Giant big bollocks!

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?

What are you going to do when you have grown up

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.

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.

Scribbling through

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?