Thursday, July 21, 2011

I have grown old today

It isn’t my birthday. It isn’t even a momentous day. It is a slow day in fact. I have had much time to walk around, lie down, watch passable movies and even have thoroughly uninteresting meals. I have had a few conversations that felt as good as a second or third smoke does with far too many shots consumed already. I thought of some wonderful things I will never make – I just thought of them because I can loll around in its weak shadow imagining I’m safe, I have things to look forward to, I have hope. I’ve grown old though. Much older than I ever felt, I think I’ve taught myself to be older. I am getting used to things. The pain is dulled. The heartache continues, burning everything in its way, blinding me from what lies around me, but I don’t have to pause anymore. I like it there, the glow that burns burns burns. Here, It once singed holes in my clothes, my tendons, my head. I cried unabashed to let it out.
It never goes. In this realization, I grew old. Wiser by a million years. I have woken up these past mornings and reached out for the bile with my tongue, ever so hopeful it left. Yet, finding it there wasn’t disappointing. It was just familiar.
However, as science may or may not prove in the future, I have firmly established a fact, maybe. No one grows in a straight line, up ahead at a uniform speed, from 1 to 5 to 20 to one-day-you-wake-up-and-you-are-too-old. My growth pattern, traced over probably important phases in my life which were irreversibly spent in a world much unrelated to my then-Present have led me to wonderful charts. I trace them all over my books, over important papers, over files, over stationeries and desks left unguarded with smiting pens of all colours. Everyone asks me what they are. I, very frankly tell them it is in a process of discovery. They always grow into wondrous things – dragons, horses, dogs, umberallas, woman’s face within an alligator’s… opening Rorschachian avenues to those who care. In the end though, there is no pattern and there is no line. These are hours spent veering dangerously all over my life span – 5 goes to 50 goes down to 3, goes up to 10, comes further up to 25 and then back to 3…the pain fluctuates too, with no rhyme. I have grown, and in seconds I am tearing away at my childhood, grappling just as poorly with things that scared me then.
I am vertiginous. I am dizzy. I poke my head into strangers' rooms and squint for similar traces.

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Monday, May 23, 2011

Giant big bollocks!

Giant big bollocks that fill space
Mutating till they
Leaving trails of everything we tried
So hard to hide,
In aromas
Under spices
Beds of dead meat, cured and cut
This is a work of art
At its best, doing the worst,
Little fucking butterflies – black rodents with big shit-strewn wigs
Sneaking it between slices of cheese
And nutritious vegetables
That burst
Leaving nothing.
Bubble pink love, vacuous, fills space
Aggravating loneliness
It grunts and groans
In my giant bollocks
In the air that I let out.
In the sudden bursts
In between words
“Excuse me.”
As a measure to find pardon
For all that I am
All that I hide
It’s bound to come out
Children of lust, greed and love
Everything that smells of everything
I vomit. I vomit. I vomit.
I am cleaner, I am waiting.
Will you take me home?


Tuesday, May 10, 2011

An ode to the sounds of Pop

Bubble wrap glistens in the sun,
Wink wink wink as they burst
A nail creases the swelling,
Trying to control the heaving
Kneel kneel kneel, whore.
You are breaking below surfaces
Only to stab your own skin
There’s no point to this pain, love
Except to pass summer afternoons
Crouched, gargoyle-style, head to the ground
For songs of lovers
Pop pop pop, the song goes
They sing along, these lovers, loudly, sincerely
Because like bubble wrap, these songs make more sense when misplaced
Outside boxes, in craving hands
That want to tame, tame, tame
Hear fragile things burst
With very little protest.
We sing these songs because we are on a rather long route, now that we are on board
And bubble-gum songs are the only thing that last
Past worries, creases, anger, welts and scars.
All your anger will swirl swirl swirl
With the psychedelic lights of the pop pop pop
and in that happy moment
Everything will be alright

Love is a disco song with no meaning.

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Thursday, March 25, 2010

Alice's Hangover

After a week of blinding sun, there is always this phase of shadows. Everything I see seems to be darkened by a few tinges. It’s nothing, I tell myself, ‘your eyes are tricking you.’ Sometimes my hands shiver, craving for something to hold – a cigarette, a glass of something quick, maybe another hand. It’s always just a phase, I tell myself, a trick of the mind.

Sadly, I am always true.

There was a moment on one sunny day when she drew her red shawl all the way across her legs. Her feet glistened and her face was bent, in wonder of her own beauty. She didn't want to tell me anything so I stayed and watched. It felt like a moment on another sunny day separated by geography and psyche where I felt that all my fears and all those borders were in my mind. She looked and I walked away.

In my heart I was running, farther away, across oceans, beyond familiar faces, in circles, grueling against my own little miseries. My feet were growing tired as the world turned brown and ugly. My world, a lot smaller.

Then I always see the tiny door and a bottle that says, ‘Drink Me!’.

This is the one game I’m never tired of. I’m forever thirsty now, looking for little bottles in the corners of melancholy. Even drops of salvation will do.

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Monday, March 01, 2010

By the Bay of Bengal.

A long lost joy clings to me as I watch the Bay of Bengal extend far past the horizon. I hear masochists block oxygen to increase the pleasure. That in death the body reacts exactly like it would when it reaches climax. The sea playfully thrusts itself against me. If the sea carried me away and I screamed as I died and if the people on the shore called out to me, the sea would take away all the drama and quieten everything. I would never give in, I think.

I'd fight like hell, to hide that I've given up (Bright Eyes)

I tell the sea that I just told it a secret but it ignores me, continues reaching out to my knees and going back, a lilt in it's movement. I look around and there's an ugly couple, a lone walker on a mobile phone. The sea does the same to them. I wonder if they are thinking about the cruel death a sea could execute. I walk further in, still happy. I think of all those things that I haven't in months and have missed. I think of his bacon-y smell as he shyly let me curve into his side, my toes embracing his rather large feet. I think of how she spooned me and kissed away the hangover. I think of the rum tickling my insides as the sun lit the beach full of pretty people a few years ago. I remember crying because I was in love. I think of Radiohead and Pink Floyd, Tori Amos and Matchbox 20. I was already a dead woman reliving insignificant (or are they significant now that I know I saved them in my deep conscious) memories. I stand an hour smiling, cramped by the caresses.

I am so jealous of all those born next to the sea who have a better equation with it than me. I've always wanted to love the vastness of the sea. I've tried so hard. It makes me so happy but I can't be standing on it's shore all my life like a stranger. I want it to tell me all its secrets and pour me with sunshine, the way only a sea can. I want the silence it offers to be a joy, not a fear. There's something about death in the sea that scares me. There's something about death in the sea that excites me.

Monday, January 25, 2010

Diary entry for today

I'm riding on the wave of this storm. It may be scary from the outside but on the inside it just seems like a very long wait. I'd like to believe it is just that. I've grown to be quite hefty and my interest in things has waned to a 5-second fling. I'd like to believe that it is temporary. In fact, I'm fighting for it to be just that.

Maybe trouble isn't this, it's what lies ahead. And maybe, this is the worst.

The future is so full of possibilities

Sunday, September 06, 2009

This is just a dummy's copy.

Sometimes you are what you pretend to be. And sometimes you create the stereotype. Sometimes you take a cigarette and light it and sometimes you take the cigarette and create a masterpiece. Sometimes your masterpiece will be burning, burning, till it burns out.

And always, the best way to laugh is to learn doing it when there just isn't anything funny.

I don't mail. But I will tell you from here, I only exist through these alphabets. And one day when I stop, you won't see me ever again.