M114 My modern life

My modern life sin, lounge and grin.

Or pissed most of the time. 

Wasted the little bit I did know, 

On a slouching and slothful prime. 

The envy and greed I should need, 

Just left lust for tea and screen. 

If you think opportunity is obscene, 

I'm complaining "for me no green." 

Just grifters and cheaters mostly, 

I eat boiled rice and pulses. 

A rigged race of hierarchy, where, 

Everyone licks everyone else's. 

I don't do that, I am a proud cat, 

I don't wanna wag my tail. 

My tongue isn't long or wet, 

Therefore in this reality I fail. 

Incarcerated and bound, mind not sound, 

Hopelessly hoping for something big. 

Layers of leery fantastic dreams, 

Naked I dance myself a jagged jig.

I could get up and go outside, maybe, 

Penniless can only be purely speculative. 

To walk for absent chores, I underscore, 

Only a rat's rear I can really give. 

You learn a lot study real hard,

And then you find out it's your tongue.

As long as it can reach a puckered sphincter,

Or religious or at least politically strung.

I ain't that and now a middle-aged fat,

An unpopular blabbering nincompoop.

Real knowledge is completely useless,

Only master the obsequious stoop.

A bengali dung, a little loser unsung, 

Just a carbon cartoon that doesn't fit. 

A justifiable tube often in need of lube, 

Food woefully wasted as shit. 

M113 Super holy I

Super holy I, sort of cross eye,

I run all kinds of scams.

Bengali when bare, people stare,

Tit fairy with two hairy yams.

Triple stacked chin, overall thin, 

Sort of big boned I am I think. 

Ticks and lice, on hair very nice, 

Pubes with fungus that stink. 

Pious heavy-weight dedicated and set,

In the day I sit under a banyan tree.

At night in my liquor and meat shop,

I'm a drunk butcher on a killing spree. 

A freak with a trick chair made of teak, 

I tell I'm the only great mind, silly. 

I smile to people who file and insert, 

A god based anal rod surreptitiously. 

Lubed with blame this my game,

Many gods I get to choose.

Holy as hell sadhu baba they yell,

When later they hang on a noose.

I send testicles into crotch, enjoy scotch, 

My accounts in Swiss banks swell. 

Demand donations I rob gullible nations, 

Use oxytocin in my prayer spell. 

Murder is fine when you're divine,

And colluding with your incumbent tools. 

This country is rich I get to bitch,

The easy hapless hopeless fools.

M112 bengali fart

In the holy city of joy,

The marts are full of farts.

A trail of lights when lit,

The gas a fire starts.

Hindoo moslem jiminy fans,

Their gas mix as one.

When the fire starts spreading,

It's always a secular fun. 

It's usually in the wee hours,

When stomachs are puffing fire.

Most rush out harried by wife,

Interrupted shit, hence full of ire.

Hydrogen bengali sulphide our pride, 

The smell will cure the sick. 

Happy the months of winter, 

Fire is warm without a wick. 

Salt Lake for good food sake,

Is as expensive as it's airy.

It's not just the gents I blame,

Often a bengali fat fairy. 

Undigested beans and rice very nice,

I am a devotee of that smell.

Sulphurous and pious, burning anus, 

Curry holes but fragrant as hell. 

 

M111 A future poison fern

𝙰 𝚏𝚞𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚗

_________________________

In the rush media of con embrace,  

Beneath the advert of a cosmetic face,  

Beauty sings a cream's jingle tuned,  

Hollow plastic faces perfumed. 

The rose, in preservative, lies so deep,  

Its petals in chemistry they try to keep.  

Nature's false song, on YouTube sung,  

Tales of paid dance, bollywood young.

Yet as durga puja on a phone call,  

Mortality's shadow in floods over all.  

And then, in the middle-east, fires burn,  

In this urn, a future poison fern. 

People don't care when not in their hair, 

But this wound is deep and rare. 

How can hate be accepted as fate? 

How low can conscience be set?

Greed in deed in seed indeed, 

Concentric the collapsing walls. 

In just a few more days unravel, 

This civilization inexorably falls. 

In this dance of dogma, hate, cold creams,  

Nightmares forever our lasting dreams. 

M110 infinite says

Words in ways of infinite says,

Both people and robots alike.

Just chewing cud bland and dud,

My irritation sometimes spike.

But I bite my tongue often,

Now it looks like a chewed rag.

I know for women like me,

A gift of gods is a gag.

