Tuesday, March 27, 2007


I come off at ends now, broken as my skill and weak as my will grinding my teeth to avoid one more reversal of promise or falling back but I can’t help it when I am low as now, sinking into the chairs and the starry-black granite holding my fingers out, hoping someone will come and wrap a palm around it and pick

Up from the ashes and
Hold me tight.
Oh-oh-oh hold me tight,
Fill me with the light (ho, ho, heh, ha, ha, ho)
Of the flame
Far end, wide and burning itself
Into colourlessness

Into normalcy where I sit in the back seat of the bus, watching it crash into the wrong lane - Full Speed Ahead - the driver’s back twitching and careening the steering, his spine jerking up like a sax’ buttons, letting him breathe and then plunging him again deep into the journey towards the burnished sun, vexing and wavering as I bind it into poetry from the rear-view mirror. Everybody runs towards us as I watch them from the corner of my eyes – strange beings that seem to be growing out of the cracked earth. And back in the bus everybody’s shades of purple – light, dark, purple with blue, purple with white, purple with green, purple with black and purple with purple. This is where the clock strikes

Hijacking my dreams
Savouring everything I was once
And letting me watch
As it sprays everything with cataracts
Like those in the sky
White and black
Clouds of a colour it likes

And as I pull off my glasses to rub my burning eyes, I see everybody turns to brown and black and they all stare back at me passing lewd whispers in my ear even though they are so far away.


Saturday, March 17, 2007

Seeking Eternity

The one thing about being human is being unsteady for so long that the only way to stay still sometimes is to immerse the self into the most feral case of cynicism. Not that speed is an issue; the pleasure that fills the pit of my stomach with every dose of anticipation is unprecedented. It is the end that kills me because I know the ride is over before it even begins.

Losing focus is another way. To wake up to a day that has no definition in words or vocabulary and no metaphors, nor a ready asylum in a handful of memories that seep out of grasp by the minute. Every ‘wall’ is a door to heaven and every set of colours that you come across remains as characterless as a face in the 9 ‘o’ clock local. This is the stuff that poetry is made of, going back to basics (picking souvenirs from disorder, only to set things straight even, as I would later on like to be quoted saying) and setting everything up like an infant. Defenceless and vulnerable, handicapped and dependent-someone whose naiveté demands to be fallen in love with.

It must hurt to know that paradise is a two-bit reel that plays on as long as you can afford to keep the show going. Cynicism however is a life-long companion, a permanent bed-companion to easy life and available to anyone who has the ability to hate unfailingly. Love comes and goes easy to members of 'Live Large' league who see joy in the tiniest ever glimpses till you come to understand that being an adult is a constant struggle with the Will to Live and Reason to Wake Up Tomorrow. There are so many questions that stand at the gate of tomorrow – you most certainly can cheat it out of an answer but there are too many underhand activities involved for you to live long enough like that.

I was searching for one such answer (dutifully at my cynical best) when I looked out of my reverie and saw the leaves whispering and wagging their green heads in an important way like I have seen most adults do to offer sympathy or show understanding. The silence that cocooned their conversation concerned me. It had the vague smell of hospital corridors that you can’t rightly decide to hate or to like so I asked someone what it could mean and nobody replied. Staying there a long time, I examined sideways the uncannily human dialogue all the time thinking of myself as the special girl who infallibly sensed when the end was near. I was counting the seconds already.


Sunday, March 04, 2007

Abode of Tears

Breaking glass on the evenings tavern,

I hold it up to look into it after a long time of neglecting,

My platinum smudge on a bubble-pink shard,

That turns red with alacrity.

We all dry down sometimes, she whispers to me,

To being seeds in the mothers womb

And stay there to grow again on some spring/summer day

Maybe the next

After this, I hope,

Maybe the next…

The sun dips into its blue note,

And stays at the point where affection transcends pain,

That crazy kind of affection, that rises into madness.

And everything falls from here,

A bitter-sweet joy aborted and flung into silence

Of blue-black blood and obliterated wounds.

My reprieve lies in my desolate womb now,

The home before home,

Before life,

Before my past,

In the abode of raucous tears.

Now Listening: Radiohead

Either way you turn, I will be there,

Open up your skull, I will be there,

Climbing up the walls.”