Say you'll stay
Don't come and go
Like you do
Sway my way
Yeah I need to know
All about you
Monday, December 31, 2007
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Attempts
Hiding from the popular blog and this is my forgotten lair.
Scribbled on an old notebook's gaut, yellow face, it follows ....
They can only be referred to as attempts.Brusque at times, abundant prolixity at others.To find something which hasn’t come in..Nothing but a bunch of episodes clutched in a mildly bruised palm.Tell tale signs from an unmentionable palaver the coltish squad embarked upon a while ago, in lieu of the city exercising its limitations to provide particularly hormonal sort of entertainment.
Then..more attempts to inch towards some sort of a discovery, if not an entire invention.
The literal door in the heathen floor actually opens to a mirror. Not the glowering face of Today but its the fugitive Past smiling back.And slowly goes south. Every journey’s memory escaping with the nip of the morning’s sigh.Vagabond thumbs in the air.
On route 66.
Java mixed with melancholic smirks at crumbling cafes. Hot, black and copious amounts of it. Legalized drugs. Pain and caffeine.
The Leica owning hermit treks to the gelid parts of the globe, even if just to indulge the jackleg, émigré experience.
Peeling the truth off its skin, a swift circular motion. Like clementines handed to a wino on the outskirts of a nowhere town.The fresh citrus smell of a new something that’s slowly coming in.Nestled in the warm arms of frozen mountains.An Amaranthine line, defined eternity for as far as her eyes could see.An immaculate silence draping this stretch of whiteDecibels keep their sobriety.
Except..
The occasional cackle of a falling branch in the rising tide.Fishsbone hangers jostling for space in the 5 am market fight.Words and wine spilling from a self proclaimed street soubrette’s eponymous act. The earnestness of desire, to rise to Neon in the multitude of Parisian lights.Belligerent banzai boomerangs from a man-made steel cabin, bookies at a roadside rooster fight. Passion, pride and saved pennies(Angles?) invested in an uncivilized game that you and I’ve been conditioned to scoff at in the Other Part. A civilized sport. The sheer irony. Hah!
A mother’s feeble steps to hold my hand just to relive her motherhood for a while, in the colossal shadow of her newly adopted dottre -” Your smile can light an ocean”- The Unique Indian Smile. To remind the likes of this peripatetic mongrel, years and miles don’t take away from the fact that there always is a mother waiting at the other end.
The busker pays homage to Rafayette Afro Rock Band(the title) and Bach, in equal measures.Then those cherry lips placed with delicate care on a stunningly blanche face, the mist gives way to raspy vocals that illuminate the barge so well that the city council should pay her for the job. She sings straight to my heart, almost. Belle far niente.
Leica comes to life. The simple and sometimes monotonus act of capturing light becomes a passionate engagement, an exhibitionist-cum-voyeuristic form of lovemaking. It carries the sting of sex, the bite of love, devoid of the carnal captions, of course.
The world closes in on a touch, a toothless grin(at the mahjong tables), a soul song, a war cry in a “crassy” sport and swims in the swirls of Fino that washes down the day’s tiredness and bowls of paella.
The temperate night falls on an unsuspecting ground like the hammer of Thor. The cicadas hold their night court outside my window and the river commences its ritualistic whispering of tales, of the day’s boatmen and rowing competitions, to the rocks lining its path. Sleep’s seraphic eyes look down upon my closing ones. As the body slips into the requisite comatose state for the next 6 hours, the soul dreams of joining the caravan on the otherside.
And it all comes together. Such simplicity that you’d cringe.To have found something. Within.
To have become Whole. Without anyone else and still with everyone else.
In the end I was the mean girl
Or
Somebody's "In-Between" girl
And he says I am callous...
I don't know if I should erupt in manic laughter or just burn myself down with my own sweltering tears.
I moved on. Didn't I?
Scribbled on an old notebook's gaut, yellow face, it follows ....
They can only be referred to as attempts.Brusque at times, abundant prolixity at others.To find something which hasn’t come in..Nothing but a bunch of episodes clutched in a mildly bruised palm.Tell tale signs from an unmentionable palaver the coltish squad embarked upon a while ago, in lieu of the city exercising its limitations to provide particularly hormonal sort of entertainment.
Then..more attempts to inch towards some sort of a discovery, if not an entire invention.