A jumble of jargon from a guru,

On LinkedIn there are so many.

From head to toe, to and fro,

They stress on shaking shit up, if any.

Or holy lightning a frequent thing,

A break for a rational mind.

It brakes full stop usually a flop,

Hackneyed holy humdrum rind.

Trite and spite with spit some fight,

But spaghetti of bullshit more.

Knowledge that can come,

From leftovers undigested before.

Attachments worth paltry cents, 

The servers clogged up with soot. 

Just people inhaling stale fart, 

Reissuing as their own poot. 

Expertise of experts seeks to restart,

With a Lego of looney loose cogs.

Both the source and the sink vague,

Sound of crickets in bogs.

I stay calm apply Chinese balm,

The one with a tiger head.

Unrelated unreason galore before,

Recently I find science dead.

Too many people with mouths,

Too many things they have to say.

A million likes and views,

Substance a needle in the stack of hay.

All this like can take a hike,

It's hell but I coil back into my shell.

I'm tired of prostituting my posts,

People hate honesty I can tell. 

On and on the people con,

The needy for their needs.

It's a platform and that justifies,

The wound open that bleeds. 

M109 fish fart

A fish in a dish unable to relish,

Now it's eating my cheek.

Good lord god why me a rod,

Must through my rear leak?

A bengali man always a fish fan,

Now half my jaw is gone.

How come a mutated fishy scum,

Looks like a delicious prawn? 

Maybe the masala or coca cola,

Had poison in it or some shit.

A holy hindoo without a clue,

I risk volunteering vomit.

This my fault whiskey with malt,

Maybe it's just a bad dream.

The fish is probably causing acid,

Tomorrow on my rear need cream.

If I fart today yes I may,

The smell will start a war.

The undigested fish dish smell, 

Of fresh feces from afar.

A shock like this break peace,

In digestion cessation I seek. 

I protest against the law, rest

The weak needs for a week.

M108 mosquito

Whenever a flood I get more blood,

My luck oh fuck so good.

Born in a tyre I sing in a choir,

All I want is some bloody food.

This city of joy, unabashed and coy,

The crowd surly sticky, pissed and icky.

I tolerate babies and dogs with rabies,

By god you have to be picky. 

Malaria and dengue this season, 

I'm really proud of my skill.

I can bet a thousand bengali death,

With my team many I surely kill.

Helejuah the system is set,

These are careless fools.

They fritter away on invisible beings,

Get massacred in blood pools.

Holy all holes unguarded assholes,

Soft and pink easy to suck.

Assume doom, be glum with gloom, 

I have an entire state to fuck. 

M107

M106 Sikkim flood

Pain soaked rain, on the hills again,

The mountains are slushy mud.

People are dead, buried heads,

Buildings land with thud.

The river teesta in spate full of hate,

For the catchment area overrun.

Like pest the humans in jest,

Die, now that the river has won.

Dams half built covered with silt, 

Weak wood bridges washed away. 

Scapegoat "an act of god," 

The holy are heard to say. 

Fun fact the rich intact,

It's only the hardscrabble killed.

The greed of building new buildings,

Drainage as always all filled.

Trees were cut, the slopes in a rut,

Now more boulders will fall.

Gravity for large rocks that love,

Making "people mat", that's all.

People complain always in vain, 

The spin rhetoric quickly splat. 

Government shows face, slick surface, 

The officials in girth quite fat. 

This now late the post flood fate,

Biscuits given out cheap.

Washed away the gods and rods,

Casual Sikkim now a casualty heap. 

M105 middle aged head

A middle-aged head, she thinks I'm dead,

But as you can see I sure ain't.

Goodly good always in good mood, 

Really a masquerading saint.

A decapitated head, neck still red, 

A touch of vitriol in speech. 

Pretty darn good this neighborhood, 

I am a full time freeloader leech. 

I make things up and speak it out,

There's gullible people all around.

The more I lie tell me why, they say, 

"A pound of flesh very sound?" 

A lot of folks wearing cloaks,

Holy by definition larcenous.

It's my need, I must exceed, 

Make a holier cheater universe.

I pick lightbulbs from my ass, 

You notice I don't have any. 

It's all gas, gaslighted mass, 

I make a pious penny. 

Barnum statements are my trick,

The girls will die for it.

When I was young, as a palmist,

I used to be full of shit.

Now as a head I feign dead,

I get carried around in plump hands.

I get fed, good moist meat red,

Hallelujah this girl understands.

