Running in circles.

Mullah and Moon birth.

2011-12-08T00:23:00.000+05:30

The tendrils of the moon were sprawling in the womb of the midnight firmament almost drowning into the glistening ocean.

The even tide was a subtle lullaby and a crest and fall were its resonance.

The North Star was an ornament that glistened and embellished the darkness that was the eternity of the night. All of the night was an amphitheatre. The theatricals were significant and the stars were symmetry.

The moon was a blossoming fragrance in the air. Dispersed and soaking in all of its aplomb.

The hollow trees were a mesmerizing tune and the flowers were overwhelming to the senses. A soothing chill tumbled in with the breeze. Like a playful child that was half curiosity and big eyes and the other half was devotion.

Why does moon rise take so long?

For Andromeda.

2011-11-20T02:21:00.004+05:30

Her last name is pickle, she can devour in a second
she owns next to nothing, but she can conquer a roughing
her bosom is colossal, exploding out of her cantilevered bra
she’s a cougar, she’s a kitten, she will leave you oh so smitten
your pulse is a racing as she’s ripping out your heart

She can be a gymnast and a deity and will fill you up with gaiety
She is a trapped tempest in a tavern and a drizzle on the tongue
Now you’re breathless as she stretches
Do you see yourself coming back for more?
Her heinie is a story, so unabashed in its glory
Are you speechless, even from afar?

_________________________

For all the gifted women.We need a lot more loving.

Also please excuse this bad writing, I tried to rhyme in a meter that I thought I could achieve but I am not a rhyme person.

Maybe I am a reason person.Ok,bai.

Part and parcel.

2011-09-13T09:29:00.003+05:30

Do we realize why this alliteration is so important?

This idiom instantly reduces me to a tiny child who wants to run back inside and hide under the table,with tongue curled up and fingers interlaced.Almost in servitude to my most faithful accomplice,imagination.
In fear and in doubt.
In time and its parallel.
In sleep and defence mechanisms.

I believe.I reiterate.I nullify.

Do we give a chance to belief once it has been broken? Unlike nature, it never really reinforces itself time and again. It is a flitting cloud, bountiful yet elusive. It a muse of the one who surrenders.
Nature on the other hand, will establish itself like the engulfing tide of a tsunami and then slyly retreat like it never existed.

Do we like to surrender?
Expectation is a tree in autumn. Bereft but ready to bear again. The tree will blossom and its leaves will return. This, arete.

We learn. We grow. We evolve. We hold on. We leave behind.

Now part and parcel I conclude is like choice and belief.
Choices and beliefs are like a nut and bolt. Their amalgamation is inevitable.

After a while under the table gets uncomfortable and the kid in me has to crawl out and then I walk away.

This is not a poem.

2011-09-07T00:31:00.003+05:30

Well, as of right now its the time I usually watch a movie and sometimes make notes on it. I just wanted to talk to someone but I really don't have anyone to talk to. Well, not this kind of stuff or at this time.

Its almost going to be a year since I well,well. I have been confused and unsure more than anything else. But I guess as the days go by, I'm beginning to realize fully what I want.

I still remember the time I turned 19, I was excited and bursting. I wanted to experience new things and well now I know what I really think about that,huh.

Note #1: Comfort and stagnation might seem the same when you are taking things for granted.

Turning 20 was probably a bomb blast on my nerves. Sure this year for the first time I actually had a real birthday party with a bunch of people I never in the world expected. But it put things into perspective.

Note #2: Momentariness is not always a bad thing.

This year has been like walking on fire. I'm scathing still but I'm fucking liquid gold.
I like my old self better. I think I was the smartest at 17. But you come around eventually.
I'm like version 2.0 now.
I still miss impromtu holidays and lazing around like two kul kaets.
I also learned that I am horrible at communication. I can barely use the phone and I am hopeless at corresponding on any kind of medium, except in person(then I'm like kulth).I worked at a bunch of places and fffffuuuu whoah, I'm a great worker except I have problems with authority and with the way things run :/
Yeah, ok sure.

Note #3: Suck it up, until you become Boss. It will feel good when you get paid.

I made a few decisions that I'd probably spit in my own face for if I was any less lonely and any more myself. But what with all the fucking dystopia and hospital meds, phew, it took me months to actually stop cowering like an idiot at sounds and people and their intentions.
Today I was really sad and angry and I said hey, let's see all the things I've corrected since some time and all the stuff I've fucked up and guess what for right now I actually feel calm and happy.
Also by the end of the week I buy boots to go hunt leprechauns. Also that way I get to totally check out the harley's.Whoah mama. That things got splendind curves and if you brake right enough you'll probably have a head rush and some stars in your eyes.

Note #4: Stop buying books to fill void in heart. It will never fill and all because well you;d be dead if that were true.

Ok, I don't feel like writing all that I thought I would because well I know this place has become redundent since well, again, hmm.

Ok goodbye from fidgety to you and you blog bugs.

ps: this year end, I make some total life changes :/
Next year I turn 21 so all the whole 7 years your body cell change thingy. I am going to be pumping iron and I will have stronger tooths and I will build a fucking aeroplane for the thermosphere. And I will buy a moon,ok? Look out for me?

pps: All donation accepted, please do persist inspite of odds because a good investment is a rare one.

Meow.
I should stop watching fail cat videos on youtube.

Do you know?

2011-07-31T00:19:00.004+05:30

I spend a lot of time remembering you.Its a vanity I pleasure myself with.
Especially the monsoon nights that follow long evenings of staring at clouds pass by.As the sun sets into deep red and fades into darkness and light pollution.
The torrid rain reminds me of heartbeats and tin roofs and the creaky bed.Also I can't help wondering about that musky odor of toothpaste and cigarettes washed in the sweat of all the man that you are.Of red and sunsets and secret whistles.The way you scratched the ear of a dog.Your stubby fingers and the contours of my waist.The scents of your old shirts in my cupboard have faded.And I'm left with imagination and loss.
The twilight during which I'd shiver into your arms and warm myself on your hide.I remember now when I shudder with a numbing nothingness.
I'd like to punctuate efficiently but what is the use of grammar when my sentences fall apart before they can be constructed.I wrote poems to impress your childish inquisitiveness.But also to elevate myself to be worthy of the artist that I worshipped in you.
You taught and I now have learned.Then, I was fascinated.I was like a soldier in his first war.New to the battleground.
Now I'm weary and like a lost war hero trying to find his way home.
I would go on but that would make me feel pathetic and I'd have said it all.That isn't me is it?
I'd say I'm quite a sadist.I always want what I can't have.Or what will never exist.Now more than ever.
The stars and galaxies will multiply.Astronomers will be envied.The sun will fucking shine.
I must walk on.
I'm just really scared.

.

2011-02-02T13:20:00.001+05:30

the words are like war.
they stop at every instance so that they can charge back again;

come home.

2010-12-30T14:11:00.001+05:30

Its evening and the branches are bare.
The fallen leaves tremble
the zephyr carries the winged bird home to its nest.
Fly my child,fly it says.

Romeo and Juliet.

2010-12-28T13:40:00.002+05:30

Romeo was 'a roam
and Juliet was love's debt
they were a sad story
defeat and death.

I dust my old grandfather clock
and see pendulum talk to me
its swinging back and forth
and it is physics and history

I look forward and notice photographs
I see happy days gone by fast

I see rose wood and teak chairs
and rock, does my mind
as I rest.

her.

2010-12-26T12:22:00.006+05:30

Because words are all evil and uncouth. Now there is a waterfall and waves across her forehead. Her gaze is like a rocket in a starless night sky. Cascading tresses and waterworks in her eyes.

There was a mighty serpent in her throat and the twitch of her nose was a warm embrace. The table around her was in need of cleaning. The clutter was in her head. The rocking chair was a lullaby. The empty wine bottles were half past midnight and like faithful ardor.

Her tea was chamomile, gaping pride. Healing the inner sanctum sanctorum. There were rose petals for a bed and sleep was in the mind.

The drapes were half drawn and the moon light shone through it.

She was paradise.

v__-

2010-12-19T23:24:00.002+05:30

and as I peeled your laughter from
the canvas of my mind
I saw and gathered its tiny shavings

aquamarine was the onset of thy gait
like a wave washes the shore

purple was lingering resonance
of your sly peek

blue was the enormity of the sky
like dreams of being in your arms.

ocher and veridian were lonely sunsets
and melancholy like a bleeding violin

red was devotion

ocean' the depths of the ocean

indigo was the pregnant rainy sky
that burst clouds
on warm wet mud
oh how crazy
drive,dive.

put in you after every word
and this is but a lie
without you
with or without you.
i am.

Meaning?

2010-12-15T23:55:00.001+05:30

what immortal hand or eye
could frame thy fearful symmetry.

this is my favoritest poem in the world.
I read it every time I am down and out.
It helps me re-build.
After all its always about strong foundations;

________________

2010-12-15T23:25:00.002+05:30

It was like sitting in a wheelchair in the midst of a marathon.
But who is to blame but me.
I tried to pluck flowers off a graveyard.

Trying to bloom,purity
I ended up on a pyre.

Though it was never my funeral.
I felt compassion like a storm.

I visited my friends,Tom,Harry and Dickens.
I tried to find happiness in theirs.
There was but withered memoirs.

I bore wounds like a man.
I let them tie my fingers and across my bust.
Sanguine rushed like a fountain and I let vultures feed off it.

I tried to dream but only then did I know I have none left.Maybe.

Choices were always a problem for you.....
- Opiate.

Universe.

2010-12-14T14:23:00.002+05:30

the moonlit shore
growling wolf
pristine sand
a thimble spool
rainless and starry eyed

the body an atlas
Ahoy! ahoy
a sailor on board
sinking ship
the depths of my heart
rose the tornado
piercing the skies

galaxies galore
sing me
a lullaby

what happens to lonliness

2010-12-14T14:18:00.001+05:30

bare clouds are a harp
mouth organs bloom
the terrible mystery
too much all too soon

the sky is a cobweb
knitted walls of clay
nude pastels
my mind at play

it almost rained
on my bed
winter not warmth
to stay

love is a frostbite
like a kiln
i lay all at stake.

Change in chance.

2010-12-04T23:32:00.000+05:30

This is a story.

It could be about the fake tin soldier who lost his weapons in heat.

Maybe it was the huffing mane’d lion who could only but crawl.

Or the insane feathered parakeet. Plumes et al.

All of that could be.

This though is my story.

And I end it here.

Because all of you are cowards to read further and me too brave to finish it.

My story is mine alone.

It has fantasies and sordid crimes.

Mysteries and bales of unraveled paper.

Music and monarchy.

Misfortune and marmalade.

No breakfast,mind you.

None of that for me.

I'm just a rag doll.

I look along with big eyes and a blank expression.

I lost my smile to love.

I won in defeat.

I grew with wonder and saw her leave.

My teenage woes were fructified.

I was assuaged to a ravaging lunatic.

My artistry was ripped apart and my con identity was shattered.

Now I lay down under the indigo sky with a hint of umber and rose hue. Also just a little bit of purple.

The moon peeks at me. My eyelashes play hide and seek with the stars.

I am making love to the night sky. It is faithful. Celestial and wholly accepting.

The stars dim now, as I watch them fluttering my lashes.

The moon is a cradle and I can almost see fairy dust sprinkle around me.

My lover was lost in a war and he found a mate elsewhere.

So here I lay like a log waiting for the sky to tear open and engulf me.

Clean slate my existence and deny my being.

My belief however staunch goes along with it, into a black hole of sorts.

I am nothing and this is the beginning.

2010-11-18T17:13:00.000+05:30

there there.

2010-11-05T00:18:00.000+05:30

i have to grow up.
no one to be littul kid to.
sigh.

Decepticons.

2010-10-17T01:29:00.002+05:30

Deception Con
Both negative aspects amalgamating into one singular formation of nullfied existence.
Its primitive causes maybe trust and deceit in thought waves.

From the diary of an actor :
I rarely have nothing to think about unless I really want to think about nothing.
Then I'm thinking about nothing.

She could very well bee a python goddess entwining me with her self, coiling, throttling, but I resist, knowing her bosom is close.Then nothing.

So sometimes after thinking about everything and something and anything I think about anybody.
I rehearse lines to myself about saying it to anybody.
And of course I want to make them laugh and still be more than an actor. Open the doors of perception, maybe.Make history. So I say these lines and all I can do is give a humble shrug and that would be apt really. Because truth comes out of humility.
So I was saying a witty line to anybody and wow it worked.

I'm too busy to be meeting too many anybodies so I said this to a somebody I know and they applauded for joy.Voila.

I came home and it was dark and I sat in my study.Dim lights and all.I thought why did he applaud and not clap for glee?
More thinking but

I see my daughter big eyes and everything and I gather her in my arms. I tickle her nose and pretend to eat it.She squeals.
I almost say to her and she jumps and holds my nose and we both laugh.
She fell asleep in my arms and I was looking at her.

[whopeedoo grammar doing eminem style but im lazy so this is for now]

ok later now.
ehhh

The song of loss.

2010-10-05T19:18:00.000+05:30

Clandestine twilight
Weeps across the gentle ocean
Like stars in my eye

by the break of dawn
all gone like a distant dream
night was never ours

____________________

First attempt : double haiku.

unloved song.

2010-09-18T19:25:00.001+05:30

I sung in melodious ardor
the chirping lovebird escaped
the baritones of me
sunk beneath the seas
deep in the oceans
unlike the tornado of your presence

My love is a past midnight storm.
That rises in your dreams, levitates in bountiful candor of the chill in the air and then leaves to be un remembered slowly as you recollect.

when arose
Disclose haha in a tinkle of your lips
chuckle dipped in apricots
aftertaste of honey tea
on your pearly tooths
lined in heavens mouth
yours, mine
or of those who spoke?

Untamed poppies like abundance in a child’s curiosity where leprechauns sat on their pot of gold.

Meridian of the atlas
I like waiting at windows
and most times I see the moon
that’s how (I) long

And evening swans hanging by each others necks like crawly creepers

lavender pastel and faint sundried yellow
and summer dresses
hearing seagulls
eating conch flesh
roasted with buttergarlic
and lemon shavings

but why would you care
I’m not a lover
in a train
during the dawn of winter
world war raging

I’m not a violin recital
to swooning lovers
umbrellas open
hearts overflowing

.
Many soldiers died in the war and wore bullet wreaths.
Ravens sermoned funerals. And their family was forgotten.
One of us had to lose the war. We had to raise the flag.

I suffocate at the brim
when I see a child
selling balloons
red.blue.green

There were wild lilies.
So white like therapeutic noise.

white I lay
on a pale night
while I run in
many directions
all across
where are the barricades?

The war , the war
was in the other direction
as the soul ran feral naked

Sarabande.

2010-09-18T16:01:00.004+05:30

And in april I bloomed
heavens nectar,warm cocoon

in may i was flamenco
a fiesty bride

in june i was mehico
and cold jalapeno sangrita

in july i was cock-a-doodle-do
your truly miss majestic
ugly two shoes

august was merry
mary jane

lots to pen down

i met a shamman who told me to eat liver
as i have a cancer in my stomach

it was the bile
he said
of the hands I'd held
and bitterness absorbed

Instead I let dogs smell my legs
and feasted on
honey coated chamomile and jasmine on my plate
accompanied by bloohberries
melons , kiwis , sweet limes off late

i washed my hair in egg yolk and beer
and my kidney stones melted
I added to my scalp
cider vinegar and hot whiskey
and trotted into my doctors
and gave him a heart attack

I painted his walls
and told him to smell the rain

and now it is almost september
and of songs
that tell me to awake
heh, heh
what is hibernation?

in november it was cuba
mystic and simply yahooza

in december i have to end my song
and so to the end i lost its throng

goodbye my lover
to this dance
I shall not chance

---

decadence

2010-09-15T23:47:00.004+05:30

I have dawned the veil of night
and sunsets are bitter memories

love is a frost bite
that will kill me slowly
but surely.

you can ride the tide,little darling
as I drown beneath

you can woo the moon
as I burn like the sun..

Because I heard you whisper in my sleep. my breast against your heartbeat. a knife of vanity I held above my head, at your word I was ready to be dead.

And then like rainbows in the sky and oil on water just much as bright
I cooked you broth and made your bed
washed your clothes and stayed in your head
and when my pelvis was an open drain I only wanted you, to tame
alas you were busy and my heart was maim
I felt beauty only when I saw me through thy eie
I tried my best but you let me die.

Goodbye my lover
I have sworn
I shall have a funeral
oh so alone.

I shall buck in my sleep
under the sheets
and pretend you were watching me.
just like you did when over me

Fuck you love.
I wanted to.
If only you had wanted to,too

I always wanted to drink you silly and dance your lap
like galaxies and constellations
spread out
undone clasp

I was a child
apple of your eie

When only I wanted to be the woman
the woman on your thigh

_____________________________________________________________________
Children show scars like medals. Lovers use them as secrets to reveal. A scar is what happens when the word is made flesh.
- Loenard Cohen

conformity.

2010-08-15T23:40:00.000+05:30

“The critic has to educate the public; the artist has to educate the critic.”

- Oscar Wilde

butterflies and hurricanes.

2010-07-16T01:03:00.001+05:30

The world was passing by, like a hurricane to the eye. Caught in the middle of it was all of my soul. Bruised and blooh, sat there untamed. Oh those songs will never be the same again. The clouds will never rain. The birth of a nation was in its destruction a zen once said. And tonight, I shall wear the dark robes of a nihilist and thorns on my head. Bleed from within and smile with my eyes. Walk like a man, secretly fearing all.

Prologue:

She was the lady of broken dreams hidden in laughter peels. Painted on her face were the clandestine secrets, the wind borrowed and dispersed into the stale of midnight. When she raised an eyebrow, arching it with subtlety. Men dropped their guns and rose to their manliness. Oh how she wished she could play the harp and be a celestial clout in a lost blackhole.

She had walked many rocky ridges decorated by falling autumn leaves. Crushed.The brook seemed to gurgle tamely as she walked by. Matted were her locks, like honey combs.Her heart was the forest fire. Burning down mercilessly.
And as the horizon took birth in the skies womb ,
many wandering souls, she fed.
Out of her own gatherings ,
she bled, she bled.
Walking by the shore to wash away her woes.
The sea was an invitation of the heavens and just one last step. She would vanish into eternity.
Eternity of the dead.

Cantata:

As she pulled her parasol of seasons,
dusting snowflakes
the hem of her skirt lifted,
a rain of wet wild
many a men, wasted

and somewhere ashore a cemetery
the wolf howled
serenading the moon,
and there she was,
dancing down the cathedral steps
“Mother Mary came to me”
wearing an autumn leaf crown
on her head.

A curtsy and a bow
Who was that, above?

She chuckled
And flipped her head
Her paramour washing
Into the eyes of the beholder
Like a wave that comes to shelter
And just like that,
Back into the ocean she fled.

Elegy :

And as I got up and left the edge of the earth. Back into lifelessness of self, I accepted reality and its fate and listened to the violins in my head. A sonata of parodies, paradise and perdition.
A sense of loss at its best. A fluttering butterfly now dying, came and sat across my palm. And I wondered of its cocoon ? Those colours, delighted many eyes and many lovers held hands. But tonight, who shall lament this little angels death?

back and forth.

2010-07-16T01:02:00.000+05:30

Dear friend,

The horizon was beautiful as I held the conch.Distant resonance of the entirety of the universe,I heard.
Like the rolling of mighty waves into the womb of wet sand.
Back and forth.Back and Forth.

I walked the shore line, circle after circle.And somewhere between the end and the begin, I was a bird.
Eating out of the palm of Mother Earth.Flying freely and shooting into cold indigo starlight.Maybe I was a satellite.Who knew, do we ever?

I live by the shadows and swim into its umbra.Because water takes the shape of the vessel.And I sometimes talk about politics and the Nation.
I see floral skirts in summer skies and gusts of wind and some fun.
I saw love and it is,vain.

I saw years and autumn leaves.
I saw young lovebirds and the fall.
The fall of what? You tell.
I see life and I see a mirror.

Telephones ring and I feel like reality.
And I don't like it,really.Because with it come the past and future.
So I go back to hiding in umbrae,swimming in fathomless oceans,diving into perdition and my bed was on fire.
So I dusted the burnt bedsheet, put the ashes out.
Warmed my palms in mittens and forgot about stimuli.
I read the news paper and shed too many tears.
I mocked the government for far too many years.
I washed love off my linen.So what? Do I pick weapons and march to war?
Hallelujah, I'm a bum.

And life still goes on, like the rolling of mighty waves into the womb of wet sand.
Back and forth.Back and Forth.

dark coffee and thundershowers,with a hint of lonely

2010-06-18T21:45:00.000+05:30

And the evening bulb had lived its fair due. It flickered. Like a dying butterfly. Faded into the darkness of the room, its tungsten electrified, one last time, before it broke beyond repair. Virginity taken.

As a silhouette stepped out of the darkness into its parasol, it was like waves of rain lashing against the choppy sea rocks. Or maybe it was the darkness’ mind. It does, if you could identify you’d know, it has its own mind. Silhouettes and darkness in shades of their umbrae and penumbrae cascaded against the polished wooden chocolate brown floorboards. In the distance, much closer to the lavishly sized window, one could see golden embroidery on the ivory carpet. I liked carpets in the skies, where they can fly into an Arabian Night.

