Fears

I have grown old today

2011-07-21T17:06:00.002+06:00

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.

Giant big bollocks!

2011-05-23T21:12:00.002+06:00

Giant big bollocks that fill space
Mutating till they
Burst,
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?

An ode to the sounds of Pop

2011-05-10T23:04:00.003+06:00

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
Listening
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.

Alice's Hangover

2010-03-25T11:31:00.002+06:00

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.

By the Bay of Bengal.

2010-03-01T09:57:00.004+06:00

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.

Diary entry for today

2010-01-25T12:07:00.002+06:00

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

2009-09-06T18:34:00.002+06:00

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.

Freedom is a responsibility

2009-05-19T11:36:00.000+06:00

My idols are poisoned with flaws. They may not be the worst but they definitely hide their cracks with humanity. Perfection – and I hear the perfect would rather pack their bags and leave than stay here with us – always was a bit too bright to look in the eye at.

Why is that as we move to wherever we are headed, humanity needs to be shown a human side to have faith in itself? We run out into the wild, strum a guitar and scream, scream our displeasure. Even as we buy it all and fill ourselves with everything we can find, till we rebel against the bad by being worse. And we consume and we cry.

I want someone to tell me that each one of us – and I can’t settle for less than everybody – has a well of compassion in us and that it is the pain of everyday that makes us cover it up all with anger. There must be a reason why we eat what’s not ours and wear a skin that we weren’t meant to. There must be a reason why we can go right ahead even when our hearts call out right unto the end when they are clogged with cholesterol. A lot of people tell me its part of the system that I’d like to know who switched on, back when all of us were good, our joys more simple.

And even as we grow, I can’t help feel that our weight is pulling us lower and lower into the ground. And maybe if we slowly do go down, we’ll find, somewhere towards the end everything that we should have kept back. And it might not be a mother, or a daughter, or a son. It might not even be who you thought you were deep inside. But it will be someone you wished you had met.

So there won’t be a need for love or hate, anger or joy. And we can just be, free finally.

2009-03-24T09:43:00.000+06:00

I am vexed. All my genius seems to have been crushed by the lack of availability of my vagina. If ever I felt frigid, I think this would be the moment that best describes it. If ever I had doubted my talent and capabilities – this is just one of the several days. And I come crashing against the wall of this blog once again to beat my head till I senselessly ramble, and one of you, out of the profound goodness of your hearts reaches out from where you needn’t and try at something you could entirely avoid.
I am not a sad person, mad person, bad person, angry person. In fact, my soul is cleaner than my fingernails. I am just a weak person. And weakness is, surely, the only way to anger. Oh, I could cry right now and break something just to feel something else. It is mighty hard to put all your hopes on something that you know somewhere inside, isn’t real but you continue because you have nowhere else to go.

2009-02-08T12:31:00.003+06:00

Sunday is a good day to be stoned. Sunday is a good day to smoke a cigarette wearing only chuddis and a banyan, hair oiled and tied up, listening to American Prayer. Sunday is a good day to write my activities because this sunday has none.

My First Short Story

2009-02-01T13:08:00.002+06:00

In This Day and Age

One, two, three, breathe.
One-two-three-breathe
Onetwo-three-breathe
Onetwothreebreathe
Breathebreathebreathebreathe
One two three.

The Butterfly Bandage

2008-12-16T21:30:00.000+06:00

It’s a frantic struggle, this life. With no wars to fight and no causes to live for, all hell resides within. And when the defences are down, all poison inhaled-exhaled, chewed-spat, consumed-exhumed, they come back manifold. The hours of rest grow shorter, walls grow closer and rooms get smaller. There won’t be a point in crying because it’s taken over more than just your eyes.

But there will always be the butterflies.

Even in the dreams of hell. It is their strange hypermetropic state, I suppose. Being hidden under grandeur, revealed as scarred reptiles only close to death. In moments of distress, I conjure schools of them to decorate the face of my fears with spots of crimson and indigo, white and green, yellow and pink. And when them hounds sing their ghastly opera in the midst of those wanton hours, a butterfly somewhere will flutter yellow, fighting the usurper Black; against gravity, against lows and highs, against darkness and helplessness. And they’ll hide even then, holding their deformed bodies akimbo only to those they fight. Till everything quiets down inside, slowly seeping away, taking away bad memories, good ones, pointless ones, ones of lust, ones of anger. We’ll be left alone by butterflies and demons, by friends and foes, by everything but peace.

No song is as cherished as the silence after an evening of wars.

De.vile puts up a show for herself

2008-11-15T13:52:00.002+06:00

Erratic insanity. Strikes without warning. Once, twice, thrice. My bottom is red from the welts. I scream and scream at my body demanding release. I scream till my system shuts down and there is only an eerie silence in my head as the air around me fills with howls; so I think. I couldn’t be sure. I haven’t felt emptier. Radiohead sings about drunken horrors in a bar and I fish-mouth endlessly.

Once, twice, thrice. Is there ever a sign? A little forewarning? I wouldn’t be termed anything and I wouldn’t be ‘put aside’ but sometimes, imbalance is well, unsettling. I pull a book and throw it on the floor. It doesn’t satisfy. I lift it and let it fall on my leg, a little red mark is all I get. The Bonfire of Vanities. Can be utilized better, I realize. I smile meaning nothing. Nothing at all. After deliberation, I throw it against the wall, again. I watch as the pages crumble a bit. More harm, more harm. Grevious harm. Dirty book. Shitty book. Grevious harm. I jump on it weakly. Too much thinking. I stop, I pause.

Just as you take the mike, just as you dance, dance, dance.
I air-guitar with the chorus.

Swings aren’t explained emotionally. Their transience can only be expressed in actions. I take off my shorts and slap a thigh as I air-guitar. I slip on the book. I hurl it against the window.

Thom Yorke moans. I moan louder.
There isn’t enough exercise, here. This minute demands more exercise.

I scream and hit a yellow wall with my shoulder, thinking of the bizzare Yellow Wallpaper. It hurt, just a little bit. I broke just a little bit. I hit again, flinging my arms far and wide. My muscles stretch and identity itself, each little muscle, uncountable. But that isn’t necessary, to measure. I know each one without knowing which one. All of them painfully straining. Each one screams a little freedom, each one breathes as I stop.

I scream till I’m teary. I stop. The tears stop. My mouth contorts. More tears. I stop. Self-flagellation. This must be evil becuase I cant explain. I think about Poe’s Masque of Red Death. I dance.

Jigsaw Pieces starts again and I stop. I think it requires an entry. All turn of events deserve memory.

Victim of somebody elses fetishes Part II

2008-10-11T08:46:00.000+06:00

Page after page of dates, histories and facts. There is a world out there that swirls in its own doings and undoings as I type and retype. A coffee stands by me, guiding my way in the dark. There is a world out there that turns back to see itself, finds recognition and goes back like a dog after its tail.
The daylight that no one saw has slowly begun to sink with the rays of hope. It had always been sinking for me, but then I moved out like the others. There was no looking back, there just wasn’t. We all walked forwards into the pasts that our flesh and blood was assigned much before we were born.
Unlike me, my body knows where to take me. My appointments here and based solely on its liking and it’s fetishes tie me down. I try and take the most crowded route because learning from the outside has always been a safer ploy for me. I like to spend, I like to smoke, I like to fuck, I like to drink, claimed some of them as I passed by, wrapped around innocent minds, too slow to register the perpetual winter that their childhood has entered. No changes planned there, not unless the flesh and blood found new souls, found new minds. For now, there was rotting, crows feet, despair followed by bouts of wisdom.
The blinding light of joy lifts its skirts to reveal the sorrow that always hides underneath and in sadness they always find their way back in. Little pleasures that always crush, that hold us back, hoping there will be more and they will always be so good.
Like scabs we will pick and pull, enjoying it as we go down.
And when the wound resurfaces we’ll break down, fall to pieces, waking up to find ourselves joined at the hip to yesterday’s picture story -
Each one rubbed a little at the edges, each one fading. Each one a memory we can’t nail down definitively but can always recognize somewhere deep inside.
Soon the scab grows back, we stand back in lines, to march forward, backward, wherever we can go from here.
Never be static, never be static, the Big Brother hiding inside me chants.
An age is walked through and this generation has begun to sink. A mother opens her arms and the children rush back, angry and hurt, still childlike underneath there somewhere.

Words are simple here

2008-10-08T22:30:00.003+06:00

It was large and it was warm. There was ice-cream, there was hugging and there were words of promises. They may end soon and I may move. I never remember the happy bits but I always remember how they feel. Like warm chocolate ice cream that turned liquid when my tongue felt it. There was a smell of company and warm sun that blinded us. There was screaming, yodeling and we laughed like God's crazy inventions, which we are.

Not for the first time, I felt, these pieces fit together. We may not be best friends for life, but once you know belonging, you can't go back.

This is happy time. This is simple and untouched by the covers of dull bedrooms and corroding tears. This is the other side you wake up to when you get in touch with yourself.

Mickey men

2008-10-04T11:11:00.000+06:00

The land circles over itself, never ending.
The houses of colour and the houses of white,
the houses yawning in sobriety,
the houses screaming bourgeoise.
Passes Red pants, Mickey man, polka shirt and an expensive scarf and mascara
On a black bicycle with white coated pedals
Chanel handbag
Streaking No. 9

Is a colour that falls neither this way nor that
A compromise between yin and yang
The most colourful of greys
The most wonderful of ways
To live

Clown paint for a face
A dress to displace testicles
Inside the house with twisted walls lay
Pictures on display
A mom, a dad, a little white situation
With a strange twisted mirrors
Inviting vacuum
Threatening to consume
Pushing into confines
Putting into place
Everybody without an identity,
Without conformity

You are who you are born as, son
Wide, white winged angels
Cant recover
Queens with no names
Princes with hidden uteruses.

A victim of somebody else's fetishes

2008-09-24T21:29:00.001+06:00

It’s a small place on a non-descript street where people meet to drink and eat till they think they can move back into life. As far as coffee shops go, there is lethargy spilling out of the earthy place. Brown benches placed outside soak in the sun with more dignity than I do. I sweat and squint to look ahead at the table with chess players who laugh, giggle and slap each other. The white floor is littered with cigarette butts. I look at my first cigarette and wonder if I can smoke anymore. The heat brings out the beast in me and there is nothing I would like right now than walk into the air conditioned part and sit with yuppies on bar stools and four chair tables but I can’t. In between the pages on lapis blue, I wonder once again why I never played chess. Why is there more than a glass pane separating me from the yuppies and socializers. I think of the other cigarette and pucker my lips in unconscious despair. I wonder if I am being controlled. Not that I know what’s going to happen. I don’t mind, really. I firmly believe the fun is in the journey and not thinking of the destination is the only way to truly appreciate when you arrive. I wonder if I am being used. There’s the last part of Sirens of Titan playing side my side in my head with the chess players’ ramble and the writings of Madam Victoria Finlay. It would be a sad world if nobody thought of me as worth being used, I supposed. I ask for the time as the sun blinds me with orange in between pages of blue. I ask for time and a grey lipped man turns to his white satin strap, golden dial watch and translates the jewel encrusted needles for me. It’s time to go but I would like to break barriers. I suppose it’s lack of time that keeps me from doing it.

-

2008-09-17T11:35:00.003+06:00

RIP.

What Darwin didn’t tell you…

We are too many. Heaving and grunting, pushing past each other, we are all aiming to walk away and afar from the crowds. But there is no where to go, is there? We are always walking into each other, bumping, crossing paths, falling in love, hating each other…

Meeting new people, they say.

We are all strong now, in our diversity. Because of money, because of our sadness or our happiness because a mall around will sell you Anything you want.

When Darwin outdates, jihad steps in.
I never believed in a man ruling us all but I do believe that nature has a way of controlling.

This is where It switches on the auto-destruct mode. If we cant find heaven here, let’s blow ourselves into one.

Because the world is black, white and grey, I really don’t know where this is all going. Sometimes the rain takes me off my feet and sometimes, the news of a massive flood.

