Of polythene and burns.

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

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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..

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

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.