And as the waves rolled along and the room grew darker to weary eyes. Lightning struck and in it, glimmered the most magnificent skinned woman. What moved in the darkness was the cape of her fine dress. She lay there propped against the bed side.

Beautifuller than moonlit shores and orchids in wild paradise. The giant ruby against her chest, brought her eyes out.
Her eyes, as pale as the distance of the sea, promised eternity. Her tresses worn against her bare shoulders, sliding like a waterfall onto the rest of her bodice.
And if she could sing, you fall in love, my child.
But alas, she is the corpse bride.

shambles.

2010-06-18T21:36:00.000+05:30

And as I condemn all men
of this world.
All I think about is your chin,
on the nape of my neck,
never again.

all men of this world.

whirlwinds and there after

2010-06-15T10:44:00.002+05:30

Inebriate serpentine rain clouds
that danced beneath your locks,
of waterfalls of curls that cascade.
Such was the warmth of the fireplace
that burned down the wine cellars
and drapes caught flames.

After all waterfalls empty into
churning oceans
mighty waves;
And a drowning sailor
Never sails the south seas again.

The sheets sprawled
like the sunny skies;
Wet rain clouds bereft
the bed left unmade
the shivering thunder unfelt
the words unsaid.
Down one’s own highway
man and maiden, left.

Because.

2010-05-04T21:26:00.000+05:30

my secrets that were fantastical dreams to your ears
like lullabies of children who's old men fought the revolution.
and visits of wallowing pride to graveyards and morgues.
let me design a wreath of honor worn across my forehead as thorns.
and if fullstops were seen by you between my sobs.
you'd know i don't speak like chewing gum.
but for all that was spent and all that is left to say.
i will run.
run through the wind,away.

bittersweet

2009-12-18T18:15:00.008+05:30

1.
And I romanticized paper planes clipped to clothing lines while you wrote bruised notes of dying carnal lust; and then the clock shrugged midnight.
2.
As I snuck beneath the pale cotton sheet, wrung and hung tied so tight. Like paper neath sun and its light, You shrugged and pulled me in along with the freshly washed rose scented linen sheet that stiffened through day,now night. Cause you knew I’d peel to just your sight.
3.
Teasing wind in the curve of my mouth we tasted the dust of heavens pure plight. Oh the song lasted, all day that quarter of a night.
4.
the print of your finger on the chinaware out from which poured like hot breaths on your elfin ears like drinking earl grey tea in watery milk and sugary lies. Like train journeys in winter which went through winding tunnels; through the damp smell of lavender and moist ancient grime, it chugged past station and tunnel alike. and that's why I'd say I like traveling, you together on this ride. because it has no end, till final destination arrives. - and in your indigo ocean paired eyes, I’d smell the tingle of mud soaked rain and sea salts making quick dreams through a fluff of soft and many cheek pecks and then i remembered to plan breakfast for next time so save the end of the song through tonight. as you always leave stealthily on monday mornings for work ; - And then we kissed under the arch of midnight dreams on lofty pillows and in the warmth of the cleft of your arm. wasted and spent within as we fell apart on the same sheet that once lay on the clothes line. - and i groggily wake up to the rhythmic weekend and your snuggle at sunrise and wrap myself in your side of the bed sheet trying to sniff you out into my button shaped nostrils. - as the sun pierced through my eyes, light and darkness together this time. I had dreamed of bittersweet goodbye.

detachment.

2009-11-20T03:16:00.001+05:30

bhikshandehi

ennui

2009-08-20T23:50:00.002+05:30

u n i

the melancholy of romance.

2009-08-20T23:37:00.001+05:30

and if each drop
of the most tormented
fall of rain
fell and drenched
those pearls pf sweat
that trickle down
the silhouettes of pain

it would be like those
words you left
unsaid
and i would bathe
in nothingness

and if each yawn
withheld
during those nights
that perturb the mind

in lost thoughts
of frozen memories
that your head
thawed
into my lips
leaving it bereft
of thine own
while you stepped back
just like the berries
left uncolored
by a coating of thick snow

I'd drink all your poisons.

and if pain was
only agony
your red bean
on my cherry
would disprove

those moments
like bubbles of faith
would burst
just
in one stoke of lightning
that colored
the flush on my cheek

as you gave rhythm
to my movement

and this is pain
for it shall remain
etched in my skin
for the depths of hell
are only the gravity
of the measure
of its nadir

for if hell
was the worst
I’d confess
To all,
That it wouldn’t be worse
than your leaving my womb bereft.

hannibal

2009-06-16T00:26:00.003+05:30

Those magic rings of menthol she exhaled.
Without using her fingers, she puffed away.
A breath, a curl of a lip.
The rings levitated in the air.
Vanishing in pendulous motion into the surrounding air.
She stopped tapped the butt to its end and crushed the cigarette or what's left.
A swig of ruby red liquor to start the evening, a round of red wine before taking swigs of white rum.
Beer was welcome as a snack substituting brunch in the time after evening.
And then in a thrifty yawn she entered into her room, tip toeing, she lived in her small apartment, quite small for all her belongings, the one's she had over time.
The plus sized shirt slid off her shoulder blades, it was his.
Or maybe hers, now in his absence and deficiency.

In thrifty yawns she moaned her last sound and probably the only meaningful one.
Cynicism kills, curiosity just becomes a habit that if not sabotaged leads to its occurrence that renders melancholy and thoughts of death to an extent which becomes pleasurable.

Good night world, as she cocooned in the thick layers of fluffy cotton a muffler the only piece of clothing on her body.
Apart from the cotton rug.

She held her belly and tightly clenched all of its lower.
Her second eye shutting, a trickling tear.
A drop of blood from the fingertip
or far worse from the throat.
Death knocked upon and she knew she'd choose life.
Being bruised was too much of a familiarity to be amused by a strumming guitar sans the mesmerize of the thunderbird, that got us in each other's arms.
The blues, oh honey , Meredith whispered.
And in a lullaby of a loving woman she shut my eye lids tight and clenched my soft skin, kneading it as I drifted into the world.
World.
Heh.

She woke up quickly, rolled tobacco in a rizzla and let out a puff after the light.
She always used a filter so as not to burn her thick pink lips.

She blew smoke above her head as she lay down.
She looked at the mirror on the ceiling.
Mirrors were a solace.
Sometimes iconically ironic of the past.

She drifted finally, she was simple, sleep saved her from the complexities of the forbidden mind.
The drop of wine across her neck trickled down drying across her bosom.
She looked outside of the window and her eyes shut.
In a last conscious breath she smiled and then curled her lip into a pursed line.
Heartbeats were made of those smiles.
Now they just put her to sleep.
As a habit.

Goodnight, world.

birthday week

2009-06-01T01:19:00.001+05:30

The pack of wolves walk by
Ravens swivel higher skies
in the mighty dark plumes
cawing the most defying agony

The raven shrieks in harmony of against
the deafening silence of victory
Soaring the most higher of elysian
reflecting skies

In the bristle of wind against
blades of grass
tushe' ing through air

the eagle flew
ravaging life

Walked in all its might
a step
two step
then
Looked up
whisking the air
with a prod of the chin to gaze
at what lay ahead
a glint of fiery blaze

in zig zag mazes
borne across its back
the tiger stood
bathed in shattering silences
all so high

the phoenix shot up to the horizon
burnt by the passion of birth

And exhausting the womb of the sky
engulfing all of fire and then into the oceans
it drew a somber veil
to paint a misty haze of night
which was but the
darkest of black in vacuum
of destruction
its deafening mourns
not one near the eie
and this was what the passion of birth evoked
all of destruction
and heralded by a small glow worm
which warmed the ice sprinkled skies

And through the point of darkness
pitched in through the circle of life
Roared He,
piercing through silence
shattering the skies
its veils
its sublime cold beauty
to its best the radiance of warmth

shook his majestic mane
walked past
and all mesmerized;
lead astray by strength
now involved with its intricacies
walking by
in mighty strides
raking cool dust clouds from the womb of life

Ars est celare artem

Abyssus abyssum invocat

Amicus.

the underdog he was
till born

In gruff heavy breaths of elixir
Strode past the Lion.

Optical Optimism.

2009-05-22T19:52:00.003+05:30

And so I walked upon some dry leaves.
All crumbling to dust.
Wondering where all those mental handicaps had wandered.

And so I took a boat to the shore across
and swore to find
why rowing was of no use
as the angry river flowed by.

Were they lined across a grave?
the most wilted poppy
across the heart of the
cold intricate tombstone
that seemed to cynically remind
of how it adorned death
till it wilted away.

I walk past the ocean
letting all of my senses
to flit right above
the retreating tide
soothing my silences
drowning me in its still.

Across the expanse of crystal
and its playful lies
of light and water
stretched out to the distant sun
I looked under the ocean bed
and in empty oysters
that didn't bear pearls.

And as a flash of lightning
caught the eie
were perceived in my ear
in echoes of thunder
I once more looked up
to the heavens above
and noticed not the elysian lawns
but the grim veil
of the lull before a storm.

And then the cliff
and scented pine and rosewood trees
and then was the edge
and beneath lay eternity or what
the eie couldn't see.
A single stone
was never heard of after it rolled off.

And around the mast
fluttered strongest of linen
that still was moved by the breeze
and from the ship
I looked above
and before I knew the journey
was at the end.

So I still walked home
in dreary steps
and huddled inside a rug
watching rain drops
slither down the window sill
and breathing across the pane
in hot steams
doused in aroma of coffee
and then pitter patter
on the ledge
reminded me again
of thoughts of vex

And then lay sight
upon my eye
a twinkle in
the distant sky
and believe it
so,
because I tell
It told me
to stop finding

It said to me
If you look through
eyes of hell
of what's left
and the worst
It shall be what
you shall get

And then it broke out
into fire
and drowned into
the ocean
and as I watched
and stopped and stooped
I knew how
secrets could kill.

:)

Pagan Thoughts.

2009-05-02T16:45:00.003+05:30

Her bangle slipped and ran a quick swivel through rounds of itself, in itself, running directionless.
A sudden expansion.
The bangle withdrew and like a dying swordsman, legs cut, grueling to keep combat, it fell.
Swinging the sword in honor of death.
It fell on the cold mosaic floor.
Its rubies scratched in dust.
Glistening untouched.

In a mighty swivel of her hips, she walked, the water, from her hair contouring the midst of her wet thigh, along her dainty legs, as she walked to it.Lunging forward, in an arch of a mighty monument rich in sensual intricacies.She picked it up, pouted her lip in the tiniest circle, perfect for air to pass.
To blow off the dust.

In a silly twitch of her bushy shaped, eyebrows, she jerked her upper body in a cruise as she struggled to fit the bangle through her wrist.

A distant whiff of hot sambrani in the cool evening air.
Right through her moist hair.

And then she disappeared behind the shelled veil, separating a part of her room, to show the fresh flesh hidden and opaqued underneath it.

And then she dressed.

His breath ran out long back.
He survived long enough , to gasp his last words, left unsaid.

Thank you.

"This idoll which you terme Virginitie,
Is neither essence subject to the eie,
No, nor to any one exterior sence,
Nor hath it any place of residence,
Nor is't of earth or mold celestiall,
Or capable of any forme at all."
- To Lust.

"Was this the face that launched a thousand ships,
And burnt the topless towers of Ilium?
Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss.—
Her lips suck forth my soul; see where it flies!—
Come, Helen, come, give me my soul again.
Here will I dwell, for heaven be in these lips,
And all is dross that is not Helena."
- To Love.

Seasons.

2009-04-25T11:47:00.004+05:30

The tuft of of lift
like that of ruffles of the
dress
of a spanish tressed
broken into fervor
of a fast beat.
The once, spring
in my staunch walk.

As autumn blew willows
and acorns hardened
in prepare of winter and its
symphonies.

Compilations.
those rain drops that brim within my mouth
as i shut my eyes tight
embracing brevity
trickling down my shoulders
my bosom
cupped between ravines of
the hard of frozen buds
and gravel across its roots
like the shrivel of a nipple.
just like the wholesome taste
of it in your mouth
to the brim.

Winter echoed and whined
the ghosts
whistled past the
white flowers
adorning the cleft of the
bushes on the right.

Swiveled scorched
in the bright of the radiance of sun
following her soap soaked feet
into the womb of hot sand
like crabs biting toes.
just small baby ones
that get crushed
because its for you.
thats when summer flocked
upon the hem of a skirt
shriveling them to unravel
stockings
that teased from beneath.

The blackest of rain
turned purple
after crimson dowsed it
to the grey of time
and then simmered a purple.
The Purple of timeless stains
embedded in a classic snapshot
of black and white
under the Eiffel like light house
shwooshing through the air
all its brilliance in the reflections
of it in the water
the same
over which rocked our boat
as you row'd
us to the shore.
The only shore with the light
that shines.
In little twinkling lights
in your eyes.
Of corsets and coffee shots
that followed.
In the moist dew
on hay of pure viscosity.
We floated, oh did we?
And only clouds could
tell, how it felt
to carry the light heart
weighed down and set free
by love.

By Jove, How
is this.
But a tale of Eos and tryst.
In hymns and chants
of the october rust.

And in lieu
Karma, is burst.

Lets live those seasons.
That as I walk everyday
through death,
remember,
that, its this dream
in my realities,
that I pine.
That keeps me
walking through
dirt
falling apart in it
each time
and ingrained
as sea serpents
un-entwine
from beneath
the churned waves
of an eternal splash
in emerald oceans.

A cacophony of distant
exotic bird whistles
echoing through opacity
of water
diminishing
as fishes gurgle into my nostrils
of secrets of the pearl.
Beneath and bequeathed
between
the most feminine of flesh.

And as I lost breath inside
my face in
a large bowl
of iced water.

This wait.
Won't be long.
These seasons.
Will pass.
Just live.
This time like
the last was divine.

Likes

2009-04-20T21:06:00.004+05:30

The likes of harem women
clad in feather liken silk
ist thou fairer like milk
or the dark of hair like

A touch like a tickle
some soft like feeding bottle's nipple
the like of a cracked lipp
felt soft and smeared like honeyapple.

PyrettaBlaze

2009-04-16T20:20:00.003+05:30

In a tryst of exist and exit
there lay a prodigy
to manifest
what begun has been
on it bestowed
the curse of its
end as it is but
a servile birth
that must reveal the real
eclipsed and binary
before the wounds engulf.

To be or not to be.
Its all in the mind.
Either existence for itself.
Or existence for the end.
I can choose, so can you.

You are the first
to be my last
These are my final words

Summer is a bitch.

2009-04-16T07:15:00.000+05:30

A few eons back
when sound propelled barren lands
whirling through parched,
thirsty water beds
waiting to be fed

there lay clandestine virtues
of woman and womb
and then the end
and he who knows.

In a tryst of exist and exit
there lay a prodigy
to manifest
what begun has been
on it bestowed
the curse of its
end as it is but
a servile birth
that must reveal the real
eclipsed and binary
before the wounds engulf.

To be or not to be.
Its all in the mind.
Either existence for itself.
Or existence for the end.
I can choose, so can you.

Chugli Chor karey khujli :\

2009-04-14T11:29:00.008+05:30

So it had been a long day and in bare essentials, I started rummaging my drawer.
I found these pack of cards.
Really old but brand new.
I like keeping them straight and stiff, like they're supposed to be.
Also just so that you know, I hate doggy years on my books.

But there was only one problem.
I could no longer build the pack of cards into a castle.
I just couldn't, I tried.

I would build the second floor after mounting cards on the first row and all of it would fall.
Sigh.
Though I've promised myself that I shall soon build all those cards into one single structure.
I will.

So its been almost four months of self imposed rehab.
Though celibacy is far from reached :P

So me and mom were talking yesterday and she got me singing.
I sang for her, for almost an hour and a half and she listened while I sang in mourning for my missing tanpura.
I sang.
Yes.
So well I'm taking mom out for a happy time today, she's going to pay cause I haves no job :P
But hello, isn't organizing also about earning money :P
I organized the schedule for having fun.

Ooowee

I really want to hit the spa.
Krissi had promised we'd go together.
But bah.
She said we'd have mud baths and honey blunts.
So this is dedicated to you sugarlove<3 where ever you are right now, I hope you and angelcupcake are safe and happy.

Also to one of the most pretty and composed teachers I ever had.
Mrs Khansaheb and her entire family, you all will be in my thoughts and affirmations.
They met with an accident on their way back to Mumbai City.
Entire family lost in one fucking journey.
I will always miss seeing you in those starched saris and perfect shade of matching lipstick.
Though its almost been years since we met.
I know you'd recognize me as much as I miss you right now
=]

Well today was bad.
I had to get a haircut.
CHEWING GUM
Its looks pretty nice.
But my hair is short.
Stupid Lo'real Salons.
The guy offered me tang and said he'd give all to make me feel comfortable about my hair.
Stupid man trying to flirt.
I actually told him in anger if he really wants to help he should give me a solution to grow hair as quick as it got cut :(
Ok, so I'm touchy about my hair and I know I wouldn't have whined as much if I had decided on the haircut anyway.
But but :(

That is how my hair used to look anyway.

So I go to meet the girls, tomorrow mostly, if I decide not to kalti
So anyway I shall have updates on latest sales and gossip around about and a quick run through through nostalgia or what is left.

So I'm writing critical analysis of a few plays.
Maybe I will just feel good enough to write a script
=]

Till then hope for me
ummpf
even you and you.

SO LAST BUT NOT THE LEAST
cuz thats how things end anyway

READ the next picture carefully :P

ooYaY

2009-04-14T11:08:00.003+05:30

So guess who that is?
Yes yes
It is indeed anonykitteh.
He accuses me of stealing his blanket at nights.
OgodIlovebaldmen*drool*
But he's already taken :(

*waterworks*

So now I cooked breakfast for me.
Eggs and grape juice.
So ta till I get back and write my next post which will be very vedddddddy sooooon.
gaa gaa gooo gooo :|

besos and bosa
:\
thats kisses in urdu as well :P
ok ok

The one that will never be.

2009-04-09T18:40:00.003+05:30

Like the petals of a flower ready to shrivel
at the touch
of anything but not of its own
but the flower has to bloom
the other will reach beauty and
wither away with duty
And the budding tendril waiting to
untwine from the shrivel of umbilici
will live each chapter
blossoming and
knowing its fate
to surrender to incarnation
of part and parcel
such is the mother of a daughter,
as is she to her own.

To Motherhood.

lesser mortal

2009-04-08T01:31:00.001+05:30

And as the last of the rain pours by
a silent mourn was let out
To fire and what can be doused
the rain was left unaccounted for.

the forest fire rages on.

Harlequin of desire.

2009-04-07T23:54:00.004+05:30

And the curve of that mighty horizon
light a fire, lit against the soft of skin
a mighty fall
into depths
of the raging whirlpool
against the valleys of mighty ocean waves crashed
as the insides of the fragrance of spices
churns, into a plethora of sparkling cooling feathers

And then from between legs,like a flamingo
ready to fled
he was mesmerized by birth
of feelings
hers.
Inside of him
as words ran along his fingertips
instead off his lips
they were occupied
by moist clandestine breath
of a universe of secrets
a rub of ice, the stiff of skin
and as the breaths get shorter
and closer to the hollow of his ear
a spread was consumed over his mighty bulges
as the parasol spread
with a warm coolth from her lip
as my ear went snip
between the pearl of lip
as lay her full drop round pearls
that lay on the satin sheets
as he ripped
as she gripped
tightened the rope
like a mighty bird ready
rocking midst the ocean over a stone
it wanted to alight
Alighting and alternating
hip and lip
And then you descend down, mountain
drenched in rain, whose
arched against her neck
as she blows menthol toothpaste kisses
and wraps up
in silk and walks to toast butter
and some morning grub
bed and fed

-

Adapted from the sexuality in the conversation between Jessica and Lorenzo,combineering nature and its elements to portray the love they made while at Portia's house.
Act Five, Scene One, Merchant of Venice.
Dedicated to Marlowe.
Who was the most subtly provoking writer.
Merchant of Venice was originally adapted from Marlowe's , Jew Of Malta.
Shakespeare is like the Jim Morrison of lyrics.
No offense to admirer's of either.
I enjoy both equally for other reasons.
Dedicated to lust, stemming from love.
To please and be pleasured by one.
Like a fresh whiff of ground coffee sipped and stemming from it the want to never share, your cup.
To faith.

The Day.

2009-04-06T22:02:00.002+05:30

Darjeeling Tea.
Tagore.
Russian Circles.

I just hope all noisy little nincompoops who disgrace the peace in a Barista suddenly go mute.

I need a job.
Employ me.