There have been so many deaths this month. I don't know why you had to die. Maybe you do.

This would only work on a blog more popular than my 1-audience ramble writing space. But I hope whoever sees it is moved to any action at all.

You could help those who would appreciate it, here:
http://www.helpageindia.org/bihar-floods.php

Playing Straight with The Queen

2008-09-10T11:32:00.004+06:00

If you have a question, does it mean you are growing? Maybe she could ask him, wouldn't that be easy? Too convenient. Too right. There is a game here, a vacant touch and a game in the picture. It won't be going anywhere but nobody is in a hurry. We got all day, all night.

I liked it slow anyway

Gives you a feeling that there is more that you don't know and a little more reason to live. Biting a few bullets, indulging in a few more wrongs. You do want to be wise enough for your grandchildren and your nieces and nephews. You always wanted the best party joke, funniest anecdote.

What good is being right all the time, anyway.

Erratic and exotic, dressed wrongly with the wrong attitude, built wrong, talking wrong, that's how she is. Cracked in the wrong places, broken and open, angry and lethargic - charging full speed into bullshit and dying quickly to live fast. Built to perfection, dumb devotion, fetishes and bad jokes, that's his game. Nothing serious, a lot of dark things. Too scared to look inside so point a finger into the vast outside. Always picking things out that look too wrong to fit him but slide down him well, anyway.

This wouldn't be a love story because there isn't lust or love, just a curiosity. A need for assurance, that we are on the right track, not turning or moving back. Keeping it Straight.

Who cares? If he is hard to resist, why should she hold back, anyway.

There is a touch here, a smile there. A moment always and a determination to keep playing. Being wrong, asking questions, fighting dirty.

She is a nerd getting down and dirty, if you know what I mean. He is a queen with curiosity. If this isn't a high-flying novella, then baby, I don't what is.

Adjusting

2008-09-03T16:17:00.001+06:00

Living is constantly looking into a mirror. No, I don’t think life is vain – it could be, it couldn’t as well. I just think what you see is what you are. Some prefer to constantly travel away from life. Going away, away, away, till you are a little speck and the world is one as well. The lacuna grows. There is no collective universe because down here. Because where I am the world is too big and too difficult to connect to. It awes and amazes me and I can only hold my breath and marvel at the complexity. You are all gods’ beings and god made you all as big as him. God with a big g. Human with a big h. Not that I haven’t ever looked at this mirror. My years only make me more aware of it and I walk back a million times, always losing my way. Always a little too happy, always a little too eccentric, always a little too angry. Always a little too calm. There are days when I walk right back and I stare and stare till all those little dots, all those pimples, the vast forehead, the small nose, the dimpled thighs, the tiny ears vanish to become just one, pretty being. Human with a big H. a huge one, if I get really lucky. Full of meaning. Those are the days when I am happy and so is the world. People look at me, smile and wave, hug and kiss. I do my best at being; I keep looking into the mirror and forget how to walk away.

What scares me though is the feeling that soon enough, the doors away from the mirror will close.

Someone asked me why I am so restless in my sleep and that is solely because my being is in the ocean and water needs to seep and occupy as much space as it can. Thrashing and flailing is the core of me and staying still is difficult. The mirror will darken, the doors away will shut and I will suffocate in bourgeoisie hell. Life is so very hard with its decisions and lack of instructions or tips. Maybe my mindless wavering is turning me blind to life’s hints.

What are you going to do when you have grown up

2008-09-02T22:21:00.000+06:00

As taking anything to your grave or into the afterlife isn’t a possibility, I have to ask you this:
What are you leaving behind you, you fucking piece of shit?
Will there be pictures of you in people’s wallets? A story that sells millions because you lived like a ticking bomb? A song that has you in it, on it, singing it, whatever?

Will they frame a more beautiful version of you, name you the prophet and buy your idea of life as a religion?

Will you add to the marketing industry? Will you be a Che who asked for upliftment of the poor and ended up being a style statement for the rich?

Will your illustrious life burn right after you, giving nothing away? Or, would you be a mystery with little holes in what was previously your skeleton closet and now, has translated to your new life?

Will you be in a room, piled and devoured with the last embarrassment your sphincter will ever cause you?

Or will they find you scribbled on your walls? Will you leave behind you a trail of faces that emote and learned to love you, like only kin can? Will you have someone to call your own?

Will you be a posthumous superstar? Will you burn till you live and leave marks – wanton, beautiful marks – when you leave? Will you have a presence that is too strong to erase?

You don’t understand, I have to do this. Outside of words my life is amount to exactly Rs 12,487 (a little less that American $360). I am an OK person with occasional bouts of rage and a day or two of depression in a month. Outside of words, I am a black suit, grey tie. Inside here, I am everything I want to be. This is what I have to leave behind.

Why music does the trick

2008-08-27T23:14:00.004+06:00

I just realized Heart Shaped Box is about mothers.

And suddenly I am not so dulled in the process of aging. I think I almost voluntary contributed a few seconds to the process, even as I remain unsure of which direction it is all heading.

Anyway, preconceived notions are rubbish. Like Alice in Chains say, following white lines leads us nowhere. So I am going to walk through this, blinded and deeply aroused, even if it ends with my skull broken and my body melted. But then again, most Hindus believe in never completely going out. So my sins will give way to another broken me somewhere in the age of robots and feelers. Rising out of ashes.

Civilizations bought together by similes. How sweet.

I also realize both the bands' vocal guys are dead, so their advice couldn't be the best but then what do you have saved up for me that gives my life a better meaning? You fucked us up when you gave birth to us, with our sexual preferences a replica of yours and our tastes much more destructive and expensive. Restraining would have saved you a few errs and us as well.

Blown Away

2008-08-10T17:27:00.000+06:00

Division isn’t a virtue solely possessed by amoeba. Twins are a freak amoeba version. Taking away half my mother and me, a dead baby left leaving me a two-level person and my mother with a purpose to find comfort in everything as it is; always living with a love for life and a curiosity for death. How daybreak and life break its dictionary definitions to blend at birth and to deflate and disappear at death.
*
Loneliness is a virtue that has nothing to do with physical reality. The mind by itself has much to do and much to think of and the body is a vessel with a material obsession that asserts its real-ness. Awareness is a deadly game that can crush you and scatter your ashes into the vast, overpowering grip of madness or throw you so high above you are left with a birds eye view, leaving you unaffected. Everything comes with a north and south pole and the right alignment and fine tuning is all we do all our lives. Feeling is a vice that takes you only in one direction. Being numb, on the other hand, shines on both the sick and tired, and the content. Choosing the easiest is never right. Choices are never the easiest. Ease is not a good reason for choice either.

Use your head for once

2008-08-01T20:32:00.003+06:00

I
When life is in the grey, you really don’t know how to react to it, especially if you believe in changing at breakneck speed. Forgive me, but I can’t forget Joker (the Batman one). I am smiling in sadness because paradoxes are the only way to live. Balances are ill-gotten and mediocre, dissatisfaction is the sole inspiration for a scribe. If I make a mark in the world, I would be a sad person. If I didn’t…

Bloody paradox again

II
You don’t know how flesh, especially your own matters when it is the hands of someone you covet. You don’t feel much of an enigma anymore, just defined by the body that you accidentally bump into. You are just a piece of air around him as he comes alive, for the first time as a human. His ugliness is suddenly so beautiful. The tiny ears, the minuscule nose which barely fills his big face is absolutely the only thing you want.

Beauty is fuck-all, it hurts to think we are programmed to be affected by it. Ugliness, it makes you think; you could run all around the room just to go and puke out the blood-coloured mess that grows inside you when you see ugly and maybe when you smell ugly you will retch.

Always trying to get it out, aren’t we? Thinking we are beautiful inside and in the process of vacating the shit and the mess, we are purifying ourselves. What is that term we use to sanitize bulimia?

Purging

Little do we understand in our little unconscious minds that the removal only makes place for more. Programmed to evacuate like there’s hope. In a distant future, I’ll began overhauling my skin hoping to give you and everybody else my inner beauty (huh?): there isn’t much of it, but maybe the gloss and the kohl will fool you into thinking I do.

Point being…

I’ll always be ugly. Oh no sir, wouldn’t want to be another chord that fits right in your programmed heads. Don’t accept me, let me make you think.

Please.

http://www.ehow.com/how_2073428_see-sea-turtles-birth.html

2008-06-29T20:21:00.002+06:00

Saturday night sets in with a mean streak. All the lights in my dream are neon and I am floating in them, grey from my week. There are lists in me: pen marks and tick marks, circles around incomplete chores and double-underlines for things to be. My pen moves once, twice and thrice till there’s a bird in my mouth and a tortoise in my heart. We swirl around, dragging ourselves slowly out into my dream, stretching tight, moving towards the neon light. I rip through the paper, emerging blue as my superman.

Up, up, into the moon where there isn’t a tuppence a word rule.

I pour them all out and we devour pieces of moon-rock. The turtle is in my heart, the bird in my head. We sing, discordant and carefree as we eat moon-rock.

Before I know, my turquoise superman saves me and we lay side by side. With no gasps, shrieks or spasms. Without turn-on’s and hence, no turn-offs.

I like to go on forever, drone and buzz as I walk towards the moon.

What can I say, I dreamed of love for a change. I dreamed of all the hope there was

2008-05-24T13:00:00.002+06:00

My intolerance with pain makes me think death will be relatively numbed for me.

(K: If that was the only option I had, I'd pick terrified death, but I prefer a more nullified, peaceful version of death to living forever when it comes to it)

Because I felt like it

2008-05-17T21:15:00.002+06:00

Sometimes I do the wrong things just to look back and like my life in all it's imperfectness. Atwood has nothing to do with it, she just reminded me of my grandmother, the one who lived on medication and tears and died in absolute peace unaware of cancer, too busy trying to overtake heart-attacks.

2008-04-29T15:34:00.007+06:00

She could be any of the faces I saw. Tiny eyes, yellow skin, high cheekbones. My xenophobic mind mistakes her and automatically labels her an offensive vernacular label even as she holds me back to give me a little something she made herself.

-For you.

I try hard to feel happy, to be nice for the sake of the little present but my palm hides it in the folds of my skin as I bow a reluctant bow.

Among the Rolex-taunting, SUV-careening monks of Dharamshala is a little girl-child with the softest of voice who despises foreigners, even as she and her’s continue to live and procreate in the latters’ land but tries to keep no hard feelings.

Thought exists only as an escape from reality. If you spared me my addiction to thoughts I’d never smoke a cigarette, inhale, snort or inject myself. I wouldn’t read a book; I wouldn’t look at a picture. I wouldn’t cry or go high or low. I would be me – open, wide and unflinchingly mathematic. You could calculate me into a system, break me down and find bubbles that intensify for the sake of clarity because I Will it to do so and you would be amazed at how little I cry for myself or any of you.

But the fact of the matter is, even as it hurt my legs and arms, I moaned and shed tears asking strength and the correct way (whatever that may be) for all those lost. I cried for the girl I couldn’t smile at and the man who wouldn’t let me touch prayer things because I have a high forehead, wide, bulging eyes and brown skin. I cried for the monks and I cried for my lost friends.

I cried so they find their way and hoped the blood they shed fighting back their country was worth it. I wished for once they would prove me wrong because I don’t see how a reluctant Communist Republic would change its mind when it has the power to never need to bow.

Being Scared.

2008-03-10T11:52:00.003+06:00

- Everybody says it’s best to be a child. But that’s stupid. Kids are scared all the time. You know how scared they are?

- Very scared?

-So what is your view on marriage?
-Umm. I don’t know. I never thought of it.
-Hmm. You haven’t thought of it.
-I mean, I never had to. You know, nobody talks about it at home. We hardly talk.
(Looks down into plate and nods.) –Get me some fruit.
So you never discussed this.
-Maybe I did. Not really, very keenly. Maybe I did.

-What is wrong with you?

(Giggles)

-Oh god, she’s drunk again.

-I am not!

-I told you not to let her drink so much.

