Friday, September 23, 2005


It's morning again-sunrise, clouds, dew on scanty beards of grass and all that jazz. They tell me you can see one and know, I never did, till today. Till I saw her. She looks of fading colours and smells of crowded second-class compartments, her hair in a conflict of blacks and browns and a few strands of mortified whites peeping, unwelcome. It is the face that says it, waiting desperately for attention, with hooded black eyes that pray desperately to send across some message to the one she needs; to me they are stones set with no particular interest. Black, black and some more without mesmerising. They peep through my books, between lines, unexpectedly, moving their lips; hands against glass windows and stoned men who would write about them someday with an indifference, with empathy or just plain hatred. But she, she is of no consequence, wouldn’t attract anyone. I look for the characteristic tongue lapping suggestively. Nothing. She seems to have no mouth but tongues. A lot many, each one biting, eating, lapping suggestively. They are innate now, because a half awake, maroon shirt, blue jeans, dishevelled hair, rush is of no use to her. Her baits are tucked away, her black lips say so, and so does the money tucked close to her waist. She the one with faded colours and smells of crowded second-class compartments. Maybe that is how too much sex smells, or maybe hopelessness.


Thursday, September 15, 2005


Unwritten Diaries

It's a feeling of swimming underwater, the eyes flicker, meets and drops once again. Now, Now, Now. And then the words stop, convenience slips in, take your time, the minutes stretch into colourful negatives. Photographs of flowerless flaws, no stars, no sunshine, no wet dreams; a place where Marshall meets Ricardo meeting De Morgan meeting Freud meeting the lies and wasted ideas of men yellowing in the pages of reject and unjustifiable care. Closer to reality and no need for hope. Just this once, a touch of absolutely no meaning, a secret smile of approval and then he can flow in with his and I will keep searching. Why didn't I? It's his eyes, black shiny stones of weakness that creep in, I am scared, his hands smell of her hair, her lips and their secrets. I couldn't. Not that he wanted it; just his shrinking under my fingers was good. Power like I wanted it but am always denied; the power of a leather whip and the Impeccable, where nothing I do is wrong, maybe love but that isn't it. Its his lips, the way they hang in need, my craving to touch at the tip and drag, just this once, when no one sees, in this blinding sun. A shadow smile of courtesy on his face and mumbled words of apology, I sink and fall, my eyes hooded from him. Let this go, I say, not this time. A twisted muscle smile with a regret stuck forver on this mid-morning I walk away, cold and self-denied.

That's the last of the times I felt. The need still gnaws and I just let it burn, waiting for love or a quench for this incessant need.


Friday, September 09, 2005



Heaven said the Promised Land
Looks all right from where I stand
Cause I'm the man on the outside looking in
Waiting on the first step
Show where the key is kept
Point me down the right line because it's time
To let me in from the cold
Turn my land into gold
Cause there's chill wind blowing in my soul
And I think I'm growing old

Flash the red is wots...uh the deal
Got to make to the next meal
Try to keep up with the turning of the wheel.

Mile after mile
Stone after stone
Turn to speak but you're alone
Million miles from home you're on your own
So let me in from the cold
Turn my land into gold
Cause there's chill wind blowing in my soul
And I think I'm growing old
Fly bright by candlelight
Up out of my sight
And if she prefers we will never stir again

Someone sent the Promised Land
And I grabbed it with both hands
Now I'm the man on the inside looking out
Hear me shout 'come on in, what's the news and where you been?'
Cause there's no wind left in my soul
And I've grown old

Friday, September 02, 2005


This is a long time ago painting, of heaven, earth and underneath. All joined by the misunderstood.

Those willing to tell me how much it is worth and those with advertisements of orifice enlargements and other varities of spam, say hello to the shut door.