I was walking along pali after looking for anklets.
I like hanging them all over my room.
I misplaced my ghungrus.
But one pair that hangs from any place that can have something hanging from it.
So anyway I want to dedicate Black Dog to all those assimilated beautiful women dying of claustrophobia of the Bandra air because of too many of the same kind.
Too much eye candy is an over kill.
Hmmpf.
So anyway like always I ended waiting for facebaby and then we talked over Subway salad and I ate truffle XD
I quite enjoyed her company like I always do.
Though the comfort of my empty house after a dental appointment for I don't know what.
I cancelled cause I don't want dreaded news about a cavity :(
My first, if at all.
Clove oil is good.
Though it makes you spit a lot.
And then I get tempted to blow spit bubbles which is unhygienic and not so appealing to anyone except a few decrepit retards who enjoy this felony with me :P
Again did I mention facebaby :P
I didn't complain about waiting cause now you owe me lots of lens moving thingys.
Yes, I'm not weird, Ive never had spectacles and I get amused and fascinated by people who can move they're contact lenses inside their eye.
:P

I wish I was taller.
Like six feet or something.
I'm only fiveseven:(
And Toothi will complain about how I'm a whiner and I never make an effort to look like a woman.
She was advising me on her almost yearly trips to see me and upgrade my knowledge on latest fashion and make up.
She says the internet is very useful and I must watch you tube videos to enhance my looks.
Lmao.
Shesocute.
She wrote in my birthday card, cuz she knows I prefer written and made items over gifts, unless they're thoughtful.
That she would have married only me if I were a guy and that whether or not I like it, I have only her and I'm stuck
*turnsscarlet*
And she told me I should apply a slight pink matte lip shit.
I settled for winter grape balm that I own.
She tch'ed me and ended the conversation by reminding me to buy mascara called voluminous or something.

Chamchambaby is mad at me cause she thinks I'm ignoring her.
I'll buy her a croissant and settle for a beer in return which she'll takes sips of while taunting me about how it is fattening and all that.
And then will gorge a plate of dragon chicken.
I think I'll just buy her that.

So anyway I'm bored now.
And I want to really complete my article on the stock market but first I must stuff myself.
Cause I ate only
1.Cornflakes(breakfast)
2.Darjeeling tea, gingerlemon tea (lunch)
3.chocolate truffle (while facebaby tempted me with meatballs) I can't eat chicken anymore.
Really.
So anyway Bon apetit to all the foodies.
Who imagine food to be a form of redemption when nothing else is more interesting.

Dinner and some telly XD
YAY
I love watching weekly telly :\
Ok BYE now.

I'm bored :(
Really.
Job.
Please
PLEASE

*rolls over the floor*

Ganoderma

2009-04-04T12:16:00.003+05:30

My blog is acting up like a possessed barracuda.
The leprechaun uncle next door reminds me of the stoned rabbit when he and me were grabbing breakfast some weeks ago.
My blog doesn't let me post.
It inserts dates it likes more.
It eats posts after I've posted them.

Stupid Blog.
No, nice blog.
Like men, who you need to butter before you get in bed with.
Those to whom that a woman not, but a harlot of desire.
Yes.
I hate Indian men.
I have curves, do not facilitate its existence by the precariously dirty thought in the womb of your ugly mind to possess the frosted dew that covetously shrivels in the coveted touch of love.
It is not for those that undress before the morning light shone in though.

Lets talk about the Stock market in our country and its ever promising profits.
Just that they are still just promises.
The Bull Market and a monopolized and aped stock market of our Country, cease to not only disagree each other the same thought from which they were coined.But surprisingly the stupendous profits are limited to distribution among Brokers.
So I shall be a broker.
This is my decided career.

I don't mind breaking a few limbs even.

I would train like Uma Thurman or probably be bleathed by a psychotic childhood memory that re surfaced thirty years later into a traumatic mental illness that gives me not only another personality all together but also the strength of ten elephants.
For a woman that's a lot.

Maybe I should be a Hit Man.
I'd get to play a few guns and the liquor will run down my unbleached chin.

I could be a teacher and have an empty class to tend to.

Or maybe I could listen to The Beatles and sing Let it Be.
Hoping Mother Mary will bestow me with her oh so golden throne.

I'm tired of the people around me for whom religion is nothing but an excuse to unaccept change.

I could work at a BPO, of course introduced by a country more financially stable than our own.
Or trying to stabilize its sharp profits from crashing as rapidly by being a parasite to our own economy.
I could work day and night and earn more for no work.
But whatever happened to the Fruit of Labor.
And then not be able to withstand the strain and succumb to health and its demands.

I could get married to a rich engineer or a doctor or even an IT professional, as mentally and physically and not to mention hormonally challenged.
And could wait at home in the ardor of a well endowed and cultured wife, while of course he explores the possibilities and expertise of the newly appointed secretary after the old one was fired.

Ok, I won't be gender biased.
Maybe the poor IT man who is screwing the saturated IT sector over and over again while it feebly sustains itself from a major collapse.
Just maybe his wife is screwing the milkman.
But guess what, you can't force your wife on the first day of marriage to have sex and then call her outdated because she is uncomfortable.
Guess what, you are the one who encourage her to screw when she was not comfortable.
Guess what now.
She'll do the same.
Cause you can't give her now, what you wanted from her, because of course late working hours at office compels you to do so.

Some how I am forced to wonder why sex is so intervened in every aspect of mentality and action.
Whether it is economy, human resources, health , education .
Yes it sells.
Apparently, I am taught, everyday.

The thirst to explore a single body time and again like it was carved only in the intricacies of your mind.
The want to make love and lie naked in the cold of moonlight and be woken up by warmth incomparable to the rising sustaining sun.
Because that same warmth emanates from the virtues and juices from raw love made, reeking of wild demeanor.

If you stuck to screwing one woman.
You wouldn't have to worry about finding a woman who'd screw ten other men when you confess your love.
I shudder every time I type screw.

Oh yes, I'm purist.
Not secular, mind you.

Gender bias is a myth.
You can do what you want to.
Irrespective of the nature of the act.
But the adjectives that shall be associated to yourself shall not be as flattering as it would be when associated with a man.
If a man fucks, he scores.
If a woman fucks, shes a slut.
And when the scorer fucks a slut all he can think of is how he is on top.
If making love was all about being on top you should stop spasming.
Stick to whips and nipple clamps.

In a country that has sex and lives in denial about it.
That leches and undresses women in public to contemplate if she's worth a screw.

That encourages suicide as the easiest way of escape.

For whom patriotism is a few men at the border and standing up for the anthem is a mandatory social norm to be accepted.

And fuck you to all those that have questions.
But no answers to it.
Or those that can question but won't imply the answers in their head from which the questions rooted from and resurrect them to being for a better and apparently modified change.
I wonder as humans if we have ever been able to graciously accept change.
As far as I can see we have always had a solution to encumber change with a concept to avoid its acceptance and the difficulty to accept it.

Have we ever graciously accepted it?

Most of us live a wasted life mostly following societal norms and the need to change with time.
As opposed to the sorry state we have pounded ourselves into.
The inability to change appropriately with change.
It is us.
We envision and symbolize it.

If society has evolved and monogamy is a passe.
Why do you still want to screw in a closed bed room.
Bastards.
Do it in the open.
Just like you'd rape woman woman after woman in your pathetic mind.
And do not pass it of as appreciation of beauty.
I have intellectual rights over my beauty.
And trust me, I can sue you for it.
So bad.

Oh yes what can I do to someone who shags to an image of me without my permission.
Except the want to make him aware of it in public and want to castrate him?
Why the hell is the porn industry suddenly not enough to satiate the wants and needs of the hormone.
Are we such slaves to humors in our body and then hypocrites to our own blood by then giving a balltalk about individuality and survival instincts.
How is this related?
Yes it is.
If you can't control your urges and set them to indulgences and necessity and just amply let it go overdrive, you have no right to talk about individuality and trying to survive a rat race down the drain.

Fuck you , you and you.
Because I'm a woman and I don't particularly feel an affinity to the opposite gender on this particular day.
And it also reminds me of a particular incident when a guy spread rumors of me being lesbian cuz I refused to indulge in casual sex.
Hah.
Actually I refused to date him :|
But anyway kittrawroo says I can rant about men cuz its my birth right and its relevance doesn't matter to the accused.
So kittazoid says back :P
If all women stopped giving making love, men would rpobably suddenly realize its implications
But then Kittarawroo will of course point out that women are not the godesses they come across as either.
So thus ends another mirage on gender and its prejudices.

To you and you and you.
Female, male and you.
Happy fighting GENDER prejudices.
Now you shall know, its something you can't help.
But still you can WHINE
and WHINING AND CHOCOLATE AND WINE BEAT ANYTHING especially with menthol cigs and a long shampoo under the shower.

YAY

36 Degrees.

2009-03-27T01:27:00.007+05:30

They spoke quickly.
In crisp hoarse voices, like butter on fresh brown bread, liberated of bicarbonates, they seemed to be more like organic carbon components, that combine, like heroin.
They walked in short confined mechanical army steps.
Then the fusion of finding their being in its essence.
Pride and Power.
Army cuts were suddenly wildly grown in the Power of not being questioned.
Top buttons were undone, sometimes intertwined in its fabric were stains reeking of cheap whiskey, lolling down their rugged chins.
Or maybe the world was never ready to acknowledge the hidden punk lurking in the very intrinsic value of the living plasm successfully increasing their audacity bestowing them with longevity.

She was waiting, trying to paint a dainty look over her face.
The effort was some what like an erased portrait with intricate expressions drawn and re - drawn, and erased vigorously and incomplete.
Her eyes were not like the smudged line of perfectly applied kohl, that spoke of a lover's lust, but that of the very victim imposed to forced lust.
The had further left dry smudges lower, on her upper cheek, dabbed by the salty tears that evaporated, exothermic, fired by bad memories.

Blood shooting through throbbing veins fueled by consumption of alcohol right through the cornea of the eye

It was like waiting for a cold morning to pass by as you feel your body tighten up in a warm spasm as noon creeped by.
Pausing and replaying a song.
And while the click of the button sounded pause, you quickly heard a dog howl in the distance, being kicked away by a pedestrian for coming in his way.
And after that you don't bother pausing again.

The song was now blinding every other sound.
Like being lead into a plethora of white sound till your ears tear into your inner drums and resonate in your head, like a twitching dying insect, grappling with air to build an epitaph of dust that would dissolve in the air and then fall to death.

Her eyes were as blank as could be.The white throbbing pulp was yellow due to exposure.
The was a slight dust in the air.
Quite claustrophobic.

The whiff of massacre in the air.

The prowling fear around the corner.
Yes, her, doing a swirl around the pillars, in those loosely flowing ruby red silks.
Once a flag of shimmering white.
Now soaked in red blood.
Shriveled in neglect.

As she looked on by, still not a step farther.
She saw the last of the burnt flag, brought down.

The flavor of the atmosphere was ubiquitous.
It reeked of the pungency of a ripped apart conscience seering in the bitterness and forced pleasure of the dirt of drunken breath.
The irony of a bone marrow fucked filthily and left to smear itself in the nothingness of want.
Wrung and clawed like a piece of clothing used to clean the floors.
Soaked in a faint smell of putrid flesh and phenol.
becca' screamed and jumped off the terrace.
The pudgy baby in her arms, flew into the air, right in tow.

Those bullets in the air.
Right through the tonsils, the mercenary rip of, off, the glottis.
The dark veiled pink womb, sometimes, covered by the white of milky skin.
The dead body's of haplessly slaughtered women, made to be carved intricately, repeatedly pleasured forcefully while they swallowed bullet after bullet begging for their respect.
A shallow gruff laugh of clawlike teeth, waiting to shear sheep, in the hard cold fungus smelling air, made so by the rugged pack of religious army.

Uncle Homer
His dog was shot through the upper jaw and left in its own fly swarmed pool of blood on the freshly moved lawn, heavily freckled by plaster and cement powder.
Foam from the sofas, and his jade weaved english coats lay in shreds.
They had gunned the place down during evening tea.

Aunt Helen and her flower beds.

But she hid.
Ara.
Like a glowering worm.
Twitching in its grave.
Flickering.
Not wanting to explore the outside in fear of being crushed before the moon disappeared.
The butterflies were more like moths, now.
Hovering over the stench.

They had come home too, she hid.
She was best.

She overheard them talk in a language that sounded mixed with spit and grime of a heavily accented tone.

She shuffled past scruffily.
Like a quiet spider, rubbing its miniscule hair against a surface lucky enough to feel.
She'd have said daffodils, but running in directions that sounds propel from to get to safety was one of the most difficult tasks given.
She had to pass her predators to get away from them.

She hadn't known or cared much.
But they talked about survival.
About men in divine cloaks who swept away misery and so as to who's misery was most swept away.
They were butchers.
Brutal.
Bloodshot eyes.
Dry lips.
No compassion , just a cold demeanor to conquer over anything that was ever inanimate.
Some said it is wrong to please the desire, sin.
Some said don't get attached to what was made to combat desire.
So what, now?
They killed each other.
Like that.

She couldn't care less.
She just had to run scottfree.
Pay a price for wrath and then the agony of the environment all victims of wrath.

She walked through the debri of house after house, through chimneys, seeing naked women.
Blood soaked white wash smelling of turmeric and cinnamon.
Sometimes, a half dead baby with a ripped state of physical extreme unbearable to the naked mind.
Susceptible to the feasting maggots of discord upon being subjected to such gore.

She walked by.
She couldn't cry, it was a long way, she had to keep a steady breath.
A quick rest in peace for a good soul.
A mother here, butchered with her blossoming womb.
By those, butchers.
They could kill.

Her knuckles were quick enough to curdle though, at sights.

She called them that.

They had almost retreated.

War

2009-03-25T01:51:00.003+05:30

Those crackling flames of the bonfire seemed to create an invisible effervescence as it burnt with the air that was wafting the smell of evening ivory flowers.
The trees of which had branches on which sat the finest winter songbirds in the color of the darkest of pure blood, the one waiting to burst out of the finest most polished tip of feminine demure.

She was waiting for the first batch of birds to create a shadow over the porch.
She looked, intently.

She would pierce the tip if she could smell choler in the air.
The whiff of sweat trickling down the labor beaten chiseled features, down like a wave rolling out in the shore, before beating into the boulders courageously yet with the poise of a practiced high class masseuse, the luck of the sweat drop she thought, rolling down very much like the gleaming ball of oyster extracted pearl when she unclasped her pearl necklace and it slid in the time wasted after the unclasping along the mighty curve of her coveted bosom, the sweat drop rolled, in thrifty articulate gallops along the cuts of his bodice, and they'd smoothen out into a run disappearing into his loins.This made her swell in delight.
And the songbirds coo'd as the giant tree shed a blossomed ivory flower a little away from her lap as her long legs curled in a chasm of prayer for him.

Yes, she prayed.

His eyes were sore from the mud in the air.
He was ready to rip, to be ripped.
A familiar roar that had till now threatened the nights of his love, as she lay limp in his arms.
Breathing in quick huffy moans into the circle of his mouth.In the cold mornings of early winter as she tossed in bed.
Clutching him like a stolen prize ready to be sacrificed to the throes of the games of the world, almost anticipating in her frail mind of a tragic end that fate offered her before she could yawn in her sleepy fit.
He crackled his whip, lashing it fiercely in the air.
Creating vacuum.
Atoms whipped in a whirlpool of nothingness.
In place, rose and fell ounces of sand.
Cruising his body like a fleet of royal security.His eyes were shut.
He could hear better then.
And he did, the heavy drone of hot salivated breath that wafted carnivore massacre, he could hear the panting of the pride of the mightiest of animals, the lion , his predator, so he could fetch her the herbs, she would anoint on all the armors and shields in their abode.
It lay across the crowded growth of wild foliage.
Right after the endless stretch of a moat that the animal had found its way around.
In a quick circular movement he would be elliptically parallel to his victim.

He laughed a cough.
His eyes were still shut.

To rip, he thought.

The lion braced its stride in heavier paw shuffles as it eyed its grand offerings of the day, and chased so as to enjoy the smell of crafted flesh before it let the human gamble its sharper animal instincts.

Her fingers tapped in a uniform dance, one in succession of the other.
She suddenly sat still.
She breathed from the ivory flower, the one he'd have put in her hair as he planted wet kisses over her sun dried gleaming skin, draped over the softest of the broadest womanly shoulders.
She broke into an involuntary pink flush.
She knew how accurately he had studied distance and acumen, the bull's eye.
What was more, he though not a disciplinarian was crisp enough to follow these principles in the sparkling moonlight that painted the crystal green ocean as her shoulders were grazed by sand on the deserted oasis , undiscovered , as the made love in nature's crest.
He'd come back to her.
It was just the ticking of seconds of his absence that made her so impatient.
She felt like a scavenger searching in an untread wilderness with thorns hedging the path that secured her from it.
He had measured its distance, as she kissed his bruises.

Her mind was in a kaleidoscope that filtered reality and surrealism that dissolved in her own construed apprehensions.
She believed.
The branches were aflame.
The songbirds were taking off into the evening horizon.
But believing in disbelief as she saw again the intact branches justified her senses.

And in a shrill short cry of frustration she tore open her evening silk coat, inside of which was the finest laced corset in the color deeper than the evening red of the sullen sky.
Animal instincts.
As she stepped into the pond across their backyard.
Cradled among oak trees, like her between his arms, straddled.
She couldn't wait.
The animal in her had run away into the wilderness, far away.
She immersed into the scented pond nurturing flower beds that infested their magic in its womb.
She bathed in it.

The evening air was cool and a fresh shower of sand enveloped the air.
Just following the scents that his olfactory acknowledged.
He was tired of lashing the feather weighted crocodile skinned whip polished and wound in sheaths of finer skinned leather.
The clouds eclipsed by the fleet of returning birds, told him, she was in the pond, by now.
He was man.
She made him the animal.

The lion roared.
He had had enough.
He ran straight into the direction opposite of the wind cutting in zig zags as he jumped onto the back of the lion.
He would ride.
He would ride hell.
Through the animal's hell.
The King of all animals.

He wound the whip into swift coils with quick withdrawal movements and ducked to fall onto the ground and roll over to his feet.
As the animal lay leg tied.

He could wait for a tease.
He would like one.
And he quickly thought about the lion.
In front of him.
Struggling, almost free.
He ran up, straight over its back and landed like a dart on the pivot of the lion, his feet, and he lunged forward in the air and struck the throat of the lion as he jumped backward onto solid ground.

He walked into normalcy.

She stepped out of the pond.
Soaked in sweet scented sticky juices.
She would dress up in the finest of creamish silks woven in spring.
And wait like the most beautiful ice queen waiting to melt in the sweat of labor.

And she dismissed the arrival of a potential future storm cloud.
She bent a full arch and touched her toes, straightening her toe ring, woven and flattened iron carved to look like flowers, she moved her hips outward and pouted while smacking her lips wet.

She knew he was coming.
The air had a distant smell of sand.
The galloping of a horse.
A click.
Thuds.

And in a quick turn she was lifted off her feet as she locked lips.
The ones that met the deepest of secrets and stirred them for some more.

She stepped back.
Made a face.

Raised a brow.
Beckoning a war cry.

She invited him with the most tunefully heavy voice clouded by a crisp mysticism waiting to be shed.
She said to him "Make war"

He blinked.
The roars of pleasure were long decorating the air.
War.

Of polythene and burns.

2009-03-19T00:08:00.005+05:30

There lay an ashtray, full.
The most peculiar, being, this recently smoked cigarette that had been stubbed in an angle and was still standing tall in the ashtray.
The others on close scrutiny, looked brutally stubbed and the ash was brimming.
There was a damp strong smell of nicotine and burnt rizzlas.

There was an echo.
A human stir seemed to disturb the only motion in the room, the motion of air and aroma.
The stir, was more of a click.
A sharp, pitched click.
Precise.
It was him.
His leather boots, their buckles clicked as he lifted both his feet and placed them on the table.
Somehow there was adequate space to accommodate his legs on the table, amongst the piles of paper and plastic cups and the drawers of the old table, had empty cig packets, filled with ash and burnt out cigarettes.

This was a ploy of his subconscious mind.
The empty packs that is.
They were for the days, when the income was barren and it was best smoking the smoked damp old cigs.

The old telephone rang.
And as it did, the chipping off paint on the wall, threatened to fall over the floor, spread with sheets of polythene.
The smell of polythene almost hit any person who walked into the room.
The only problem being not many walked in.
Those who did, most certainly didn't walk out.

One reason not to smoke cigars, was his obsession with its larger flaming butts that might fall over the polythene and burn it.
He wasn't a cleanliness freak or worried about holes.
But he couldn't add a more pungent smell, of burning plastic into the room.
There were too many smells and enough to counter its putridity with the pungency of other choking aromas.
So he smoked cigs.
The other and more important reason being, him not being able to afford cigars.
He didn't care enough to, he thought to himself.

I mean he had a small wood cabin up in the woods.
Just around the bend, the steeper edge that people never explored because it was off the edge of the cliff.
It was hidden and he still had a view of the occasional normal life that he was supposed to keep a timely check, of.
He didn't murder or anything.
Not the whole I kill holidaying strangers because he was deprived and lonely.
Though he'd never been able to figure their loud chirps about the amazing weather.
It was always like this here.
Cold and windy.