-But I’m not drunk.

-Look at you, what is she going to tell her parents.

I told you not to let her drink.

-(Everybody giggles)
am fine.

-Take her away. (Expletives).

-No, I’m not drunk. I can walk, see, I can. Don’t worry.

-Shut up. Shut up! Go, puke. Puke. Bend your head, there’s the basin. Puke.

-About your assignment. The music was (lost his words). But I think you should have done better. Your pictures could have been better.

(Perplexed)

- Yes, well, you are smarter than this.

-But.

-No, it was mediocre.

- (Looks down) Mediocre.

- Yes, well, you are smarter than this.

-But.

-No, it was mediocre.

- (Looks down) Mediocre.

I am 20 and and a half and there's still so much to be wary of.

And Now For Some Philosophy

2008-01-26T11:51:00.000+06:00

I’m breaking into smaller vestibules -
Bodies of feeling,
Each one writing on a different page
Black and white stories –
Starkly contrasting one another;
Blending with the summer sun
And the cotton shirt,

With the frank, wide open eyes on the other side of the table
And the whiskey
Yet I am.
One with a tag. One with a name.

I’ll make you proud, Mother,
I’ll close my eyes and slit myself
So I never bleed again into the world
Or into its secrets.

2007-11-27T21:39:00.000+06:00

It hurts when you can't see why you fell in love. It hurts to look at letters and not see anything at all.

I'm losing meaning and my 125th post will stay a-while because I'm lost. Very much so.

Meeting life in it's myriad forms

2007-11-16T10:46:00.000+06:00

Across the window is a wide range of beauties – dark skin, light skin, brown skin - that glimmers under their red wedding trousseaus, their white gowns vaguely bringing to mind 70s beauties and the blue dresses that wedge into thighs and buttcracks. There’s nothing that you wouldn’t know when you are this old, they tell me looking back at myself out of the window.

We wait for the lights to turn green, looking far and wide, into ourselves and outside the circle of life, counting our steps into the countdown.

I am slipping away even as I speed further into the web of life.

The neon lights leave marks on my bare legs. His big tummy caresses the steering wheel as he shifts, at discomfort with the creatures of the night rustling their wares outside. I notice thin white lines of a smile, a smirk, a leer.

The sky winks with a crescent moon that follows us where we go.

They know they aren’t getting lucky tonight. Not with us, they wont. Because parents aren’t interested in orgies. Not with their children at least.
This is how they get back at the life they can never have, as D would say.

I smile back because that is the most polite thing to do when you’ve stared at cleavage for more than 15 seconds.

They smile and I can hear the lewd male voice swear. A muscle ripples in his face as he laughs and pulls at his own tits.

Outcasts mar you and I can never tell you how that feels.

If nobody’s said it yet, somebody ought to:
What are these words but a pale imitation of reality?

It's a little late but it ought to be here.

2007-11-08T21:07:00.000+06:00

The muezzin calls, a congregation forms and in some other guise I watch them kneel, bow lower and lower. Sink into the marble and under it.

The black and white pattern and the plaster blue walls echo in my head as the bells ring. A bhangi with giant shades throws flowers at me and curses me with promise of devotion. I am to be a slave, this unearthly squeal of music tells me.

He splits apart as I fall on my back, the floor smelling of rotting flowers and granite. My head rests against a pew and I fall asleep as the stained glass window people sing to me.

When there’s nowhere else to run,

Is there room for one more sun?

I am me now. In a room full of people screaming, jumping up and down. climbing over, kissing my feet, pushing me downward, into mouths and hands and I scream with them eyes closed. I am crazy and it’s only 5 minutes into this. The stained glass window people bound in, jump about me and robes, sheets, cake flies around. I see amber liquids and spiked sodas. I drink, all of it apparently. All of it.

Happy Birthday to me.

Oh, well. Hell. I’m older but it’s nice. I scream and I kiss, a million mouths and hug a few. I want to cry but alas, tears don’t express well. Nobody is as happy as this feeling, including me.

I’M A RIVER (You are my bridge)

2007-11-02T11:02:00.000+06:00

Sitting in between the door,

A mile wide leg, a pink dress and fingers

Waiting till they all come and sit

A party of madmen

And pin me down

With the weight of them -

Teeth, claws and photographs.

I’m a roller-coaster

Rolling all around them

Crashing and tearing them all apart

Leaving bits around

For the accountant and the orphan.

Don’t walk away from me

Because I stink

of memories

I’m the river that floats on sheets

Leaving streaks

Of fertility and sorrow.

I am the river

That rumbles into sheets

Leaving traces of a struggle.

2007-10-04T10:43:00.000+06:00

The ocean reads like a face today, the bright red crabs tap dance on the deco and I singe one with ash. I expect him to blow up, meat all over the place strings on my face and some on her curly hair (I love curly hair, did I tell?), some over her T’s vast hips that sway like tumbling waves.

‘What are you looking at, honey bunny?’ she squeaks, mass appeal a daily event for her.

‘SSSSSS’ I go. They look at each other. Turn left, eyes facing each other, right to left and left to right. They look back, left to temple and right to chest.

A mosaic of feelings, one under the other, under the other, under a Marlboro, a contemptuous nod and a face full of teeth.

‘T, do you like crabs?’ I ask

‘I love crabs, yeah.’

‘Well, then let’s cook you one,’ I say and let the remains of my second cigarette fall on a solo crab, back to me, as it tango-es to the sea.

Dumb Blonde

2007-09-11T08:13:00.000+06:00

He grins his mad grin, that affectation he applies when he isn’t around somebody who is talking about how well he sings. Me, I can’t believe I am listening to Tenacious-D mimicking Chop Suey and am falling off, my leg tripping off his chair onto hers - in each others arms, my calf hovering over his crotch and ending gracelessly against her chest, heaving from amusement. For a moment it doesn’t matter that nobody understands, nobody cares and everybody misunderstands. I am a vessel of sadness being plugged by a big blob of ecstasy at this moment. He looks sideways and keeps staring. The empty common room with its four chairs and a laptop tumbles out from the corner of my eye to watch him watch me. For a moment I wonder if I could just hug my legs around his waist. I feel her hand caressing the sole of my feet and sliding the other leg, letting it fall onto her thigh.

A cheap gin warm rush flushes within me and like when on a heavy dose of it all my sleep turns into a chain of crimson draughts taking over me. Tenacious D gives away to Hakuna Matata and they all begin singing. I howl, my thigh pressing into both of them. Swinging the bit of my body that trips, jumps, bobs around as they watch all around them, empty eyes filled with glimmer.

A strand of hair passes across my face and he moves forward to pull it off. I watch the finger trace my eye and trail down, vaguely outlining me before going down to hang off my calf. Somebody comes in, calls out and we unwrap, I kiss him on his shoulder and standing awkwardly over his lithe little body, bottom sticking up in air, balancing on leg, her on her head. For a moment there I let the shallowness enwrap me in its omnipresence and let it wash into me without asking for any more.

For a moment there I was what I really was – ninet…no, eighteen and unsure.

Children of Light

2007-08-16T11:49:00.000+06:00

A November awoke
As the winter sun shattering bubbles of rain
Everything soaking
Wet
Us laughing and playing.
I reach out my hand and a million
throw in theirs.
We dance like soft, mad children.
Lilac petals crowd the insides of our eyes
Falling now from under my eyelids–
Tears of joy, tears of a rush,
On to our arms,
Soft, round and brown
Bruised with the dark spots
Branding us the children of light.

Monday, July 31, 2007

2007-07-30T23:05:00.000+06:00

It isn’t often that I win an award so I’m thankful to WUBA *does the V sign* and Saby/Jim/Anonymous for voting me into competition.

While still reading about cold blood murderers and after watching Psycho for 3 weeks in a row, there aren’t many people you trust, especially the ones that you seem to take a liking for. While she lit up a cigarette the feeling dawned in me that if I moved my head fast it will fall off – just twist and twirl off my neck, gracelessly plopping into the red coaster garnished by peanut shells. I grab my arm and rub my wrist and the soft skin above my elbow to feel an electric hollow, soft and ethereal. To feel a million balloons under my skin, fuzzing and ready to break. I scream as an involuntary response to seeing a friend eat a burning roach while the other one burned my arm with flakes of burning paper. They all spoke, louder and faster by the minute and I thought if I sat there any longer I might faint. A man passes by, fixing me with a stare and I see a million rings on his lips, ears, mouth and nose and I want him to come closer so I can smell the putrid sweat.

-What did you say?
- What?
- Are you drunk on that much?!
- (chuckle) Jee-ya

Well then, life goes on. For the first time I let the Bombay sun burn my back to toast without cringing. It is boredom and restlessness that makes alcoholics and addicts of us. Sometimes criminals. Sometimes petty thieves. Sometimes suicidal. I consider my motive standing in the middle of the road as a truck whooshes past me. I could fall now, who cares, or attend my meeting. And I do the latter. Sitting in between people who don’t like me much I consider if I should scream out watching the girl beside me scream at me. I watch her eyes bulge out and hear her teeth grind, she talks of blood, gore, violence and I sit and grin considering the appropriate reaction.

I do nothing till I wear out. I spend the whole afternoon amongst computers and people who slowly stop eating bottles and hollering. I wasn’t scared but I did consider breaking my head into the computer screen till they played Radiohead.

2007-07-08T12:31:00.000+06:00

They make an earth out of me,
Folding me and leaving creases to mark their territory on me,
Bringing me a cup of coffee when I’m ill
And then leaving me all alone when I can’t give any more.

I’d like to be free
And big
Breasts the size of two swollen paisley prints
To engulf all that moves close
And arms that flap in the wind
Bringing consciousness and warmth.

I’d like to be wanton
As the sea
Thrashing everything into pieces
Whose strength is only marvelled too less
The more you do it

I’d like to wake up someday
And accept it as OK
To take a decision
That either way I am truly fucked
But a you couldn’t stop loving me

Curiosity

2007-06-13T21:56:00.000+06:00

About a month and half to get here...I think a bit more. I called it curiosity because that is what I felt when I began on a peevishly hot summer day. Looks much better on paper, though

Rewinding Summer on my head

2007-05-25T11:49:00.000+06:00

There is a pause in between every transition when you roll over backwards and watch the world standing on your head just to make the pain a little more concrete. The sun shines from behind the creases of vegetation scarring your eyes till your pupils crawl right inside your brain. Everything in there is blue with the liquid fear that floods your thoughts - the sea is in your head this afternoon and the colour of this world be red. You breathe in the air with involuntary panic and feel bulbous veins swell at the roots of hair that lifelessly caresses the marble. You have never sensed gravity from this close as it pulls your skull into its lap tipping you upside down. Every liquid in your body promises to slither out of your nose and every groan screams of collapsing lungs. Every cartilage at the back of your neck strains to keep your head from twisting and the intensity leaves you with a deep sense of vomit. Maybe now like a Tarantino movie your nerves will rip and every pore will let out an ocean of red ketchup that will pour out inelegantly till you are as dry and empty as your tear glands.

Right now, more than anything you want to fall and let the crawling at the tip of your head stop. You breathe hard, in huge gulps but vertigo only escalates.

Doors bang all around you – creaking, groaning, and thudding against walls. Someone calls out your name – it sounds like your mother - and leaves a note of threat in it. Thinking of the paint in your hair and the smell that is crowding you, you smile. Not now, you scream out but only hear it reverberate in your head. Not now and not ever if you could just find one reason to let your head fall. And from within your horror you wonder how you would bob on your head and with a sound like ‘furmp’ you would fall back cracking your support system and crippling under pain smelling your life in the sweat and sweet decay.

On the outside though, you only seem a bit stoned, maybe a bit happy even

Scribbling through

2007-05-12T22:57:00.000+06:00

I told myself I wouldn't write today but I can't stop. After riddling a handful of tissues and several A4 sheets I decided I had to put a few words here. It doesn't mean a lot, I am just writing down conversation like a pen addict, scribbling just to keep the high. I wrote down words I wouldn't and shouldn't remember, appointments I would sleep through, promises I would forget and drew people I almost fell in love with.

