the abyss also gazes

2009-03-12T03:35:00.000-07:00

This space is dead. I do not know if I will ever have in me to revive it again, I'm no fortune cookie. All I know is that now is a time for something else, a time to prepare for a new beginning. So to all who have borne these rantings with patience over the last couple of years, Thank You. I am sorry. Maybe some other day.

May the force be with us all.

Of Hope and Misgivings II

2008-12-04T00:36:00.000-08:00

I thought of you and where you’d gone
and let the world spin madly on.
Blinking through shades of time and memory;
so carefully I lost,
to the man I chose to be.
Now these ticking hands of a mechanical heart
move too fast to allow a new start.
There are no new days so long as there’s memory;
what’s left to say
is better unheard.
Unheard by the world and unspoken by the tongue
burnt inside a mind cursed to be on the run.
I cared about them rules but just not enough;
now its time already,
to save a last dying laugh.
A last dying laugh for all them teary eyed lies,
trading broken peace for too high a price.
I tell you it ain’t worth dying to an old cheap trick;
so long as you’re standing
on your two feet.

ps : snatches of words and ideas and have been unscrupulously whacked from certain writings by The Comedian & Peter Pan.....aaaaaaaargh! the poets have been hunted.

pps: also words have been borrowed from Meenakshi who hasn't been caught laughing for a really long time.

rainbow

2008-11-23T20:54:00.000-08:00

cool november drops glide

down my window pane; to lie lazy

at the bottom, never to

feel this way again.

little drops of water look

like little offsprings of the sun; clinging

to the cold glass, of my window

in a city on the run.

on the run and in the mud

trip and fall and scatter; holding on

to sunshine times, when

the rest of memories do not matter.

speedboat blues

2008-10-19T00:40:00.000-07:00

Oh lord won't you get me a speedboat,

a boat as fast as a boat can be; to take me

across this grey lake,

to a place where the sunrise I can see.

I've been living under them dark clouds

which my evil baby tied to me, a prisoner

of soft spoken knots,

a free hobo I desire to be.

My lord you know I can't cross this lake

that separates the night from sunshine; I've left

behind my walking shoes

with them beggars I've been wasting my time.

So lord please hear me now

before it grows too late, my baby she sings

in the major scale

while I await my minor twist of fate.

The village has grown real busy,

unkind in the darkness tonight, my baby

she is a lame black crow;

watching my plight and crowing with delight.

Now I know the answers to them questions

and words uttered in a hushed whisper, and I know

none of it matters,

unless you don't hear my prayer.

So my sweet lord, I sit hungry praying

while my baby slips me into the urn; to heat

and feed her foolish pride,

on the stove she puts my heart to burn.

Oh lord Oh lord listen to me now

and get me my speedboat please, so I can

go find a kind hearted woman

who would like to have my hand to squeeze.

2008-10-13T14:49:00.000-07:00

I remember I walked down this road,
a serious boy, a child I’m told.
Clean cut, wanting to save the world,
to the devil’s own I sold my soul.
The trade was simple; quickly done,
power injected, I was a son of a gun.
I shot everyone who dared come close
to the heart of a man that was tomb to a rose.
I clambered up them hills and over and far away;
I ran undaunted, the drug had taken its sway.
Lines grew blurred, my teeth clenched I looked
up into my vision, a smile was all it took.
I knew where I was, whence I came from;
I saw me burning in my own dream’s prison.
‘twas that smile, the wax on the bond;
my boon granted, the price to be exacted to the pound.
I, thinking its a sign, pulled the trigger
at the face staring at me, through the mirror.
I am not sure, maybe I got it wrong;
I am after all another dead son of god.

Navy Cut blues

2008-10-06T00:39:00.000-07:00

Every night when Ms. Slumber invades
the privacy of the master and mistress,
time finds me sneaking to the loo,
my comfort zone in times untrue.

My cancer stick lodged firm in my fingers
I light away my midnight blues.
I breathe in deep to my lungs relief
as my heart slows down and smiles a bit.

Its strange that I find you when I
got nothing to find and nowhere to go,
my oldest friend, my killer, my love;
I’d choose you over any other dove.

The exhaust fan keeps our affair a secret,
And the window provides you with the surest escape.
I need you, I want you, I love you, I hate you,
and no night shall I end, without a kiss from you.

Trade Prayer

2008-10-06T00:37:00.000-07:00

For every drop of joy and hurt,
love and betrayal, affection and pain that
would have been mine; give me truth.
For every grain of dust and sand
of every place I have ever been and would be
to, give me a shelter where I will not find you.
For every inch I have snatched and stolen,
fought and hidden, found and lost, give
me a defeat less low than now.
For every face I have wished to kiss and
every dream I have wished would stay; give
me a nightmare I know will not last.

'leaving town blues'

2008-09-21T01:44:00.000-07:00

tonight you sit, inside the rain

tasting a wine, I'll not visit again.

fog settles upon your window,

kisses the panes, hugs your self and

you recall, an old record, a boy once played

for you at his own expense,

where the man sang to the darkest hour

that comes right before the dawn.

But there is to be no dawn, not in this town,

not for me.

I'm homeless, unknown amongst them yokels

you despise so much, yet care more

about the foam falling off their mouths

to their feet.

and these streets blow, poison air

to me from you

as I swear I'll leave your town,

before the coming of the morning dew.

Queen Marie Approximately & The Unholy Ghost

2008-08-31T00:12:00.000-07:00

Come down from your high seat, Queen Marie;
you're a virgin no more.
You're hands they're painted by
the blood falling from the faithful who
followed the light in your words to the darkness of their graves.
And them bones of your young lover
who went to war,
lay washed up 'neath the rocky shores of your lonesome castle of love.

Queen Marie, Queen Marie you look so fine now,
the saint of killers in a nun's disguise.
You wanted the world with your lopsided smile,
and now you watch from the sidelines of spent calamity
just how much pain a nun could cause.
Why so silent now, Queen Marie? (And forgive the audacity
but you're vultures don't scare me)
Are there no more chances left to be taken?

The Ghost Prayer :
The powers that be,
let me see.
Don't claw out my eyes,
even if you don't let me feel.
I want to see how it all turns out,
though I know I'll still be dead.
I know what she wants, I know wat she needs;
But doesn't she know, what she already took
from me, isn't mine to give anymore.

rest house road

2008-06-26T01:00:00.000-07:00

there are all kinds of love

available in the cool summer wind,

carrying the scents of the night crowd

in this drunken dusty alley.

'tis here that poets wait

for the stiffness of a hit, and the young

and broke dream the cheapness of liquor.

'tis here that Ms.Propreity takes a back seat

to Mr.Passion, driving the soul

truckin' down the sordid hours

as the city drags to its close.

'tis here that i wish to waste my every summer night's dream.

2008-05-31T08:36:00.000-07:00

i will not say goodbye,
and i cannot stay the night.
i only wish i could keep out of sight,
if only for a while, to sit and cry.

2008-05-31T08:27:00.000-07:00

old boys, young men;
heat boils growing on their scalps,
sip tea upon a pavement,
wishing this time would never leave.

2008-04-19T23:38:00.000-07:00

Big boy blue blows his horn
to please, and maybe squeeze the swinging black girl;
an artist of the trapeze at the circus of his heart.
Black girl stands outside the joint
waiting perhaps, to win a rich night with a passing genteel;
her hunger masked by beauty painfully real.

Time finds itself lost in his sound
spilling out onto the pavement where she stands, wondering
who will pay for her meal in the morn.
They call this love a foggy evening;
with a lonesome trumpet blaring, in vain
to charm them clouds away.

2008-04-06T02:42:00.000-07:00

are we through?
with our pretenses of being true,
in the face of madness
of a sea in which you cannot drown unless its time.
and time devours you, every floating minute
with slowness only time may conjure.
what if we escaped?
ran away to a place painted golden with the mirth of the sun.
would we be cowards then?
would you still think me a hero?
homer told of the prince fleeing beneath his own walls,
as young lochinvar dropped by to pick up his lover.
and the jack of hearts who always knew where he was headed,
played a twisted con,
upon the evil king who had himself a lonesome queen
to clean up the mess for both of them.
maybe her sentence mattered as little to her as it did to the jack.
they were heroes to me still,
lending me their sleepless nights;
even as they built their little tents in my heart,
and used my imagination
to build their lives within myself.
now they flee me, and their despair
in this time of weakness,
leaving me alone yet alive to pay my dues;
my only companion, a collection of songs
by a guitar player from half a century back.
'the trick', said lady goodman, 'was to not take it seriously;
if you didn't take it seriously, you never got hurt,
if you never got hurt, you always had fun,
maybe thats why she changed her name.
would you change yours for me?

