☛ Submission for October, 2024 issue (Vol. 5, No. 2) is going on. The last date for submission is 30 September, 2024.




-         P C K Prem (India)




In a day of pure inactivity

there are few of us with unsteady feet

who run amuck  amid champagne burns

with reasons and emotions.




These communicate like dragons

relishing, arson, loot and rape

it is a bizarre truth

fathered by furies

that such men talk reasons

un- wanting these form

a collective conscience

of satans in command

of a Kingdom

where gods in frames pay

unrequited obeisance

and angels in tears burn incense

to appease and wish for a return





All stand in stillness

undisturbed repose awaiting a dirge

making known death

in the Capital.

In Delhi it is neither

cooing of ducks

nor chirping of sparrows

it is not whistling of wind

no rustling among weeping willows

no crow or rook caws

but everyone hears and fears

clanking of bronze vessels

with flowing blood

vomiting oracles

difficult to decipher

a total chaos in meaning of Logos

it is a still time.

A state of inactivity is a stage

of madness

mind rebels

physique remains unquiet and waits

for release in unholy alliance

a mental escape without direction

and an approach

to joy awaiting an early finish.

Marked man looks out charmed

spells and magic in abundance

rummaging uncharted areas

of worldly joys

more physical.




It is an activity of boring summer

when men watch

growth of weeds on untidy lawns

where roses grow in stunted shades

and dirty linen

dried in hot sun

eyes detect

impurities evaporating

and mixing up in mid air

without pouring out smell.

Man in white clothes

feels, finds reasons

and spits out squirms

and worships Lord Shiva’s linga

it is a spook like appearance

in the form of a man.




Here I stand among debris of oracles

which remain myths in crude living

after apparent sophistication

in spacious beds and in arms

delicate and dandyish

it is an acute embarrassment

of a man

when it converts a persona sin

into a general malady

to say that in a day of pure inaction

there are few of us

running amuck in non-existence.

And secretly run to panorama

of rapes and loots

and teach ethics

a propensity quelled.

That is a reason wide and deep

man in me makes personal fall

a collective debauchery.




Uncalled for notions

defend a man

amending a man in me

in conference

remains active without moving

to live like

where none exists

man considered ailing in a crowd

when a wrinkled body in white hair

moves t make a tidy lawn

to spend an age in sun bath

where roses fade

on initial sprouting

like a child throbbing

an unwed woman

to avoid a social noise

walking in dirty streets

where open windows

and half open windows

and half shut doors

make a story without plot

it is a dilemma of my man

without name and identity.

It is soulless

a talking machine visibly

and praying for a human life

but exhibits no mercy.

An acute pain in inactivity

in the aftermath

of joys and orgies.




It is living in shows

in painterly thoughts and wordy dreams

each hiding while running crazy

with others and getting dissolved

in order to learn to die and live

in a crowd of men gone mad

in hours of malaise

without cure in purple days.