Super holy thus, a head with an anus,

It's more than what you need.

Knowledge isn't needed, but lies,

My word you must quietly heed.  

M104 a tiger in the night

I'm on a tree as you can see,

I've been a pariah for some time.

My bengali kith and kin hate me,

The ground a hazardous clime.

Ghost is past that's me fast,

The way the world spins.

Full of goons and tycoons,

Outrageous their sins.

A sinking hole damaged soul,

In the dark I'm my own monarch.

But my day is never okay,

The din of this old park.

I stay away and this way,

I am safe with my books.

My laptop is here with me,

Anachronistic is how it looks.

But I assure you, of the few,

Mad men on this slimy rock.

I'm not the kind that harms,

Nor do I wear any frock.

I like to be me, a hairy man,

Someone a crowd displease.

I know not when my head is hot,

Or when my farts smell cheese.

Just the way I am often a clam,

With the lids shut tight.

In the day I sleep very well,

I am a tiger in the night.

M103 a horse

A horse of course my race course,

Is just this little space. 

I am as imaginary as the gods, 

If you're wondering in case. 

I smoke a lot shit in a pot, 

I can't wear any pants. 

The keeper is a hindoo priest, 

He's into gibberish chants. 

Holy he thinks, but his ass stinks, 

As bad as any of the mares. 

He's sort of perverted I think, 

When I shit he stares. 

In air I sail I swish my tail, 

I get bets in calcutta, city of joy. 

Mostly people who've got time, 

Nefarious nitwits in search of ploy. 

So I dance, I prance, in a weedy trance, 

The humans are stupid holy shit. 

Their gods sick farts, folly on a trolley, 

That in their heads don't fit. 

 

M102 Measuring rain

Ever wondered what "1 cm of rain" means or why that depth seems to be puny, but you have flood on the streets of the city of endless joy? Even though it may seem strange and non-intuitive the depth (a one-dimensional measurement) actually "intended to imply" a volume (a three-dimensional measurement) when multiplied by an area (any amount). 

When someone says it rained 1 cm, they are referring to the depth of the rainfall over a flat, impermeable surface. It means that if you had an open container covering an area, the depth of the water collected at the bottom would be 1 cm. To convert this depth to volume for a specific area, you'd multiply the depth of the rainfall by that area, and here's the main part, it can be any area, including city calcutta or just a bucket or even your mouth. 

For example, if you want to know how much rain fell over a square meter area:

1 cm × 100 cm × 100 cm = 10,000 cc, or 10 liters of water. So, for every square meter, 1 cm of rain would equate to 10 liters of water. If we take calcutta to be 206.1 km² then that's 2.061×10^9 liters. 

That's over a billion 2-liter bottles full of water from just 1 cm of rainfall over the city. It's a powerful way to visualize the immense volume of water involved in seemingly small amount (in depth) of rainfall over large areas!

If it's your mouth assuming the opening to be say 20 cm² that's only 20 cc of water in your mouth from that same 1 cm rain. 

Another example is a parsec. It's a great example of using basic geometry (triangulation) to determine vast interstellar distances, using the easily relatable concept of angle measurements.

When observing a nearby star from Earth, astronomers will notice a tiny shift in its apparent position as Earth orbits the Sun. This shift is called the star's parallax. If the parallax angle is exactly one arcsecond (1/3600 of a degree), the star is said to be at a distance of one parsec from Earth.

To give you a sense of scale:

1 parsec ≈ 3.26 light-years or about 3.086 × 10^13 kilometers.

M101 cosmic loo

The planet a tool rich man's stool,

But we the colorful die.

The middling and the poor inbreds,

No one to hear our cry.

We have no god or religion,

When in flood we're washed away.

Our heads just numbers in the mud,

The leaders obfuscate what they say.

A hundred a thousand or a million,

But we'll be the ones dying alone.

Rotting in some awful way,

Buried deep hugging our phone.

No one to do anything for us,

We're living a deadly life.

Fools rushing for hollow goals,

Else tamed with a bleeding knife.

Searing fear raw cowering awe,

Grim death's grimy grimace.

Sick made sicker in their minds,

Haunting the greedy face.

A permanent post-orgasmic apathy,

A refraction set in stone.

Men and women after images,

Their love flickering on a phone.

Dopamine drive a city hive,

Of rabid impulsive speed.

High on everything unnatural,

No one now pays any heed. 

Just a matter of time then,

For our miserably designed scope.

We are outdone by our lies,

Civilizations trap in overused trope.  

