Drunk at Basantapur

Three cups fail to balance
Sanity and drunkenness,
Spewing words of aggression and hatred
Cursing the Nepali Judas,
Did he shake hands with the Devil?
 
Three more glasses
The world comes in crashing
Three more glasses
The world comes in crashing
 
And the drinking never stops
Three more glasses
Three more sips
And the mouth stretches like the gulf
Between sanity and insanity
Between faithfulness and betrayal
 
And why wouldn’t these two drink to their madness?
Their faces blurred from the glowing mirror
Their memories almost erased
 
And the drinks keep coming
While I stare at the dead mannequins
Their rotting flesh
 
And I curse at them
As I march towards the future that I make on own
 
And hips wobble
 
Almost collapsing
 
Like the house of cards that we built
And ran away to not see it being torn down
 
In dreams
I throw away the bottles that I will never drink
I puke like I’ll never puke
I’d smell of alcohol like I’d never again
 
In dreams
I curse the rotting mannequins
And perform a mancraft on them
Stabbing their bleak future
 
Laughing hysterically
As they fall from the sky
Egg-like,
Poached; raw,
Suits you well, bastards.
 
Arun Budhathoki