Mexicano.

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