The cool wind circled his ears.
A warm breath later, he inhaled.
Some clean air.
Bereft of the contempt and prejudices of people.
That mattered more to him.
Than the "ooo its such a chill I'm getting goosebumps" shrieks from brazen, drunken groups of happy tourists.
They didn't care he thought.
He drank too.
Every friday after he sold a few boats and bears carved using his knife collection, he did that through the week, on friday's he sold them to the small population of people who came walking from their houses in the higher altitudes to sell berries and spices and scents of wild flowers boiled and filtered manually.

They paid him enough for liquor and ciggs and he had a lot of money saved from his earnings.
He didn't remember much about how it sustained though.
But he was always good at calculation, he'd like to think.
He came back afterward walking in a dizzy as he opened the last bottle after huffing and puffing his way back that had now reduced to occasional quick coughs, because of experience.
No development, only change.
Whatever he thought as he glugged the last ounces of beer, he liked finishing all the rum outside of home and throwing the bottles.
He left beer for home.
Smart men drink beer.
He itched for just some more rum.
There was a bottle buried in the earth, it was way cooler underground.
The mud.
But it was below the polythene and the fat arabian rug, these were rare bottles, he had designed the house with an inbuilt fridge, these bottles had labels and tags and sometimes the bags had confetti and tiny paper hearts that had made him laugh like a maniac at the sad situation.
He stole all of most of these wares and antiques in his humble abode from occasional tourists whom he watched while he basked in the sun, against the strong tree bark or cutting some branches of em mighty giants.
The women groups usually fancied him, they occasionally waited and ogled at his mud stained body glistening in the chill of the summer sun piercing through it.
The families inquired and stopped to drink water and attend to nature's call.
They were around, about, the cabin was well concealed.
And when he said so, it was.
But he was here and there, everywhere.
Almost like a ravaged animal, but with instincts of a prey more than a predator.
It never hurt to be safe, he'd think, while he rolled some of the best marijuana which those make shift business people from the higher mountains got.
Sometimes they'd give him mushrooms in the monsoon.
He got out less then and it rained a lot.
So he was busy for the next few days.
Being sane was never so easy.
And in summers he was on detox.No alcohol and no grass or any herbal shit.

He made a trip to the higher mountains and lived with him or them.Those friendly fanatics who'd give anything to be there.
He showed off his stationery and boots and colorful laces tied to his bag.
Red, Green , Yellow, it was those childish whims.In town, back then, he tied his loose hair in these bands and laces.
He told them about stories that he'd heard from families that stopped by near the bend.
He never even thought of his wood din in fear of someone envying his comforts and inviting themselves.
He had the ability to be accepted, mould, escape and be excused all the whiles, he did grace them.

It was easier to tell those country cops that you're a cool business tycoon on an occasional trip to collect resources to procure betterment of mankind.
Latest mags and chick things from suitcases and two three books on autos were enough to ensure them I was indeed a special highly confidential person.
That too even they'd never found his spot.
He'd gone occasionally to find them following the women into their holiday.

He just looked and smoked and then once in a while went up and acknowledged himself.
They usually had original cigs and rizzlas and they were ready to trade for glossy magazines.

The women were most fascinated by him.

It was something about her.
She waited back one year on her yearly once trip, with her girlfriends.
This time she just got herself lost and she followed me.

It was a bad day she had chosen.
She waited till he had gone in, sauntered through the windows opening the drapes to let the last of evening light come in as she watched him take off this pair to get into a lighter pair of clothes.
And she said she came in because of the light, the burning lanterns, she was cold outside.
He looked at her intently, he was amused and merely shocked to say anything more than welcome her, acting appeased by the only other hint of human existence on this patch of land ever since him.
He'd not known anger in a long time.

He'd been pleased but he soon wanted her out.
But he had a hunch it wasn't going to be that easy.

She talked excitedly like a small bird.

He remembered Sylvester swatting tweety with a big thin netted raquet.

Suddenly he took a another puff of the customary does of herbal leaves.
Nicotine was passe.

As he woke up he saw a knife and a few shroom tops sliced on the table.
And a beer bottle was empty on the floor.

Now he remembered.

It was crazy.
His throat was dry and nose was cold he habitually reached for his lighter as he shook his head as if shaking off all that ever existed.

She insisted, he refused.
Then there was a tiny physical tiff.
Stupid wild cat.
He had smacked her across the face after he'd deluded her to stop beating her fists against him to respond positively to her overtures of love as he kissed her passionately, holding his fingers firmly in a band across her neck.
And then a twist.

He glugged the last of beer.
She had acetone in her bag as he rummaged to make sure she wasn't a minister's fanatic punk daughter.
He had mixed it with beer froth.
And he convinced himself she was maniacal.
Who the hell followed a man who wasn't even leading you by sweet talk?
Women now a days, he thought.
As he had wrapped her body in polythene as he strangled her while he pressed her thigh.
She fainted.
Stupid Women.
He touched her curly soft locks and was lost in the aroma of a woman.
he ashed the polythene and he tried lighting it out before he decided he needed another swig.
And as soon as he recovered from acetone and beer he looked hazily at her and saw her hair burn with the polythene, he had watched the fire burn.
He was always in awe of fires.
He always appreciated the destruction in it.
Now he did the same.
But it was too late and he had witnessed what he could have avoided.

He took a few more swigs.
He just wanted a peaceful life.

He walked quickly to her.
Stabbed her in the stomach twice and spat at her legs.
Then he inhaled another breath of smoke.

She had ruined his peace.

He slept on his bed annoyed.
The last few swigs before he rolled some marijuana on honey blunts.
He was accustomed to initiate the defiance of gravity as he rolled while lying down and puffed away the stale one.

And this time he woke up, he did know.
He could make out.
He saw her body lying burnt in polythene and neatly beside the body was a stack of belongings, valuable even.

He wondered about not recollecting any instances nor did he identify with the brutal instincts that could have been associated with this act.

And now he was sitting cross legged on his arm chair.

He made a quick introspection.
He was not schizo he was sure.
But there couldn't have been a zombie walking into his cabin.
He recollected the woman entering and then a the smell of flesh.

The same flesh, the flesh of a woman.
That he had left behind with his earlier identity in the city for life.
He saw her.
Her jaw line was burnt and looked smeared.
It didn't make him queasy or sick.
It just flooded him with love.

He dry laughed at the irony.

But he went on and touched her skin.
He let himself drown in its tingling.
He was washed over by her compassion toward him.
He was a curious bitch, he couldn't deny.
But she was the only one, who ever made it.
To this.
Even the cops had never been here.

He sniffed her hair and then quickly poured a glass of wine from the bottle that was in her bag.
He discovered the sudden tide of love.
That had drained into the whirlpool of his stoicism.
It suddenly rose like a black sea serpent and washed him away.

He stared at her and his gaze could not but admire her sharp but round features.

He paced the floor as he drained more wine.

And then he knew what was to be done.

Those many years ago, when he left the city to find life, he'd not known he'd do this.
He was excited at his wicked idea.
He almost felt like the american psycho who was passionate but ruthless in love.

He went to his arm chair and folded his legs over his desk.
He burnt the weed in his pipe.
Today called for pungency, not indulgence.
He'd choke himself to trip.

What a trip, he though, of life.

He smoked some more from his pipe.
The burning embers looked like shooting stars.
His life was the sky he told himself.
He was the Sky.

As his gaze was blurry and he could make out her silhouette on the floor.
He laughed at life.
He looked up at the roof, hoping to as if mock the sky.

And suddenly he flicked the pipe.
With the ease of practice.
Onto the floor.
And there, it was quicker than the fire.
The polythene whizzed into tiny spurts of fire and as if immediately to intensify the happenings it oozed and smelled.

He took quick satiated whiffs.
The room caught fire.
He almost wanted to cringe at the thought of burning alive.
But he could walk out, if he wanted to.
He had nothing to live on and beside this woman symbolized love.
Of all that was left.

And he sat himself dizzy as he watched everything burn.

Slowly as the log cabin threatened to give way.
He got up and walked straight out.

So much for love of a woman.
And he walked out the cabin, leaving his only most recollected impressions of life behind.

He walked straight into the bend.
The fog was too thick to tell.

And he walked like he had to reach a destination.
He walked.

The only difference being he'd walked off the cliff and now he had this smile of notorious victory as he let himself be compelled by gravity and all that there was that frustrated the living day lights out of him.

He fell, his last and final fall.
He chose to.

Tat

2009-03-16T19:28:00.005+05:30

Those lemon drops
you swallow down your throat
once of all
where my tongue pierced
your soul.
The midst of your neck.

Then looking down to the ground
sniffing the distant autumn air
I see ants stack their grains
for winter.
The winter in your heart.
Let me take winter away.
Slowly
As I frequent your dreams
and show you
mine, from last summer.

The summer.
A bloom of a flower.
The blossom of my petals
shrouded
in peels of laughter and
those dainty quick coughs
to follow by a whiff of promises
you gave me, then.

Promises.
They bloomed like those periwinkle flowers
those that perched on the most curved branch.
Like the arch of your brow
as you twitch in facial pleasure
as I run a wet toe across your thigh.

Wet.
Like those, then, sleepless monsoon nights
spent in vapors of eucalyptus
trying to wash away in its aroma
and of rain soaked mud, the wet moistness
of my cheek.Writhing.
Which you in winter took away.
As of a fur cocoon
Of the imagination of a slightly opened mouth
That's how you make me wet.

And how could the nectar of honey in summer be sweeter
when all the honey I tasted was in winter.

And to all those porcelain sheets to be washed at home.
That were taken out to fulfill the Portia in me.
I crinkle my nose as I dust the wine glasses.
Each sparlking to be lipped.
Cupped.
wine, in the goblet.
now I rack them back onto the shelf.
Below which the fishes in the fish tank
spectated
some mischief in the air.
As you stepped in and out.
Of the kitchen.

The kitchen of our home.

To those verses that never reached paper.
They were fulfilled, before a plea, was written.

And star fish squiggle
and the want to butter their pores.
drown into the sea shore
as I wait to kill the sun.

Those days

2009-03-13T01:01:00.003+05:30

Floating in a shirt bigger than my requirements.
I walked into the cafe, half a bar, almost.
I picked the corner next to the ladies washroom, my only consciously chosen comfort in the room.
The beer glugged to wash my teeth from the way home to the beginning of my day.
The beginning of my day as a publicly announced loner.
I tried.
I lit up and watched the orange turn to blue and then I blew white fumes.
My vision blurred and sooner than I knew it was greyer.
I really don't recollect seeing it turn grey.
I amused myself in the frustration of not getting a lighter beer.I liked starting off with a bud, they're cheaper in wine shops and more flat.
They can make you smell nasty by the end of the day if you didn't wash your breath off with rum and vanilla cigars.
Now some more draught, before I saw the latest english flick to satiate my guilty pangs of the chilly air around the seats of sterling and regal, I almost burnt my lip with the cigarette accustomed to inhaling itself in a exact copy of the previous roll of the lip while I cursed metro for becoming a multiplex, I'd have really paid extra for the buttered pop corn and its nerve numbing aroma.
Coming back to me not wanting to go see the movie, but the want to sit peacefully in an empty ac'd hall with crooning couples that rapidly flashed interest in the steamy bits of the movie and then indulged in some show and foreplay, sometimes it was so disgusting that they found baby talk a turn on.
I just want some peace, really.
But it was okay, it made me feel sick in the stomach about wasting saliva, Id chewed my mints, always precautionary to my surroundings, I liked being that.
Maybe.
Or maybe I was an angry young woman gone punk in the midst of menarche.
I liked my beers, man.
I can just drain more than you, really.
And I don't want to rangeen aaj ka mood.
Thankyou.
That's the thought as it approached time for the wandering deliriums that excruciatingly were in the air because of the peeks of angry grunts of pleasure from my fellow peers.Who would soon be graceful with their presence upto a point of intolerable nausea.
I was busy wondering why Independence and Republic are dry days, Yes, Gandhiji.
But would it have been different if the extremists were given they're rightful credit for involvement in the freedom struggle to an undecipherable beginning of the win over a known rigorous force?
The ironical part being the inspiration from this came from an unknown source that was capable of excavating emotions ingrained and fertilized to a point of eutrophication.
My religion.
My religion says oil the chicken to an extent that its dead body is oozing spiced and tangy masalas and they plainly let the flame work its magic to lighten the skin to a golden beauty of a crust.
CRUSH THEM.
So now we are independent and I can walk into a bar to drink my beer but I'd still be a woman who gets beaten by a brother or is in an abusive relationship.
No, I'm not a feminist when it comes to taking stances.
But if you must be a hypocrite justify its existence to the point of the roots of its being parasital to your own.
Not everyone woman at the bar table is a score.
Not a perfect score.
Not if she's your sister.
Maybe for a sister's friend, for some fleeting respectable thoughts.
The dart free with the crates of haywards, its board hung neatly over the wall, free of marks.
Its spotless existence saddened me to an end that I felt it'd not known how it was to be itself.
I'm emotional, of course.
IT refelcts in every sip of beer to drain my dry throat.

I've been sitting on the table at Leo's and my pencil nib broke because of the story I started off with.
Its shaped perfectly in my head that my pen broke in the vigor to complete.
The incapability eased out as I drained some beer and sharpened my pencil as I smiled at the cute white skinned aliens in my bubble that they were stretching to accommodate themselves, and it made me happy enough as they smiled on and borrowed my lighter while I drained my beer and scraped on to my lined page."

Denial.
Summer of 69.

.Running in Circles

2009-03-10T20:40:00.002+05:30

Uncle Tom's Cabin - Harriet Breecher Stove

A part of me died with the book.
I was twelve then.
I used to coach in the summer for handball.
I played under 16 girls, as the goalie.
I think I was fit to go to the Nationals.
I was even a year back.
To enter nationals under 15 to sprint.
I trained from seven to twelve, in the summers and on alternate days, I was at Priyadarshini Park training from five to eight.
Muscles that throbbed when they flexed.
Perfect hamstrings curved under the knee.

I wasn't allowed to dance, no marching in the school squad.
Because I was to be stiff to run.
Run from the start into the evening chill.
Bombay was much cooler then.
The sea at Napean Sea Road.
People came there holding hands, some with their children.
A few of my friends with parents.

I watched the yellow wagtail migrate in their group, flying in the light blue evening sky.
They looked like a constellation does, pitted against a pitch black sky.
And then I bent to touch my toes, stretching before I took a start and flexing each leg on the line, I arched my back in continuous flow and then concentrated my weight on my toes, lifting my hips a little off the air above my raised knees, like a prowling leopard sprinting to catch a fiercely horned gazelle.

I usually got the inner bend.I loved the curves.
They were the best to win the race with no competitor lurking behind the shadow of me, a few meters away from my back.
The outest circle was where the synthetic smoothed into a thin flat patch of cement railed by metal and it then merged in to the grass, almost always freshly watered.
And in a few seconds changed into a sandy blur of sand in the sand box where we usually took our marks on a thinner synthetic track for long jump.

Yes, I ran in circles.
It was a five hundred meter circle.
Warm ups, bounding, from long synthetic tracks to short cotton shorts that covered my throbbing thighs.
Grass spikes, track spikes.
Grass spikes were for friday's, the most tiring and most fun day of tearing muscle over muscle for eons.
It was when we bargained 2 kilometers of running into oblivion for an hour of intense power training and then a long game of handball.
I played goalie even then.The days Ghosh didn't come.
With Ghosh, he was nineteen, training to get into an engineering college, I think he said calcutta or so I assume cause he's Ghosh.
The other times I scored giving a slip to the opposing defense.
I was good at shooting cause I was good at blocking.
The boys usually had their tees off by half time , and we all played as it rained.
With Savio Sir, our coach, helping the girl's win.
He said we were better, much more skilled.
He had two children, Gasper and a little Girl.They came over on fridays to go out with him as we all left slowly after eight thirty.
I was traveling with two of my other friends at the age of twelve alone all the way by bus.It was a big thing for us all.
Mostly accompanied by a friend's servant, or mother.But we were to confident to acknowledge that.
We got off and then I'd walk them home taking a longer cut so I could watch the light's at Marine Drive or maybe watch all those college kid's smoke in the lanes inside that were the quickest short cuts home.
I usually took the longer.
Walking on the yellow dividers on the road that I imagined to be an island which looked prettiest in the latest of evening as the traffic lights went quickly by, blurring my vision because of its speed and then the heady feeling of seeing darkness and light.
This was a normal day.
On school days practise was on alternate days.
In winters in was more rigorous and less playing. No more, handball sessions.
Just warm ups and aerobics.
Then sprints.
We ran in circles even then, in rain, in winter, under the setting summer sun.
Being asthmatic and wheezing cause of strenuous work outs were suddenly jumbled.
But the faith that came with Running in Circles, was a pleasure.

As a flight of yellow wagtails colored the blue sky, this winter was different.
High fevers and continual breathing problems kept me from participating in the Nationals.
I barely scraped through district that year.
Just two silvers.

But there were others who won the gold.
Other friends.

After that I just attended summer training at MMRDA and a free diluted Rasna before we left.
We paid fifty bucks for all of summer which was almost the amount we paid to get there on more relaxed days.
I played goalie on the first day try outs and picked handball and my friends played basket ball.
The rest is history that could have been.
Or I would like to think.

My habit of picking words.
Or phrases to describe phases still stays with me.
The first poem I wrote was in fourth grade.

PS: This series is dedicated to myself.
In celebration of coming of age, soon.
In a few days, a few days after the ides of march.

Let us cheat.

2009-03-09T21:36:00.004+05:30

There was a stride in his walk.
Like distantly measured piano scales, that get connected to a set strings, same as the acoustics, the longer one, a pitch one octave lower than the shorter.
Like many guitars at one time.The same string played profusely over in a span of time the fingers cannot match.
The inclusion of some what organized distortion, in one instrument.
Usually he almost cruised the land like a road roller, flattening all the muck.
But today he'd hear the clink of her earring, a happy shriek of laughter in wild candor.
Mister Wrungwall was ready to feel a bachelor.

He thought, quite thoughtfully, about Missus Wrungwall, usually he'd be home on all weekdays, peeping in, through the kitchen door.
Then cruise to the sofa, and seat himself while he forced himself to watch news before dinner was served.
On Sundays, he did that four times a day.
Being a dad and working in a job really left no time for anything but a warm cuddle before bed time.
Sometimes they'd talk about the news and religion.
She was intelligent, strikingly so.

But that lucid smoky fragrance of burnt cloves and the black grease smudged across her tiny cat eyes.
No paint or anything.Sometimes her sweet minty saliva glistening on her lips with a tinge of grape lip balm turning the peach a tasty pink.
A pout in the stairway while you hug her close and then hold hands, while you slip your hands into hers and grip it tight.

Missus Wrungwall usually had her head turned to him, smiling while she called out to him over the phone, he supposed, while they decided who'd be home to feed weetalkid, the dog.
And then they'd grab a shower and sit together each poring over their books and research to grow.
To buy finer drapes at the market.
They walked apart and smiled and he chose blue curtains and she'd chosen red.
They came back and the dog had run off behind a bitch and killed itself.
Everything seemed downhill for a while, she said, she was in mourning.Wow, dogs, got funerals?
No evidence, either.No dead body!
Later at night she'd demand foot massages and wild kisses.
Why was there no mourning anymore, its the aversion to sports in women that creates this, their sudden hatred for physical activity.
Then its about chess playing and thoughts.Hmmpf.

He walked out of his cabin for the day, in a stride, not a cruise, mind you.
It was early.
She would always tease him while she made him wait outside her door.He thought.
While he picked her up as she walked straight into his arms.
Then they'd get drunk and leave the apartment as her undone hair fell over her forehead through the tight bun.
Today he was to meet her at the old fashioned bar, they were going to laugh like young lover's gone wild, as she occasionally brushed her hand against his and she pulled a strand or two when he didn't return her mischievous smile.
He never complained, as long as he saw her earring dangle across the silhouette of her neck.
And her lips lap up some liquor, she talked like an excited bird that flew a pitch higher.
And then she'd drain his glass while he was looking away, wondering.

Wondering, Missus Wrungwall and he were sociable, responsible people.
They always left a party or room unlike the hazy image in people's drunk heads, of them, those that maimed public image.
"Tch, tch", he would imagine her say, as they looked upon social mishaps.
And as his thoughts flew to the monotony of daily life and everything that caught up after courtship was over.

The men, usually discussed this hours on end at the golf club.
The long interim between courtship and death.
Marriage.
Commitment, he could hear them echo as they all laughed it off, like a woman would about her fears of looking like a hag.

Though all of it suddenly vaporized as he took a dip into the aura of womanly splendor that surrounded him.
It was her, she was back from the cloak room.
She said, so.
He would agree.
They then talked about the juicy pork that lay on their plates.And innuendos made their head's dizzy, much over rated by the one's unfeeling.
She tossed her hair back as she caught an oaf looking in her way.She just smiled as her lips parted and a glint of sparkling white shone, she clutched his thigh and he placed his hand on hers.

Missus Wrungwall and he usually held hands, maybe.
Thighs and hands on thighs in public were off limits.

As she struggled to fork a green pea off her plate.
He saw her gobble it like a melon and still it missed the curve of depth of her mouth and slid down her v - necked silk blouse.
Plop, he thought he could hear.

The Missus usually ate with acumen of a business personality.
No it really wasn't the snob component.
It was manners.