It's difficult to keep your heart when you write, it spews itself all over the page. I rub it here and there to make it a bit more illegible but these days, to quote Nico I seem to think a lot about the things I...all the times I had the chance to.

I'll stop my rambling, I don't do too much gambling these days.

I know it doesn't make sense but 3 glasses of hard liqueur begs for a wrong soundtrack.

Maybe I could interest you in some Nirvana?

Your time is up (I might die alone)

2007-05-09T17:46:00.000+06:00

This is where I am.

After four years of traveling in a crowded local train hanging on for life I wondered for the first time what would happen if the pole gave away. It struck me then that I never thought of this before despite being strung like this for hours at one point of time. Maybe I was too busy trying to get to places to ever notice, or maybe fear is something that comes only to those with time on their hands.

I do have a lot of it now -

Fear of waking up invisible; fear of waking up without a reason to; fear of waking up too late; fear of waking up in the middle of the night trying to find a meaning to the whole damned thing; fear of not waking up at all.

The streets are full of eyes, watching and darting this way and that, never showing a sign of recognition. I remember walking these streets ever since memory stands and it surprises me that despite being a veteran street-walker I never seem to meet someone familiar. I look for a colour I remember, a mole that I touched before, a cigarette-lighter I borrowed, a shirt/book/vice I lend, a habit that I marked as odd/entertaining/amusing, a voice that I heard... but everything seems to be a part of a vast, giant river that changes into deeper oblivion.
This way, that way they all flow - brushing, groping, pinching and occasionally murmuring something incoherent - although conspicuously dirty- but never recognizing until a pair of eyes from a few feet away looks

Right

Into

I know he’s seen me somewhere – somewhere he didn’t want to, somewhere he didn’t want to go to, some part of him that didn’t seem good to him even when it was him.
He brushes his greying left temple, lets out a deep breath and looks down, joining the forces of analogii. I button my shirt right back up and walk away to a page and pen padding the empty places with “those damned” adjectives like only an Indian can.

Ode to Moshpit Yuppies

2007-04-26T20:46:00.000+06:00

It’s on all the streets you crossed till now,
The eyes and the bits of integrity that stayed behind
Leaving you
Fraying at the edges
What will you be if you keep walking?
Will you disappear?
And will you walk yourself into a nice little coven
Inhibitors of grey walls and vertiginous elevators
Those barren 6 by 11 ones that heave and toss you around
Throws you into wars
With your bedspreads and newspapers
Fighting and spilling tears on the truth till it changes
Into apathy - pills and tranquil-shots
One, two, three, maybe fourteen

And you look so pretty there
Pouting your cigarette-tanned lips, your eyes rolled to your left
Thrashed and drained out of your brains
Full of green-vein maps
On a one-way street to misery, mumbling cheap subway poetry

Light me a fire, baby
Maybe we will put on a pretty-dark, pretty-grim scene
Nod our heads and bang our brains out
Knocking into each other
Trusting to break
Onto the other side

2007-04-23T11:06:00.000+06:00

The birds in the sky sang today, you wonder how you never noticed it before. It isn’t particularly beautiful but there is something about it, the way it slips in and out of the sunshine that streaks the maudlin-blue Plexiglas windows creating light blue shapes dancing all over the room. Outside, there is a man with the biggest, most luminous grin holding the door open for me. I couldn’t help grin back - creasing my jaw and holding it still till every muscle in my face ached. The children yelped in joy and swam haywire in the pool, each shimmering brown body an amalgam of bliss and forgetfulness. From a disintegrating, ancient headphone, I heard Born Under a Bad Sign and nodded along. Tunnananananun. Tun. Twantwantwantwang. I held hands, shook my head, grinned and walked into the sunlight and back into archaic foundations full of people jostling and crying out to each other, clicking photographs and holding themselves and each other from toppling over due to sheer excitement. I yelled a few names, a few hundred extraordinary, incandescent faces twirled. Somebody called out to me. We hugged and jumped around. I remember falling but couldn’t feel pain. It was surreal, I was as high as a kite, I must have had something really strong, they say.

- It’s just been a long time since I was happy, I say.

Everything was so perfect this way, even my joblessness, even my loneliness. Everything was touched by a hint of auricular April sunlight.

Aliens

2007-03-27T21:35:00.000+06:00

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
Time
And letting me watch
As it sprays everything with cataracts
Like those in the sky
White and black
Clouds of a colour it likes
Time.

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.

Seeking Eternity

2007-03-17T16:37:00.000+06:00

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.

Abode of Tears

2007-03-04T15:03:00.000+06:00

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.”

9 Letter Magic Words

2007-02-11T11:23:00.000+06:00

Countless cups of tea line her desk as she taps taps taps on her computer playing her important part in the all-too-significant 12 feet by 9 feet office . Not cubicle but the Office which accommodates three other not-so-significant and much unoccupied office boys and a secretary with a jaundiced liver. A word passes, a lewd song that will play in countless taxis and rickshaws moves in and out of her head as her fingers go tap-tap-tap against aging keys of a veryoldmodel computer. The whole world outside is a block of coloured vehicles and the little people, all on their way to somewhere important. A drunk weaves through them, swivelling on his haunches like Bizarre Bee before he trips and falls underneath the shade of a car. The sky with the she and the all-too-significant-too-small-to-be-true office wavers as he watches, his amber eyes lighting up with hope of…something. Something that no one else could see. A dribble of saliva runs down the corner of his sensuous, charred black lips, cleaning a tiny part of his face as he goes off to sleep with the sun forking the back of his neck and his defenceless, dimpled buttocks.

She passes him on her way home, eyes fixed on the large birth-mark imprinted on his dimpled buttock, as she walks right behind a mumbling hobo. He hunches and watches the world from behind angry red glasses perched on his nose like some picture of a Beatles dude, sheforgetswhich. He looks behind and curses the world with lewd words, loud and dubious. For a moment, his face clears and his eyes lose their angry glow. The lines crumpling his sun-kissed forehead are obliterated by the evening sun leaving a clear, round face with the corners of his lips upturned as if positioned in a smile. He giggles and repeats the word again and again before he falls into splits. She giggles with him and before she knows they are both screeching and howling. Everything is set straight and everything falls in its right place, slowly and evenly into the back of her head where everything is set at slow.

Arranged and Labelled

2007-01-16T22:01:00.000+06:00

Time and again, back and forth as I pendulum in a crazy routine, I wonder what really keeps me alive. I don’t know if I should, you know, bring about questions like these for fear that a lack of reason may kill me (forgive the sad little pun but I am in no literary mood today). But it has to be asked once for myself to know that I am still not a machine that unquestioningly moves and appeases itself with whatever it gets.

I was staring at the pipe wallpaper on the idling screen when I realised that everything would go back to being what it was, that it wasn’t always round or fair-square it was just a lot of random pipes in different colours and textures that would eventually fill up the screen and then empty itself for some other pattern.

I feel full sometimes, would it be insanity then to go back to being…blank?

It is an alphabetic order though

A- For the complete Ass I make of myself every time I know I am being loved. I am genuinely one of those who doesn’t deserve love because trust and satiety don’t come. Easy. I know I should try but it doesn’t come easy.

I cried the last time he told me he liked and whatabout much because a reply was a commitment and I cant commit to people or jobs or anything.

B- for Bludgeoning order that holds me tight, that encompasses everything that I have been. I couldn’t keep myself in it any longer, the constrictions are for a banker not a half-wit, confused loafer who would one day like to live in the backwaters and open air with a packet of masala cigarettes and chai.

C- For true love that is a Curse. I cant live without, you. You there, you know who I talk to, right?

D…E…F…G…H…I…J…K…L…M…N…O…P…Q…R…S…T…U…V…W…X…Y...Y

For all the secrets that dry up every morning in the pillows that have grown with me and stayed, I think forever.

And then yesterday when he went on about his ambitions and I watched her lingering interest being watched over by his possessive eyes, I realised it wasn’t love. It was boredom, I know there is an end to it somewhere and that is where the pipes will fold, the music will stop and everything will go back to basics.

Finale.

2006-12-28T21:07:00.000+06:00

Somewhere in the horizon a big, blinding sun rose and swathed every memory leaving a warm, summery feeling at the corners of her eyes - waking up to the evenings cool everything gets washed away. One-two-three and the windows open slowly preparing for Her esteemed final entrance. On top, from where everything blink-blinks like infinity she stretches Her arms and Her dark skin prickles with pleasure. Of all the words She could say Her last would be a sound of ecstasy that circles Her in a halo. And like any B-grade movie star worth her name, Her Grace swoons, circling Herself twice and jumps without a parting scene.

Abruptness is the quality of pauses…

And peace be that of splotches of red that enter the crevices of the white-ridge tiles.

100th Post/Preparations for Finale/Confessions from a Paintbox (Part II)

2006-12-12T11:34:00.001+06:00

She does know how it feels like as bits and pieces of memory crumble and bleep in Her like electric currents but on the surface she is still asleep, plunging headlong into vast seas of men and women generally shattered and specifically wankers, motherfuckers, spazes, whores, pimps, jhats, choots…angels all, as they float and push, screaming and hitting to break free. The Christ wonders how long she will be here.

And there, in empty spaces that sit on mantles, shelves and peer at her through yellowing pages in the words of Victorian women crying insanity for a read from her textbooks. I go mad sometimes, hitting the wall for a lack of places to. And in between the fingers of exotic dark women and beautiful, gleaming men who laugh and make merry on alcohol and love.

She holds their hands and croons Johnny Guitar, Madonna, Madonna, Johnny Guitar and such other hymns till all the heads are spinning from intoxication and exhaustion. For the lack of poetry and artlessness of foul words that drop like rain on a July morning they all smoke and drink till there is nothing else that matters and repulse creates larger room under the blue-green ceiling over the badly-lit boulangerie. The Underdogs watch and snort, smoke announcing the presence of something divine-A Last Supper or a thing on those lines.

Sins from a Paintbox (Part I)

2006-11-21T18:00:00.001+06:00

Do you know what it feels like…

To wonder if your hair really touched that tickly part of your shoulder blades and looks as good as it feels like when you lie on your stomach, naked hands spread across the width of the flower-streaked bed resembling Christ asleep-waiting-with a cross nailed somewhere into Her spinal cord?

The weight of which drives into you as you stand in a predominantly Muslim area eyeing pieces of beef being rolled into moist chunks of soft bread that cottons your mouth as the spicy meat burns in your stomach and leaves you salivating for more (and more; some more). The baba at the counter counts out change, chanting numbers slowly, trying to keep his hands steady and his red, watery eyes focussed while you watch out for the vague trace of someone familiar from the corner of your eye.

Shame tickles Her armpits as She lies with Her head sunk deep in the pillow surprised She can still breathe.

Two minutes.

That’s exactly the time it takes you to realise that this spunky, little dark hang-out you pick for a date with a poor, confused, lovely androgyny makes you happy because liquor feels nice after the first-burn and everything is light and breezy like his jokes on backstabbers and sinners. The chocolate glazes the roof of your mouth with its cheapness and the waiter tries really hard to ignore you but it doesn’t matter. He whistles his loud, cheap whistle as your raise your hand to beckon.

She tries to move without shifting much, the fictitious nails move in a little deeper. They punch her in like a million.

Fifteen minutes.

Is the time the guilt lasted for, as you watched your mother looking away sad and confused, unable to understand why you just did what you did. Everything is slow and jaundiced by remorse now, but what is to be done is to be done. You feel so bad, so-ho bad you cry all through the cab ride back home, retching into your tiny hands.

The Christ, she shifts her loincloth to scratch between her legs.

Life is a paintbox.

2006-11-18T19:02:00.000+06:00

Street Spirit by Radiohead.