2008-03-13T06:30:00.000-07:00

the sky conspires a surprise for your mind
as you walk down the alley where the lovers hide.
they play their games, makeup for the past
while you look to the sky, searching promises that last.

livin' life blues

2008-03-10T02:18:00.000-07:00

brush your teeth well

wear them shoes,

must wake on time, even if you’ve got the blues.

a dozen and more

sleepy minds in a box,

where the fool speaks, of the alligator and the fox.

see them younger ones

travellin’ on long legs,

they’re so sure o’ themselves, till they down a peg.

the days go by

still prisoned in your cell,

you tried to stay right, but the axe just fell.

you say you love her

she says she’ll love you best,

by the end of next evening, she’s with someone else.

call her at noon

and call her every night,

she’s gotten your heart, now she wants your time.

pretty girls here

and pretty girls there,

you wanna grow some balls, but all you do is stare.

you do the rock n roll

try to save your mortal soul,

by the end o’ the year, you’ll still be in the hole.

so I just sit around

and get real high,

write a line o’ poesy, till my time draws nigh.

2008-03-10T01:59:00.001-07:00

They are the young and they are the wild,
too busy being divided, into wrong or right.

I sit and stare at the crescent in the sky,
searching a kiss, from my maiden of the night.

2008-03-06T22:01:00.001-08:00

they watched him go,
all wrapped in white and ready for the last show.
their lives still paying out their dues,
the death of a son smeared across their faces.

sister death

2008-03-06T22:00:00.002-08:00

its the nearest thing to rock 'n roll,
a soothing balm to a rotten soul,
when the time is blue, it looks to the african sunsets;
a living experiment in human kindness.

2008-03-06T22:00:00.001-08:00

ronnie came and broke me heart,
rita just couldn't get me up,
me lying wasted in the dark,
dreaming of me sara tart.

2008-03-03T08:37:00.000-08:00

i wish the snow would come,
come from sunrise and wait past the yellow moon
and leave everyone as cold as i.

2008-03-03T08:35:00.000-08:00

verses of human life
sketch sweet harmonies within the twists and the bends,
repainting reality;
as an angel reads the book of the devil.

2008-02-21T06:48:00.000-08:00

a sea of stars flood them green fields,
across from a life boat they call shankar's
remembering dylan
i wish i was with you, all tangled up in blue.

2008-02-17T10:08:00.000-08:00

He was born a raven,

unkindness, the unity of his kind.

He looks back now, an angel of the dark;

at the suffering that led, to the place with no hurt.

2008-02-16T08:35:00.000-08:00

She picks her tune with ease,

on a violin drunk with pain

she sways, flays, and cascades down the sound,

an ode to her death.

2008-02-10T01:47:00.001-08:00

Leaving a letter, he wished would say more,

with a feeling of sinking in the pits of his soul,

a warrior with no land or lord,

he walks into the storm, his back to the open door.

2008-02-10T01:44:00.000-08:00

A dozen clowns sit upon a merry-go-round;
a thirteenth sets them in motion,
watches, sleeps, wakes and watches
the death of one, play games amidst the living.

darkroom

2008-02-01T22:52:00.000-08:00

darkness

silence

beauty lonesome

unmasked pretence

sustenance

suspension

kisses that linger onto the fall of your lips

sweetnes follows

undissolved aftertaste

seducing to return for more

like a singular breath of arousal

on the hollow of your neck

like a surrender with no loss

the musings of the hands

and the monologue of the skin

croons of childishlove in adulterated adulthood

soft soliloquy of quiet lovemaking

unabashed shelter betwen heaving breasts

rises and ebbs of pleasure fulfilled

with the muse's death on the lover's bed

in the silence of the dark.

by red and rorschach

goodnight love

2008-01-08T07:47:00.000-08:00

hang me out to dry
on sharp edges of your guitar strings
where your fingers
strum across pages of my life,
play hide and seek with my love.

and i shiver in my cold
under the warmth of your rising sun
as i lay me down
waiting for the earth to swallow me whole,
seeking my shelter from the storm.

daydreams

2007-04-26T03:37:00.000-07:00

in times when i find trouble flooding my senses
i plant the sound in my mind and let it grow
grow grow grow, grow for miles within
to allow me to float away on traveling mindscapes
lending shelter.

my bed of sand keeps churning beneath my back
as i whisper sweet nothings to kind ears
lent by trees lining the avenues of the silent pathways
leading to the hearts of the innocent
lending smiles.

i breathe a velvet air, sliding in through my nostrils
caressing my chest from inside with fingers soft
etching out patterns yet unknown
filled with a sweet silent remorse of forgotten memories
lending hope.

from the corner of my eye i catch the sea of clouds
overflowing the gentle slopes of snow covered ranges
like blood rushing to the head
blurring uncertainties, frivolities and nightmares
lending life.

feeling blue

2007-04-23T06:37:00.000-07:00

I grow older, and gradually keep losing my ability to feel pleasure in simple mindlessness. It seems like, the labeling of my thoughts and actions as 'frivolous' by myself, drives me to limit me from participating in activities which would allow for a difference in the temperance of the environment in which I now find myself.
I yearn for the moments where I'd once been able to skip across puddles with my private angel on imaginary naval conquests, or heave bicycles across walls and ride away to explore Chinese cemeteries nesting in an obscure South Indian village, or even rendering myself vulnerable to the extent of becoming the secret joke that someone would share only with their closest acquaintances. Even as I sit and write, I have this faint disturbance within that makes me aware of the fact that I'm still taking great pains to not only not sound 'frivolous', but also to endow what I put down with a voice of the erudite.

A girl passes by the table where I sit. I have this sudden impulse of sitting her down and writing her poetry. I do not seem to want anything in return for I would be amply rewarded by her company. I've spoken to her before and thus I expected feeling her sight bearing down upon me, awaiting acknowledgement, as I fail to muster the insanity to meet her gaze.

She passes by, evening settles, and the librarian puts on the lights before the sun can set completely. Its nice and cool in the library, but I seem to be struggling to stay afloat in the high tide raging within. I wish someone were near, if only to feel a little less lonely now. I also wish I wouldn't feel so guilty and shameful for wishing such a thing. But I do, for they remain frivolous in my book.
Of late I've been trying, almost too hard, to submerge myself into a state of asceticism unworthy of my age. I've been helpless and hence lost, thereby seeking direction in a pre-dictated manner of living. I've been trying, too hard, to survive. Step 1 was to stop thinking. Step two was to stop speaking about anything remotely associated with the way I feel. Finally step three involved continuous intoxication, to the point where sometimes like now in times of sobriety, I find myself grumbling in unintoxicated stupor. I like being intoxicated. I use it, and I'm glad its still that way, to simply find a place away from everything that bothers me. I use it to retire within a cave of my own conjuring. A cave sprayed with the scent of solitude, with winds strong enough to blow one off their feet stuck outside. I cease to hurt, and hence I cease to feel the need to express myself. Only the most vulnerable despair for shelter. Besides life seems too cumbersome with such fears as one's enemy, so I ally myself to it. I live planned without the impulse or spontaneity I was once capable of .
I do not rue these developements in me, however, it would seem nice to take an occasional vacation back to a world slightly simpler even in times of sobriety, or rather to a time when I would still be able to absorb the life around me devoid of its complications.

Its still early evening and the only available cure seems to lie in an overplayed SRV record; for the sunset to me now is the same shade as the sunrise painted by his guitar.

regulars

2007-03-09T05:59:00.000-08:00

sweetness follows

the wisdom peeking out

behind rapid eye movements

in moments of weakness.

cold shoulders

mask fear and loathing

of the young and the tamed

in their prime.

another one

of the urban disillusioned

wears perfect fitting puddles of life

in the darkskinned backalleys.

spaceman spiff

2007-03-04T04:17:00.000-08:00

torn between solar systems

a little boy,

in a spaceship tumbling towards infinity;

hurtling across through

blind craters,

each gaping in rare panic frenzy.

little boy makes himself

at home

in a spaceship, laying his worries down;

he shuts his eyes to murmur

to himself,

while waiting, for the night sky to surrender.

2007-03-04T04:00:00.000-08:00

hungry eyes devour all that is present

to make it disappear

make it all disappear

disappear in a hurricane of blindness

veiled by the shadow

cast by my meandering self

heading back to my domicile.

'cortez the killer'

2007-02-24T07:38:00.000-08:00

Boys lay wasted,

girls lay wasted.

A bed, bedside lamp,

a boy smoking.

A girl in the corner,

eyes as dark as night.

Cortez the killer

Cortez the killer…

Happiness is too insignificant,

fear and loathing.

She floats through the room,

drops by his side.

He picks up the final bits of insanity,

she meets his gaze.

Cortez the killer,

I love you man…

He stares back, smoking

the darkness of her eyes.

All the grass couldn’t bring this moment.

A soft murder,

she plants a kiss

after an eternity, for an eternity.

Cortez the killer,

the dealer sold a lotta sweet dreams…

Goddamn her, he is gone,

not a word, she follows.

They come to the edge of the cliff,

“I’ve got to go now”;

she smiles at last,

‘I’m coming’; she whispers.

Cortez the killer,

watch him play…

He abandons the last drag,

looks ahead, soars,

arms spread, meeting the wind.