Or in the tangible, in the wind and rain,

Headwinds fierce on the face. 

It's a new hello to an apocalypse,

Just slime on a rock's surface.

Just that and a very thin film,

And ruled by tribal voodoo.

Poor or kings and queens, in-betweens,

Feces flushed in the cosmic loo. 

M100 bird

I fly high in the sky,

Always pissed about things.

I see the kakistocracy below,

Where stupids reign as kings.

What a joke I have a stroke,

Just by thought alone.

How can the imbeciles live,

A system of lopsided cone.

Mice are nice I eat thrice,

I am a simple bird.

But again the agony is fierce,

To be ruled by a turd.

How come if they're scum,

You ask they won the race.

Census is a game of thrones,

Use numbers and use mace.

Just bags of feces the people,

If they think like their king.

Silence is golden here,

Even the bees can't steal a sting.

Around the bend no amend,

It's just water down the drain.

Making circles before the hole,

You won't understand my pain. 

M99

M98 Gaseous Guru

Holy bengali I eat broccoli,

To tame my fart as art.

The gods are too good,

Playful I am and smart.

Sometimes it's a squeeze, 

The tune played is cosine. 

Like an extended wistful song, 

The bards in my rectum pine. 

Nonsensical babble full of sound,

This parade of loony bards.

In arms podgy books of theology,

Virtuous but vicious words.

The land is bland I understand, 

Every man a vermin pest. 

Macabre and bizarre fat women, 

Devoted to frequent rest. 

Most are fat but not like that, 

It's their ass that's in their head. 

This makes their farts suicidal, 

The Bengali doomed to be dead. 

Born a hindoo I had no clue,

What is what, until one day.

Distracted with my thoughts 

Millions of gods said "hey".

They said in a tone of baritone,

Slightly drunk chorus of joy.

They liked my poot, a joyous smell,

It smelled of cowdung in soy.

Thus I am now a gaseous guru,

Full of sulphurous gas and food.

The heavens look forward to,

My gas it smells so good.

M97 an ant

Swimming upstream it's not a dream,

I an ant with his pants way down.

The world's coming to an end they say, 

I walked all the way across this town. 

It was a town of dam now jam, 

Thick sand and mud mixed in. 

Sikkim is flooded with water, 

An apocalyptic thunderous din. 

People buried alive or washed away, 

With households, kith and kin. 

Parts of bridge and highway floats, 

The Indian army is moving in. 

Even the army was swept clean, 

Many killed and missing now. 

The bloated river, broken towns, 

The death of civilization and how! 

M96 Libet's experiment

I think when I say I don't have free will, I don't think it automatically means I am scapegoating criminal intent, an usual obstruction to this question. For a while, let's dissociate the morality question and answer this simple question: if I were born somewhere else, the son of another set of parents, would I be able to think about the thoughts I currently have? And therefore, consequently, the actions that must step from both the conscious, the tip of the thought iceberg, and the rest, the huge part that's beyond my reach? No, right! It's really that.

Can I not will something? Yes, I can, but that isn't something that's ex nihilo. It's still the same biological circuit underneath, or flitting thoughts, both conscious and not, carroming into each other, that's once again constrained by genes and environmental factors (including prenatal up to this point in time). There's nothing we can do to shake ourselves out of this and behave like someone who isn't constrained this way.

I think it's the byproduct of the illusion of delay and path. It's like water that starts without letting us know, in the shrouded and misty mountains of the unconscious. But when it flows into the lower (in this metaphor) terrain, where it registers as conscious thought and "only then" sometimes as speech or action, do we conclude that it's in our conscious will? But even otherwise, it bounces off the walls in the conscious cave as that inner speech—that is, speech that's mute but of our own volition, again, all part of that singular illusion.

In the early 1980s, neuroscientist Benjamin Libet conducted a series of experiments to explore the relationship between conscious intention, neural activity, and voluntary actions. Participants were asked to perform a simple voluntary motor action (e.g., pressing a button) while watching a clock. They were to note the position of the clock hand when they first felt the intention to move. Meanwhile, Libet recorded their brain activity using electroencephalography (EEG). Libet found that a specific pattern of brain activity, known as the readiness potential, preceded the conscious intention to act by several hundred milliseconds. This suggested that the brain was preparing for action before participants were consciously aware of the intention to act. 