Dance

2006-10-30T21:47:00.000+06:00

The window is wide open letting in a transmogrification of my bright orange and yellow landscape that still runs and reruns in my head. The music is loud, too loud like the bright white light that bathes my dark skin crumbling from lack of moisture and care. I can feel my wrists twisting and twirling (so are my hands, my legs and my hips each one in a circle of motion quite its own), hitting and banging unidentified objects. The bloody maroon furniture and the dark blue walls are transformed from the white hot light I emanate. (I know, I know, I know it’s me). I bounce off the not-so-bouncy bed and hurt my shoulders, my blades, my wings, my fingers, my spine, my neck, my talons, my halo, my horns, my, my, my….I cant stop. The water mixes with more water and all my pores contribute-no more tears, just love, pure, white, hot love that cures and blesses and burns holes into the evil that surrounded and compounded for so long.

There is music, words and so much poetry brimming in my mind; it’s all a haze of ugly conditioning.

I fall, get up and jump around again.

The walls and the floors underneath resonate, joining in the celebration (Hey bring in my drinks, champagne, vodka, rum, those colourful bottles of fermented, rotting veggies carefully stacked in the liquor cabin, whatdyagot!). We all thud against each other as Fergie’s voice muffled under mine, muffled by the voice of my skull banging against the wooden closet thuds against walls and unabashedly oozes into the homes of neighbours and parents. Of the children and the blind who are too young to understand and too old to change.

My ankles hurt so bad now. I scream and fall on to a misplaced pillow and sink into it. The music drips in the last few beats and stops. The ensuing silence is clear and empty. New and Anonymous.

The doors are wide open now and nothing is screaming and there isn’t any blood and there isn’t any pain. My anger is white, my limbo silver and my peace…colourless.

Quoting and Unquoting.

2006-10-16T21:47:00.000+06:00

He wouldn’t ask me what I thought of it but I wanted to say it to him like a novice, like a crazed-up misplaced, messed up hippie chick that the photographs of the leaves and the green that enveloped the frame reminded me of headaches-turbulent on the inside but so tranquil and unperturbed, outside. That the piano music was all wrong-the right wall should have Jon Brion’s theme song for Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and the left should have Profokiev’s Romeo and Juliet. But he wouldn’t look up or even see me move around all alone, waltzing with his psychedelic flowers pictures.

Artists disappoint me, especially the ones who do amazing work. They make my head spin.

So I lay down on the cool of the glass top when they played Happy Birthday for a well-passed middle aged woman in a restaurant full of Saturday night out-ties and closing my eyes I felt everything melt and loose levity.

‘The days are bright and filled with pain; enclose me in your gentle rain…’

I look at her in her pink shirt and dark pants, a blood red shade of lipstick encircling her plump lips and think of September and Art Tatum

“Then one day you look into the mirror and realize something’s missing...

your future.”

How he makes me laugh.

Lies of a Day

2006-10-10T23:11:00.000+06:00

If I could take every word you ever said and put them in a vial I would swallow it and let it slip and drift through my entrails and fall deep down into little closets of my mind that I still hold chaste. The only repose after days of being and days of drifting are these words that you pair and form poetry and art and magic with. I can’t help falling in love with glimpses of you in a Doors song or in lines of self-destruction scribbled along books. Words aren’t important otherwise, they pass lips-big, black, bruised, pink and full, all of them-and hide little crevices that open in solace. But with you, there are a life-line, from me to you and then back again. Passed to and fro like breath and food for the dying.

Hope,

Joy,

Affection,

Affectation.

Jarring Ends.

2006-09-27T21:55:00.000+06:00

Trickle by trickle it falls into grooves and it slides, inside and out, dribbling secrets. I am undone these days, watching things fall and laughter seize my insides. Change to a level, is permissible and acceptable. But sometimes it’s random, pendulums between blacks and reds.

The idea of gore puts him in frenzy, you can see the spit gathering at the corners of his dry, curled lips as he speaks of brains falling out and oozing with studio-crusted blood. His hands move in and out, rubbing his thighs, folding and unfolding. It is difficult to believe he is nineteen, or any age at all. You can see the glint in his eyes and you wonder if things really go wrong in people’s heads. The scenes play in your head with each word he says. He spins you in his tales of brutal rape, abusive deaths and brains oozing out. She laughs for him, loud and claustrophobicizing. It’s empty and loud, fake enough to cover her reality in shrouds and shrouds of tissue-for-the-lonely for her entire life. In bed she probably cries, whining he doesn’t understand her.

We sit together and watch the sun set. Comfortable silences when the tremors stop and the laughter pauses and the gore dies. The curtains fall but it kills me there never is an appropriate end. I am honestly tired of serrated ends to relationships and comprehension.

Fool

2006-09-17T23:17:00.000+06:00

Tiny specks cloud my vision. It’s the possibility of moist, vacant dreams of horrifying sounds and beautiful voices. He bites onto those big, bruised, cigarette-abused lips and gives a grin-sly and inviting. I know I have to touch them to make sure they are real.

Being inches away sometimes is difficult. I need to smell him-repugnant and alcoholic in breath and adorable and crazy in the eyes. I feel like a fifteen year old knocked up future pop tart.

Don’t start laughing. I’m not clown enough to not cry.

...what the hell, never was a baritone till you stepped in...

Me (?)

2006-08-31T20:04:00.000+06:00

Pink stains on the table lit from a little light from closing eyes,

What’s that I hear, a queer voice on the floor grows,

A grip on my knee of immense strength,

Beast called the sister, how long will you hide,

Come hither, hither lovely lady,

Come hither, tender soul

Be louder, said the mother, the enchantress of strange tastes,

The floors underneath padded with my moon-struck tastes,

I cant but hold that one desire,

Of caresses, pure hatred more pristine than your lords confounded riff-raff.

Soon the tables laid, the sisters swathed in green royalty,

Not one a red of desired tenderloin,

A need for youth the matriarchs cry, a need for undying perfection,

Smooth cheeks for lovely hands for lovely palms for lovely eyes.

And the vapours wipe mist, clothes falling graceless bits of borrowed life,

Rivers vast my eyes drop, nay a teardrop jewel on your vindictive crown,

How the love of this woman kills me, love,

A faint women sleeping in my body and gently tempting me to things,

Precious beasts of such gentle curiosity with their desires to touch round breasts

And caresses boisterous tresses.

Oh how these women hold me still, ripping all those desires,

Till a plain sheath of frigidity is all that’s left,

A perfect oval of black ice, I.

Where would you find a heart in green?

Where, oh, where?

Now Playing: Moloko-Requiem For a Dream

Brushes of Incoherence

2006-08-16T19:04:00.000+06:00

Everything that goes up comes down-like Sundays blueing evenings after merry Saturdays (blah) unending night spend in tiny cubicle-rooms trying to get Fiona Applistic images to stop and only the music to play. I love you, love me, love you, love me, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE.

Please.

Have you been in silence that slides and glides into evenings of nothingness? Blissful, repellent blankness? I love it there-the colour is always just a shade of glossy white. Empty and bright.

A truck flying at you through a dark night.

He talks to me-then press the clutch and slide into the third gear-forget fifth, that will take some time but you can keep shifting from fifth…

I don’t know, should he be staring at me like that, unsure of what exactly where I am?

My anger is purple in colour, tiny droplets drip in, forming purple webs on my white, glossy silence.

Don’t give a fuck about me, I don’t know if there even is a fine line between crawling bridges.

Now Playing:
Howling Bells -A Ballad For the Bleeding.

PENDULUM

2006-08-03T17:32:00.000+06:00

You have to pause sometimes. Because laughter’s like stories on alcohol-light and breezy. Never mind if it’s all lies, you still like doing it. Flashing your teeth unexpectedly at people who try to like you and sometimes do.

It crashes. It went way too far.

Deep beneath is a pool,

Blue-green under the carpets of resonating sunshine.

Me, I lie down and watch the crawling lights swing me into trauma.

Drawing close is a shapeless foe,

Everybody is.

I look around at the crowding darkness. Just once?

She kneels to offer a piece of clothing.

I shudder my shoulders as I retch into it; laughing to tears, retching into nausea.

There’s an end and a start. An end again.

Then it all falls.

I hate, hate, HATE Impermanence.

It doesn’t count as poetry but I’m not sure I can write any anymore.

NOW PLAYING (In Various States of Undress)

2006-07-12T18:35:00.000+06:00

-Hold still, one last stroke and you will be done with.

-mmmmh

-Look up, darling, up, at the chandelier.

Tiny little crystals, orange and purple in the setting sun. Stars on the ceiling someone called it. They shimmer and shine, clinking each other on the windy evening. I blink.

-Muaaaah!

-Wait, its done. Just there…stop crying, you are ruining it! Oh fuck!

-Maaaha!

-Oh god, go wash. I’ll do it again.

Left, right and then a blast of gaudy pink walls. Then aqua-green with occasional ornate tile. The mirror-clean and devoid of any complimentary or alternative colours. I stand and watch the eyeliner run down from wide, red eyes into the region of rouge and foundation and some other very expensive but unidentified objects from the make-up cupboard of a very pretty but terribly dressed aunt.

So fascinated by the graceless, untidy line of black running wantonly down well-made cheeks. I never thought I could look so pretty, so…so devastated? So fragile, I am almost ugly. I tease the line into a half moustache, a twirl at the end and rub it around my eyes-Kathakali style. Right now, I could be a drunken artist, stripped of his pride as foreigners dressed for an evening out watch them and clap and jeer like at Moulin Rouge. He seems drunk and terribly angry, no wait, downcast. Somehow his expressions and contained and limited and his vigour is lost.

-Get out of the bathroom!

I do and I would have liked it if only my aunt hadn’t hit the stray closet at the corner while we laughed our pretty assses off.

I have a bad rash breaking out on my face and this was the only way to commemorate it.

*Waves at Crazy Diamond* Yes I am thinking about you.

NOW PLAYING: One Of These Days by Pink Floyd

2006-07-01T20:52:00.000+06:00

Oh I want to hurt you-just a tiny bit-with a teeth nudging harmlessly into your cupid cheeks or your perfect fingers. I never saw hatred take a concrete form, but I believe I’m in love with this. I would like to tease and prod you till you fall asleep, weeping. All those piercings will be pulled out to leave you with nothing to hide under.

The bile rose in my throat as I thought of biting away a keepsake from my first.

NOW PLAYING Dance and The Swarosky Butterfly

2006-06-18T11:45:00.000+06:00

NOW PLAYING: GYPSY LADY AFTER STOCHINALYA

2006-06-14T20:56:00.000+06:00

Fifty feisty crumbling stars fall apart and we all rush in to take a little bit of the million tiny pieces…

The surrealism of dreams sometimes seeps into your waking hours; the fogged glass veils that hold you safe in their realm. You sink in and wake and sink again. A refuge.

Happiness.

A ride on that rusty swing that yo-yoed you for ten very short and erased years is now falling apart, so you went and kissed it good-bye. It didn’t feel bad-it felt great- the delicate, crumbling feel against your lips. And all the sorrow cramped in and vanished as the little hands touched yours- in curiosity, in comfort. The smiles are still so true on their tiny faces. Polished with the ease of the indifferent. The pigtails float all around you in rhythm with the squeaky sneakers. They make you think of the vacuum that so many years of dislike has left. Denied a frown, all you are left with is a quiet emptiness.

Peace.

Now Playing: Have A Cigar by Pink Floyd

2006-06-07T12:49:00.000+06:00

The lights flicker and develop as the Saturday night passes by with its mute poverty and feeble showers. The aging skin of the deceiving emperor runs lovingly over his little son-the toothless prince born of a never-ending dream. The beard lightens and darkens under the sagging eyes as the sultana of skin-deep beauty snores at the back of a luxury car. The adoration is devastating and bound to be pain.

Maybe that is how love is supposed to be. Saved up pain.

With every welt the leather belt (His Majesty’s of course) leaves on The Other (son), the love inches in deeper for the little prince born of a never-ending dream. Like their positions in the sultans kingdom one is as dark as the sun-beaten downtrodden and the other, yellow like the bloodless immortal. My eyes are fixated on the reflection of the picture emanating from The Other-The twitching jaw, the gnashing teeth...