Shuts his eyes, opens

turns to find her by his side.

They meet the deep sea rock together.

Cortez the killer,

He is your man…

badlands

2007-02-08T06:34:00.000-08:00

pain. scream. a certain sharpness continues slicing from within. you hold your breath. try hard not to make a sound. a grunt esacapes. fuck goddammit. why?

you close your eyes. no man, keep them open. you need to see boy. fucking see yourself tear apart. be a man. take it. you shouldn't be ashamed. you shouldn't right?

wait. breath. think. man, you're fucked aren't you. think. what happened. it was all good. all fine. everything's beautiful. you sat wasted on black tiles. waiting, anticipating. something man, anything. a look, a smile, maybe 5 mins. whatever could be spared. oh but there was lots too spare man, enough and more. not for you. so? what did you expect. you wanted it on a platter? hahahaha. no man. you tried didn't you. yeah, you tried. you stayed calm, sane, biting your lips through teh hurt you waited. you took your mind off. you didn't mean to stare too long. you waited. people came, spoke, sat, even ate. people left. you sat, you waited. you sat with friends, you sat alone. but you were there waiting. for anything, any loose change, a little bit of the leftover. but there was nothing for you there now was there? you hurt and you saw them gang up. you couldn't take it anymore. left without a word. without a tear. the gorgeous and shining pierced through you with tehir spears and eyes. you still waited. you were too proud to fight back. you wondered its your fault did't you? you gave your heart but couldn't surrender your soul now could you. you imagined them siting all along expecting you to hang around and laugh at you. you probably wouldve laughed at yourself had you been them, wouldn't you? you wondered what did you do this time. one moment you were all smiles, and now what?

what the fuck man?

you left. you walked. you didn't taste their food. you didn't partake their gift. why?

hurt? bollocks. oh well maybe a bit. but mostly it was pride wasn/t it? stayed hungry. couldn't deal with it could you? bet you felt you rather die. i bet you turned red. all of them watching. you bruised. hahhahahaa!
hey man atleast you're so still standing. yeah you are. so what did you do. you wait the next day. things seem to brighten up man. you deliberated taking the plunge. after all you need to. what to do. its not all youve got left. its simply all you've got.

dive.

hold your breath. the water's deep. be careful. rescue will be on the way. and then nothing else matters does it. aah! beautiful. fucking beautiful. but wait. it doesn't turn out like you planned it, now does it. what man? its all falling apart. fuck man, fuck. hey atleast youve still got that leftover smile.

put it on. you atleast get another shot. c'mon man its not so bad. you've got frined with you. yeah yeah c'mon.

damn. its falling apart isn't it. calm down. CALM DOWN man. you're fucking losing it. you're FUCKING LOSING IT MAN. fuck. shut up. please. oh no, now they've pushed it. its gone too far man. too far. damn man. you picked up the sword. yeah you did.

you lost didn't you? hehehe, boy you shouldn'tlook so fucked. you must be the champion of losing it by now man. you're done for now boy. you've used up too many words man, too much. you didn't really care about the war did you? the hurt just did you in didn't it. hah! yeah it did boy. you tried, i admit that.

but it got to you, didn't it? you did go to battle. and you lost. smothered. you even left your friends behind.

you're not broken down are you? hahahaahahah! fuck you man. you're dead.

Joad's music

2007-01-29T07:26:00.000-08:00

the music's like orange juice flowing through your ears
the music never gets over
asking where i've been ?
i've been happy, haven't i?
yes, now i run errands in pink coated candy-shops
im the candy shop boy
but i never liked candy myself
never liked candy, have i?
cant tell you now cause the trumpet's taken over
it has the piano drowned
but not for long
not for long now is it?
its a wild wild west coffee shop love story
with cowboy guitarists
playing an earth song
abundant in soft-hearted murders
served as orange juice which will flow through your ears.

everyday nights

2007-01-23T01:01:00.000-08:00

I

lonely people ,
form round table squads.
play twister,
play risk.

dreamer boys
sit red eyed in circles
dreaming
hurting.

all the waking
stare aghast,
blasphemous boys.
pity.

II

soft guitar strums
lead the way to melodious
harmonicas
as the fellas
scream of peace
in time of war.
the boy waits
and the poet watches
as dreams of glass
push thru eyes
glazed in innocence
lost to a woman
with a hurting smile.

III

lonely boy,
sits alone,
laughs a lot
cries going to bed.

young man,
folds his broken dreams
posts out
to an unknown address.

the reaper,
glides through realms of brother dream
stops,
touches our sleeping hero.

shy conversations

2006-10-23T07:59:00.000-07:00

what did you want child?

I think I’m growing old

man I tell you, you never listen.

what?

uh boy, come in.

where?

Where? to your parlour of course.

oh do you have something for me.

I have you.

ah! I see.

no you don’t.

(smile)

now tell me where you’ve been? tell me whats the deal?

I’ve been away, for a while.

think I got stubbed out,

way before I could burn out.

Uhuh, you sure look so.

do you remember the day we climbed the mountains alone?

hmmm I do.

this isn’t going anywhere.

you’re not going anywhere.

huh?

close your eyes boy. close it now.

you’re the ‘sacrifice that escaped’.

you hurt too much now don’t you. so much that you don’t care to stop anymore.

I need a smoke.

hahahaha! And I thought you weren’t ready.

I’m always ready.

you are. but you’re still scared.

aren’t you?

we both are.

do you think it’ll happen tonight?

no reason why it shouldn’t.

damn.

would you like a drink?

no she doesn’t like me drinking. says she doesn’t understand nothing.

well tonight she doesn’t need to. just one shot that’s all.

yea. and you’re made for life.

uhuh, that simple eh?

that simple.

so should I leave now?

if you think its time.

it is time.

then do what you must. oh and wish her luck from me.

EPILOGUE:

She bursts into the room drenched with all the hurt. He wakes up.

‘Look at him. He deserves every bit of it. The bastard. Fuck she loved him. Why the fuck wouldn’t he just understand. Why the fuck wouldn’t he just leave her alone. Fucking prick. Now its gonna be done for good.’

She raises her right hand and points the pistol at his head. He smiles.

‘You cocky bastard’.

She holds still the pistol and waits. One deep breath. Two.

‘He just stares back. Why wouldn’t he say something. Why wouldn’t he move. Fucker. He saw it coming, didn’t he? Now he’s simply teasing her with his silence. Almost daring her to go through with it. Fucker!’

The last deep breath.

He stared on as the bullet drilled on at his forehead, and he last saw her face…..gritted teeth, tears in her eyes. Fuck, she had loved him.

the girl lying next to me

2006-10-02T06:51:00.000-07:00

Right now I’m floating on a cloud number tending to infinity. I feel so light its hard to explain. Lying down unperturbed by the confusion around, I dream. I dream that she’s lying here on my bed next to me. I say I dream because I know its not true. I know my brain is merely indulging me.
I’m grateful for such indulgence. I lie here for months to find her sometimes. Its extremely rare of her to visit. And everytime she does, like right now, she just lies there silent, watching me, her lopsided smile with a hint of affection to soothe my worries, her undivided attention upon my face.
She lies there, with me knowing that its not her. Rather it’s a part of me watching me. She is me. She’s cleaner, armed with a well placed mole that would put the world’s best beauticians to shame. She is my muse, my imagination. I’m the picture of the rugged vagabond, a symbol of the decaying physical entrapment. She is my soul, with all my fears; playing the eternal beauty. And she watches me kindly, still smiling.

(Fuck I could goddamn kill for her right now!)

She never speaks. She never did. We just lie here showing ourselves to one another. Actors both, accomplished in our endevours, sharing a shadow. In the play that is to last a lifetime, we weren’t given roles opposite one another. We couldn’t have been. She would just slip in sometimes when my part was on and play it for me.
I’m her lover, for I’ve never loved one more than myself. And she is me. Its this fate I’ve tried to escape for a long long time. To stop being haunted thus. But it can’t be your fate if you escape it, can it? So I failed.
Tonight I lay here next to her, my brain smeared with intoxicants, hopelessly wanting to touch her if only once. But I cannot for she isn’t there, and I’m too scared of finding her not there anymore. I’d rather lay here breathless, watching her spirit gaze at me. Her muted figure letting out vibrations of a feeling of joy while something within me curls up in pain. The world is in perfect balance between the two of us here.
I suddenly wish to cry. I wish to be the darkness of her hair, that cast playful shadows on her face. I wish that she would whisper some of her smile down my ears. I wish I would breathe for its getting to closed in here.

I wish she would stay and end my day.