And as they left the tiny old fashioned bar.
After they had lapped up juices enough to make a dizzy.
He slowly held her waist and she complied as she effortlessly adjusted her gait to his arm around her hips.
And they strolled burying their feet into the silver sand as the moon peeped out to them.
The stealthy moon, he thought.
Wonder if it implied to mock him at this stealthy outing.
And as he was thinking.
She pulled his wrist and then ran over the sand, till she could drop down and be a silver sand queen.

Missus Wrungwall would normally be itchy by sand in her office socks neatly covered by women boots.
Or sandals or those hundred names for shoes that they used.

And as she tumbled over her flowing skirt, that had slits up to the knee.
He helped her up as she pulled him over.
They both lay covered in sand, with the mocking moon.

And slowly she spoke.
"Darling", she squealed.

Suddenly it reminded him of Missus Wrungwall and he couldn't help but smile, a toothy smile.

And as she pulled over to his side and kissed him under moonlight.
He gasped for breath.
And sucked hers to live on.

And they got up, wrapped up in each other's arms they walked toward Mister Wrungwall's now empty apartment.
He entered first, quickly.
She next.
He'd already walked to the kitchen and turned the lights on.
And pulled the curtains, it was late and people peep, he thought.
She drew the upper curtains open, and put out the lights.
And slowly he knew what came next.

The moon seemed distant and the smell of wild weed growing across the shore suddenly was distant too.
He smelt sweat and the faintness of feminine perfume.
And felt moist saliva tingle his skin.

The drapes of the late evening were suddenly put out by the thoughtful government that switched off street lights at nights and left it on all of early morning.
Suddenly it was calm and silent.
Like the peace after acceptance of death of a loved one.
There was fervor of love and candles.

The bathroom latch clicked and he turned toward it, and Missus Wrungwall walked over to his bed.
The sheets were uneven and more creased than they usually are.
And as she pulled him close and he buried his face into her brevity.
He thought of his mother and her comforting odor that made life seem right.
She kissed his forehead, as she always did, on monday mornings.
It was almost time to leave bed and then home for work.

And as he swallowed his spit, he thought of life without Missus Wrungwall.
He swallowed some more spit.
And then was none to swallow.
So he yelped a little woof and she suddenly emerged from behind the rosewood wardrobe.
She came over and held him close.
And he held her.

It was funny how Missus Wrungwall could become her.
The her.
The her, in every man's life.
She was his her.

The Letter.

2009-03-01T04:20:00.008+05:30

From the diary of a woman, in love, reassuring her man to fight alone and still be together.
Of support and future valentines.
A poem of fiction not far from reality.

-
and like daggers pierce hearts
maybe needles ought to stop sewing
is it the unraveling of a gauge bandage
like you unwrapped me to comfort
where I can bury my face
chest and aroma of a man so fulfilling
and fueling my feminine clandestine virtues
As you fall like a splash of
silver paint
and from it sprints a leopard
in its lazy stretch
like the woman clad in her bare essentials
I raise my heavy hips
to caress a lion
who ought to devour
and if I said I'd spend planting
poppy seeds in your memory
on a lonely highway
across a distant blue shore
with white seagulls
like the sheets of my bed
as you touched my
ripping it out of the vagina of my
dirty bruised mind.

Then again I would be the woman who sang
happy songs in her head all the time
and the rest of the time
which was it all
was spent keeping ashes together
so that we could reminisce
like a heartbeat
straight out of hell
the need to get out of there
like I smell the zing of
the offering of you
stepping down
a seven fold pedestal
what matters who
just not enough
that eve would become pandora

play with a xylophone
whistle into a pen cap
as I sharpen your pencil
so you can sketch me
in natures crest
beneath a waterfall
of rain drops on cheeks
with eyes oh so tight
washing me into your arms
as you gather me
and hold me straight
into a plethora of amber flames
like a bon fire
of passion
in all its glory
doused by the cold night wind
swooshing through your ears
tingling your nostril
as you batt eyelashes across
my chest,
stepped out of the shower,drenched.
Those drops of amber, colored in her skin, dripped down her back and through her legs.
Touching the most softest of flesh.

-
Of all the past that knocked upon the moonlit door in a house of lonely fears and
some bitterness.
And she stood, walked some more, running,breathless,gathering mist against her cold nose.
A mongrel to a gamut, a set up.
Laid her cards down, milked a few pups, the breed of a lion.
Roared to hear distant echoes from the past. Stopped, looked behind, lost way.
Now she rummages for left overs, they might be wasted morsels, but why complain, we all live a wasted life.
The bits that are loose, not tied.
On bits of torn paper.
Why cant we hold together, the leftover.
-

But she had worn her silk, to hide, what man and monster would fight.

a fruit was peeled
in grandeur of it being the only meal
savored in greed
like eating the best cooked veal.

-

And in the silent crack of a distant
lightning struck upon thy fate
lift me to the heavens

-

I shall give you mighty wings
Aphrodite was jealous alright
How could Medusa win Zeus?

So she cupped a sip
of nectar and swallowed
as she then walked out from
beneath your legs
and all was fine as you
lit the fireplace
and love was made
as a distant evening
spent in Paris
on a gondola with a tuneful
but mournful mandolin
that was intensely followed
by gasps of rhythmic
breaths, exhaled
as lips met
and beneath the pale cheese of moon
slightly burnt on the crust of
a hot pancake
I would cook on a lazy sunday
afternoon
as you tug like a tiny child
at my apron
pleading to rumple the sheets
I just made
what is that compared
or should
it
to the days when my angry
arms grapple
against you as I bite some flesh
and tell you that its my way we'll have
and then shy away like a pussy
who mews so innocently
as I pin you down for some more.
-

Pick up the newspaper
to read
and I shall sniff you up
like a pup
waiting to be fed
pieces of meat
and yelping in delight

-

As a drop of dew
runs moist
by hot breaths
across the satin of covet of skin
across the subtlety of my raised cheek bone
that beckons a kiss
you'll see why that
waterfall washed away
silent moans of pleasure
as you give her a wedding ring.

-

A purr, a lick
and then a lil chase
tail against tail
the cat slyly walks away
as I boil milk to make
us some tea.

-

The tea over which you gave me the woman in me.

-

As the raven coo's
you unleash
my tresses and tame
them as you bury a warm smile
into the fragrance
of jasmine oil and shampoo
doused in menthol cigarettes

-

And as the evening says good bye
and jack and jill
climb up the hill,
I shall climb my bunk bed
and run straight into your dreams
as you sleep in a distant city
yawning
like you used to in my face
and flip me over like a pillow
and bury me like entering my womb
so I can keep us safe there
as I wait for you to come back
so we can frolic
with the garden hose
and run around pretending to talk to birds
about our lil night out like teenagers
the night before
and now back in bed
our separate one's
I shall think of you
as the one who let me sleep
a lil longer
so that the sunlight off, the drapes of my room
that you draped to the end of the wall
that now are aflutter
would wake me up
and then again I shall still think of you
and let me sleep a lil longer.

Till you come back.

Coma.

2009-02-26T09:58:00.004+05:30

Eyes spitfire
Dainty dolls ripped apart
Misused and abused

Confined yet reeling and recluse.

The evening was calm, it wore a somber veil of a mourning widow who wasn't even married yet.
The leaves stood erect as a cold breeze encircled the roots of the massive giants that were lined across the area.A miniature sandstorm threatened to rage in the quadrangle.
And as if mocking it the wet sand emitted a divine aroma of wild jasmines and red poison fruits.
The air around the place was of a raw but fresh sexual ardor of a wild child who was as lost as a dandelion parachuting the mid skies.

She pulled her tights up her lace boy shorts.
This was it.
As she broke into spasms of cold sweat in the warm temperature, she let her eyelids drape her pupil and she looked inside of her.
A sharp shooting pain jerked her to open her eyes.But she shut them tighter.
Tightest.
Doing so, the nerve that ran across her right temple tugged at her eyelids.She still didn't budge.
Learning to control pain with anger was the only dowry she could ever offer, apart from herself maybe.

The dandelion cruised the upper skies as the breeze lifted it higher.
Higher.
But as nature swallowed a breath, it hung mid air and drifted before it lost control and spiraled, falling so rapidly into perdition.
A sparrow swooped to beak it and so it did.
The sparrow flew and perched itself on a branch overlooking the inner sanctum of the once intricately worked upon walls of the temple that were now beaten down and in ruins, but it still had a roof.
And a bronze statue.

Tonight was her night.She'd evoke sentiments people never knew they could feel.She had a reputation for it.
To mesmerize.Like one frame on loop that can even make the stillness of the frame seem like a school of herring through the opacity of clear emerald green waters.Gold and Red.Grandeur.
As she let the silk slip down each contour of her bodice, it was like the quick movement of hands of the sculptor who kneaded and molded a woman on fire.
The embers of which had heated her innermost desire, of which was enough to start a forest fire.
And here, she was, ready to make miracles disappear as she proved its reality.
She needed a full breath, those had been long forgotten.
She decided she could, now, before it.
As she inhaled the various scents in the air and those were then satiated after they pleasingly were acknowledged by her mind, and so she stood.
She tried.

The pebbles were ground to gravel as they were crushed by a metallic drone of rusty wheels.
There was a queer silence now, because all the noises that didn't belong were quiet.
The roof looked like a moth eaten leaf, just bigger and more fragile.
It was like being in a kaleidoscope of events.
The bronze statue was cold.
And as it was held, up, the glass of a bangle clinked with cold metal.
The statue would listen, now.

She ran her silk gown over the dust on the statue.
Natraj seemed pleased.
She did too, to see him.

And she smiled as she held him in her hands.
He taught her to dance like a man.
To conquer and mesmerize.
Ans as she lead her wheelchair ahead to place Natraj on his swing.

She remembered of the roof, of faith.
The time it caved in, she was here, then too.
To speak to him, to sit in peace, in ruins, in destruction and its apathy.
To drown hatred in silence and feel it dissolve into tears of bitterness that slid down the softest skin and drenched its dryness which had spread from her heart.
It was cold and dry.
She could dream here, away from reality.

Anklets of clinking rubies and long legs moved in delight.Curls were tied open and they were bounced off her back with every movement of her heavy hips.
Those slender legs that had water dripping between them as she walked out of the shower,her eyes spoke of innocence and mischief.
And a second glance of love her eyes'd show vulnerability of youth.
Of being most comfortable in fetal position, curled up inside her head.
Her eyes did speak, when she wanted them to.
And a quick flutter of eyelids would bring her to laugh, an echoing happiness that buzzed through the head of anyone who let it resonate.

She placed him on the swing and the silence took over again.
The dark caving roof still threatened and the sparrow still coo'ed on the branch outside.
But the dandelion floated over, to her.
And slipped down her endowed bosom as she she nonchalantly frisked it away.
But then she quickly held it back between her palm and pinky.
Maybe it didn't fly a sparrows flight, the one who wanted to fly like the falcon.
But it could drift and still move on if it choose to.

Wheelchairs have wings.
And when there was a road block in her head, she could always come back here.
To the ruins in her head.
To the temple of her sanity.
To the divinity of her conscience.

Forever ready.

PhoenixMourning.

And she wrote for all of them..

2009-02-23T11:02:00.003+05:30

I almost feel a word constipation in my head.Or rather the disorder of will to make an effort to write.
I have believed that a writer's block is an excuse of a writer to facilitate his inconvenience and apathy at not being able to meet her own standards.It happens to everyone.
Why do you think people made such a big issue in school, as kids, about consistency?
Its sad we still can't accept that consistency is absolutely proportional to so many things.That not being the point of my post, over here.
It is to tell you, all, that I have around a collective of 7 saved drafts in the past week for this blog alone, that are incomplete.

I'm planning to consolidate all those 7 to make a single one.
Hopefully it won't turn out like my infinite attempts to sketch Jim Morrison.
=|
I can draw some of his features pretty okaly.
:\
And I have exams soon =\

Also I have come to a conclusion about why I don't find hot bodied men fantasy worthy.Not that I would mind one imposed on me :|
Well if its imposition I really can't do anything, right ? :P

anyway.

"Take me, I am the drug; take me, I am hallucinogenic. "

"At the age of 6, I wanted to be a female cook. At 7, Napoleon. After that, my ambition just went on growing. I wanted to be Salvador Dali and nobody else."
(Salvador Dali)

Oh yes, fixation on men.I think I'm secretly a case of mental fetishism for necrophilia.
My first heartbreak was when I learned about marriage and its weirder than just having your dad around.
But I think every kid goes through that, often condemned for being truthful about innocence and it of course being an apparent euphemism for mistake.
Then you get to know that people kiss on cheeks and never on lips anymore.
Then they never kiss.
You're growing up.
Then I almost promised myself that if my physics Sir in school was just a little younger I'd fall in love with him.He was around sixty or something.
After that Marlowe, I had promised to live my life for him, go to Cambridge, in his memory, grave, Rhodes, life was good.
Anthony Beal, I said while I'm at it, why not, find a living companion / fixation, he's too far fetched I think.
Oh yes I must tell you one day of my fetishism for Jim Morrison,I do hate him, you know, like I hate Shakes for being a Marlowe rip off, but I love Speare boy, I spent days and months reading blank verse and prose in BCL.No I'm not a fanboy and I usually don't talk about him for the fear of hearing outrageous things.

Anyway I shall go now.
PMS SUCKS.

Just one Woman Law that everyone agrees to, all kinds of women, manwoman, lesbowoman, necrowoman, norwoman, bimbowoman blah blah

PMS is an EXCUSE for almost anything right from crying about not being able to eat more chocolate cause there's none in the fridge to throwing a flower pot on a random man's head cause he doesn't bleed.
=]
YAY TO PMS.
Dad avoids me completely during such days, I can be a menace.

skittles

2009-02-08T01:30:00.005+05:30

He was playing with marbles.
Trotting about like a sturdy race horse, in training, he gathered the colored red ones and put them in a bag.

He quickly stepped away and when no one was seeing, he ran into the wind.

He lurched forward and panted his lungs, his feeble knees supporting his demeanor.
He walked over and sat under the wet grass.
Morning sprinklers were so inspirational.

I looked on by, reading my book at the tree over the corner.

He, was mesmerized by the marbles he owned.
He looked at it, closely and seemed to love it all the more.
He chose one out of the few he had, all of them looked the same.

We sat there for almost an eternity.
He still was at it.
Ridiculous boy, I thought.
But what was I doing there a whole eternity?

I walked over, annoyed at myself for being distracted and also slightly perplexed at why I thought this boy was intriguing.

So I put on the my brightest toothy smile and he looked at me suspiciously.
Whattakid.
Well he told me later it was just that lots of people thought he was a weird kid and they always wanted to find out why.He obviously was oblivious.
I realized I could have just gone on to him without preparing myself to be sugary.
So anyway, he told me he played with the boys and when they got out their sets of marbles, he vanished.
Their other sets, that is.
Red, Blue, he said he liked yellow the least but marbles were marbles.

He ran away not cause he didn't have all the colorful marbles that they did, he ran because he was happy with his color.
He'd have liked to have all of them, but he couldn't and he still couldn't be happy cause he couldn't play if he didn't have the right colors.
I looked guiltily at him.

I left then, knowing that I'd meet him the next day.
Marble Boy, Mmmm.

As I walked along the lane, lighting up, I passed by trees and playing children also dogs, I blew smoke into the air, somehow this time I didn't acknowledge the trees or the children, I just was habituated to their existence.
Also to puffing smoke, to an extent that I was scared I followed a stereotype of two drags per stride.
I stubbed it with my big toe.
I should use my heel the next time.

Shower and dinner were quick.

The boy was sitting the other side of the tree.
I walked straight to him and before my last step, checked my cigs and lighter, I didn't want him to see.
He asked me why I smoke?
Kids, off late.
I need to ask myself that, though.

He told me some more about his red marbles.
He taught me to hold it, he said, I'd get the rest right.
Before I knew, the birds were back in their nests and feeding littil chicks and all that.
We had to leave, the mosquitoes wouldn't.

The next day, he told me about the marble, out of all.
It was his favorite.
The glass was dented, somewhat making it prettier than the rest.
It won him, two others, once.
And he really didn't even mind that it was dented, not until I almost reminded him, before which he told me that marbles are not like other normal things.

So I smiled at him, showing my teeth, this time, it was just natural.
He smiled back, coyly.
I ruffled his hair and left.

Two days later, I went back, walking to the marble boy's tree.
Walked around the tree and something felt wrong.
I saw, THE, marble.

I knew then, he'd never come back.
I knew then, that things won't.

I slowly looked around, lurched forward and picked the marble, quickly thrusting it in my pocket.
I walked on.

-

Thankyou for being the marble boy tappu.

Then there was a life for art.

2009-02-05T09:42:00.002+05:30

Clenching teeth and eyes moist with tears withheld.
A swivel through air that was circled by bated breaths, a tense silence.
Another swerve, feet that were accustomed to follow the beat, defying science and the mind.

Raising the dust off the loose foot boards on the floor, the anger of the womb of a hurricane, she stopped, tapped her toes, her eyes full of desire, and as she extended her right leg toward to front, the seams of her plaid skirt lifted, revealing skin as smooth as satin, waiting to be tickled by the meanders on a fingertip.
And just as appetizing as it was to the eyes, she took a step backward, her skirt slipped along her smooth skin.
Like the drapes fall in the lover's room.

Her anklets echoed through the empty room, through the loose floor boards, into the room below, resonating distress of a trapped fly.
She felt like a ribbon, being casually fluttered in the air.

A red ribbon standing out in all aspects of texture, color and ease as opposed to the pitch black setting of a dingy room, been shut for years.

She was fluttering, with a broken wing.

She was twitching as gracefully as there could be but she still felt like a fish out of water.

She drifted like an angel falling from the sky.

Exasperated, she lifted her feet off the ground, hoping the ground beneath her feet would open into a void, with the outside pressure so high that her body would burst into pieces of flesh strewn across barren death land where scavengers and eagles feast of the remnants of the departed.

A lift so easily executed, like a floating balloon, suddenly, she ricocheted as it was burst in its glory to drift as opposed to the others.
Pinned to the wall, tied in chains, bound by flashes of anger that nullify the heat in her body, letting her cool off to frost bitten skin as she conquered each spasm her mind put her body, through.

She landed on the floor, a thud, and she lay there on the cold floor, with her cheeks pressed into the dusty wood.
And like a crackling whip, she moaned, a sharp piercing scream, that tore open the drapes of putrid doom, of the night of ravens and howling curs.
And she bawled into the silence, screaming at its intensity, she had to run away from silence.

It was not long before her finale, that she performed the same piece, and her experience and practice gave her away, she tripped over her brimming skirt, ripping it with the edges of her sharp ruby anklet, tripping over the seams of her lucky dress, she fell gracefully onto the floor, her rubies scattered across the grand stage.
The silence now, as opposed to the silence during her performance, were so different she cringed.
The pain and blood that blinded her eyes making them moist, added to the tearing dryness in her ears.

The silence now, was of a disappointed audience, that were once in reverential fear of her grandeur and poise, when she danced fiercely.
And when she fell, a mighty fall.
They were quiet.

The floor board was as firm as it had been, loose but firm.
Yes, like her, talented but a failure.
Sustainability is like the fertility of a womb, it has value only till you can justify its existence.

To my art, to yours.

If only.

2009-02-04T01:50:00.004+05:30

His palms had lines,it was like staring at railroad tracks, all of them, all over the place, when that is the only solace on a long train journey alone.
She held his hand, the journey ahead was long.
She stared at his paw like palms, they cupped her voluptuousness indeed, but its the lines that fascinated her the most, each etching a different path on the same ground.
He had little fingers, like babies, babies had nice toes, small and stout fingers that have girth, made to fit, in.

As the rail wagon pulled the rest of itself along the slope of the hill, she shut her eyes.
She still saw, in the darkness, closed eyes, meant ears, that will get up at the sound of anything that doesn't fit the reason why eyes were shut.
His palm was in hers, a tad bit sweaty, warming her with comfort.
Sweat, she loved rubbing against his, and then soaking up together in water, to prepare for another round.

She tricked herself into peeking just once more, at the slope of his nose, she could see his neck and his only undone first button, she wished she could undo them all, to look about at his broad shoulders and take a whiff of his manly hair.
She loved being his woman.

Her face was plain, or rather not as fancy as the women, who then, used to paint grandeur on their faces.
She wore a smile, that opened to show clean teeth, that hid her strength.
Her smile was called, Grace.

Strength, is a rather manly aspect, more or less attributed to the dominating counterparts.
But if beauty really is about, being hidden and elusive, you will know a beautiful woman by her strength.
He always told her she was strong.
He rubbed his palms into her hair and held her face, he gazed, and she saw right into her man, and quickly looked away at his soldier boots, he couldn't know she knew his secret.

The train rattled, somewhere the distant hum of night insects mating met the whistling smoke of the coal train, it would be dawn soon, her eyes were still shut tight, in guilt of opening them to take a look at him after he slept, his palm, in her hand.
But this guilt was an indulgence to take her mind off, the morning that followed.
It was the morning that would change the meaning she attributed to the warmth created by epinephrines during love made which met the cold harsh morning.
She would still be warm, and perspire for her man, but she would alone, in the hollow of the morning whistling breeze that would whip through her locks, bereft of his hands entangled in them, she, hoping and praying that he was safe.