All I really see is a shadow squatting on the Sultans lap. Of a playful child that clambers around and reaches deep into His crevices and His affection with an audacity only love would tolerate. He caresses the sleeping child and smiles a lovelorn smile. He would make it last forever-this Saturday night would stretch over a million light years, piercing right through the ashes of the impermanent.

The Sultana snores, her mouth wide open.

Playing At The Window Pane

2006-06-01T11:28:00.001+06:00

The lights flash twinkle, twinkle as my drunk, far-sighted eyes move blink, blink, blink. This time it was something really burning everything inside. A lot of water but I’m still blinking at two in the night.

All my life I wanted someone to tell me I was missed.

Terribly missed.

And when it did happen I had other, stronger designs playing in my head. Of ‘tyag’. I rub my hands on my naked spine till the hem of the chequered sarong and back again. Sweet, music-less rhythm. The unrest creases my smiles these days, some sort of waning. Sometimes you have to strong, sometimes a liar, sometimes very, very smart.
What about the resigning, fragile ones?
They die in wars with the Taliban and economy.

I left them a week ago, on a cool terrace built amidst a sun dried forest, but the voices move around and so do the eyes. Cool black. And orange stained white fur. You may change but the sadness flows gently choking you, thudding in your ears before it pours out. In tears and ink stains. In secret scissor marks and delicate knife scars.

I find vacuums comforting, then. Silent ones that sit and stare back at you.

In The Now

2006-05-28T19:16:00.000+06:00

So is this religion?
No.
A new attempt at surreal posts from different worlds and odd, out-of-world-ideas that somehow make people think of nasty coitus?
No.
Then what is it?
About being in the now, walking around with no scars- physical or mental-and knowing there is something of a light of joy in satiated numbness and to be a mere spectator.

Curious?
Please be.

After ages of walking in the darkness, you finally reached the light of dharma…
And I cried. Tears deluging years of hatred, craving and depreciated life and pulling me into its arms. Who knew I had it in me? That someday Karma would turn around and love me for my efforts of following, or attempting? The ink stains of misery evanescence along with over-exaggerated and shallow happiness and I am left with a feeling.
To rush into arms of the joyous and run out screaming for those looking for light.

This is just an attempt to help spread knowledge of Vipassana. So fragile, so tender, it was lost in meaningless rituals and condemnation of the pragmatic and confused. Something the Buddha spread and something three words called ‘ism’ almost crushed to a religion.

It’s for you, you and you. The one who is one step away from living inside a plastic joy-toy, the one who has been roaming streets with hallucinations and fears of not reaching middle spread and the one whose screams but no one hears. And all those in search of a shore.

Believe me, its not easy-the pain, the agony; everything you are is on the surface and 10 days in complete silence-not just speech but actions-living in rooms that crowd in like your fears. Oh but the joy, the joy of independence, of looking at the night and then the day and smiling with true detachment and the growing knowledge of impermanence.

To believe something by intellect is easy, but to feel it, that is Vipassana.

I hope each one of you benefits from this. 10 days of complete excommunication from your respective lives-abnormal or worldly-and determination is all that is asked. Each one who does read this post must visit this site.

http://www.dhamma.org/

Mail me even if you feel a little interest in what I talk about.

godmother_on_tequila@yahoo.com

Again, Dhamma is for everyone, do try it.

PANTIES AND PERCEPTIONS

2006-05-08T17:32:00.000+06:00

The flower- eye catching in its hollow green cushion-lay still, its bright-red head drooping in indifference to its beauty and its reedy, yellow tongue sticking out, mocking itself along with the others watching it.

The walls close in and form a cage of sorts. A concrete 7 feet by 11 feet cocoon that went berserk. And along with the other tinier but more significant walls, cups in the smells of its captive- an ashen grey smell that sometimes unjustly sours to that of tobacco smoke. A smell of late night lights burning out without permission; of books torn apart that can be adeptly stuck back to perfection and of sacrilege - virgin white panties being chopped to imitate the Miscellaneous.

Don’t get me wrong; I despise whites and pinks; unyielding sensibilities are exasperating. ‘How can you be so adamant?’ I asked one and she (I assume it is a she) just lay there, rather cool in my discomfort. Off you go, chop, chop, chop and she was gone, rough cloth to my grey paint.

Sometimes its sweat-an acute fear of Prospects Black that rises from innocent scribbling on wasted English textbooks to melt into ‘inexplicable’ raucous tears. A sense of careening. A sense of purity and a sense of the fast approaching invalidity of soul.

Iris Murdoch sucks.

She watched it with intense curiosity, a pain of injustice filling her. She plucked it and threw it into the flowing sewage.

SIX DAY TEMPTATIONS.

2006-05-04T22:04:00.000+06:00

Where do I begin?

The blue ocean moves all around me, pregnant with puny, translucent shells, pulling at my ankle as it sucks the sand from under me. The underplayed urgency is alluring-enticing-as the yellow sun pisses on my neck leaving a brown aftermath. Singing in the sunshine, laughing in the rain… Oo Yeah!

The terrace is low and white with cheap plaster. The sky is clear blue turning grey turning orange. The voices are close, pulling at my hair, my five sizes too big t-shirt and howling in joy.
-You’ll fall; you’ll faaall.
Oh, you wish.

I look down at the bar. The abstract symbols signifying the motorcycle and the hundred grams were still recognizable in the wobbling pool of cerveza. Those representing hard work and discipline however have defeated the surface tension that held them together and merged to become another soggy spillage on the bar top. I shrugged and smeared my future across the uneven surface. I was always like this on Friday afternoons.

Or, at the very end probably?

The balloon man stands alone on the station under a tree. The tiny balloons are full of puss and blood and wobble as he walks. All evenly brown under the urinating summer sun. His hands are extended asking for sympathy, the one white peace of cloth around his loins hiding little of his ostracized balloon body.

On the upper berth of the choo-choo train, watching the green leaves and the blue water from under glasses, I feel protected, saved for another day, thrown out of turmoil into stifling peace with a practiced and well-worn hand of solitude.

I am the boy,
That can enjoy,
Invisibility.

Many thanks to Chris Haslam of the ‘Twelve Step Fandango’ and the momentarily under-appreciated ‘Ulysses’ by James Joyce.

UNDESERVING ENDS. LA-LA-LALA

2006-04-15T19:43:00.000+06:00

“You are beautiful,” I told her and she laughed out in derision. Cruel mirror, she; terrible bitch.

And then there was sweet missing, beautiful in its absolute needlessness. Before you can sit and roll in there, comes in a darkness not of your own planning. And a very secret kiss that no one knows about is suddenly playing about. This time it doesn't cry fiction and you are scared. Bad, bad girl. The mirror laughs all over again and my vigorous attempts at audacity.

Repeat, repeat, roll. There it is, happiness sitting in a dim-lit room drinking something that smells of gasoline and tasting of sugared fruits. No cheap cigars this time. Just pathetic company whose trust in me begs me to wants to kiss it and slap it, again and again. Till his overgrown face perks up surprise like it should.

I haven’t laughed in a very long time, a hearty one drunken and teary; that sputters out of your system till you are hoarse for the night. A giggle, which became a snigger, which became a preposterous roar of laughter.

Thud.
It fell, breaking my mirth into undeserving pieces.

I hadn’t laughed since a year now. And I paid a price for it. I couldn’t love you anymore, not more than this, I cant.

Quisquilious Debalterations. Good night and good luck.

Scribbling thighs, lately.

2006-04-04T22:53:00.000+06:00

How do you feel today?

I don’t know, doctor-too subtle to be angry, too strong to be disinterested.

Today, there are 99 channels competing in my head, Daddy Yankee being the stander-upper.

Oop-dukka-gasolina-din-taka-gasolina. Din-din-din. Woop-dukka-gasolina-jhin-chuckka-gasolina. Hey, hey, hey.

Followed by Eminem, followed by 50 cent, followed by almost nude women singing hey, hey, hey baby.

And beneath the window stands a little girl,
A tiny fragment hung up on nine-inch heels of happiness,
We pulled her pigtail; green creeper fell,
Moist in my hands as they twisty-shine in the cruel sun.

We walked her up and down hidden in little fists, she gushed,
Tiny and tender warm things that feel slimy in your hands,
And rubbed them on each others ruby-red faces,
So tired from the worldly tribulations.
And he watched O in the mouth as she rubbed it to his chest,
Little fingers scratching-Ice cold-he says.
A green wisp so beautiful blue,
A tangerine shade now aspirin white,
How they took my dreams and put them as prey to
Little pills and conditioning for reason,
A new world in them, new ideas.
Sometimes it just becomes too bloody difficult to die.

I find it tiresomely funny, doctor. This, this-aha!-hatred.

METAMORPHOSIS (BOOK II)

2006-03-19T17:03:00.000+06:00

The drying after days of turmoil is a finger pointing at the veal coloured lips-no azure of blue and no willingness to be a proper purple.
Line after line, erased and deleted till all that remains of a dark cloudy sky is a naked, sunless afternoon-an aftermath of a hoarse rain. The very inappropriate yellow skirt sits in ennui on thighs and ‘secret triangles’. The fancy underwear is chopped to a tiny piece of elastic that is now naked except for the innocence only the ugly can conjure.

A lovely crescent is being spanked till it falls asleep, bottom skywards.

On the pages of another evening is a curly haired little girl crying at the demise of her light-blue crayon. A word spreads throughout the painting. Stick men and women with tiny plant-like children; large bulbous flowers; the mountains and the brown stream with incandescent green are all awaiting the sky, angry with the little girl who is scratching her pee-pee due to frustration and unhygienic habits. Soon the stick lawyers will be on their way, with suitcases and mandamus’. The poor black and green birds are all suspended in confusion, rather dead, suspiciously blissful. I ask her if they are angels.
No, angels are white.

Lawyers are black.

You and me, we are brown.

You decide, I tell her. The angry roars hurt her 7-year old self. She draws them miniature Prada clothes, high-heeled shoes for the ladies, patent boots for men and Nike sneakers for the children. In deep curiosity she looks, queen squatting on the outsides of her kingdom. The lawyers are still accusing. She wails now- tired and retiring abiding defeat-into her mothers lap and then in exile on the polka dotted bed, embracing her mother’s ample waist.

The queen gone, they subside. I draw them a fire. I draw them guns and I draw them a sky in the grey of blind pupils.

The child is gone.

METAMORPHOSIS (BOOK I)

2006-03-12T10:27:00.000+06:00

Just when you think you are never going down again. A big giant hole awaits, yawning wide like a obese man with too much more than he should have.

I was searching for blood on the sky-blue tiles, hoping I would find some.

You know this bar right? Where the you-me-everybody people gathering to drink god alone knows what. I been there, look this way.

No damnit! Here, in the corner with the dyingtobegins.

So damn hard I think tears are just unjustly human this minute. What I need is a dagger and a feeling of venegance and insanity. To go well with this minute, yes thats just it. What I need is a heart to break and a man to hurt.

I been good, I been so nice, I been good enough, always, always been so right. What is this? Where am I? Am I going to fade into a death, no rough fucks, no joy of tasting blood? Gimme, gimme, gimme please.

O Sailor, why'd you it? What you do that for? Saying theres nothing to it and letting it go by the boards...

EXCERPTS FROM MY DIARY

2006-03-05T18:27:00.000+06:00

14th February

Script:

Meagre pursuits this day. A yin-yang of brandy colour stuck in mundane or is it the muddy brown from an evanescence cut on the lip? Peut-etre. (notez que j'utilise beaucoup de mots du francais? Parce qu'il me fait sembler comme un artiste fantastique, vous voyez?)

As the hair sticks to the blade I watch the sea green bathroom tiles with singular effort squatting on a toilet seat. We have been around sometime now-unknown, unseen, a Scorpio, a Cancerian, both caesareans, both idiots, assholes both-one born with a face that scared his mother and one, a miracle baby with no particular charisma to accompany that title.

Moving away at break-neck speed sometimes.

The blade moves with nervousness, finding a place to move on my brother's pimply face. It's a bloody war, this quazi-first shave of his and I be the only spectator with a bad bout of stomach cramps.