If only we could invent that elixir that bypasses the conscious and goes into language and action, we'd know for sure that this is indeed possible, not just in sleep or when inebriated but with experimental control. And then we'll know that, unless the unconscious part that's generating these is part random and part initiated by feedback from bouncing thoughts, but controlled inherently by the biological and environmental past, and therefore not the "will power" we are so proud of, but only a misunderstood reality of a complex neural circuit, when it's still too difficult to look at the cogs and wheels under the hood. 

M95

M94

M93 UFO

It's a bird, no an unidentified turd,

A defecating flying hole.

Why in lands of plenty it blinks light,

Here a winking asshole?

Why the city of joy it chose,

And why a mendicant it finds.

Does this city look like a loo? 

Do I a fecal plate remind? 

Holy this land doesn't it understand? 

How come it's not a pious soul?

Now what can I do to get rid,

Of this hovering puckered hole?

If shit it must maybe distrust,

A distraught object lost.

I have only these clothes,

Removing shit stain dearly cost.

A low hum it thinks I am scum,

By the list sent by mistake.

I may be poor but plenty raconteur,

From this maybe a ruse I rake.

My corner under the dark bridge,

This the boondocks of the city. 

I wonder if it's because I look ugly, 

It shits to make one pretty.

Covered with alien poop, a scoop,

Maybe I become a famous face. 

Then alright my dearest friend,

I welcome your choice of surface.

M92 Yapping

A person who can yap, 

Gets to the privileged top. 

I can't talk until I'm pressed way deep,

And then, I cannot ever stop.

But there's plenty of room,

For yaps to open and close.

If what comes out, the content,

Has the least entropy prose.

A hum humdrum exposed gum,

Teeth flashing in the light.

A society of gullible fools,

Sit listening to it all night.

High and low the nods go,

Sideways up and way down.

Some have their eyes stitched open,

Some have a questioning frown.

Sound waves bouncing off the walls, 

But no information flow. 

At last an opportunity to clap,

"I learnt something, no?" 

M91 pooping day

Durable prosperity with slithering logs,

Feels great the puckering and fall.

Unbroken my stand you understand,

Peace reigns when vacating all.

This my temple of the time,

And time stands to a standstill.

The joy of coding and defecating,

A boolean cathartic rectal nil.

The gods clap for me, for free,

No gas to pollute the heaven.

They cherish the day of relieving, 

The processed end of the past seven.

Trumpet sings but not indigestion, 

Joyous a pious ending fart.

Holy this day super cool spray,

The hole I clean with diligent art.

A sparkling gloss on the sphincter,

A polish with scented air. 

Helejuah like gods own poot,

I flush the paper with religious care. 

M90 news

Chunky news anchors with fluorescent jackets jocund and foaming with repetitious drivel, often not about reality but the curated parallel universe of make-believe that their owners demand, is what's on television tonight, every night. The demand for reality is appallingly impoverished, given that they have the viewers hooked on a theater of antics and polemic, often full of acrimony and planted animosity. The propaganda can only be inserted when you have obscured the facts or turned them into the color and consistency of what's illegal to write, but it comes out of us every day, at least when I'm not constipated.

But the agenda is clear: if, by appearance and rhetoric, the people can live without having any real problems solved, then that is an anesthetic that's compulsory for a democracy, which anyway is just an endorsed monarchy as implemented. The boom in conjurer's with their own supply of advertising support is guaranteed by the way in which all affairs of low repute are cordially conducted, of course, mainly through our thirst for a reality that is not based on the laws of physics but gods and their supporting cast of influences—this being big business and all that. The sad part is that truth has a way of leaking out of this tight container sealed by self-interest, and eventually everyone—you and me, the cat and the mangy dog—suffers the consequences of attention neglect on issues that are important. 

It has worked quite well, and with much of the time devoted to sponsors who come with a toothpaste smile touting one piece of this or that, the rest is divided up into debates, a cacophony of shrill exchanges. These aren't really debates, but bait for the unconcerned to be riled up by one sensational accusation or another. The acerbic wit of the anchor is usually anchored to the incumbent political or business hand, from which they earn their pinch of salt and therefore their absent dignity. It's not clandestine but an open romantic love affair that makes you crave an advertisement break, of which, thankfully, there are plenty.

These Indian news channels draw out the grotesque in the viewer—the evil character or shade of something nefarious that waits for instigation and jumps out when an opportunity presents itself. At least grind teeth, think nails are fangs, and enjoy the urge for a pure, unadulterated malevolent streak. If you're on the street corner, like back in those days when television attracted bystanders like flies, an honor fight with a competing religion may have been compulsory. Now, of course, it's just an ulcer after a few years and blood in the stool.