3 Stories and a Postscript

2006-10-02T04:21:00.000-07:00

The Prodigal

The Prodigal is a son.
He was never meant to be a father.
He chose to remain a son from the day he gained conciousness. He would be the despised one, the one everyone would choose not to be. He would complete the tasks others would shun for those were tasks not meant for men. The Prodigal was cursed. Cursed for sneaking into ‘desolation row’ when he was too young to. He’s now grown old enough to kiss his curses when he meets them, sometimes during his walks in the evenings or lonely nights in his bed. He kisses them each time as if it were the last time he was to kiss them. Then he continues to live to fulfill their dictate. He smiles wryly at his destiny, for he does not want to believe it.
Now he was to carry the flaming torch of each of his curses and meet the new day, armed with a purpose. He would cripple his own existence so that others would see life, he would meet the darkest stars and show humanity what lies within, he would be the aberration, the deep disturbing chasm in one’s soul that would inadvertantly remind one that one does have a soul. The Prodigal would burn. Burn before the eyes of all who care, and all who don’t so that they all would know that it was possible to burn.
Its not easy for a young man to choose his own fate. Especially in an order where most leave their souls with the World Bank and hearts in churches and temple. The Prodigal would live for the girl.
The Prodigal chose to perish.

The Angel

The Angel is a female.
She loves a man. She must.
She’s flown a long way and learnt much to be here now. She once flew into a garden, where she found a little boy locked up. There was no way to release him, for he himself was the key and he was the one locked up. She however didn’t bother to think so much. She couldn’t, after all here was a little boy crying alone in a garden. So she flew in and held his hand. Held for as long as it took him to stop crying and allow her to hold him tight. Held on for as long as it took for him to need her to hold him.
The Angel never had had to choose. She simply evaded such thorny paths. She was just there always. After all that’s what angels do don’t they?
Now she often finds the little boy around, toying with dangerous toys. Playing games men shouldn’t and weren’t supposed to. She pities the boy sometimes. She shouldn’t, but she can’t help it. She wishes she could release him from within his walls. She knows she could. But she musn’t. Angels don’t play God. Only humans do.
Now she fears. Because now she loves. A man at that. The only one who would make her choose. The one she would like to drown with in those muckfilled swamps, just so they could be immersed in it together to be moulded in one being. The Angel cannot remain an angel anymore, for now she must walk with him and live his choices. The Angel makes the choice she’s never made before.
She chooses to live.

The General and a Maiden

The General had fought many battles and waged many a war. All in the name of the King he serves and the Queen he’s besotted to in his dreams. He has sufferred wounds that chose not to heal. He has lived a life of pledged loyalty to his King’s wishes and left his desires stranded in the battlefields.
Now the nation seems faltering under the shadow of another invasion, another war. The general knows his task. He is to lead the thousands in servitude to meet their purpose. He is to hold them each by their hands and show them what they must see; what they, if not for him, would not have seen. He cannot choose to escape such tasks, for they are his duty and he serves the King. His life and dream, all lie in the realm of the King. He is merely a symbol of the King walking into battle for the King.
A maiden breaks his thoughts, offers him some milk. He takes it graciously for he knows he might never taste milk again.
From the look in the maiden’s eyes he knows she’s sad. She’s sad for him. She knows him not, and neither does he recall her aquaintance. But she’s still sad for him and he’s grateful for her milk.

ps: the poet

The poet lives on 42nd Desolation Row. He is the creator. He is the master and servant of his own creation. The poet is the god and the devil. What he creates only he may destroy.
The poet shoots himself on a rainy Sunday afternoon after feeding his pet cat.

nothing

2006-09-18T08:30:00.000-07:00

there is no sound of the sea

nothing to hate
nothing to kill or die for
nothing to love
nothing to live for

the dawn still burns the mountains

The Stripper

2006-09-15T11:13:00.000-07:00

He is young. And like most of the existing young he simply wanders around. Its during these wanderings that he often walks the street. Walking this street creates a deep connection between his physical self and the creation of his kind. Somehow the feeling of a most terrible estrangement escapes him for a while.

This shall be the last walk he takes on this street.

As he walks on he realises that sometimes he runs into a sort of net. A net akin to a wall in many ways but its not the same. Through a net one can see the otherside. A net breeds a stronger lust for the otherside. One may even reach out to a certain distance to the otherside depending upon the elasticity of the net. The net isn’t as rigid as a wall. However, the trouble lies in pushing too far. If the net is really as big as he imagines it to be, it can catapult him back and end up hurting him.

Wandering the street he wonders if he’ll ever lose the net. Not that he despises it. But rather he’d like to lose it for a while.

He continues his walk. He must. On his way he comes across a black man on the sidewalk, reciting Hindu shlokas to African beats on a tambourine. A sense of peaceful ancient chaos fills him. It seems to have come out of the wild and deserted. He wishes to stop and speak to the man, but decides that its not time yet. He’s walks on (he’s quit smoking and his lips itch to have something wegded between them). Like all streets, this one too is puntuated by numerous symbols certifying the evolution of civilization. Each symbol broadcasting the known to their audience. Showing the way, hiding the obvious. But oddly amongst all such anagrams of the evident, our protagonist gradually learns of the presence of something absent. Probably like Newton learnt when the fruit of sin chanced upon him. He smiles a sad smile. A smile only a young man could smile.

Is it time yet? Was he ready? He knows that he’ll know when the time comes so there’s no point meditating upon it. Unless the point lies within the pointlessness of it all. He knows he has to reach his goal when the time comes, albeit the knowledge that the entire exercise might be the symbol of futility. But it has to be done. So why the doubts now? He’s walked a long way. Surely he can’t still be afraid. After all what was there to fear now? He turns his head and the translucent glass of a shop, apparently selling lampshades, catches his vision. A little girl in a azzure dress is sitting on a stool on the sidewalk infront. She glances up at him him from under a frown. He stares back. Their eyes meet and stay locked for a while. Finally she tilts her head to the left, as if resting it on an invisible pillow and slowly spreads her legs; her feet still on the ground at her toes. The hem of her skirt spread taut, like a shamiana, tucked in on the outer ends of her thighs, casting a dark shadow in the space created between the inner ones. He lowers his gaze to meet the darkness. He waits. The darkness remains. He understands it’ll always be dark for him. He doesn’t find the exit that certain other men would find there. He’s still blind. Partially perhaps, but blind nonetheless. He understands, its alright. Alright to be blind.

Armed with his newfound enlightenement he presses forward. He decides it can’t be too far now. It is almost time. But he need not rush ahead. His time would come to him. It was already there on its way. He can feel it now. In his breath, in the swelling in his chest. It is everywhere rushing in on him. He seems to be walking faster now. Involuntarily. His entire being seems to be raging with some forgotten throb, that are speeding down his every vein and with every gulp of the air inhaled they feel growing louder in a pulsating fervor reminding him of a future he’s seen before.

Pause. Breathless. The street is over. It is time.

He stands at the crossroads.

He looks beyond, changes gender.

She strips.

A Talkative Poet

2006-09-12T06:06:00.000-07:00

I like to write. I cannot explain why but I simply know I do. It seems like the only time I can be my true self with all my eccentricities, fakeness and come to terms with my blasphemous thoughts. Its like right now. I’m kind of panicking. Atleast I should. But I sit here devoid of ideas typing.
I wish to pen down my story someday. After all it’s the only thing everyone’s got. A story of their own. The scariest part is that it inevitably finds itself intertwined with that of certain others. Its like you walk through life as if you’re in a train. And you walk from through various cabins, meeting sets of different people. As you walk in a cabin you become a part of the story of the people already there, and they become a part of yours. Some of those parts fail to etch a line in your brain and thus the white sheet of memory still remains blank. Certain others fill up the same sheet with writings evoking profound emotions within you. Feelings you’d rather not have felt but you’re glad you did since they become the only proof of you being alive. Of you still being able to feel.
Through writing I keep a tangible account of these emotions I go through in different cabins of my personal metaphorical train. The most influential emotion in my walk so far has been this inexplicale pain that I found first while transcending from high school to college. Its like I walked into a brand new bogey and whoa…here comes my messiah!! This pain over the past 3 years has become my walking stick, my guide, my ‘Mother Mary in times of trouble’. Prior to this I was simply plagued with various forms of anger, frustation and moments of happiness. But of late its been this pain that has been the muse seducing out thoughts and words I never considered myself capable of expressing. Its like this sudden upshoot of a tornado in the vaccum within your torso that springs up at these odd moments with no apparent warning or sign, and you’re just smothered. Literally paralysed waiting for it to pass. Like a ghost that comes to haunt you akin to an alarm clock going off when it shouldn’t. And it comes from all directions. An overwhelming wave of nauseating odour of the human condition that leaves you breathless for longer than you can normally survive. It colours what you see, even when you close your eyes and dream. It is your dream, it is your life. It reminds you of the moments you were happy and failed to recognise it because you were too busy trying to preserve it. It floats in unabashed and unstoppable through your strongest fortresses into the deserted landscapes of your mind. God’s plagues on Rameses’s brethren. You’re writhing within and without but you cannot let go of it for without it you are an empty container like many others. It ebbs out in your words. The words you carefully pick to reflect and hide yourself in. The words written in your dreams, with your desires. The words with which you make love to the anonymous. The words you cannot escape, the same ones you hide within. The words so soft. The words which tell you that you've loved and have been loved.

