member of Unfound Family. He pursuing his Engineeing degree. He is poet and a singer also.

In this poem he mentioned the current situation of our country based on his personal experiences and how he was stopped by police only for having a beard and long hairs.



unbroken journal issue 3
Octuber; a cold month trees shed their cloths and sun its light. Isabella and me we ran together to seek a
shelter. Octuber is cold it rains outside; social and political together; raindrops. The trees shed their
leaves some yellow and some still green and the sunlight it grows lighter, colder, and darker. And me
and isabella walked through these leaves crushing them under our feet. The sunlight didnt touch us but
some leaves have thorns and her feet bleed and some rays are harsher
and her skin burned. The
raindrops soothed us; emotional. Social and political; drenched us. Isabella and me still found a shelter,
a safer place, a stone stands there. Octuber is a cold month but we are safe me and isabella now lay asleep.
©Fidoic 2015, first published in Unbroken Journal, Issue 3


UnlostCartoons are easy,
To mock
Create one yourself.
An activist in sex trafficking,
Or two countries at Odds
For your consideration,
A free tote bag.
In conversation with Trump
At the house of Nightmares.
To mock.
Cartoons are easy.

first published in Unlost Journal, Issue 3.


Dr Kalam: A poetic tribute.

now the feet had grown ‘wings of fire’ of their own

the ‘ignited minds’ were numb as a clown

senses collapsed and were scating fast

time ran and was not going to last

tears had life and life tears

eyes denied sight for fears

words fled away trying to hide

ears heard a lot but didnt stride

one was missing a world apart

nobody could find, none’s that smart

a stone just said Rest In Peace

and rest were trying to be in peace..

A tribute to Dr APJ Abdul Kalam.


A Rape Victim’s Cry

Rape victims cry

Rape Victim’s Cry

Call me Damini or Veera,

Or name me Ifshan or Pooja

Rip me apart

Or tear me

Break me into pieces

Or cut me into halves

Burn me to ashes

And then blow them up

Undress me

one by one

Or all at once

Use me, throw me

Or use me again

Use me one time or numerable


or all together

put me to endless pain

bleed me, and then

do it all over again

push my limits

hard and then harder

but be wary

it just my body

my esteem lies deep within

the scars might heal

but soul still feels

I’ll fight back

If I’ll live



If I die”

©fidoic, first published in The Critireon: International Journal of English, Dec 2013