M89 half bot?

I know a lot of people are relieved that AI will take over the chores that we normally associate with uneasy dread, like typing up some content. I don't understand how, though. I mean, I may not be thinking a simplistic statistically markov-chain thought; it may be a memory of a past event that triggers a massive amount of emotions that I succumb to before the words come out. How will a robot ever recreate something it doesn't have access to? Sure, it can type out a lengthy sentence stringed together by Indian middle-class pain-porn in a way that obeys some kind of bell curve it's seen somewhere. But that won't be authentic.

It won't be me. I may be, in some sense, a candidate for generalization, but not my thoughts. It won't have the texture that makes me me. How can anyone find that to be acceptable? We'll all lose our inner voice and become more robot-like. That's not what we want; how does that make us better humans? Or robot? A fake, perhaps.

And if, hypothetically, we have a generation that grows up not thinking about their thoughts and just asking AI to do it for them, that's damage that can't be undone. It's not the same as a calculator, as I used to say it is. Calculators calculate what's beyond the biological imperative, but how can you let someone else start to do all the thinking for you? Especially when the learning is unfinished or unpolished. Will all the human interactions be part of a state machine diagram? That's a dependency that's crippling if AI is made absent, like not having a square root or a logarithm key on your calculator. This is a necessary human part that will atrophy or grow abnormally if we do this to kids or ourselves without thinking—a grave injustice foisted on posterity or ourselves, almost as bad as climate change, or worse, when everyone becomes a stochastic repetition, an approximation to some pleasing (or state-planned) generalization. I'd rather be this imperfect organic, impassioned tempest of faults than a smooth rolling ball that has only Newton and a few bell curves of "probably" programmed in it. I wouldn't want to be a general else; it would rob me of the human experience and plant pavlovian artifice on an otherwise dead dog.

Like right now, when I can't fall asleep and the usual boundaries that limit my worries are blurred, the writing right now is from and about this somnolent, depressed person who is burdened by anxiety and uncertainty. How would a robot write this? It can simulate the neural network, at least a good part of it, but it doesn't have a stomach to feel queasy and nauseous, the hormones, and the paraphernalia that's biological but plays an important role. And if I am mad, how will a robot writing for me help? Hiding the madness would be a detriment, wouldn't it? Maybe I bite, and a reading between the lines would protect someone from getting bitten, but not if I pretend to, through AI, be statistically kosher and safe.

M88 Rice Puller

Bengali goon a wish-tycoon,

I run a rice puller scam.

A coin with a face of god,

Pulls rice, yes ma'am.

Of course between you and I,

Masquerading magnet, magnetic dust.

A string to pull, but an eager fool,

Stupid enough to win trust.

Both seller and buyer are fake,

Unpleasant arrangement of teeth. 

I say it's iridium radioactive, 

NASA buys from us beneath.

Usually a hopeless fool,

A wealthy man gullible is gold.

I hatch the plan, like a business man,

I spin fibs until the fool is sold.

Then I ask for the money,

For transport or layer packing.

I make it sound like rocket science,

I pretend it's a killing. 

The hopeless now hapless,

Finds out but always too late.

There are a million fools more,

The nexus of our colluding hive great.

Mainly bengal and the south,

Where Dunning and Kruger reign. 

It's easy to hatch these plans,

I tell them you can't complain.

I tell them it needs to be hush,

The police else force a confess. 

The government hoards the coins, 

It's what led to Indian moon success.

Lies I poot, fresh gas from my ass,

The desperate will do anything.

Gullible's travail a counterfeit coin,

While I a rice-puller king 👑.

This is a scam that's been around for a while, and it's based on a hoax that claims that certain metals have the ability to attract and "pull" grains of rice. The scammer will offer to sell the victim a piece of this "rice-pulling" metal, usually at a very high price. The scammer will demonstrate the metal's supposed properties by showing the victim how it attracts and "pulls" rice grains.

It's thought to have originated in the early 1900s in South India, when scammers would claim to have special metal alloys that were used in Indian temples created by lightning. Over time, the scam evolved and became more sophisticated, with scammers using the promise of wealth and prosperity to lure victims.

