I have grown old today

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

An ode to the sounds of Pop

Bubble wrap glistens in the sun,
Wink wink wink as they burst
A nail creases the swelling,
Trying to control the heaving
Kneel kneel kneel, whore.
You are breaking below surfaces
Only to stab your own skin
There’s no point to this pain, love
Except to pass summer afternoons
Crouched, gargoyle-style, head to the ground
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.

Mickey men

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.

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

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.

PENDULUM

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.

Little Secrets Old Men Hide

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.

The Unwrappings At Little Thomas’ Heart

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.

MY BOOKER PRIZE

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.