They were traveling, all of them, she, fear, him and them together.

It was time for duty over priority.
It was time to pull out mittens to warm her hands.
To sit by the fireside, staring at the crackling wings of fire and the playful wind, and ignoring hunger pangs of the night because she cooked and ate only so he could feed her.
Curling up on the rocking chair, pretending to be asleep so that he would dump their dinner dish,they ate lots of times in one plate, and quickly gather her, he also cradled her to sleep.
It was suddenly damp, it smelt so, she was guilty of thinking about all of this, she was betraying them, their last sleep together for days to come.winter was indeed, bitter.
But she couldn't help but stare at his face, his eyes, were like marbles, they looked bigger and watery up close, they were embedded, like.
His lips were so perfectly shaped and had more lines across the length of them, pursed in a tiny straight line, curled at the ends.
He breathed with his nose, in a slow rhythm, concentrating too much on it would put her into the sweetest, sleep could offer.

It was early in the morning and the rhythm of his breaths were quicker, his body said, it was happy.
She knew he would wake up, soon.
And he'd know if he looked at her puffy eyes that she was crying.
So she'd sleep, now.
Afterall he would come back once winter was over, they could stealthily make love in the lake then.
And she needed him to go happy and not worry about her, so she licked his lips, and he held her waist tightly, and she thought she saw his eyes open.
But he slept well, and he always pulled her closer in the morning to stop her from trembling in the cold white light of morning.
She would miss that, too.
His eyes were shut.
She shut her's and swallowed a breath.

He turned her around and wet her dry lips.
He teased her skin and blew hot air into her ears, and curtly said, it was time, and before her heart could fall, a mighty fall, he blew hot air into her ears.
She huffed back at him and wanted to throw a tantrum for being disturbed during her nap.
But she saw his eyes staring at her making bratty faces in her satin night slip.
She quickly kissed him back and wore her shirt while he pulled up the suitcases.

The train hooted a victory siren as it pulled up at its destination.

A big board that read, Welcome Sarge, almost choked her tears, but she held them back.
She was to go back in the same train.
She had insisted on coming along and he had insisted she don't.
But if being difficult to let go had kept her back she wouldn't have spent those guilty moments, that accused love as the culprit.

He pulled his hand around her tighter and turned to look at her, and he pressed her thigh as he left.

She sat there, mesmerized.

She wished she had looked at his eyes, but she would cry, so she did not.
She loved seeing herself in his eyes.
His eyes, told stories of bloodshed and war, or raped pregnant women and dead children.
His eyes told her of secrets that they saw together with them closed, as he sucked her little musky sweet breath.
His eyes that twinkled as he suckled like a baby.
His eyes full of hope while she laid the plates for dinner
His eyes reeking of fear of not being able to return back to her when he left her alone as he fought for them all.
His eyes when he ate right through her, as she teased him in bed.
His eyes that spoke to her of the greatest feeling of elation as he saw her messy haired, stuck between two heavy cupboards trying to find a lost hair clip.

If only you'd known the woman she was, for him.

If only he'd return from war.

The train pulled over with a similar distant mourn, she stepped down onto the platform as she was circled by army suit clad officers who handed her, his suitcase, the one he had pulled out from under her legs as he left her in the railway coupe, wanting him as much when all she wanted to do was be a twelve year old brat and drag him back.
She opened the suitcase and smelt his clothes, it filled her head.
Her insides.
But it was displaced by a void.
Of never being able to smell him fresh.
Of never being filled by his girth.

If only he had taken along his memories.
If only he'd returned from war, with them.

Plooie.

2009-01-26T04:10:00.000+05:30

A sudden pallor spread over the lines happiness had etched into her face.
A moment occurred, engulfed her, and washed by.
She still stood there like someone had frozen her time; the one’s alongside seemed to move on.
She asked, “Why?”

Watching them drop into a nullifying void, she stood there, a trench around her, and all those who advanced, were victims, to the amplitudes of black rays that took the form of darkness, they fell, a mighty fall. She ran around the moat, the one that appeared inexplicably.
It was difficult not falling and continually running in circles around the moat was not the most convenient.

The red sand had seemed to tan her brown skin.

She had to wash the stains.

Her gait matched that of a duck waddling into the pond.
Only she didn’t know how to swim.

She walked around trying to find an answer.
Stumbled, across the headstone of life’s most sure gift. Death.
Delayed the journey to its destination.

She saw her.
Cruising like an unwanted wet cloud on the horizon, covering the highlight of a pure morning.
She ran into the graveyard, the nearest escape route.
Laid herself in a coffin, the smell of freshly shoveled mud filled her insides.
Before the varnish on the inside of the coffin spread and took over her senses.
It was dark, in the distance she could hear chants, and she remembered the smell of sandal scented rosary.

She had to get up, and leave, the coffin didn’t need her, not now.

More mud stains.

She walked along.
Into the sunrise.

Mornings, just after night.
Before the sun erased the melancholy of the perturbed sky, there was an aroma, like the one that was, that made her happy, like the scents of pure love, she recollected an image, the one that was framed like a moment, captured, of the still, once occupied bed, of sheets that weren’t made, of the pillow that lay in the center to uplift her hips, stained with wine, that he let flow as he devoured her. The sun was yet to rise.

She walked beneath the elm trees, stepping on acorns that crunched under her foot.
They sounded really different from stepping on dry leaves.
But both of them were being stepped on.

Her legs ached, but she had to run, from her.
Her shoulders pined, to be able to slouch into warmth, she knew so well.
She shuffled, and noticed a flicker of light, it was unusual, the foliage wasn’t merciful to the trespassing light rays, but this one had made it to her eye.
She followed it, not knowing where it would take her, till she saw the brook, the one that foamed at the edges, it was the end of a waterfall, or you could say it was where all ends met.
Do ends meet?
Parallel lines never do?
She stood there, transfixed, till she sensed her toe twitch in delight, the water had found its way.
Where was hers?
She walked into the water, anyway.
At least she could hide here, without having to leave.
So she did.
And as she stood in the pool that covered all beneath her torso, she waited for it to rise above her and wash her away.

She kept waiting.

She plucked a few big leaves, she’d always known they’d come handy to wipe off grime.
Walking out of the water, and back on solid ground, she obviously didn’t think that the swirling dust would entrench her wet lower body.
Oh well, the pond had taken her, alright, but it wasn’t home.
She had his home, theirs; she had to hide from her.

She walked along, the afternoon and its grace had been denied to her.
The pine and oak trees were mighty, yes.
She missed basking in the warmth of the morning sun, the one that woke him up so instantly, making him sit back and rub his big eyes, and smack his lips, before he went to adjust the drapes again, and she never let him sleep, not after he’d woken up, he couldn’t not until he’d warmed his legs that had touched the cold floor in haste.
So he’d put up a mock protest and entwine his legs, under the sheets, slytoy.

The water had felt like that, the sand that swept beneath her feet, through her toes, when the water pulled back, felt like his toes and hers. She needed to be back home to cook them a warm meal.
Before that she had to find the perfect hiding spot, she would today.

A sudden lightning crackled.
Like a whip, made of the best.
It reminded her of her, the one she was running from, hiding.

She had indeed protected her during her worst.
Lifted her up and put her back on heels.
Dragged her out of the shower, where hours were spent under the running tap, in deliriums that only an addict comprehended to.
Pulled her back as she pressed her face against the cold of glass on a random morning, too early to be awake, as she drooled her fears out, over the window pane.
Choked her self pitying tears and slapped her out of it.
She made her fight, back.

But why avoid her, now?

It was necessary.

She walked quickly, in short, brisk steps.
The clouds threatened.
Hastening, she dropped his ring, bent, picked, and walked on.
She’d pluck tomatoes on the way.

As she quickly shuffled through the road, she stopped, she stood, and looked up, she couldn’t stop staring.
The magnificent tree, spread across, around, its stump, filtered the rain drops as they pattered around her.
Each drop hit a branch, maybe a leaf, slid along it, the ones that fell straight through the foliage, broke into two and dropped down as gracefully onto the floor as the ones that effortlessly slid.
More drops, as she observed blatantly, fell on her face, she loved the way it felt.
You could tell, as the drop slid down the curve of her cheek bone, that had now, uplifted nonchalantly and without her own notice, as her lips grew into a smile.
She did a quick swirl and then a slower one, feeling the rain singe her stains, corrode them away, each time, washing away her bitterness, her past.

Strength had indeed, saved her, not her sanity.
That is why she had to hide, cause she didn’t need bitterness.

She walked through the rain and the wind whistled through her curls.
A soft hum in her ears.
There she saw her, standing at the end of the road, she didn’t turn back this time, and she walked towards her.
Into her.
And then she broke into a run, her surroundings blurred, her focus was what lay ahead
What lay ahead?

And she was almost there, it was then that she saw him, secretly talking to her plant, the one at the doorstep, she did that, he always made fun of her.
She stopped, her feet fixed, growing weaker by the minute, her body slightly arching toward the front, toward him.
He cruised over and fit effortlessly into her open arms and held her before she’d fall off because of duck knees.

She had forgotten to notice that it wasn’t raining anymore.

As she brushed her lips against his, he lifted her up and she squealed like a pleased cat, and tossed her curls, they were wet.
And as he carried her in and put her on the bed, she wrestled her way onto the top of him, and he said to her, then, that her dripping hair felt like the rain.
She playfully nodded them onto his face and he enjoyed his rain.

Theirs.

And all that.

2009-01-18T04:26:00.003+05:30

Another beginning of an economical year.
Stock market issues, inflation, petrol, bad roads, ammunition, bad hair days.Repeat.
Yes, so what?
I mean why is it that everyone I know wanted to curl up in bed and make it clear on New Years that they aren't welcoming it?Don't they curl up and die in bed every other day of the year.
Or the some that , went out to party like they do most of the times got drunk maybe laid, even.And felt happy about having gotten some action on New Years.
Bah, I am an innocent littil child, and I demand that our country do something about it.
These two weeks, apart from today, when I feel myself, finally, have been so pessimistic, it was like a corroding iron rod that was stuck across my head.
Retrolisthesis.
How on earth did I manage to injure myself, God alone knows.
But anyway to a list of accolades my way,
1.Measles
2.Bronchale Asthma
3.Pneumoniitis
4.Hypotension
5.Migrain
In the past three years alone, mind you.
Influenza is fancy enough to be my name.Yes, all of these and lots more are my accolades.
:O
And then rest of the year there is, meeting strangers,slum children, talking to random flower children and buying their flowers and pestering them with random questions, there's of course college and ideas and more people, (dreaming) of sutta and chai at 4, after spending all the money , squandered on goodies.There is talking to random objects in the room and naming each and every inanimate object you interact with.

Ok.
I THINK GOD IS AN ANGRY CHILD WHO'S MOMMY DIDN'T LOVE HIM AND HE JUST DECIDES TO TAKE IT OUT ON ME.
I mean come on, I was all for not being pessimistic and all that.
I wasn't even sad, till my stupid computer and the stupid wire that charges Igloo decided to experiment on fusion and kamasutra and it just lay there, it was fucking burnt and weird.
My Igloo is dead.
Gone.
Two years of faithful companionship.
My dear Igloo, I love you, you have always been nice to me.
If I could I would gift you to some really cool porn star so she can make the best use of you even when you are dead, cause you were very useful.But I do not know any porn star.
Potential, yes, but that wont be justice to you.
I shall soon bury you and make arrangements for you to not be lost in the plethora of mess in tucked away shelves.
I took care of you,even.
But this is the end, my only friend, the end.
I'll never look into your eyes again.

RIP IGLOO.

PS: IGLOO is my 8gb Zune, olive green.
*tearfall*

PPS:I am happy, very.

PPPS:I miss smackinglippedmanwhostealsmyquiltatnights.Lots even.Comeandholdme.

Call me Kittazoid

2009-01-18T04:10:00.000+05:30

Walk around in fast circles.
A dizzy need to stop, but the force around you requires you to slow down before, you decide to stop.
Again, this can be answered by science. Root Cause. Energy.
Non Believers asking the ones who do, to believe. That too without options.
Oh, I am a critic. And I can be so pessimistic; it could blow your mind.
But I choose not to. Cause then, it would end and begin only with me.
See, what makes you think is collateral to axioms of science, and its opposition.
It’s a debate, no one is wrong, no one right.
The one who presents his views aggressively and instills belief in its existence over the other, wins.
Off late, I.
It’s an insanely masqueraded fervor.
Ask a burning wick, the wax that melted because of heat and now falls down into space, cooled off by time, falling as a piece of ice(melted cooled off wax) flat.
Like most things do, in your head, when it looks like sagacity. But what must you ask the wick?
Ask it about change.
Molecules, dots, circles, the ones I want to draw on your back while you lie on me, covered by the red flaming sky engulfed by the rays of black.
Black, the color that absorbs all, physics.
A Spanish riff, unfinished, played again, wont match the pace of your heartbeat , the pulse of it racing, that could have been fingers running through the sharpness of strings, cutting fine lines of some of your best, engraving its existence on your finger tip.
The one that you run across places most deserved. Alternating across a stormy night with a cooler breeze whirling around your ears that are warmed by hot breaths you exhale across my neck.
Like warmth to condense fragile and still preserve its essence.
In sheets of milky silk, seams of bales of thinned and hand made wool,
Bits of cotton and feather. Bury your face in my universe, engulfing my pride of being me, you made me feel.
Moist aromas, shooting into my nostril, singing it with excitement, doused by the retina, as it waters and then in a soft moan I engulf all of you and littil bubbles foam into my head and flood my ears. A passage of spasms bind me in a fierce grip, just like you did, before letting slip, in me, all of you.
Sitting beside where you held me in your warmth, recreating smell, feel , but not presence.
You gave me, it, presence.
I try to, too.
Concentration. Involvement.
Tell me the difference. Think.
They are like those theories that talk about the same things but completely contradict each other, hence, in the process becoming only the proof of the others existence, as its own absence creates such a condition.

Anyway the point of this post being, my rebellion, to my weaknesses.

Yes, right now that’s all I feel. Weak.
But out of all of these, there is one that I succumb, to.
One that is pleasant.
You.
Its keeps me from resisting pain and coupling it in pairs and hiding it at the back of my mind so that they can fight each other and then I could, them.
Now I don’t.
And I know you know, and so I don’t feel the need to say it.
Also this post is not even remotely close to what I wanted it to be.
Though for all the people who yawned while reading this, let me tell you a joke.
If you knew me, you’d spare yourself.
I have this quality, ever since the drinking days, the drinking binges have been overcome by, age, ahem, maturity maybe :P
But the quality still stays.
I have taken it upon myself to find humor in non humorous things cause it takes effort to make something that :X
It’s a thing you commoner shall not understand.
Lame jokes are my thing.
Also yes, I have a knack for saying stoopied things at wrong times, which makes the situation worse.I am schoopid.
I have this thing which strikes me later, always, that I indentify with psycho women.
Like Mathilde, from the woman next door, or Rebecca, but Hitchcock’s distinct character traits, and Truffant’s amazing ability to portray complexity and habituation of the human mind, is something that caught my eye.
Well, yes, I would love to play them. As an actor.
To this year, when I step back onto the stage.
Where I belong most.
Cheers.

Signing Off
Kittazoidxox

Lil tid bits.

2009-01-11T23:20:00.000+05:30

http://vividincantations.blogspot.com/

2009-01-06T19:46:00.002+05:30

The blizzard circled around,the wind seemed more than playful,like a spurned lover, the snow, glistening as it was lifted off the ground by the disappointed gusts of wind as it met the rays of the playful sun that made its way through the thick foliage that almost made daylight in the forest a distant dream, the shards of alienated rays of the ball of fire, seemed to caress the ice cold pieces of crystalline snow,levitating mid-air in its diamond like form ,magnifying its sharp edges and hitting off in directions it thought it could never explore, the rays found reasons that defied motion and physicality, as if mocking the dreary scientists that spent hours and days trying to make naked nature and its miracles fit in a definition of a few words bereft of mysticism.

An empathy of sorts,like all of nature, together, echoed, their displeasure,mirrored his mind, maybe heart, that had seemed to freeze in the bitterness of arctic winter.
The pitch dark of the forest, enveloped by pure pallid snow, in its virgin appeal.
Walking through Serbian land,in footsteps forcefully dragged through the flurry on nature's disposition.
His foot sank, every time, he tried to take a step,forward,the snow engulfed his ankle, holding onto it,trying hard to make his numb toe,feel, that peeped through the torn leather of his foot.But the sanguine in his body, had a mind of its own.Just like he had drifted from his battalion, that was now a part of one's most feared question to life, its gift, after the passage of defying victory, like gravity without anything to prove its existence,buried in layers of the soil, the putrid of rotting carcasses covered by the white angel of nature,nullifying the stench of blood lost in a fierce combat against an undermined and undiscovered enemy.The Landmines planted skillfully by their adversary.Blown into tiny shards,one with the tiniest particulate embedded in the ground beneath.A gift for exhibiting their divine, unquestionable love to their motherland, as they marched without any strategy, and he pleaded them to wait and formulate, but youthful vigor and undirected hate, combineered by their fateful existence bereft of even wild berries that nature seemed to have made unavailable to them, to punish them
and teach them that if they shall be empty headed, they shall have to go empty stomach, also.
He dragged his bleeding foot, that left a trail, like a raped virgin, running away from the very place she lost her guarded possession, not because she wants to run away to a new life, but because she wants to run away from her old.
Run far away into oblivion, with a heavy head and maybe a bastard in her, she flits like a fish out of water, seized by a paranoia of an epileptic, she runs.
He was running too, only inside his head, it felt like a world in its own.
The blood drained from his limbs, his face had already merged with the flush that winter painted, all around him, but he felt not one bit, not cause he was strong, not anymore.
It was cause he decided he wanted to be weak, to succumb and choose to not feel.
Or maybe there was no option anymore.As he fought the enemy within himself, he felt a shooting pain, steering through his spine, like a serpent had encoiled around his back, he felt, his ears twitched in the delight of his skin and its thirst to feel,his bloodshot eyes, forced a tear to seep through the ends of his eyelashes and hit the dry of his skin, that seemed to withdraw to this unaccustomed wetness and suddenly, he realized that his denial to feeling, and his question about not being so, were all proved wrong.
There was too much to feel, physical pain that manifested itself in various parts of his self, like a famine hit motherland that was infertile.
His body had been plagued by locusts after bearing a weak, cheap fortune of crops, because the land could no more nourish anything, not even itself.That is how his body felt.
The plight of a distressed farmer who doesn't even have enough to feed his family,and under various debts taken on, to improve his crop.The soldier imagined those days when all of his village thought he was a derelict, because when the war didn't beckon him, he sat himself in the warmth of a foam chair, in the country library around a pile of books, that he touched, he leafed through every page, smelt its age, its ability to give, and dreamed of what could have been in it.Yes, serving his country had left him no time, for alphabets and education.Toys and the little pleasures of learning.They all laughed at his way to compensate this, to imagine and submit to the autistic demands of his existence, which flowered during his lonely days in a town of people who thought him no more than a man who lifted guns and protected his motherland, an unskilled servant who fought to fill the empty stomach of his downtrodden family of sisters and drunk husbands.

But it was all, now ,a distant dream, an illusion that made him bitter, something that he didn't need, as nature already was manifesting its bitterness into his skin, corroding through the lil layers of his manly hide.

As he took his fifth step since the beginning, he felt like a man, who wasn't so, because he couldn't give to his wife, what he bore in him, the white of his existence.He was infertile.

The soldier couldn't walk his sixth step, the serpent coiled around his spine, was tightening its grip, the doctor in the army base camp had warmed him to take care of his back, it burned and fussed, like the steam engine of a billowing train.
His nerve was the serpent.It gripped him and rubbed against his muscle, he wouldn't have known all of this, if he couldn't imagine.And the friction between these had created a raging fire, penetrating his leg, seering through every inch of skin, like the center of a bonfire, little, but the hottest, he collapsed in his path, and buried his back in the cold of layers of snow,he felt it, wet, the raging fire being quenched,the flames of pain in his back,seemed to succumb to the misty stiffness of ice.As he sank his back deeper and thrust it in frustration, into the snow,all he felt was the pain of a higher being, a pain, that didn't cause unrest, a pain that the body enjoyed, as he felt of the mighty jolts through his veins, quickly numbing like the wheels of a train applying pressure on the rail tracks and it lifting up after the passing by of the vehicle, his veins felt the quiver of existence and then numbed.
He had stopped breathing now, the air was too cold, and it felt like his nostrils were bleeding, or maybe they were seeping plasma of life, as his blood had already been drained, through his broken leg.A peaceful pallor dressed itself upon his countenance, like the grace of a bride dressed to perfection.
He had already dug his own grave by pushing into the snow.Like a fluttering bird, shot down by a man impressed at his shooting skills, he had twitched and sunk into the womb of his mother.
And the raging playful blizzard covered the remnants of his uncovered body.