bliss

2006-08-27T03:49:00.002-07:00

you're the mountian top
you're the peak.
but you're a bore tonight.
am i free now?

put me in the mirror
you put infront of you,
and get me a girl
to kill your guilt.

im high, and im glad.
you were ashamed.
i stood up, eveready
to go down; vain.

i've never seen music draw your face,
like the flute does now.
im sorry i lied.
you are beautiful.

can't forgive, neither forget.
can't live, neither perish.
played along the play
'a life consumed by slow decay'.

paa paa pa pa (on repeat)

2006-08-23T05:33:00.000-07:00

I saw her and raised an eyebrow
she did the same
and she smiled
that's when i left my life in her rented apartment.
Now i listen to music
its all hilarious
a bad joke, so bad its funny
its all too goddamn funny

Thank you for the show.
No one's been happier than I.

falling off the map

2006-08-18T02:10:00.000-07:00

turn a corner,

end up in the crimson alley of the eye.

the grass on the sidewalk is green,

fresh.

but it all seems draped in red

with sly darkness beneath

forming shadows, gaining shape.

sit down,

and try to move on.

peer outside the eye,

and watch their painted faces

smile

in the bright moonlight

stuck outside.

wait,

for the next time.

to hear whispers, louder

than the voices on the microphone.

watch the sounds

skin the air

and brush past the ear.

head high,

trapped in it.

and all that you mix never seems enough

when the sea runs like the train

and the stars swim to the left.

behold friends,

the road is my bride.

let there be stars,

and there were stars .

brighter than a million suns

at first sight,

to blur out leaving only a memory.

and the smoke brings salvation;

untrue yet pure.

2006-07-16T08:34:00.000-07:00

This motherfucking hope. This fucking hope in this crazy dream as the guitar strings circumsize your heart and you lay smearing the moonlight on your naked feelings. The fingers fail to move. Despair is holy. And the band is just killing you. Again the same old men you cant fucking get over. The same fucking dream you cant let go.

You happy now? I’m cut up, here under the drone of the heavy bass on my bed, my fortress besieged, suffocating from the thoughts that make me scream to stop suffering this silence. I’m not enlightened. I don’t want to see it. I don’t want to cry. This little boy hurts and I want him dead.

I

2006-06-22T04:24:00.000-07:00

I light the last smoke
with the half-black topped match.
The last smoke, the last shot at
a wild, slender dream.
And I wait, I wait
I wait for her to walk by
again barefoot beneath the cover of the long wet grass;
walk by my side and brush past my skin
just to feel what I felt
in a dream unseen.

Do you know her?
Do you know where she lives?
Do you know I love her?
Do you?
Does she?

I strive to wade on through
the labrynths of these words,
these words she spoke, these
words I believed.
These words that built
me dreams that hurt.
These words and more that still swirl in my head
like the soft turn of whiskey
on a dark, parched tongue.
I strive.

Do people live only to die?
Do people need to kill
dreams to exist?
Do people hurt?
Do people know?

I lay still on my back,
running my hand through my long wet hair,
awaiting her touch, awaiting her feet,
awaiting her smell;
awaiting my dream.
I am the safe-garden
where she locked a lonely boy,
her face is his life,
his life is his dream,
and I am the ruins of a little boy’s dream.

2006-06-19T13:32:00.000-07:00

Rogue sat for days in his garden trying to find ways to tell her goodbye. The midnight gold in the sky refused him light. Rogue sat and refused to cry. Rogue was brave. Their were wells that were filled with dreams he wanted to see. To live. In his garden he was safe. Very safe.

Once he was surprised to find her by his side. His ‘brain was trying to remember her name’. He was searching. He was scared.

He was too late. Fast forward to the present.

Rogue sits for days in his garden trying to find ways to tell her goodbye. Rogue dreams. He dreams of walking barefoot in summer, casting a shadow on her face, so that she can stare back in his eyes. She is his salvation. He sits and wakes the memories that broke him down, held him straight and spoke to him now. They were all he had left of a dream that was not real; for dreams aren’t real. He sits and waits for dawn. He sits with a glass of whiskey and some smoke in his mind. He is real. he is here. He is rogue.

She is beautiful. She didn’t say goodbye. Maybe that’s why she still drops by to meet him in the garden. She never enters. She just wishes he would stop sitting there. She even cried for him. He never cries. He only dreams. He dreams that she would step in for a while. It may seem like a stretch, but its thoughts like this that make him breath even today.

All of their history had little to with her face. She was a 'mistery with violins filling in space'.

(A) boy

2006-06-13T12:05:00.000-07:00

A boy lies listening to old melancholies;
once shared, once heard, and crumpled;
with another boy.
The ripples in the spaces, that never made sounds
drew them nigh in sticky summer afternoons and
they grew, cancer amongst hunters;
hunted in their own dreams;
chosen murderers.

A boy gifted a boy
a ‘pillow of dreams’
in the soft night that came with stars for them to choose within.
They chose different ones
each with their own blossoms of faith, hurt and cobwebs
and ocassional deal of cards, with their own time for boys in space.
Like ‘good men’ the boys understood
‘spaces between friends’.

A boy sped across an ocean
riding an unikely star.
A fountain, he was, dragging out fears
meant to be his own private war.
Scared of the spirits
he met the pale shadows
and hid his obscured dreams
to rescue a little boy whose smile pleased the weather.

A boy lay silent
in his own grand prison built of dreams he chose not to see.
He traded his life
for a lopsided smile
that he kept safe within the colours of his mind.
The flowers still bloom in his untrue garden of hurt
and he takes his last tired shower,
his only space in this lonely night.

A boy missed the bus.
A boy hurt.
A boy never cries.
A boy sat alone and spoke of memories to
a boy.
A boy loved.
A boy, just a boy.
A boy, only a man.

Boys

2006-06-06T04:00:00.000-07:00

Three boys and a bigger boy sat under a tree on old newspapers. The bigger boy spoke of flash bulbs and lights and shapes and sizes and bigger men. He spoke of the work before the calm flute gives way to the raging guitar. He spoke of ‘the warm thrill of confusion’ and pleasure better than good sex. Three boys listened to the big boy with quivering eyes.

Their conversation continued through different bends and turns. They got news of another boy awaiting them elsewhere, where they should have been, but they were not. They continued to weave through their words. Sitting positions changed. And many cigarettes were smoked, for they were old enough to smoke, and many a drink of tea were downed in traditional earthen cups.

One boy sat on his hunches and was getting excited. The other was lost in thought. The third kept humming ‘bring the boys back home’. It played loud and clear in his head and he could not express the swell in his chest as the choir raised their voices, a toast to despair.

As they spoke of tragedies and portraits, their eyes settled down in monologues. There eyes spoke with fervor as their mouths ranted on their hearts. They had hearts. They were goods boys. The bigger boy spoke the most revealing paths and ideas, entrapping the three boys. And the bigger boy showed them why they were still boys, and they knew that he was not so big. They were all running and chasing and escaping from their boyhoods; and they were not really little boys, but they were boys.

The boy lost in thought placed his arms on the shoulders of the third boy, and fingered his lips. The other boy awaiting them was getting impatient, for he was only a boy. It had started drizzling. And the song still played loud in the third boy’s head.

‘bring the boys back home’

endless

2006-06-04T08:03:00.000-07:00

been trying
to fly away on the sound of waters
rolling in amidst voices that keep buzzing within.
shallow glowing of white light
lines converging where your image now stands,
your smile like a
butterfly with broken wings
sleeping on the broken flowers
left behind to wait in the wilderness
where a shadow burns
as calm insanity rages within a painted face
of the shipwrecked friend, unknown dreamer of nightmares.
fleeing from reason
dying to be able to dream again and
the laughter still echoes in your eyes with
friutful memories of all the doors you left open behind
to walk back in other seasons to find the garden
still there waiting in a life unkind.