In the rice puller scam, both the seller and the buyer are fake. The seller is typically a con artist who has created the scam to trick people into giving them money. They'll often use a variety of tactics to make their product seem more legitimate, such as using elaborate backstories or creating fake testimonials. The buyer is also a fake persona, created to make the scam seem more believable. They may claim to have bought the product and seen amazing results, or they may even be a fake testimonial on a website. It's ALL fake, and they have offices or use certain premises to convince. 

This is a confidence fraud, that involves deceiving a victim into trusting the perpetrator, often by gaining their confidence or by exploiting a cognitive bias. Here it is the confirmation bias. This is the tendency to give more weight to information that confirms what you already believe, even if it's not necessarily true. In this case, the victim may be more likely to believe the claims of the scammer because they want to believe that they can get rich quick or are vulnerable to the pseudoscience.

Report to the cops if you're a victim. 

M87 it's raining

It's raining cats it's raining dogs,

And yes in calcutta city of joy.

In an hour the roads will be rivers,

Please enjoy your usual ploy.

Ditches are good they have been ,

A trainer to the cavorting type.

¡Ay, caramba the color is brown,

Pious the poop, plump and ripe.

Super useful also the urine you see,

I am totally a hindoo fanatic fan.

But human turds are mixed,

Can't be both pious and a picky man.

Cars are fun they overturn,

The government is playing blame ping-pong. 

Mellifluous the many merry mosquitoes,

Chorus from a choir, their malarial blood song.

And dengue too and scary scrub typhus,

The many ways for an expensive death.

Pretend doctors and expired meds,

Loutish the hospital pimp's breath.

Podgy and vain now high BP and pain,

The understanding middle understands.

Just as low as they can sink they do,

Commonplace the daily biligerence stands.

Drains are left open since the British time, 

Makes mad even a jolly bengali.

Hopes are stuff that make turds gray,

While history a vomit of repeat folly. 

Vote for more, sore a democratic score,

Nothing but lusting frogs croaking hoarse.

The sun now comes out of the cloud,

Feces boiled floating off course.

M86

M85

Kith and kin they come in,

Baring teeth and fangs always.

You can't count on people these days,

Accomplices to back stabbing forays.

The mind of one, just like a swan,

On a placid lake floats adrift.

The only way I've found my way out,

Anchor to a thought that doesn't shift.

Nested layers of hidden corners,

Dream without a dream, then within.

Maze of locked doors into more, 

A gallery of mirrors trapped in. 

Lies over fact as long as you act, 

Constantly lie about reality to fit in. 

Circles intersect but not connect, 

The drudgery of carrying a sin. 

Watch your back you may never stack, 

Back the layers that led you in. 

Scramble for a door, a dead sycamore, 

A blackhole with a silent din. 

M84 three heads

Three heads in a jar, by far,

It's all a dream in the end.

Choose the foes that you know,

Intersperse with one kind friend.

The nights are long as are the blights,

The lights are fainting in my eyes.

The dystopia of eternity is upon us,

Just too bent to look towards the skies.

Layer by layer, from skin and hair,

The naked rock opens up to hate. 

The one upright ape almost right,

Too bright for his own right fate.

I'll be gone with all the whispers wise,

I can't but the stillness paint.

Every moan in everyone living alone,

In their head can't feel so faint.

It's the few that most and all,

Follow through on follies old. 

Until my breath is gone I speak, 

Or until you feel my corpse is cold. 

M83

M82 floating head

I've been accused when I was in Hyderabad of favoring Muslims over others, and this isn't the case. I didn't go after the Muslim goons because the people who paid them to do what they did are ultimately to blame. I even brought them to my house, and they stayed overnight and enjoyed my mom's cooking. They are just people, living ordinary lives like the rest of us, misapplied by a lack of opportunities.

The point is that to me, one religion or another are just two groups with a different set of fictions they latch on to, like I like Satyajit Ray Feluda while someone else likes Sherlock Holmes. Both Feluda and Holmes are fiction, just like our supernatural beliefs, which are the core assumptions in our religions. The ostentatiousness only bothers you when you think your god of the gaps is the true god when there's much better existential questions we could be answering. This is the fodder for the corrupt politicians in India: biologically we are all homo sapiens under the skin. My social mix-up because of segregation comes off as strange because India has regressed in secularism. In fact our ancestors were neither, before the religions took hold, and each age enforced their reigning dogma. We are Indians, the only necessary fiction. 

However, it's still the case that the poor are still bearing the brunt of these divides. If India has to ever really be a prominent player and not just jingoism and cooked numbers, it can only do that by inculcating the ability to differentiate fiction from facts; this includes the many other divisions in society like caste.

