Name: Sundar Iyer
country : New Zealand


How I acquiesced into belief

I've been Smith and Wessoned, - learnt no lessons
Been Bill Gated, - knocked, and hated.
I've been Boyzon'd and Britney Speared till I'm blind
I've been bred to prove it,
As an economic unit,
And so I don’t lose it, I’ve got to use it
People and the environment- oh nevermind

I've been human righted, near sighted
For fortune strived, nine to five'd
Well, I've paid for all the joys I have to pay,
And I've learnt that truth don't come in books,
And all inflammity can't buy me sanity
So I only get drunk on Chardonnay

I know a man's plans are small
Don’t read the writing on the wall,
Not the same as you and me,
He doesn't dig poetry,

He so unhip - when you say life's a lottery, he thinks you're talking about money
The man ain't got no culture. But it's alright, ma' our bills are getting crisper….

I've been Air Jordan'd, received my pardon
Embraced their lies, with burgers and fries,
Coca cola'd, Microsofted, Sky-tv's got me accosted
And I've just discovered that inflation's on the rise.

She WAPs in beauty

She WAPs in beauty, like the night
Of 7110's and their blissful tones
And all that's best of mobility and the Net
Meet in the aspect of her phone
Thus mellowed to that information flow
That follows you everywhere you go

One service the more, one laptop the less,
Had enhanced that Nokian grace
Raved in every headline of the press
Or softly, lightly, on the gateways
Where phonebooks serenely sweet express,
The numbers of their dwelling place

And on that beep, and o'er that link
So calm, so soft, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow
But tell of days and goodness spent
A mind at peace with all below,
For after all, the deck's been sent

(Apologies to Lord Byron)


Seventeen to half past ten
Pondering on the when
Seventeen to half past ten
A caged red-breasted wren
Seventeen to half past ten
Independent from the ways of men,
Seventeen to half past ten
The periphary beckoned

Seventeen to half past eleven
The decison was in the making

Seventeen to half past twelve
The dawn of despondency was breaking

Seventeen to half past one
She wrote a note in lipstick

Seventeen to half past two
She became the 17th statistic

Suicide is the most damning form of self-criticism.


Child of man, what do you hear?
That man is free, and everywhere in chains
That you are born to live, not prepare for life.
That life consists of narrow lanes.

Child of man, what do you see?
Smouldering mountains, and angry seas
A broken nest, eggs shattered,
In the midst of flattened trees

Child of man, what do you feel?
The poisoned waters, the furious sky?
A sidewalk flower crushed
By a flustered passerby.

Child of man, what will you say?
Now your legacy lies squander’d
I ask you this, oh future ones!
What actions you have pondered?

Child of man, what will you tell?
Your child, I beg to ask.
Have we undone the art of that
Which makes pale our tasks?


On this insignificant orb,
The transience of power,
The hands of this ceaseless clock,
Touches every hour

Rulers, tyrants, and empire
That boast of eternal flames,
The replete victorious,
Are extinguished all the same

Their deeds and glories past
Static in the lines,
Of moth eaten manuscripts,
With creased and broken spines

Then, pregnant with the hope,
Of boundless eternity,
Now, the still born remnants
Of a failed maternity

Of palaces, castles, and their fief,
These realms of supremacy
Did only flicker for an instant
Before ignominy

Soon forgotten by humankind,
A vestige of the past
Their crumbled, lifeless, languid glory
Into caskets, cast

Their swords, maxim guns, and missiles
Million men murderers, bristle
With the fury of a deranged divine,
To dust they return, beset by time