Empty Chairs and Empty Tables

2006-05-27T00:38:00.000-07:00

lines on my face
that your hands drew
before you left to find the happiness
that i couldn't sing

and they said
they said again and again
that darkness will conquer
and the words will kill everything

and the story has a different ending
and we dont share anything
dirty seeds
be happy and please dont cough

words run off my mouth
into alleyways that are long deserted
no minds wabder here
pick up your emtied mind andwalk on

and the writing is sloping down
and we dont see anything
anythin thats good
go away

words and words and words
lighting up random spaces
that lie waiting to slip through
your soul and tear you apart

sister morphine, let me out of here
in the land of emptiness
to drown
drown myself in little bottles of freedom

stars are cleared from home
the sky is created
little kids live to play
with yellow green eyes

everything is banging
clanging, strumming, cryin ta ra ra ra
until i'm high on your low
leave me

jarred memories
broken colours
carry visions of life
end

i was gonna pull over for a stop
but gambled with the moonlight
slashing across bare daylight
good luck, im scared

high above
and i jumped
from there
again

come back now
in white flashlight dreams
on a soft whiskey table
in a last goodnight

repeating
empty spaces
walking through blackness
eyes of clouded moon

and stop me from rising
and giving myself away
dont be my angel
be me world

by rorschach and the peter pan.

friends "forever and never"

2006-05-03T22:50:00.000-07:00

its hitting you again.
it is.
the cheap hammers banging.
the last drag.
you chuck it out of the window.
its too late to smoke.
you're dull and your eyes hurt.
i wish you would stick around.
your the last one, my last drag.
help me,
cry a bit.
i will hold you again. i promise.
later?
fine.
"the god's good in your head"
or somethin like that.
can't racall what you said.
goddammit.

the world's a half pitcher of dreams
and you cut them to get what you need.
don't be sorry.
be.
you hurt.
like hell.
and you shiver in the wind like the last leaf in a dying tree.
stop smiling now.
fuck! that smile.
silence after the gunshot.
feed off my fresh wounds...live.
i love you.
i will hurt you.

FINALLY...

2006-04-27T09:11:00.000-07:00

ooo yea now im officially the poet in pain and agony. mr. missunderstood n all....go quiz farm!! awesome shit man..can make anyone's day. even a manic deppressant!

the quiz is "what do your eyes tell abou you?"

You scored as Eyes full of Pain.

People tend to overlook you, which makes you feel less worthy of their attentions. You sometimes wish you could just disapear from the world around you. You have been hurt very badly in the past and you just wish that someone would understand you, and what their cruelty is doing to you.

Eyes full of Pain 100%
Mysterious 50%
Diamond Eyes 33%
Passion 25%

Trip to the Mind

2006-04-24T12:23:00.000-07:00

Darkness

harmonica

"drifting drifting an' drifting away"

alone,

slow,

crimson eyed.

Thoughts

walls

laughs and sounds.

Weird sounds

too much laughter.

reason

lacking.

and then they come soaring up from the rings of white that leave your nostrils, slowly wading through the darkness, bringing light where there was none...

escape.

what?

life.

life?

Her

hahaha.

night.

peace.

smooth skin roughed by growing beard.

manhood.

innocence.

death.

and in the end there was, again, darkness.

Perfect Night

2006-04-13T08:40:00.000-07:00

Stars shine,
in the rivers that trickle down
the silk pathways of your face -
mirror to the night sky.

You're green tonight,
and you brave the night
with human radiance.
Proud, immoral, dark and ashamed.

Dreams?
They are meant to be killed;
I know.
You were my sweetest killer.

Now you tilt your head
and raise your brow
and throw the last lopsided smile.
O love! You are a most beautiful sinner

Freedom?
You cannot be free,
you liar,
you, the one who bound me by mere sight.

You sucked the life,
and you tore the flowers and burnt memories in hearths of the heart.
Thank you love.
You were my perfect night.

moon

2006-03-09T01:28:00.000-08:00

Shadows fell from smoky stairs,
as I stood alone, bathing naked.
A mellow night, warm moonlight
from a faraway cold cold moon.
I've stood here before,waiting for a touch,
a feeling so burnt, so scarred, so gnawed.
A feeling so burnt.
So I shot the moon in the breathless sky
with a sunken heart and a naked eye.
I hid the hurt with joys untold,
felt the presence within the absence.
I died too young; I died,
now i borrow a pictureof a ride on a mongoose; lusting for the moon.
I could've cried wolf, i could've cried.
but i just watched silent, distant ships tear apart.
watched the moon within the spaces,
its distant light, still burning bold.

Pandora's box (urn watever)

2006-03-04T10:26:00.000-08:00

the ashtray...

The Show

2006-03-02T02:11:00.001-08:00

I started sinking;
and all I dreamt of holding on
was you.

We are here.
I didn't expect it to be so cold.
But still.

We're at the show;
you and I.
We're not but we are.

I tried to bring you here,
and you promised to come.
We both lied.

Why?
To keep us happy perhaps;
perhaps we were happy.

Happiness,
its a change, I guess,
of something in my liberties.

Nevermind,
you are here now,
we are here.

It’s time now,
To put on my hats, and my jeans,
and my masks.

And shall we now,
for one last time,
let the show begin?

The show!
Lights, delights, friends and ghosts,
hand in hand, escaping the waking world.

A world of mothers, preachers and others
lost in habits of conjugality.
We sleep, we flee.

Cymbals blast,
pigs fly, trombones blare.
The promise is the same, I know.

Hold on,
we have nowhere to go.
We can stay as long as we wish.

The songs change,
we build our walls.
Higher and higher, till the world’s just a dream.

You wish to dance now?
From within these walls,
and across our spaces?

Ah! So be it.
We dance, we fly,
we swirl and twirl, and swim through space.

And the show slips on,
Visions fade.
Stories die and stories are born.

We’ll never stop now?
Will we?
You won’t leave again, will you?

I don’t want to go,
only to wake up.
Don’t want to want, only to want you.

You can fly,
and I will sing.
And we will sleep, only to dream.

The Endless.

2006-02-27T08:09:00.000-08:00

Kru n Su

Winter of Love

2006-02-19T07:17:00.000-08:00

5/9. the lost boys. immortal. cursed. loved.

the kindly ones

2006-02-18T01:54:00.000-08:00

ahem* burp*

the show

2006-02-14T09:10:00.000-08:00

the show. i never expected it to be this cold. i knew her before. or i thought i knew her. cymbals blasting. i did know who she used to be. tonight she sent me a picture she drew of the lord of stories. i dont know why she did it. she knew how much i liked him. i always felt i would hate her. for all the things she showed. n for all that i believed. its been long since i spoke to her. a year of obnoxious pretences that everything is fine.

the show goes on.

yet this was real. this was morpheus, calm n collected in my hands. conjured by the magician i once knew. the one i wanted most to be happy. the one whom i wanted to be happy with me.

loud music.

someone just told me that he wud tear it if it were given to him. someone else asked, "why? why now?" i was tuched. ive never cried for her. you know im a liar. she was the only one i spoke the truth to. i was brutal. i was honest. "the silent reproach of a million tear stained eye"...crescendo...

there are guitars, n sounds, n lights n worlds n spaces.

there are too many spaces. n the "life" just seems pushing me n waves. higher n lower..inside n outside. breathless. they still sing. they've changed the song. but its all the same promise, isn't it? n no one ever keeps them. its just this lingerin throb. the one i get everytime i see her. alone or with him. i like him. he's a good man. he makes her happy. it just kills me. ive never been this honest. im usually this abstract. honesty isn't enough. it shud be coupled with straightforwardness. i learnt both late. but i was honest to her. i always was. i swear it. they make me want to cry.

stop the damn show!!!

"mother do u think she's dangerous?" mother liked her. mother thought she was very pretty. mother came down to meet her. i made sure they dint meet. "mama will always find out where youve been"...stop this damn song!! i can but i dont.

i haven't thanked her. he told me to let her know ive got it. she passed it on thru him. i told him i'll do it in person. she deserves nothin less. but its me out here in the cold...getting lonely, getting old. they say "dont give in without a fight". its a minefieled, the path to her. ive been there before. i cant dare it again. but i have. im sorry. im so sorry. i just love you. i love you. i dont want to cry. i dont cry. i never wanted you to cry. im sorry.

i think i'll smoke a while.

Gzzirlch

2006-02-13T09:07:00.000-08:00

Hello,
I'm drowning.
I am not, but it feels so.
Beautiful isn't it?
Within ripples of uncertainty,
and shadows of chaos, in shelters of naked darkness and pauses of thought,

I lie curious.

Breathless.

Patient.

Thank you for your audience.

2006-01-30T04:38:00.000-08:00

roommate

glass house..

2005-11-04T11:16:00.000-08:00

Have you ever lived in a glass house?
I do. Its cubical and is devoid of doors and windows. You can see everything from here. The calm forest outside with the trees standing guard, preserving and inspiring. I am sure there is life in the forest, though I have never seen evidence of any. I somehow felt it.

Its not easy to feel things from inside such a glass chamber. The walls are cold to the touch. They however grow warm on persistence. It’s a spectacular view though. You can see everything. You just need to notice carefully.

I had roamed in the forest once. It was very misty. The fog was like a black hole sucking in the beams of the sun and glowing like white monsters of smoke. They seemed friendly though, like giant elephants. I had walked through them. It didn’t mean much to me then. I had always loved walking. The forest that seems so mysterious now seemed so simple then. You could just walk and keeping walking. However you did have to look over your shoulder at times to make sure you weren’t lost.

Occasionally one can hear various other forms of life emitting strange sounds. Sounds that may or may not qualify as music. But then that does not matter, since being qualified as music involves the influence of a larger set of variables on the mind.

I still travel. I wander off into the forest. I glide through the hazy blue into oceans of spectral colours (sunlight through a dilated pupil perhaps!!) where I nest in my dreams. These dreams often unfulfilled yet natural. They are not products of a forced homogeneity.
Rather they are the types yielded by unharnessed and freely traveling mindscapes.