A sign of crossroads, I dare say.

At points from which we take paths away and afar-from no 'proper' children to secretly bad adults. Whad'ya got mate? A 17 and a 16, with no place to go.

Pause.

This is where I tell him I love him, this is where I beg him to change.

Cut.
A time reversal, s'il vous plait? (Snickers)
Rewind. Play.

Still there, miles apart, heads twisted in deadbeat stance, far away from anything or anyone who would hold us close.

"Ouch!" another scar he took for life.

Soon it will be over my love. This awkwardness to be suppressed by betrayals, heartbreaks and hate-two different concepts of the world conjoin to form new mistakes and fresh disappointments.

This is where I wish I knew a good love song. You know, some good background music?

"So how's it?"

A call from below, the penthouse on the 17th floor pulls airy ghosts to mamma gravity.

Cuts, bruises, garish clothes.
Bad hair, aching back and red eyes.

Blip. Whrr..Stop...

Breaking To Pieces.

2006-02-12T13:00:00.000+06:00

Beautiful. One, two, here we go...

H-I-A-T-U-S

I thought these would enteratain you for a while.

Code : Thank you for the template. Where do I send the vada pav?

Rex Venom : He can stimulate every bit of what you can call yours. Be warned, you will be back with tight nipples and a craving for more exoticness

Transience : Her legs are wide open but you could never touch her. Just a-w-e.

Ashes : A head-trip in a 24 year old body.

La Surrealiste : Every bit surreal, every damned bit.

Zofo : You ought to check the words once you finish admiring the pictures underneath. And thats where all the words come from, right-down-there

Dlak : He could tell you what could be a potential name for a band.

The Saturnyne : Wicked coffee-drinking funny guy.

Vikas Kaul : The current-affairs man. Makes up for all the newspaper politics you didnt read.

Esoteric Wombat : All you would want to about Yankees and he's got an amazing comic linkage on the right.

Tim : Makes Hegel seem right with his simplicity.

Anil : The icing always cometh the last here.

RUSH

2006-02-07T12:05:00.000+06:00

It grew in the arms of lavender tinged bubbles and red glass bangles-a beauty that only stupid stupefaction could appreciate to full extents. And on its tiny fluctuations a hand fell, its curious little fingers tickling the innards till they broke their own fragile bodies breaking to uncontrolled, shrill laughter. And then the beautiful glass bangles broke into ugly red stories, unwanted progeny of mesmerizing magnificence…

His webbed fingers pointed at the sun-smeared sky with a threat to break it just the same way; a vile promise. And then he began with the daily business of whispering to the statue with restlessly moving eyes. His goggles covered over half his face and the other half he forced to unending activity, the old pink lips moving with a fish-like rapidity. The skin and bones statue would not speak, his mouth surrounded by a white stubble trying in vain to hide his secrets-sorrow of not being able to earn for his family, a parched lip pouting with the need for food and the stiff upper lip cut to half its size on being charmingly honest even deep under this pit. The pair of dark glasses stared at me; unfocused and almost there, my eyes stay still, threatening for a next move from under their half mast behind fogged frames when the siren announces the end of the war, even before it began.
Red lips move closer to my ears, wafting with them a putrid smell of decaying fishes before my eyes ward them away. Her cheap orange lipstick opens and closes ricocheting words, which my curled brown lips promise to pay no heed to. She smiles her whorish smile, her ample breast jumping up and down in amusement or need for attention. The apple enters her mouth and she sets about masticating with a primitive manner, the orange now smeared on the white innards of the innocent apple and beyond the confines of her huge lips, a poisoned purple now sickly growing under the coats of sunlight lips. And then I let my eyes close, a million voices to play from yesterdays notes, promising myself never to stay awake travelling second class.

ANGELS

2006-01-29T11:51:00.000+06:00

They call out tonight...

PHASES OF A DARK MOON

2006-01-21T12:11:00.000+06:00

Well, what about tonight? Moon-ed, maroon-ed and pseudo-stoned.

A warm evening in Bjork's ‘Cocoon’, an oriental madness in the beats and a slithering voice licking with a rattlesnake's precautious pleasure. Not the urgency though, much more of a slow unwrapping, followed ungraciously by Bono. No comments.

I am being watched, again. Rattlesnake urgency there, unable to drown and dissolve in all of this, all of this can be yours; all of this can be yours… like before. You are growing fat on expectations, aren't you? I know what you want, something pretty. Pretty sad. Pretty lonely. Pretty lost. You can hear happiness standing on down street; footprints dressed in red as the wind whispers Mary… An old black pair of high heels and a tearing GO GOA! T-shirt hiding little bits of brown flesh swaying to and fro in rhythm searching dance as you watch. I know you want it badly, now. Just like all those times before with before people and all those before stories. No surprises underneath, you have been there, done it all, the indecision, the reluctance; a knowing smile with the soft thuds on the expectant floor and the scratching on the watching walls. Followed by the screaming and supplication.

You Draculian playboy, you.

Funny how fornication speaks for infinite thoughts of a virgin with an untamed word tambourine.

Though you might hear laughing spinning swinging madly across the sand, its not aimed at anyone, its just escaping on the run and before the sky there are no fences facing.

Always makes me smile. Always, always. Always.

Little Secrets Old Men Hide

2006-01-12T18:57:00.000+06:00

A summer morning of no particular consequence was flowing in with the vitriolic sun as you stood at the window from where you could see the long, lithe leg under her summer dress and she could see you from the corner of her uncharacteristicly large eyes. You wonder if she could tie you up to the chair, legs embrassing your waist. You would be amazed when I tell you this, shes been wondering how your sweat soaked fingers would taste and if half moustaches do tickle inner thighs. What a lovely way to start a morning, her dying tongue flickering against yours as you rub her little tummy against your rough palm while her proud chest pushes your shoulders against the walls your wife pressed you against when she hit you. Lovely, late Lolita, mine.

Oh now shes crying amazements in her head as you talk dirty to her in yours. Unchristian ways of beckoning Him as she's calling you names, lonely, tired ones. The ones you wanted to hear so often from your wife. She deserved what she got, a stunning death at the hands of her brother. Lovely, lovely C, with his brawny shoulders. Sometimes you just wanted to...

And just when the maid walks in, so many liquids on your widower floor. She's surprised because she doesnt know what it is. Not anymore. There is more than secretion there. A little girl and an old man with their dirty smells. A proud, fertile woman and a tired, willing old man. A lovely vagina below a lovelier face. A tired face over a scarred body.

Oh for the love of secrets.

Im angrier than this post can tell you. Penises ruling the world is just bugging me right now.

RECEPROCAL PUPPETS

2006-01-08T18:56:00.000+06:00

And now for some teenage angst and truly heartfelt poetry.

RECEPROCAL PUPPETS.

Burns flare on yellow skin,
How does it feel to be caressed so cruelly, slave?
The bits of life slowly sucked away,
A mossy green on my ceiling grows,
A green-blooded heart encompasses agony,
How does your blood flow so indifferently?
Messages leaked into tonight's wind,
Oh, how the whore-d you hollers!
The blue vein flowers under your peel -
Overshadowing seasonal gardens-
Blushing under lunar stares,
How I forget my penitent soul on your lap,
Being crushed by your fanatic strength.
Occasionally dying under the curing sun,
Occasionally living under reciprocating strings.

SANE POSTS

2006-01-05T17:57:00.000+06:00

Welcome to the world of the grammatically and dictionary-wise correct. De hopes you enjoy what you (dont) see (at least this time)

So I was on this break right? Something like forced leisure. Like a paralysis, only this time its the head. The brain. Complete refusal to function. So I'm coming home tired and want to write/draw something nice that I can remember through some days. Something like a first kiss or something, I guess. I wouldnt know. I hear Im not really all that kissable as I am kiss-ass-able. And lemme say, Im a pompous bit of shit. So I like what I hear.

And then the day before yesterday I was sitting with a pencil in my hand waiting for my mind pictures to flow out. Its a beautiful thing, these fragments. I think I learned to put them to abstract sense. Nothing. I mean, nothing. I'm thinking of a stupid joke I made up. Saying that if I found a guy he would replace my hand-as in I'd stop writing. Total pun or what?! To think I had no clue what pun really meant.

And then when I was almost sleepy, there out of the blue, a picture. I drew. So perfect. OOO so lovely. I drew it till 1 and spend the rest of the night staring at it. I think I made a baby, there. My own, very own, lovely child. You know whats wrong? Now I cant paint it cuz I think I'll screw up. I'm so scared. Watching out the corner for them to look at me and tell me what colours they would like. They are twins. Much like I wanted it. Beautiful twins. Wait till tonight. Im going to get into your uncoloured womb and caress your featureless faces. No abstractness, thats what they are. Unformed foetuses, so beautiful stuck in the process of birth.

ABSTRACT SKILLS, KILLS.

2005-12-22T11:12:00.000+06:00

Heir soir il n'ya pas des etoiles dans le ciel noir.

Endlessly time and again, a vacuum at my navel pulling in everything happy and arises nothing but a painfully dark feeling and answers that reek of guilty pleasure. And suddenly the only thing happy is a Led Zepplin song light and sunny like the Ocean.

This week in sentences: Give me thy hand! I think I am going blind!

Black to brown to nothing at all. Give me colours, give me.

Individuals with abstract skills and no social skills are absolute failures.

And a room with beige walls with brown spots and long dark legs rested carefully against them.

And suddenly you know how inflated noises sound like; so close you know 20% liquor-ed drinks can get you philosophical. The water seems to bite into your hands. And before you know the sofa throws you up and down. Bouncy, bouncy, bouncy, bouncy baby Wee! How fun to be 17 again. Gallons of chocolate sauce was used instead of blood in Alfred Hitchcock’s movie Psycho.

And then you see the sun set before your eyes leaving behind effervescing purple. Alls well.

Hier soir, il ya des etoiles dans le ciel noir.

-Are you still unhappy, she asks.
He suppresses a giggle pressing his teeth on his wanton black lips.
-We all live in a yellow submarine, yellow submarine, Yellow submarine, she croons.
They laugh, happy children on a winter scratched afternoon.

TRANQUILIZER

2005-12-10T18:04:00.000+06:00

On the bridge I stood long enough to make a pause in the shit, urine and hobo drenched landscape watching the cars pass by. They look beautiful in the night with the red lights contrasting the orange of the city. I think I will make a movie-a 3-minute one showing everyone how colourful these things are in my head. Like the films those guys you just love to want make. Or like Holden Caulfeild (Or Salinger) thinks-guys you wish were your friends and you could just call up and talk to. Or maybe not, because vision is limited and cant be twisted beyond the bounds of your eyes. Unlike words, beyond colours, beyond limits, each time a different beauty to each one.

Or maybe I need to make visual drugs, it couldn’t be too difficult since I hear Silicon Valley or wherever it is where they conduct useless robotic engineering will be making chips that can be etched in your spine. (Am I scared, or what?) Maybe I could marry one and together we could create visual oblivion. Curie style. I know it must be colourful. Colours are hypnotising. Or maybe someone from the CIA. After all I hear, oranges are really blue but seem orange because of some ocular default.

And the train passes, blurring, my mind a melange of Jefferson Airplane, Catcher in the Rye, which so far is a pretty irritating book and also a predecessor to Vernon God Little (You should try reading cable TV sometime) and the Sudoku puzzle before I melt into a-surprisingly deep-cat nap. Much of the colours have faded in me, I am dying for the home I need. Only I never seem to reach it past the dream.

FAITH

2005-11-30T11:22:00.000+06:00

Conversations

You sit there squatting on the cooling rocks watching hands and mouths in other hands and mouths. And the sea swells and falls under your feet, marred by dirt and oil. The sun in an orange-purple glow falls on your brown skin making you glow a purple. Soon its blue, a midnight blue, with lights flashing all over. Orange and yellow and white streaks to adorn a still, starless sky, there's a peppy love song on your player that makes you want to smile, so you do, again and again, fish-mouthing words you've learnt by rote. You look in the mirror and see yourself shine, a white halo over your dark forehead. Million-zillion years ago, you stood somewhere here, on a cleaner sea and pulled in joy that promises to dry. And the stolen rum still melts in your mouth, it isn’t happiness but there's a 'thing' about stealing and lying and ensemble that makes you want to scream out and laugh. Bouncing up and down, confusion. Blur; you want them to hate you maybe.