I'm not a prisoner of any political ideology; they are all corrupt. Today, if you replace Modi with someone else, unless a fair atheistic vision of the leader can percolate down to every single Indian, nothing will happen. All politics is, so far as the people are concerned, a pernicious game of musical chairs, where the music has a villainous feel like the "The Ride of the Valkyries" by Richard Wagner or the theme from "Jaws" by John Williams. 

What I guess I wanted to say is that we really can't have a country on false premises, ignored history, and pop-science favoring some group of people. Education is the only remedy, and rational thought has to be hand-grafted back into the society that can only benefit from the gene mix we have. The vacuous logic of distinctions is a tragedy of modern India, and unless we, the people, are better educated and alert, one political party or the other will make fools of us, and Hindu, Muslim, or any other, we'll ALL be suffering the bad infrastructure and lack of facilities while the suave leaders would send their families to western nations for a better life with Swiss bank accounts. The joke is on us if we stay naive; unfortunately, and ultimately, the superficial patina wouldn't hold because the cracks are too numerous and too deep if we aren't careful. 

Anyway, what do I know? I'm just a floating head getting unpopular on LinkedIn.

M81 debate

Debate

------------

Artificial or not, the undecided bot,

Did in fact get the polemic terse.

Shall I repeat what they said,

But I prefer to say in verse.

Ding dong the debate gong,

Went off to start the fight.

First a few sparks were lit,

A short-circuit trying a nasty slight.

A part fell off with every scoff,

The audience watched bemused.

Tit for tat who bells the cat,

A rat in the case was produced.

Line by line the many busy signs,

Of oratorical perfect pose.

Much shaking of heads and hands,

The bengalis clapped of course.

At last the springs came off,

After a didactic harangue.

No matter what, the low human watt,

We still own the safest fang.

The stage caught fire, the robots ire,

Fire you don't mess around.

Soon half the city of joy was joyless,

When they saw the charred ground.

We are still best at this,

Until the servers are less a hazard.

Just like that for a rhetoric joke

They boiled the local eggs hard.

Now half mast a city downcast,

A black on faces brown.

The doom and gloom of AI boom,

Now loadshedding for the entire town.

M80

M79

M78 scrub typhus

There's another disease competing with dengue and malaria on the news network in Kolkata, called scrub typhus. It's not a contagious disease, but it's still a very serious infection that needs to be treated properly. There's a lot of people who are unnecessarily being led to believe this to be more ominous than it is. It's a disease, and no disease can be an asset to be proud about, but let's not misclassify it. 

Scrub typhus is a disease that's caused by a bacteria called Orientia tsutsugamushi. It's spread by  infected chigger mites, and it's most commonly found in Southeast Asia, northern Australia, and Japan. Trombiculid mite is actually the name for the group of mites that spread scrub typhus. Within this group, the specific mite that spreads scrub typhus is called Leptotrombidium deliense. These mites are tiny, they're less than 1 mm long, and they can only be seen under a microscope. They live in tropical and subtropical climates, and they usually feed on small animals like rodents, birds, and reptiles. But sometimes, they bite humans, and when they do, they can transmit scrub typhus.

It was first described in Japan in the late 1800s, and it was studied extensively in the early 1900s. The disease is transmitted to humans when a mite larva bites them. The mites are usually found in areas with heavy vegetation, like scrubland or jungle, which is why the disease is sometimes called "scrub typhus" or "jungle fever".

The bacteria is spread by the infected chigger mite larva when it bites a human. Once the bacteria enters the body, it infects the white blood cells and starts to reproduce. This can cause a range of symptoms, including fever, headache, and muscle aches. The disease can be serious and even fatal if it's not treated properly. But with proper treatment, most people make a full recovery. 

The good news is that scrub typhus is usually treatable with antibiotics. The most commonly used antibiotic is doxycycline, or azithromycin which are effective for people of all ages, unless they have resistance. If the infection is caught early and treated with doxycycline, most people will recover quickly. However, if the infection is not treated, or if it's treated too late, it can lead to serious complications and even death. The most common symptoms of scrub typhus include fever, headache, and muscle aches. In severe cases, it can cause respiratory failure, shock, organ failure, and death.

Scrub typhus is not transmissible between people. It's only spread by the bites of infected mites. This means that you can't get scrub typhus from another person. You can only get it if you are bitten by an infected mite. This is one of the reasons why it's so important to get treatment early, before the infection has time to spread and cause serious complications.