Ps: I wanted to write about my backache and the frustration it is causing me,I have an exam to give and I can't sit, yes, I shall go die on my bed now, for the millionenth time.

Brush your teeth with rum.

2009-01-03T17:16:00.001+05:30

This is an old note I found.
Dated : 26 October

The crevices in the attic whispered through each, itself, soft rays of the blatant, passive aggressive moon light.An ice cold mist clouded the upper chambers of my nostril ,breathing was suddenly more tedious, so one gulp, one struggle epic story, of a murky quick sand pool drowning the hero, before glory crowned his soul,she took breaths through her mouth,like his brevity she swallowed in her universe,she nurtured his white soldier in her shelled egg, which collided in a thunderous applause, nature paused.
Her body felt like an amusement park.
Crawling, the thing was learning.
But the scent of damn blood, torn nerve synapses, loose flesh ends, dangling togetherness of a falling doll beckoned her into the room, pitched at the top of all other ransacked rooms.
Who will pick the morsels, lay them across her bare chest and taste sweat of fear in every bite,swallow.
Tear his limb and shove it up the bottle of ruby red liquid, a few toluene dipped kerchiefs and brain altering experiences.
Why introduce a new element in muddled up pools of confused hormones.Drain those vials and powdered paper fumes.
Make a mistake, make love to a stranger, a used god.
The abused death which took away the glory of a soldier dead, in her womb, he took birth again.
And she waited patiently in the cold underground dungeons, crawling the attics, finding her wedding ring,it was missing.
Her better half was blown into shards of dust, falling flat,moist blood on ice, inking it divine.
Coursing through crystalline pieces, a slow venom.
These alphabets. together a piece, embedded in you,infected are you?

wisdom of a derelict.

2008-12-31T05:39:00.000+05:30

with tiny bites of soft
the kitten, less ferocious
the lion roared
as she ascended
the spiraling wooden staircase

smelling the untasted
royalty shall dine
a stolen gulp
of air
most of all
but taken granted

a withered frosted lily
warmed by heat
of passionate love
bloomed, in its dirt
but is it also
a part of those broken souls
ask the seer
who much cannot hear
its those years
of listening upon
the secrets,
the wind whistled into
our ears
that he caught upon
and held in a closed fist
as not to let go

but the breeze
contoured the scars etched
in the most vulnerable
of his palm
teasingly,
smothered the pain
of yester years
nurtured hope in the moist
of the clenched hand
a make - do womb,
but the expectant,
its expectations
gave birth to impatience
and a fluttering butterfly
caught his attention
as he let go of all
that penance bestowed to the normal
a hand free of hope

now all was lost
like a creaking door
that was blown away in a hurricane
'so what'
he said,
sipping on to some gin,
a child, shall live
and i shall perish in his identity
cause they shall hold my idea
against me
as it takes form of the course of its nature.
so i shall smell the autumn bloom
wait back to discover
that they shall never.

ode to tea

2008-12-24T18:10:00.000+05:30

And much bidding
done for tea
those leaves that
stain even water
and blends in its purity

Those leaves did not
intend to plague
the elixir of life
Ask the flame
she carries in her eyes

But the energy of
water to enter
tea was not how
it was supposed to be

Those embers now
colored it fresh
left it bereft
of its beauty
its own flesh

The priest said
accused,
of losing itself
Poor water only replied
as it dissolved
in it
some more brew

Is this sin so
wonderful
ask the virgin wife
of a soldier buried
under the earth's crest
making love upon
a lost beggar's chest

But why do we talk
one after one
like a bee wouldn't suck
honey out of pollen
it visited last Sunday
But still goes back
every night to its nest
And brings more golden sticky
and embalms the walls

Color me in your
honey
of sweet pain
bring it on
and pour it in
me,
said water, still
holding within itself
how it shall be
called tea
and after a visit from the bee
we call it tea with
honey.

As the crimson
swum across
circular orbs
of the brimming cup

Now thick liquor of honey
swept the blood
as it left in water
its own

Pray tell
who here is
at a loss?
"What crass?"
As he sipped
from his morning glass

A crystalline source
a pearl in a shell
the moistured womb
as a river flowed down hell

a lil boy trotted like a duck
bent in the direction of the even tide
cupped his hands and took some home

and mother of his
set fire on sticks
broiled her sons earnings
and smiled

and she threw in it
like the snooty witch
Macbeth feared
a few leaves of tea
and chanted a hymn
in thanks to him
about the meal she'd brewed

As the heavy downpour
of cats and dogs
tired of rain still enjoying the last
she quickly looked around
and waddled to the earthen pot
slid a few fingers
and remembered of honey her husband brought
also of times that he called her, while
he slid in and out of her
she quickly dismissed
of all that exists
that shan't

and then after a she ladled the brew
She looked up at her son
he smiled back, too

'Mommy', he purred against her leg
as she handed him some piping hot tea
i love it when you cook some tea

She laughed her empty stomach off
as she watched him slurp
the dainty cup
it was of silver
gifted on her wedding day
again she remembered the night
that went astray
And he circled the brims with his tongue
like mister had against her lip

she dismissed those thoughts again
How funny, tea reminded her
of all of her past, again and again

Parasite.

2008-11-01T12:30:00.002+05:30

swallow.
let me swim in your system, combine with your being in carbon compounds biologically asphyxiating you.Reducing you.Then blow you into fragile bubbles of pure beauty gleaming like a flaming torch, a blush on the bride, the bubbles glimmer in basking light of the sun.
Assassinate me, wear me on your heart, I shall be your child,on your crotch, PenisChrist, your head, i shall fix nails into your flesh and penetrate your temples, you shall be owned.You shall make me your God.

Jump.
Dive.
Burn.
Ash.
Dirt.

Kill me.Before I steal you away.

Mexicano.

2008-11-01T12:29:00.001+05:30

And you sit on the pot, with a whole lot of in your system.
Or so you delude yourself.
And your singing along to ‘I’m a liar and a thief’ and suddenly
Oh my god, there you go Trainspotting, you realize your system has decided to give you in and your constipated!!
So you sigh and some more in attempts to imitate a labor pain scene from a Hollywood movie with no success.
And you’re listening to Hurt, the piano version, remembering even why to remember this out of all instances.
And you realize your toes are getting cold and your boxers beckon you to bed, you think about all those instances when you meet random people and enjoy their company, and the i in you becomes I and God, god.
A rapid succession, a whirpool, the drain, the tumble.
The rush, like a heroin addict shot with adrenaline to pump his heart, to make him feel.
With blood, course hope, through his system.
Make love to the headstone at the graveyard and weep your eyes with bitterness.
A broken borderline schizo, or perfectly normal sadist.
And suddenly chimera clouds you.
You decide to get in touch with this one person who always intrigued you and you wanted to get to know their head.
But before you do that, you weigh the cons, he thinking about how easy he’s going to satiate his testosterone and get laid, or won’t he?
And we spend all the time to get to know each other that we forget to appreciate all the abilities that colors a particular person.
It’s like a forced monotony, everything like the corporate shamble that conveys to you in malls about how their food is the best.
And how the sight of the man who saw you in nature’s layers still soars your adrenaline and gives you a hot pink flush.
Being a woman, tired of lil dollies you dressed in lots of clothing and wanted to be that plastic menace, you try on a few more clothes every time before you leave home.
Phhbt, no I don’t do that, it’s the weird bimbos, I read in crossword, secretly about sex, while they’re out there doing it with their so called ‘Serious relationship’, and then when they see me puffing rings of air, quite with an aura of a pagan goddess being worshipped in scented perfumed fumes they look in awe and say that smoking is bad.
Yes, maybe I want to be 2 years old and just gargle lot of spit in and out and giggle maniacally while secretly I’m hatching a plan to take over all of you, Die Mother fucker Die.
And learn a, b,codeine,dextran,fluxotiene,glycerine,valium and feel ashamed. Its okay, right, I mean I know Aristotle, Bethoven, Caesar, Durga, yeah?
And so when was the last time you ate and wanted to only do that and nothing else?
The last time you wanted to write, and only wrote.
There are so many obstacles, delicious between all these. Play some trance, sing some blues.

A Spanish movie at odd hours with some one you know for 12 hours and have spent five hours with can be very productive, stimulating, pervertYOU, intellectually.
And again yes, I’ve given up on nicotine, yes?
Smoking Ban is good, I’m saving up for my next tattoo. Drinking also isn’t that much fun, I mean come on, where can you drink and feel good without roasted tobacco on your lip.
Su vaat karey che!!!

Techno, enjoy a chilled beer, alone, in a hip hop lounge, so what man I have headphones.
You pick a sub and some iced tea, balanced diet, a quick puff maybe, ahem.Check your cap, in place, to cover for not having showered, bad hair day blah. Run around in your narcotic stupor, get spun, some fun, flirt and then break a few hearts.
Write like you could make love with just as much fire. No sense of time, food, intoxicants, and you feel alive.
What do you do when all you’ve lived for is to paint and be painted with words.
Like a sinner, singer, murderer, lover, mother all claim their work to be art.
I hold on to its dynamism as well.
Till you find your art, your passion,

Cheers

Mamta

Its not anger.

2008-11-01T12:28:00.001+05:30

your worst fucking nightmare.
what you escape from will follow you and swallow and you will be disgusted at what you have done.
your mercy at my will.my body in the hands of too many people.
tell me, its a choice you make.
your own breath begins to betray your entity, it stifles you like a psychotic killer on the roar, rape and bury you in cold mud.
across those moss beaten stones, you shall lay in a tangled mess of occult inscribed pages,sadly just a rotting partially decayed stench filled mass.
Go find her, plead and make love to her.
Before I hope you die.

Its not easy being tall

2008-11-01T12:25:00.000+05:30

watch your step, you shall falter.
be floated upon a boat down to the other side,the darker.
eat a few embers of ash, its sweat and sweat of effort is called perspiration,pretend to be faultless.
Falter - Faultless
Pseudonyms.
Chant your secret words in husk smelling air dust.Confiscate your vices, cause its choking you to the end, dragging, shaking, you want to break free, just run and jump into cold water and bounce back to fall into the same haze of purple ink,no sniffs, too concentrated.Spread let indigo slither and spray some mily sparkles of ash.
The one that you tasted in the beginning.
Now bend.
Let me enter that arch in the building, being tall is not easy :(

Durga.

2008-10-22T21:18:00.003+05:30

No no take a peek all the pervs, all the women can say vivid things.
But yes this is femininity aggression and lust for you.
This photoshoot took long and inspired something as well.
Here's to the sustainer, the fertility of the womb.

Durga.

paint on some war
on your lip
let eyes reek of agony
of apocalypse
and your son
ceases to bury his ego
at your lotus feet

So you shall crush him
Underneath
Cause a lotus grows in
murky waters,
swans surround which,
to increase
the beauty of dirt

The stench of rotting carcasses
Dizzied the ones mortal yet
As she stood on a needle
One toe holding her
All, no complain.
Pain she turned into
Focused frustration
And borrowed a boon each
From the ones she had gifted
Like a lesson to them
Of how to use them
With the destruction
A woman can bring about.
More subtle than
Beyond the feeling
Of begging for liberation.

She reached out to the inner
Coronary flesh
Embedded under locks
That made serpents look tame
A luscious flow
Of soft curls that
Tickled her brow
And bore her sweat in it
As she endured
Ripping apart
Her own self
One single long tear
Half undone
Symmetry was surprised.

And pulled out a memory
Where the creator had
Entrusted the secrets of
Burning the womb
And making vile lil ones
And bathe it in nectar for
The most obedient son.

As crimson red adorned
her forehead
sign of spouse
his life
your only excuse
from the life you wanted to live.
Pain of never being
Oozed and colored her disheveled
And she realized
Nine more days to go
As she stood on one toe
The needle tearing skin
Entering within

Poisoned now, in purest blood
it lost direction
and wanted to surrender
give up and flee, but
it’s a needle, not a sword.

Adorned in fates grandeur
Lips beckon
Eyes full of brimming
moisture, that holds in it
Clandestine of something
More than what meets the eye.
Take a dip in her tears
Each drop
More costly than all of pain
Bundled and thrown into a blackhole
Before you realize
Pleasure and its worth
After a much longer bout of pain

And she is the truth
In you.
Awaken her, gaze at
That radiance
Like a dip in spiced
aroma tea, all four chakras
under light
surfacing on your sleeve
wear, your heart there.
And white light will blind thee.

And speak to the tree
Its leaves each tell a different story
Atop the last branch that touches heaven
Shall you find, Nirvana, someone’s
Backdoor leads to illusion and some call it fantasy.
But look into the visitors eye
He will tell of snippets lost in time
Of grazing an endless path
The weariness that sets in
Once you know the path wont take you
To your home.

And as pearly drops of juice
Honeysweet nectar of a warriors exile
Spill into your water pot
And there you thank her,
For eternally blessed shrine
That you laid
On the strongest muscles across
Your stomach.

Wild animals roamed
Around her, in a lament
That she didn’t feel the need
To call upon them,

A broken wing of garlic
Plopped in a hot brewing soup
The whiff of this delicacy
With a pinch of melancholy
Spread,
And all those who ate religion
Never reached spirituality.
a bowl full of reality,

offerings not sympathy

Ps:Darn its incomplete and if you had the patience to go through that, I'm honored.

No, for godsake, it aint soft porn.

2008-10-10T13:19:00.003+05:30

The changes were just an effort from my side to prove I am not always under influence,intoxicated,blah.
I dont even know why I need to justify.
Well lets just say Im tired.
Exhausted.
And I am miserably failing in health.

Maybe next, we see, each other would be on a stormy night on the outskirts of town in a small clearing of blooming tamed flowers, nannied by a wheel chaired girl, brown locks dark piercing eyes et all.
Tattooed and dredded, eyebrows shaved off?
Coughing like a midnight howl, of a broken cloud,thundering.

Just seventeen.Oh damn.
Slaughtered, burnt, faded.
Flung,ignored,forced,used.
Lost.

I write stories, not my own though.
So stop assuming I am the dying bride, sweating in agony of being in the dross of love made last.

I could be your dirt.
I could be your fire.
Anything you please, mould me.
And two nights apart you won't see me anymore.
Cause I shall be gone, dragged by those visions of myriad colors, tucked in her bosom for protection from all.
A womb more protected that the womb itself.
Embedded.

So, the point is I am not propagating soft porn.
Though Id love to shoot for a photographer who needs a muse.

dirt

2008-10-10T10:22:00.002+05:30

In a subtle blink
Flashes of misery
Pass through you,
As you see her cover it all up
With just as much as toilet paper
As you’d use when you didn’t
Use the pot.

Meager were her needs
But she wanted more
Of you, only thing she shouldn’t
Have wanted.

Plant a lily
It ceases to grow
Build a cement wall
And the rain water pushes its crevices
And seeps in through
Those vary, very little
Joints in the wall.
Like us.
But it gets collected
In the earthen urn
That was set, in a flourish
Of the smart housewives
Experience in living in that dingy hut,
But who cares, says she
You seemed to have enough place in
Your head for her.
Show it sometimes.

I can yodel in pain
Just to make it a fancy lament
If only you could hear it
Those few miles away,
Not in distance, mind you.
But in wrapped up layers
Inside the brain
That separate us, now.

And I try to write pain
In lengthy paragraphs
While you borrow letters
And decorate them in your head
Still wanting to form a sentence.

And I sleep in thrifty yawns
Curling up in fetal,
Fatal, before I bid my last good bye.

Last,
Because then,
I will start over again.
Trying to win you over.
Like a cherry dipped in chocolate
Till the last bite.
I will eat all of you.
Gorge all the dirt in you.

And set you free.
all your bad caged inside of me.

Purple Dreams

2008-07-20T14:54:00.001+05:30

A pebble plopped
into the stagnant
ripples of yawns
drawn across your painted face

The flute hums
a moronic melody
of silent slumber
seated on your lip

And those eyelashes reek
the purple dust
of a fairy that curled
upon your brow
left as a token

And aftertaste of
a satiated meal
that binds you in immortal sleep

Tied in polythene curves
rupture
tiny needles
that pierce
satin skin

And she will still
lay enveloped
in that drunken stupor
amidst the bosom
where petals cover her
away from veracity

And as she stretched in
her cocoon that
so wrapped her
it lengthened
and split
and air bubbles gushed
inside
to stifle her
with reality

And she twisted and turned
And engulfed more of their impurity
with every breath
unknowingly
and a little of her soul
maimed,
each time

The sparks of mortality
perished inside her

And froze the timeless moments
And her preserved sanity

And one last whiff
And that final
chord of the music note
welcomed her across Lethe

As the ferryman
carried her
in her tattered cocoon
across to the other side

She lived a dream
and she will perish in one

Conquering the corporeal

She still remained
Incomplete in her self
of the consequences
and of all the reality
she could not live

That she choose not to.

Dedicated To myself.

I might learn to be selfish.I will.Lets hope.

Dirty You

2008-07-20T14:51:00.000+05:30

In little steps of a waddling duck
she treads the thorns
on you

a rose bud
plucked
torn apart

she walks in the wilderness
of an unknown path

and you tie her
and your breath stinks
she scuffles
and screams

gag her
and pat her to sleep
the little one
she purrs

stroke her
oh no
she hates you
you lust her

pluck her petals
and she sobs
in bouts of waterfall

the flow of a river
maimed
she hides in shadows
in petty disdain

in full bloomed spring
she lies bereft
touch her
she shrivels
in knots of pain

blood bonds
remain, now
fully messed

as she climbs the waterfall
of death

and a year
after years
still hallucinates
she, tears
her fully clothed stature
under the water that
bestowed upon her the shower

in naked spasms
of blind thought
she blames herself
for your want

and cursed you shall lie
and childless
till she disappears
in your ugliness

Shred her
with kisses of perverted joy
and she stares at you
as she bores into your conscience

and burns you down
she touches you back
and plucks you out
of the inhuman stack

she dusts you off
again
and again

she spills you in the muck
and drinks raindrops
to satiate hate

but open her up
she lay tight
suffocate her in grips
and she drowns

again on the cliff
she finds
coursing through solitude
a jump, withheld
now done

in gasping heights
she rises
and there she touches perdition
and in flames
her feathers lay
broken and disheveled

play, repeat
reap
sin
touch skin

and bubbles engulf you
and strangle
those thoughts
that the dirty pawns of your mind played

Child Abuse, should have a severe punishment.

Dedicated to all those who feel the same.

The Puppet

2008-07-09T21:51:00.001+05:30

The string etched marks
on her skin
as they bore deeper into
her flesh
like a shooting star
in all its brilliance
inside of her womb
a gazillion bursting
sparks of flame

He pulled the reins
on her
and gave her the stature she deserved
a bending puppet
brought to life
with a workmanship so fine
she deceived all into
believing she was of their kind

Windswept ruins
with cotton balls covered
shafts of clay that bound her joints
from that blessed deserted area
rubbed magic onto her
and aglow
a reeking lava
overflow from the volcano

She was his muse
and she would him, please
As he bid her
through vibes of occult
and voodoo spun in miraculous cure

He bowed down
as she arose from the purifying
pyre of the destructed

And lay weak
as he blew life of mortals
into her coursing blood
and like a rebel
her choler repelled what was
not in her deserving

As she grew inside of her
what he bestowed
a life
to a puppet
swiveling in misty hues
of dark shades
beneath that pretty skin

but he faded
as he gave away
and his blood curdled
as the purity of it
was now hers

And in fear that he might burn out
she tore him right through the middle
And embedded in him herself

And she sparkled a twinkle
a blaze
like crackling fire
he stood up again

And that was them together now
in a body one
that wrapped the existence of its juxtaposed

Tuneful Void.

2008-07-09T21:49:00.001+05:30

Pull the strings
the guitar speaks
in riffs of wincing pain
and in curved glances
poisons your mind
with aftertaste of want

slither fingers over the whites
on my piano
and glide the satin touch of your lips
with a devouring passion
over mine, mouth organ
in sparkling orgasms of black
and tiny leaps of slender
curves of the drum stick
on the cymbals
and make me rhythmically
gasp in
the wires that bind the frets
of doubt in my head
and the virgin skips
a ten fold sheen of a uni colored rainbow
to the movement of a humming bird
making love to its better half
defying gravity of lust
as he makes love
to his vocals cords
and serenades her
in baby talk
as she rains doubts of separation
and they grow into the destiny of Adams future.

Claustrophobic symphony
in the note perfect song
she planted misery
as Pandora blew up
a volcano that destroyed Pompeii.

And then again
the composition
demands him to hurt his fingers
and blood trickles
the brow of his finger
on the finesse of the string
that adorns the feminity
of his instrument of vent

And still he gave all
as loyal as Romeo was
he, to his guitar

But he bled
and winced
in painful delight
as the maiden withdrew
her hand of fate

And so he sang
and sang tonight
till howls of his pain
echoed beneath the distant moon
and the dogs of the night
accompanied his crisp melody
as they made music of their kind

Ahem, the titles dedicated to shippy xD

To her, him, his sin.

2008-07-09T21:46:00.001+05:30

Little rippling of hair..
Winding away like snake children.
Touch those strands.
And venom.
Coursing. slowly through the lil meanders of my fingers.
Dare make love to motion.
First tempt Stillness.