I am thankful. I am no prisoner. I am glad.

The mist has lifted somewhat now. I can see far through the glass. It is so silent in here. I do not know if it’s the same outside in the forest. I imagine it is.

moment

2005-11-02T10:35:00.000-08:00

one of the more depressin feelings is when i stare at the white sheet n nothin comes forth. the mind's blank as the sheet i set forth to fill up. its not often that i have nothin to say. i think, a lot comes floodin in "a flash of inspiration" as one says. but now i find myself stranded devoid of words n thoughts, far from an idea.
im listenin to music now. not the stuff i really like. but then i dnt know wat i really like. it seems i often go with the flow. like i need some distraction from life. just to look the other way. just a moment, to find nothing but the absence of everything else.
im feeling kinda messed now. very messed. im not really sure why. i feel this way quite often. atleast used to. but i never typed while feelin this way. so this shud be fun, eh! i dunno...it started with me bein slowly rocked, as if in a cradle by kenny g's sax. n now its soarin, the sound, its higher than ever....n there's sinkin in me. im quite outta breath as i type...i let go...breathe out...there..im still low. im hit. i dnt know.. the music's still on. my mind's off the screen n im makin typos...im thinkin of somethin i dnt want to. ive always tried not to. i dusnt matter wat it is. its just that sometimes...rite now...i wish things were different. not really. im happy...but i just wish, for a while life was diff, just so i can know wat its like.just so...

(there ive corrected the typos i cud find...there cud be more though)

i spoke to a friend today. he's far off in another continent. there was somethin he was hidin. ive often spoken that way to ppl. infact i do it all the time. mostly wit ppl i care about. im scared. man rite now u shud see me...im a fuckin pussy sittin here infront of the comp. im "wallowin in self pity" as one of my acquaintances wud say. i cant believe im ashamed of myself. i am. i dunno of wat. maybe...ive failed to live upto my vision of myself. maybe im not the way i want to be abt certain things...maybe im still vulnerable. i cant let go...let go of anythin..in never cud. not of ppl, not of my own walls. im not a prisoner. im however hidin. n im too scared to find out wat im hidin from.
but im desperate now. i dnt want to be lost anymore man...i cant lose anymore...not that i ever have, some wud say. but still...im confused. there are wounds, wounds that dnt seem to heal. but i cant see them, n i never share them. i try to be invincible. im gettin good at it. i often hurt than get hurt. no one can tuch me. i feel like a fuckin coward doin this. i never let anyone close. thats coz im paranoid...n im on the run. n nothin ever happens to me, i always escape.
no one can touch me...

Freedom's just another word for nothin left to lose

2005-10-11T06:10:00.001-07:00

im kind of panicking now. i have my end semesters in 2 weeks n im...well lets just say yet to start. well posting here is just another way of procrastinating from facing the world of formal education. ive been in class till 4pm, ocassionally going out for a smoke...n then sittin with su, who i bet is sloggin her arse off now. took a long shower, smoked again n here i am. a champon at killing time.
i wonder wat life wud be like with no time to kill. its like cancer or aids. i guess i'd all of a sudden experience a sudden ruch of blood to the head n just be as random as i really wanna be. i'd probably take a huge trip in the himalayas, climb mountains with a frightenein steep...jerk off every night, cut down on alcohol n nicotine. start tellin ppl to fuck off, and mail all those i love just sayin "i love you". and then go sailin.
living life with the end approachin wud in a way be a lotta fun. i meani'd be free at last. no baggage. no clearin exams, projects, no worries of gettin a job or a wife...
hav nothin to lose...
wat i dnt get is we all know we are going to die, someday. we just dnt know how soon. n just this uncertainty just plagues us as we yearn for a "great" life. in the end most of us cant honestly say "i have lived". i want to live.
ive had moments when ive lived. these ones are usually the most unplanned occurences in my life. the most inate random things a prudent human bein wouldn't partake of. yet ive found joy, an unspoken and untold freedom in these moments. ive felt so camplete. i felt alive.
now i have this growing wave towards the centre of my chest n this erudite voice somewhere in me sayin that i shud study. study hard. finish a bulk of my eco now, coz im drinkin tonite n going out for lunch tommorow...n then i wont have time to study. i wont have time.

mother....i dnt want time, i watnt to live....spontaneously.live wit no tommorow. live like today is my last.

one day i will. not today.

Riders on the Storm...

2005-10-07T21:43:00.000-07:00

this is adapted from a mail isent to "baba" of whom i'll write some day..till then this is just for the record...

today almost rates as the best day of my life. 20 yrs...well thats been a long fuckin life. not in terms of human yrs perhaps, but definitely a prolonged existence. but today was my day.
fuck.
had classes from 9 in the mornin till 4 p.m. n then while goin to dump my bag in my room to set off for shankar i met vikas, a guy detained n is now in our batch. is my next door neighbour in hostel. perpetual stoner n sweetheart. unfortunately one's personal attributes aren't taken into account while evaluating the end semesters.
pity.
so anyway vikas was on this cycle goin somewhere n i randomly begged him if i cud come along. he asked me to get another cycle n well off we set. we dint kno where we wanted to go, so we picked up some fags from shankars n set off towards shameerpet. on the way we found the shameerpet lake more seductive. so we braved the muck n the rocks n climbed uphill on our bikes (cycles really, but bike sounds hepper!!..i kno i spelt hep wrong...joy in misnamin...joy in misspellin).

we cycled on n the weather....o fuck the weather. ahh...mother, there was wind n smell of earth n shit n all kinds of grass...fuck...it was brilliant. the muck smell dint really bother us coz we were pantin at the end of it n were breathin thru our mouths...but this was just the beginnin...
we got 'fence locked' on our way out. as in we got into some one's property, coz well we lost our way...n suddenly we were in the middle of this really slushy n rocky field with a barbwire fence all around us.
we chucked our bikes over the fence n climbed thru the barbwires....n rode on.

riders on the strom.

once back on the road we had a choice of headin towards shameerpet or back the college way. only the road extended further beyond the college into the great unknown where neither of us had been before. honestly...it just took a look n a grin...we both knew where we wanted to go.

prior to that are a list of trivial events that took place. here goes;

college was rufly 2kms away.
we cycled 2 kms.
there was a bhutta vendor.
we had bhutta.
then came shankar.
we smoked.

n we were off again. we cycled for about 2 kms down into absolute nothingness. only to dodge various cattle on the way. there were some really close misses on buffaloes with foot long horns..other times a herd of goats (herd of goats!!!) led by ancient men covered in huge polythene drapes (usually blue)...the kind with which one usually covered their cycles or bikes. they were so draped coz the weather was gettin ruf. wasn't rainin but wind was blowin wild man. fuckin wild. it was loud too. n we were cyclin against it. after several stops n somethin like 4 further kms we came to this crossroad. it was wat we call a 'choumatha'
one way went back to college, one went straight, one left n one right. it was gettin quite dark at only 5:30 n yet no rain. we however had to scream above the wind to be audible to one another. in this wildly serene atmosphere iron gates to an empty (wat seemed like wheat) field banged shut...well not really shut, but banged...
vikas asked, "ek raasta wapas jail, baki teen maut....kaunsi??"
bein 20...wel nearly 20 n single one usually chooses the latter....we were single n 20.
we went left coz it seemed most excitin of the 4. we cud barely see some 10 mts of it because it turned into somethin that seemed like a forest cover n there were no lights....n we knew it wud get dark early...n we were carryin no torches...so all the better...

freedom was mine...death was near..

there were no bonds then, i dint think of anyone. that part was downhill n we raced into somethin we dint kno. we had nothin to lose n all u cud take from us were our lives. we'd gift it to u then...we were flyin...i was...i know i was...that was the moment. i was one. i dint kno anyone existed. i dint kno anythin, i dint need anythin. i dint want anythin. i was complete. i was high, i was flyin. i was smilin n after long i had no reason to. i had no one expectin me to smile, i had no one returnin the smile.

i was alone, i was one...i had loved...i was loved.

moment.

we cycled till i dunno how long anymore n it had started drizzlin. we came till a fci godown in the middle of nowhere. we were far away from the spider webs. as far as anyone had probably come from where we came. we came for nothin, n this nothin completed me. this nothin was all i had, n it was fuckin beautiful...fuckin beautiful man....

i cud die then. i only wished, n i really dreamt along that it was pp ridin along wit me. n i wudve just prayed for su then....i dont think vikas cares enuf to mind. so its ok.

ive never felt this way before. it was somethin surreal man. fuckin surreal n beautiful.
i came back, we sat n smoked at shankars. he took off. it was rainin heavily now. i messaged su. they were couple of frantic messages, n i was hyper n really free....FUCKIN FREE...
i dunno wat i wrote but she came n it was just the 2 of us at shankar, who becoz the storm that had started now was already packin. su's face looked so grown up in the light of the fire it reflected. so fuckin old. she held my hand n i knew i was safe. usually such a gesture ties me. but i never felt so free before n i was glad she was there. she's my sister. my family here. she dusn't understand me n dusn't find understandin a pre-requisite to holdin my hand. i was back in the prison n here she was my lifeline.

su n i had a conversation taht shall be kept to us. but after that we walked back to campus holdin hands...it was really rainin hard now...n there were puddles formin...so we both went on an expedition of conquerin puddles (speakin in old scot accent...with emphasized r's n lad as la'a'd)...
she was the captain, n i teh first mate....."puddle ahoy captain", n then we wud jump on all of them makin a big splash...n then kick water in at each other.
last time i did that was outside 100c Park Circus wit pp n bullete, when i went home in baba's clothes for the first time.

n so the day ended. after the successful expedition wit captain stunnin su....i was wearied...had some cofee coz we were drenched n then dropped her back to her hostel n came back to mine. the rest in irrelevant....but it was a great day. almost close to the day i first saw the greater himalayas burst out slyly from behind the brown mountains en route to chopta.

fuck it was a feelin of a life time, n i cant write such a mail again.

i need a smoke.

i have a life.

any colour 'I' like...

