Filling, Fuelling, Fuellerating
The sparks of illumination
One tank gets its food
And the next tank appears
Hungry for sparks
Hungry for illumination
The risky flammable atoms
Fill up and Fuel up
The surroundings and surrounds
Like a routine clockwork
On a routine period
At a routine price.

A Nagesh is the gear grinding
Every piece of the clockwork
Filling, Fuelling, Fuellerating
Every hungry tank that needs
And jams the pipe onto the holder
Until the next tank appears

“Turn off the Stove!
Did you turn off the Stove?”
The mom asks some other Nagesh
Or Salim, or a Juarez
They’re all the same
With the same panic
Under the same instructions
And same hypothetical scenarios

Who doesn’t turn it off?
The last spark of illumination…
Who doesn’t panic under the
Flammable catalyst for
The spark of illumination?

I see a dark and desolate monument
Devoid of construction nor development
My folks find ghosts and haunts in between
Restricting the naives and knaves
From smelling it’s darkness.
I see a monument, dark and desolate
With no hopes of illumination.
I still ask myself who doesn’t turn it off?
Who doesn’t panic under the
Flammable catalyst for
The spark of illumination?

This unfaithful darkness
A sorcerer of fear and panic,
Is caused by fear and panic
For the spark of illumination.
Fear causing fear all around
Just to control the illumination
And Darkness among our
Surroundings and surrounds
And yet there’s a Nagesh
That slams the pipe onto the holder
With such ungentle and indifferent vibes.

There’s always a Nagesh that handles
His routine recklessly
No matter how dangerous or
Instantaneously regrettable
His routine might be.

The gear grinding the routine clockwork
Slams upon the next teeth, the next rung
Not minding the friction or wearing out.
Why should it be so careful for a used-to job?
Why should it voluntarize the involuntary?
When have you ever breathed consciously
Unless you heard a news of a massive heart attack
Of a super star at a considerably young age?
When have you ever blinked consciously
Unless a high beam burned your eyes directly?

Only the sparks voluntarize the involuntary
Stramming the gears, Blowing up the petrol bunk,
Illuminating an illegal dead building,
Shunting the aortic circuits,
Inducing an involuntary panic
“Did you turn the stove off?”

Until the sparks decide to appear
And convert the spectacle of illumination
Into a debacle of inflammation
The routine gears recklessly slam
Every rung, every teeth
Filling Fuelling, Fuellerating
The Hungry tanks.