-What's it you want, she asks

He won't reply
~A patient pause~
-Little fingers on your tiny spine,
I'll trace till the moon would burn
A blood clot on your back,
A kiss from me,
You could never forget, he says

-I love you, she says

All is well then. Back to love songs, back to world, back to lights.

I'll see you here some other day, floating on the sea with your infinite calm and rejoice the fact that I could never own or understand you, you frail, frail being, first a man then a celestial-maybe God, maybe Evil as they said.

The Unwrappings At Little Thomas’ Heart

2005-11-20T10:38:00.000+06:00

The Unwrappings At Little Thomas' Heart

A peek into de.vil-ish diary This way through

Boom. The doors fall; the music walks in uninvited, uninfected. A bitter cupid plays his strings in Little Thomas' Heart tonight. The smiles sit waiting in the backseat under the muddy skies. The hands move behind backs not their own yet. Vanilla pictures creaking stories strum on the musicians fingers. The pain wouldn't hide itself. The grey of his eyes met the dove eyes on the other side of the table. Expectations. Great expectations.

The glasses clink, empty from too much drinking. The windows wash in rain. Midnight blues turn to grey. The rainbows walk in now. The vertiginous stilettos balanced under the masculine legs and pale feminine hands. A slither of tongue and the most provocative gesture falls flat on the face of human history. His legs part finding comfort in a position. The leather on his feet hurt. The lights eat away his sight. The sag seeks more territory than his middle-aged backside. Life is a short warm day.

Her lips part, mouth wide open, the lipstick smeared all over his lips. It was good to be embarrassed so. Little Thomas' Heart peeks from under its boredom with a disgusted amusement.

The stories flow and the glasses die. The fairies are far far away. Maybe farther lost than the smiles.

BIRTHDAY FURY

2005-11-10T12:04:00.000+06:00

So Im back, once again. Its not little that I whine about and loneliness under a flickering bulb rather than a well groomed dirt rich life awaits. I ought to fall down and die probably, but there are no nine lives and more desires than for nine hundered. Im tired and jumping again, hopping on the hoarse rythmn of a dry, dry cough.

Fury

Angel. Where are the tears?
The garden dries,
Give me a leaf, a night sky dried,
Leave. Love me, your mini death,
Not black, just beautiful orange,
Your death. A sunbaked, moonstruck, orangeness.

Sick Leave

2005-11-03T17:29:00.000+06:00

A lot of coloured pills, not asleep. It isnt any good. I wish they were stronger. All I have now is a viral infection, a choking amount of mucus and absolutely bad creativity. I'll be back. Hasta La Vista.

Miss me.

FRANKENSTEIN

2005-10-12T22:03:00.000+06:00

FRANKENSTEIN

Holes built, the trenches wait, not a glass coffin but a solid box of facts. I lower it, in the waters tinged with pristine hatred and create him-the scientist, of numbers and reason. He had a world in his head, of threads and black-purple shades, merging to form a picture in otherwise vacuum. I waited, squatted on his side as he woke, a cruel gift embedded in him-Mary Shelly's fantasy. I watch him walk and move into me, with an ease no other man can afford. I completed the story for her today; watch her turn in her grave, her grey, tattered white gown rustling in the wind brushing against my dead ears attached to a mind full of open doors. He swims around in my stomach, killing me, I let out a hollow scream. I drown him-paracetemol poison for his naughty self. He swims and then dissolves, his gift now mine and armed I walk into words that no words could ever be, into a realm tried so hard to be embedded in words of undue importance. And the doors open, I let them fly in, processing-me the machine, with a carrions gift. They were theirs, now mine-I let them in and they haunt me, eyes closed I see them murder me. They wake, give birth and walk in, again and again, chaos-unknown and surprising. I sing myself-us-to sleep.

Close our eyes, to the octopus unbound. Close our eyes to the octopus unbound.

CARCASS

2005-10-06T11:30:00.000+06:00

CARCASS

"You don't like me anymore?" She asked him, the one in the shadows where he always was; not because he was scared; he was fragile or just did not belong in sunlight. She was walking out of the doors of her half-light world when she asked; suddenly not sure it was good to do it. He stands back, in ease, in chaos that he draws and calls peace. Her yellow lace turn back to grey, her whites again walking back to colliding dust and covers, he was an illusion and always will be for her, but still "You don't like me anymore?" He draws for her, on her palm, words, more of them, tickling her, then he smiles-happy? Content? No, the drawings lie; he can't. She loves him even more, desperately. It matters now, wounds do no heal on her, and he cuts her, his nail now digging in her palm. He walks back, into the dark, she wounded as the dust comes back to cover. Mother would not let her child die.

He was a shadow and will never stop being one; she was already afraid of the paper walls building on him in purpose.

Am trying to develop photographs without much success. Need to find some articles (or books) on it. Any help is welcome.

She

2005-09-23T19:42:00.000+06:00

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.

UNWRITTEN DIARIES

2005-09-15T21:03:00.001+06:00

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.

DEALS

2005-09-09T22:13:00.000+06:00

PINK FLOYD-
WOTS...UH THE DEAL

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

JOINTS

2005-09-02T16:43:00.000+06:00

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.

MY BOOKER PRIZE

2005-08-23T19:23:00.000+06:00

MY BOOKER PRIZE

I wrote the first lines of my diary. Those were beautiful, very, very funny. I could see the lights, the glitz and the glamour in that line. The glitterati at my feet, people who would love me because they couldn't understand me. All the parties and the fame; teenagers who wouldn't read, asking, begging me to sign autographs because their friends who read told them I rocked. I was the favourite author of so many. Parents wouldn't let their kids read the book, not because they were sexually explicit but because that was weird. Because they didn't want their kids to be me, no one did. Because I would be the new god-the youngest writer, awed, admired and secretly adored. And old men who spammed my blog would run behind me to get me to sign contracts with other old men, their friends to whom they bragged that they knew me from my pre-famous days as a kid who they thought was lean and flat. I wouldn't be anymore, I would have enough money to stuff myself, not that I need any. I would tuck and pull and soon would be photographed in bikinis riding in expensive cars with rich men, not necessarily handsome because they could never be so. All the money stuffed up their buttocks would make sure they grew ugly, and I would love them because I could hate them all and still be loved. I would be hooked with the juiciest and the famous ones. I would be cheap, rich and a bitchy diva. All because I had money. I would be photographed more, and soon be called one of the sexiest. I would be this, that and little more of this.

Then one fine day, I would be a slut.

And then another day I would be caught doing drugs/on a kinky video tape/indulging in smuggling/stealing.

I would fall, slowly at first, and then I would be there, still. Waiting, the dark would spread with all that I loved before. Anonymity and silence, except for the loud voices of my dreams and words; but there would be something wrong. I was scared of them, my own children, I would be scared and lost. I would want more of the lights, that shone bright in their neon loudness, mercilessly butchering my own. This time all alone-where I belonged, I would be scared and tired.

Moist, sea opens up above,
Where the lights shone bright and enticing,
I wait underground, for a sign,
A duller light that shone in simple delight.

DRUMBEATS

2005-08-16T17:14:00.000+06:00

Drumbeats

This is about a boy. He is a monarch in his way, a freak in the others way. You cannot like him, he promises. I gifted him the bullangells in yesterday's dreams, for him to have company. He can't grow; he can fly. He does fly, from me, from you, from everybody. One day I will write about him.

The fowl sleeps on the last rays of an orange sun,
An effervescence of light, immobile-
A black-eye purple traced childishly with a dwindling interest,
A picture book of bizarre dreams left for a blank child to see…

On a green velvet leaf, a dethroned god waits,
Drunk on tears for an unquenchable thirst.
The bullangells wake and close in, to worship his rusted days,
A dull energy of drumbeats and a handful of frozen blood flakes-
Dreamily, the monarch wakes,
Orange on his eye's horizons.
A hunger flames on the corner of his mouth,
Wide-awake, he rushes, eating with a maggot's greed
Himself in and out and again.
The bullangell weeps -'tis a bizarre sound-like a child stuck midst laughter tears.
He eats still, the greed growing-his fingers, his arms, his soul.
Blind now but to his want, he eats, the monarch as in whole,
The bullangells cheer, egg him on with the dull drumbeats of their giant feet.
Till daylight rips a hole in his meal, a gaping distance in his senses.
Now the mirrors wake, where the bullangell frolicked,
A muse on their stony stare,
A mocking stillness as the monarch squirms and watches his jewels fall,
A nothingness, a no good man, a eaten crown and a broken heart,
His territory lost, the monarch flies again,
Bullangell scream on the end of the day he follows-misfit and a freak.

I

2005-08-03T19:26:00.000+06:00

I, the captain of a shipwreck,
With a heart of weed and a soul of a butterfly.
I, the captain of a shipwreck,
With a string of hope and a pill for joy.

I am not alone, just lonely. They hide calmly playing dead till I am sad. I can see their fingerprints tied up to my hands if I watch closely. If you tried that, they would disappear. They live a minx' life, they tell me-they hurt, they bite and then wipe it all away. Only someone with too much love could do that for you. A mischief in hand for me to put under my tongue, till the saccharine dies out, till a hollow grows. A water bubble encased numbness that floats up and down and finally settles in.

Some mornings I disappoint them with my fist full of hope, my glossy yellow bangles and my lovely eyes. I walk into bright lights. N-O-R-M-A-L. With a smile and a tamed flutter for my umbra heart. Till someone comes along and tramples on my glass bangles, bruising them from black to blue to crimson of my shameful blood. I walk back to them, searching under my rucksacks and my pillows, on my knees pleading, asking for forgiveness. They punish, their spidery fingers jabbing into my dead butterfly soul. You are ugly and you will always be alone, you know we love you. Only us, only we, only us, we love you. You have nowhere to go, you would die, you ugly, ugly, lonely soul. I sit and sleep, curling up in my sheets trying not to cry. They fall eventually, not tears but the moans muffled in my pillow and my hands move over me, no longer mine but theirs, fingering me, pinching me, till I cannot reason and till pain mixes with pleasure mixes with melancholy mixes with pleasure; longing for flesh, for a smell not mine. To wrap myself over the smell of a flesh not mine.

Tomorrow morning wakes to find me stronger on my bed with invisible bites all over me. It is their strength that I sucked on yesterday, open mouthed, longing, wet for it. All Night. I could laugh, could smile, could smirk. Not feel.

I, the captain of a shipwreck,
I, who wades through nursery rhymes,
I, the captain of a shipwreck,
With tears hidden in his phallus.

Dead End

2005-07-06T19:59:00.000+06:00

Evil forces will take over. The snakes are out of the bags along with the blank eyed zombies. I think I am going to pack my bags and join them.

Glad to have the haters and the lovers (not to forget the fakers) on the ride.

Hasta La vista,
Faceless people have always been comforting.

Signed:
De.vile

Rummy silences

2005-07-01T20:26:00.000+06:00

Rummy silences-stolen kisses

Tonight, there won't be need for thought he moves in with promise,
And through the caramel glasses I see a dull sparkle,
Don't look for my love he said,
And then the thought of tonight fell from his lips,
Onto my dry, tensed tongue,
That received with want, with urgency,
Tonight, I would be his love, his God, his muse.
And down my virgin path he went,
Limbless beast on a sliding descend,
The burn grew and a hole gaped,
My dull eyes now blissfully hollow on his caramel mirror,
The vaporising sweetness in its pure form,
Travelling on without traces,
I wouldn't miss till the next drop fell.
Sleep, sleep, it is time to rest he whispers in my throat.
Sleep. Sleep, I whisper in my feathery pillow.