2005-10-07T04:46:00.000-07:00

well having established im a "weird" fellow as per the word's common connotations, i shall further delve into my eccentricities.
i see visions.
as in im not technically schizo or anythin of that sort. i just like playin in my head, at all time knowing that wats in there isn't true. yet i hang on to my imaginence (if there is such a word...im sure cat stevens uses it in one of his songs...i forget which) with a naive hope that it mite just turn out to be true. sometimes not even hoping, rather believin completely wat i see. sometimes wat i see is completely absurd and fantastic, and sometimes they even tho impossible by my present circumstances; are sprinkled with dashes of practicality.
for example i often see myself as a strugglin, third world, young footballer rising from the realms of obscurity to a premiership club and eventually going on to win the european cup. i always however find myself in the premiership. i attribute it to my relative familiarity to the english league as compared to the rest.
sometimes i prefer seeing me taking long walks or having chats with girls, interactions with whom have resulted in a broken heart; or friends who are not near. all these chats n walks often revolve around topics familiar to both myself and my imaginary visitor.
i more often see myself as a rock n roll guitarist. not a frontman of the band. but rather the creative genius behind the overtly iconic vocalist. i see myself touted by music pundits as one of the best lyricist and composers of my time. in these dreams im also known for my low profile lifestyle devoid of scandals involvin women; however, filled with rumours of consistent drug abuse. these 'visions' if you can call them, often end up as a chain of events....thus in my rockstar dreams i die at 27 after 3 platinum albums, OD-ing on stage. however whenever i need, i revert back to my life prior to my death. im particularly fond of this set of 'visions'.
but of all these the most frequently 'seen' vision is the one where im a general. respected and loved by his people and the only hope of his war torn nation. i had been sent to the king when young to recieve intensive training as a kid. in return i pledged my life to his son, my contemporary. we fell in love with the same nobleman's daughter, who chose the prince over me. i also have a sister who married a neighbouring king, n who is very close to the prince in my nation who later becomes king. i grow up to become the general of the state's army, with exclusive control over 5000 horsemen who were trained with me, and to whom i am the lord. not because i ask for it, but its just a manifestation of their love and royalty...king aurther and his knights style...
anyway the nation after the prince becomes king is torn in conflict. people are loyal to the king, however we are under extreme threat from the mongols...they're the coolest warriors in town n i kick their ass...
after that i just go down in history, repeatedly provin my worth in battle. noblemen are scared of me, but my king loves me. yet i demand no post in his court and live with my horsemen. i also come to my bro-in-law king's aid at times. my bro-in-law has serious ego issues, but reluctantly agrees to my aid after his chief counsel (childhood buddy) convinces him of my indispensibility.
now for faces in these dreams i often borrow from my social associations in real life. therefore the 'good guys' are often my friends, and the bad ones are usually people i despise (a common feature among them bein, that they are from the cowbelt).
these dreams or visions (watever) are not as simple as stated above. they are often intricate with details as to emotions, drama, daylight and gaberdine...i literally have a film running in my head. except i decide as to wat happens, nd i can do watever i want. rest assured i always act righteous.

Arnold Layne's Diary:First Entry

2005-10-07T00:41:00.000-07:00

well im here devoid of ideas and company. i am alone in a cool air conditioned room filled with technological advances that has plagued our times. i was thinkin of myself. i am often thot of as a deviant. atleast it gives me a sadistic pleasure to be afflicted and frustated with society even when im not. i like being a deviant. to be honest i take immense pride in it and am often irritatingly judgemental about various social commonalities such as ambition, marks paranoia, and pop culture.
these aspects of my character have lent a lack of accesibility to me, which as ive been told by someone really important to me (tho i mite pretend her not to be), has managed to fuck me up and often hurt people who while respecting my wishes of being left alone with myself, have nevertheless been hurt by my behavior.
i have also created an image, as im told, of not taking part in most "earthly pleasures". i find myself again being guilty of contributin to this conception of myself that most of my associations have of me.
the truth is...or the relative/temporary truth that ive figured so far is, that i am loved...and i am despised...and i am also considered "a cool eccentric". its also true that i am alone. we all are, but wat i mean is im alone by myself. for most of my day is spent devoid of human company. i'd be lying to say that i'd never been presented with the opportunity of gaining human connection. but i refused it. now i pretend not to miss it, believing that if i pretend long enough, i mite just believe it and thats who i'll be.

Happy Sinner

2005-08-05T06:31:00.000-07:00

I see a blue bird, a pause in the sky.
I sat on my knees, hurt and shy.
Cheap dirt rises up airy stairs,
I sit on a shore of rocks and snares.
I hid a smile under shadows of waves,
a hope misplaced from its rightful place.
A rusty door shuts up my eyes,
a home, a prayer and stifled cries.
I find my space beneath the shower,
with my mists and ghosts and a lonely flower.
I slipped up the night across the stars,
in memory loss of lifelong scars.
She holds my hand, cuts out the pain,
allows me a tear, just to hold me again.
A happy peace fills me within, as I
fly back unabashed by my sins.

Sky

2005-07-28T23:24:00.000-07:00

Left stranded in a lonesome high,
shadows burning on my mind.
Dark hourglass birds above,
rocks floating beneath the sky.

Want to be afraid to fear,
unfold from being a man.
Slowness creeps over my life,
a fair hand running thru my skin.

Mazes thru which corpses wade,
like naked buds scared to blossom.
Lie in spaces in my eyes,
just a tear, i'll sing her a song.

A Song for Me

2005-07-20T02:33:00.000-07:00

Life turns into a muse,
the stone becomes the poet's dream.
she sang a riddle to me,
a hidden heart, a selfish scream.

I love her, so i dared to cry.
Into the night of my days,
and into the life of her eyes,
i saw me learning to fly.

A Dance Song

2005-07-08T07:15:00.000-07:00

Floating up a hibiscus vein,
shining in a hidden sky.
Heavens slip beneath her feet,
a broken smile, she dances on.

Life bursts upon the clouds,
lost in colours of her mind.
She paints across the lonely night,
softly, swimming in the sky.

Now heaven's sunk miles below,
high on the big city hopes.
A cold war, she danced on,
with dreamstained eyes thru a kaliedoscope.

Me

2005-07-08T07:00:00.000-07:00

Moonlit bars hit on the walls.
I want to cry, I make no sound.
I should've told you, it just hurts now,
running and hiding, pin pricks my soul.

Guilt pangs left beneath smiling eyes.
I hate to look, too torn within.
I cried for help, i wanted to let go,
as i lay sprawled naked behind my closed doors.

Bars of Sunshine

2005-07-02T22:48:00.000-07:00

Green is the colour of her eyes,
we never spoke, we never cried.
I sat, i smoked in the maze.
Patient time slips thru the days.

She cursed the smoke, i lit the fire.
Burnt my life on a 2 inch pyre.
I do understand, i do really care.
How'd i know i wasn't there.

Bars of sunshine locked in her hair.
Escaping the minefields of her prayer.
The last leaf falls to the floor,
Alice woners which damn door.

Liquid figures swim in my head,
walls spiral around my bed,
desert shores twinkle blue and grey,
still trying to end the day.

Reckless

2005-07-01T07:23:00.000-07:00

Memory returns,
sea sick sailors rowing home.
Stormy pasts and harsh winters with
green splashes on naked chests.

God spreads across the sky
riding home on peace high,
weaving through empty streets, to the liquid clock
in the crossroad with dead ends.

Pain lost in reckless vice,
smile, smile, smile and smile.
Life rolls on
a long brown endless mile.

Fish eyes stare thru bars of sunshine,
surfing in spotted galaxies
amidst glimpses of nightmares
and closed doors.

The walls ripple outwards,
surprised at the space
floating through the bottles of hurt,
trying to end the day.