In calm hot breaths
Like bubbles coursing on bare skin
smothering the fire within
To light a blaze
And like psychedelic smoke you
turn to haze.

Rough edges, all coursed to fine.
Lizards and insects,
And Sex and Wine.
Angels that fall with their wings Ablaze.
Courting the devil,
Through a Crystal Maze.

And my nectar aflow in your vein
Bittersweet poisons simmer
your calm
and work like a storm
in your lil filthy
conscience, they chorus
the benediction
Only to become impure
as you tame them down

Little streams of venom
Now course her veins.
Strands of consciousness
Now forfeit her claim.
All ye Marauders, come dance with us.
Bring all your lovers, And dance to Hush.
Bake us flesh cakes, And we’ll bring the blood.
The devil, The backseat and a lot of mud.
Play with your senses.
Play with your mind.
Dance my lover,
To this song of mine.

In body movements
you drown, deeper
into rich thick blood
painting the wounds afresh
breaking open through
them
like uprooting lil saplings
that the mysterious voodoo spun

Spun in your aroma
I swallow all of you
To reach sinned depths

In sins, we have danced before
We dance again. We'll dance again
Lil Voodoo Dolls
We'll play with thee,
Move your arms, With pins and Bee's

Halt.
We’re lost again.
We’re broken and drunks,
We’re losers and lame.
She smiles again,
She opens a door.
She moves her words.
She acts the whore.
Hush, lil baby.
Don’t you cry
We’re made of mud.
Both You and I.

So break me into the filth again
don’t wash me in wine
cum on me
Id still make you divine.
Dance, dance till you
crumble at my feet
and my caressing foot
will kill that spine
That rose up your holiness
and made you faulty and
be a part of that vine
that embryo in the womb
of mine.

-

Co - written by me and Prakroo.

\NineInchNails/

2008-06-23T23:03:00.001+05:30

Cruising the contours of my bodice
like a fleet in search of roaring oceans

Into the richer plumes
of the peacocks feather
diamond and bleeding blue
break open and flow
the crimson
from its sinew

Hush my baby
Don’t you cry

You can feed on my dead remnants
or broken dreams
that I decorate with my flaming insanity

The pearls of white
sink into the deep cut
smeared by red juices
that your pink lip bled
lead , of course
by a pest of locusts
that my mind hurled at you
in dried tears
that pricked the throat

And a bout of cough
like rapid diseased mice
would bring it all down
similar as to when
Nero played his fiddle
as inflamed his city lay.

As those honey suckled
bees broke away
into your meat
much coveted
a threat before
you became bait

And the sun melted
into frost bitten
tentacles from my crown
of beating hunted hearts
that were shot
speared and minced

But it was my love
that so much
for you bled

Empty bottles
whistle melody
and I gather
my all
to give to you

A quarter conscience
severely beaten
and useless
But it will still be yours
only to you belong.

You could have it all
My empire of dirt
I will let you down
I will make you hurt

To you.

The OutBurst Of Black

2008-06-23T22:58:00.003+05:30

The pigeon shed
Unwanted wings and flew away
To the horizon
Painted pure white
That glinted the suns rays
Into a oily grease
That satin seemed less smooth

As the sea washed the horizon
The deeper blues and suns crimson hues
Turning an all pitch black
She arose
Dripping water smothering her skin
As she nodded
And drops of water slid the spiraling curls
And drenched her wet shoulders
And adorned the feminity of her being
As it coursed her cleavage and slipped
Into her voluptuousness

The black pitched
With her daze
Of divine insanity
Skinned in plumes of red feathers
She walked on high heels
And tip toed mother earth

And all of the ones
She tread on
Were aroused at the touch of her
And endowed they became
With magic
Not the one we don’t know
And feel
But her magic
She rubbed against em

And now out of mist and dew
Burst purple crystals
And circled the andromeda
As it gathered radiance
Borrowed from turquoise emeralds

And her wings unfolded
As she withdrew from her façade
And there she met black

And embedded in the black
Again, now
Purple shone through the light
Glistening crystals of candy floss
Gleamed pink rays onto her face
And she sang the lovers song
And wiped tears on his hate
Like a sand stone carving faith

Down below
As the flames danced
To the tune of her clinking pearls
She tore the necklace
And rolled there beside her
All of them undone
The clasp
Scarred the sole of her foot
And she sang
This time the continuity of the others end

<3

To Me.

Hide and Seek

2008-06-18T11:37:00.000+05:30

Cruising through sentences
punctuating life.
The sun flippantly waves
through the canopy of leaves
like the rapid succession
of turning pages.

Dollops of clouds
scooped in upturned conifers
topped by nests of
humming birds that flitter
through
in a dizzy haze of random alphabets.

Gurgling sounds beneath
those south seas of hate
arose bubbles that danced
alongside her ear
and frittered in circles
meeting the dark engulfing locks
that tantalized men in their sleep.

The cuckoo roared a different tune
and the lion purred
as she walked dry leaves
and step by step
his kisses haunting her.

She jumped into the endless
off the cliff
into inviting deeper emerald seas
As the ruby on her neck matched the blood splattered
before she could touch the ground
for ravens and birds of prey
pecked her as she fell
as she gave away.

Star Gazing

2008-06-18T11:33:00.000+05:30

7June
Dedicated to you daddy, on the eve of your mothers 43rd death anniversary.
I think most times if not less, loneliness that was then seems comforting now.

Rearranging stars to outline ,
your sheen
the lil boy grew.

Still young he gazes
year after year
at those twinkling
remnants of you.

Trying to rid the cobwebs
clouding in his head.

Plucking em' memories
long gone,
buried somewhere down,
in suppressed giggles
he hides himself in the
umbra of the silhouettes of
bound shadows;
that are with the
breeze of time.

He tries counting edges
in circles
as he scrapes
faint memories of you,
from his eyes.

The lil boy tries hard,
even now,
being much adverse to lil
to kill the hot tears
in his throat and to
be a man.

But how can he help it?
if, you wander
out of others sight
and wrap him up
in the scent of betel nuts
and the aroma of your washed hair.

Leaving him to break into
tremors of holy sweat
as you sing to him,
divine melody
of your heavenly abode

Much comforted in his lonesomeness
afraid that you'd go away
if he finds someone else.

He clings onto nothingness
craving for brevity.

He would lie in your ash
if the cruel wind didn't
love it more.

So, he still gazes
at the two million year old stars,
looking for a closed chapter
of his life.

Obfuscate.

2008-06-04T11:09:00.003+05:30

Indifference.

Shut your eyes.
Open them.

See you too many times?
Blink, and shake head.
Ah.

I'm not different.
I'm not love.
I'm not pain.
I'm a lil bondaged polar bear with a really cute tail.And I will be gone.
Maybe, I have.

Drug me In syringes

2008-05-31T03:09:00.002+05:30

Singing ravenous melodies
Content that she could put to song
Her misery

Across ten fold oceans
Sailing in alternative octaves
Of songs conjured in darkness
Beneath the dome of insects
Mating in loud moans
Buzzing along
Bzzzzz

He carved emptiness in the lair
As lions roared royally

Hyenas swiveled crude tools
And aimed it at the pretty back
Of the much ugly face
That wasted was
By the plague attack

There again she lay stricken
Choler full
In a colorful collar dress
Weaved by uprooted wings
That reflected emotion
In dual tones of light

Anthony as was
Stripped by Miss Cleopatra the fifth
Right then losing his respect
Of being calculative and
More like a queen on a chess board
Who has no more than to protect her beloved?
Threw his sword at the arousal
Of his curd grinding organ

Spit spit on him
And what would her fault be?
The one who sang bitter melodies?

She was raped
Merely, now society’s bait
Maybe paying cause she was Cleopatra in her last fate
Now losing faith

Hah
Blind
Eyes ripped apart
Nerves bloody ended dangling
Hallelujah
There we are yet bound by karma
So do good now.
Haha
Find good
Give me ecstasy
Colorful pills
Shut Up.
I will do my enemy.
Ride dragons till Aunt Hazel calls me back
To fuck opiates.

Tooti Frooti

2008-05-29T19:14:00.003+05:30

I could dance in little letters of
curved alphabets
that look upon
your countenance
and make words that suffice
my eagerness to sway in your arms.

I could picture you
in tofu cubes
or him that holds me
for you.

But I wouldn't dare
to do, because
then I'd shred him to pieces
in need of wanting more of you.
: O

I could wait
some more,
and purchase time
with diamonds adorning
my sublime?

But then would that make me a whore,
the one who gave up
just to touch and give away
just so that she could
hear your voice.

In timid whispers
trying to hide the congregation
of the ebb and tide of her bosom
that splashes like a wave
when you go away.
Only momentarily,
till again they knock on her womanliness
As she weaves thick blankets of silken dreams.

And covers you under them
giggling profusely
in your chest hair
tickling her nostrils
while you hold her brevity and
all of that in the cup of your palm.

And then she sneezes silver dust
and cuckoos fly out of her mouth
silly me!

Then she grew thorns
and stood there pretty.
A rose in the ruins
serenaded by the storm.

An Addicts Story

2008-05-22T20:47:00.003+05:30

This is a small illusion that graces a few. A man devoid of responsibility who slowly slips into smoking hash, eventually getting addicted to it. Savours the taste of The extravagance of Lord Shiva. In a small meeting with himself. The man discovers the conflict of divinity and mortality. Sometimes a mendicant who loses sense of worldly responsibilities is often praised for the effort. Whereas an addict is looked down upon and cursed for wanting the same state of Nirvana that the Mendicant craves for.
Brahmand = Universe
JataDhari = The one with matted hair
Rudraksh = A stone with blessed qualities
Sometimes an introduction ruins the readers appeal of the painting his brain paints. This will hopefully not do the same.

Formless wild smelling smoke
Dance around your halo
Adorning the masculinity of your blue skin
Locks spill in watery dross of the soul
Across those warm arms that engulf the brahmand

Sip my subtle poisons
O ‘ Jatadhari, lock me in your third gaze
Of sheer destruction.

In a coil of scoffing serpents,
You lay, cross legged
As they slide to make
A path for you.

As the perditions of the past
Sway in your honor,
At your bidding of doom

Anklets adorn your feet
Music of which bind
Me in womanly stupor

Awakening flames of
Frictional dust that gather
To bring upon a storm of death
That circle your feet
To stir calamity in mortality

The aura of the dull rudraksh
A tenfold blinding ray of
Psychedelic pink and crimson hues
Beckon, as your offerings we gather

As you raise spirits of the dead
In the power that burst through
The pearly drops of sweat
That dribbles down, due to immortal trance.

The moon contributes to your
Addictive daze.
As shades of grey intensify
The passions of scarlet red.

As numbness courses through the veins
They are silenced in slumber
Blazing through the body
In rushes of divine heat
I sway to symphony of
The swell and fall of
Your deep breath.

They engulf you in tides
Of bright white light
Waves of crystal blue
Lash your body like sprays
Of holy water from the Ganges.

As he ascents the dragons peak
Where blizzards are mocked by soft
The more gentle snow.

He strides right through you
Bursting into plumes of rich color
Leaving you ice cold from within
But a lot less incomplete.

The phoenix ash
Gathers in a small storm
To be born again
As he walked by them

The man burnt his finger
As the stubs singed his skin
I’m an atheist whispered the man to himself.
Pushing thoughts away.

Har Har Mahadev
He said
Puffing hashish
As he slipped back into the spell.

Infertile Widow.

2008-05-22T20:40:00.001+05:30

Curl up in those shadows
Walk along the black
Engulfed in its tenacity
Like church bells resonate

Hiding midst shadows,
Where light penetrates
Blossoming lil serpent
Entwines the friars fate.

The God
Embraces the illusionary lair
In hallows of dwindling faith
She walks in
within, writhing in pain.

Dead love now rotting
In the grave of promise,
She strings pearls of hate
To adorn his neck.

The pearls now throttle
Growing tentacles of poison
Leaving lines of misery on his neck
That etched he, had
In her palm at natal
She now gives it back.

Bereft of any
Token to leave behind,
She has nothing to live for
Except her own time.

No naïve chuckles
To fuss upon
Just his hollow laugh
And a few dusty cobwebs
On their betrothed snaps.

2008-05-10T23:13:00.000+05:30

Dig deeper into moist clay
sculpt my thoughts,
they seem astray.

Bite the fleeting essence
tis not a wandering butterfly song?
Pluck out her colorful wings.
Jerk my flight and
glue the wings onto me.

There she will lie
in those sheets of time.
Beneath layers of lost sheen
inflaming such soft aroma
the candle light flickers
dancing,teasing
Much to her dismay.

Dim now,
like emptiness of an infertile widow.
The flame lost its way.
Gave away to its momentary lover.
The shrewd blowing wind of promise.
Burnt her out.

She looked around and realised
Her reflection had run away.
Hold on,she ran behind it.
And reached the pond.
Where she saw it dive.
Splashing,bidding to her a mysterious good bye.

-

Farewell my friend.
Ive waited long enough, done my bit.
I just wish you'd have been there.

Meander.

2008-05-10T23:11:00.000+05:30

Drape me in sin
Beneath the cloak of stale air
Of the dingy ransack
Of the crème in the sheets
Steal me some reality.
I’ve had enough of possibility
To want to live in the imprints of my gloss on your lips,
The imprint of your foot on my neat
Don’t slide
Its way to conniving of you to leave
Just take one more sip of me
Just take one more sip of me.

Heart Shaped Box

2008-05-08T13:48:00.003+05:30

Its like Ive been tailored to adorn the aroma of your manliness.
Plucked out of blossoms, much withering.
Wilted,you painted me black and let me bloom into purple.
As we break into tiny orgasmic cravings.And you rub clay onto my metal.
And mold brittle me.I break again into your palm.Just so that I can be held again.

Breaking Me.

2008-05-02T21:05:00.001+05:30

Poor baby.
Victim of child abuse.At the age of 7.
Repeat : at 13.
Fiction: A waif who lived on red ribbon(aids) donation camps.
And all that fight to save that then.
She suddenly lost it to alcohol influence,now.
Even though they claimed she had more common sense.

The glass pieces bent
To be ashamed before
To crawl, she learnt.

Her mind she spent.
To pay them, her bodies rent.

Numbed her mouth
And then her vein
To suck his big cock
And take his pain.

But no
She blew the wind instead
And afloat over pearls
And on red ribbon donations she fed.

He pulled her
To meet the wall
Head, bang on.
Cause she wouldn’t be what he said.

Then a drizzle of sorrow
As the uncle of years before
On that sacred morrow
Burnt her temple
Of scared reserve.
Ashes she gathered
But at that time
To offer a flower
She had none.

And then full blossom
Like spring
Bursting in color and youthful play
She felt her past creep in, with him today.

The spiders collected honey
And the bees spun webs
A cocoon was not enough
To save her
From his nasty breath.

She sunk in air
And borrowed a halo
Broken but still one of its kind
Jaded and engraved in
Sweet time.

Then she stopped her footsteps
And asked him up there
If it was his temple
She took care.
Why wouldn’t those men
Leave their shoes behind?
Why would they burn her wings
And then teach her to fly.

He said, learn
She did.
But to join,
She learnt to join them in their bed.

She closed her eyes
And mocked at him above
Look I shall learn
Holding just onto tomorrow tender.
She knitted winter into a sweater
To wear in summer and
She beat the weather.

But tomorrow, her tomorrow
Him.
Burnt and irrepressive.
Tore her sweater
And spat on it.

And buried her, in her past.
Alone to dig,
Her graveyard
Way before she was due.
It was to prepare her for
What he saw coming,
Now now.

Migrating lil bird he was.
She was the ugly crow.
Used, betrayed.
Drowning in sorrow.

-

She will break it to the world.And she will hold her head up high and walk,after all its no fault of hers.
She will stand and stand tall.Bah.
Whatever.
With some help she will talk about it.
And he will help.Cause the others miserably failed to even see through the situation.
Thanks a lot for understanding and just being fucking there.
Sometimes, that makes a whole lot of difference.

Thanks.
Vikram.
Anushka.
Farzeen.
Arjun.(verymuch)

Thankyou.

Give it upto them...

2008-04-24T14:44:00.002+05:30

Yes,Its about time we said our thank yous to people who strive to make the difference.
Travel the steps that we fail to move, and weave the left over cotton to a intricately woven fabric that twines us all into this very thing that some of us try hard to fit in,and the then some of us who try so hard not to fit in- Society.

This man,almost intrigued me when he kept track of what I wrote and seemed to take keen interest in it.He not only made me believe in myself but also that if I just tried I could.
Its the distance un - travelled that really matters in the end.Not the journey that you have taken so far.
Like a race, as long as you reach the end, the sweat and swooning and drop down to the very earth that bears you it serves your purpose, you will be recognised.But if you give up,leaving the race in the middle and walk off the track, it will be impossible to ever reach what you want.

Spending most of our youth years in trying to equip for our old age or probably wasting our time in misery and wafting in the absolution that we are good for nothing, will never lead us anywhere close to self satisfaction!

Here, this one, almost a blessing to most of our minced egos is a person who managed to make me want to make a difference.In a small way, but bah.At least I am responsible for some good.
It will eventually uplift my karmic cycle from sub zero to probably a level higher than only ending up in hell, for all the mis deeds.

In the short interim, in college last year , I did learn that organizing an event is as painful as participation and the fruits equally quenching.

And here, right from organizing blood donation drives with a specified basic limit to be achieved.
Which is even more impressive.Because all of us can make a move to do a good deed and in the process bathe in lime light and achieve nothing.Like most of the well quoted campaigns that the media always seems to highlight.
He not only succeeded in organizing a blood donation drive but also achieved a basic amount of fore designated amount of blood.
A goal with a purpose.So defined and minutely organized and thought of.
This is what defines emancipation.

In todays world, almost all of us strive for a better standard of living, and often in this race we develop a crab mentality, if not that shrewd, we often tend to forget that nourishing only our selves and forgetting the surroundings,often if not always, definitely has bad repercussions!

From facing obstacles from ones own people and arousing much concern from ones own family about how this path he has taken is not an easy one and he wont be supported.
Like Anton Chekhov put it, the less the human race knows about any thing the more they condemn it.
But obviously, he put it more skillfully.I lack that strait :|

Helping children in lesser equipped areas like the hills around Satara district and providing them with basic requirements of clothing etc.
This man has come a long way in being instrumental at making a difference.
Most of us definitely have the thing in us to want to do so, just that we lack a leader or the will to lead the way.
He is the answer to people like us!!

From finding funds to support these causes and going place to place convincing people especially in todays time when people hardly help unless they benefit in some way, he has succeeded in striking the right chords with people and being able to do what most would leave undone.

I really want all of you here, who are reading this to,if you can leave a message for him here.
And if you want to make a difference please help him to help you to do so!

I hope that what ever supernatural is governing us all here aids you in all your endeavors!
Wishing you health and success in all of what you start.

My respect and regards to Arvind...You really made a difference in my life.
Thankyou.
Im sure you'll achieve nirvana with all that good in your book with the life keeper ;)
*huggles*
If you ever need anything Im going to be right here.
=]

Ps: I'm sorry I wasn't able to respond to that day when you really whole heartedly spoke about the problems you faced and your path to their solutions.This is my way of saying thank you and hoping you will forgive me for that day.
Thank Arvind,

You make a difference to many people !

iSuck.

2008-04-23T23:38:00.001+05:30

There against the wall
Shimmering teeth,
Bite the flight of memories.

Tomorrow you can shiver
In the depths of today
Lets drown together
As you string the words of disdain.

Lilies of faith you plant
Not knowing much about
Those lil roaring engines.

Cut into cubes of bleeding moonlight
You shimmer through again in purple rain.

Hiding within summer shades
Of bottled emotions
In moth balls.
I sleep beside the naked night
Much bereft of touch

In tiny glass vials
Lie my savings
Caught between tiny
Nothingness of cravings.

Flicking moist pencil shavings
And crushing them to dust.
Hoping they’d turn
To the myriad colors of lust.

The sun took away
A part of you
But you still shine for me at night
Bright and most
At mid night

Ummpf.

I really deserve more credit than your so stoopied you emo bitch :O

Beauty The Beast.

2008-04-19T04:55:00.003+05:30

Beside supple shadows of grey
I see it quiver like the dryness of a leaf
Something time took away
Almost engraved.

Do you see,
Those surly moments
Gone by..
Like wind through the falling brisk bubble
Failing to enhance its mortality

If poised and poisoned was a duty
Its mistress would step aside
For thee.

Submissing those pearls of smooth thinking
Like the curl of your most yielding lip
Not once they utter
How bereft, living seems to have left innit?

Along lines of clairvoyance
Almost frozen dirt
on the rusting lil brain
Forgotten to be put to thought.

Imitating beauty midst thunderous point
Pitiful state
Very less, void and un – divine.

Dirty games
You,
Play the youth.
Pretty, poised and poisoned through time.

Cursed you shall be for beauty is what you choose to keep.

He sang songs of her wafting sensuality.
Of her coated layers of undoubted and praiseworthy benevolence
and her reflection of timeless beauty.
Sitting pretty was her best.
Till he saw beyond that in someone else.