The literal door in the heathen floor actually opens to a mirror. Not the glowering face of Today but its the fugitive Past smiling back.And slowly goes south. Every journey’s memory escaping with the nip of the morning’s sigh.Vagabond thumbs in the air.
On route 66.
Java mixed with melancholic smirks at crumbling cafes. Hot, black and copious amounts of it. Legalized drugs. Pain and caffeine.
The Leica owning hermit treks to the gelid parts of the globe, even if just to indulge the jackleg, émigré experience.
Peeling the truth off its skin, a swift circular motion. Like clementines handed to a wino on the outskirts of a nowhere town.The fresh citrus smell of a new something that’s slowly coming in.Nestled in the warm arms of frozen mountains.An Amaranthine line, defined eternity for as far as her eyes could see.An immaculate silence draping this stretch of whiteDecibels keep their sobriety.
Except..
The occasional cackle of a falling branch in the rising tide.Fishsbone hangers jostling for space in the 5 am market fight.Words and wine spilling from a self proclaimed street soubrette’s eponymous act. The earnestness of desire, to rise to Neon in the multitude of Parisian lights.Belligerent banzai boomerangs from a man-made steel cabin, bookies at a roadside rooster fight. Passion, pride and saved pennies(Angles?) invested in an uncivilized game that you and I’ve been conditioned to scoff at in the Other Part. A civilized sport. The sheer irony. Hah!
A mother’s feeble steps to hold my hand just to relive her motherhood for a while, in the colossal shadow of her newly adopted dottre -” Your smile can light an ocean”- The Unique Indian Smile. To remind the likes of this peripatetic mongrel, years and miles don’t take away from the fact that there always is a mother waiting at the other end.
The busker pays homage to Rafayette Afro Rock Band(the title) and Bach, in equal measures.Then those cherry lips placed with delicate care on a stunningly blanche face, the mist gives way to raspy vocals that illuminate the barge so well that the city council should pay her for the job. She sings straight to my heart, almost. Belle far niente.
Leica comes to life. The simple and sometimes monotonus act of capturing light becomes a passionate engagement, an exhibitionist-cum-voyeuristic form of lovemaking. It carries the sting of sex, the bite of love, devoid of the carnal captions, of course.
The world closes in on a touch, a toothless grin(at the mahjong tables), a soul song, a war cry in a “crassy” sport and swims in the swirls of Fino that washes down the day’s tiredness and bowls of paella.
The temperate night falls on an unsuspecting ground like the hammer of Thor. The cicadas hold their night court outside my window and the river commences its ritualistic whispering of tales, of the day’s boatmen and rowing competitions, to the rocks lining its path. Sleep’s seraphic eyes look down upon my closing ones. As the body slips into the requisite comatose state for the next 6 hours, the soul dreams of joining the caravan on the otherside.
And it all comes together. Such simplicity that you’d cringe.To have found something. Within.
To have become Whole. Without anyone else and still with everyone else.
In the end I was the mean girl
Or
Somebody's "In-Between" girl
And he says I am callous...
I don't know if I should erupt in manic laughter or just burn myself down with my own sweltering tears.
I moved on. Didn't I?
Darkest Light
I don’t know where I am going.
So, I wrote. For Me. For You. For Us.
I am keen on keenness and arch lights or lack of them and before I fill my lungs with dust at Petra’s ruins, I’ll let you have my heart for a while. I find relief in belief. I ‘ll let you in on me. A cliché must’ve been someone’s discovery. So I have started to admire clichés from a distance. A considerable distance. Though right now I can feel one aiming to cross my path. Right now.
Don’t know where you goin’..till you know where you been..
On the extravagance of History that was lavished at me when I was standing at Ramses throne. Ham-Sa. I am That. The Sky seems to look forever stunned when glancing down at Abu Simmel.
I ve been here and there and then some.
Where are we going? Use the progressive tense, the unbalanced psyche says. Progressive.
The Mahayana cycle spins within me as I measure the possibility of extinction perched on Buddha’s giant toe in Leshan.
Tara’s green aura percolates through Angkor Wat’s roots tying down the sentience that combats serpentine desire nestled in a tiny syringe awaiting my body and more when I step out.
36 sleepless hours of watching pixies trying to catch moonlight in glass jelly jars. On a forgotten island. Ungoogleable names of places that don’t worship the iJesus yet. Downing innumerable plates of Papaya salads that can burn a hole in the tongue. Conversing snappers in Koh Chang and sometimes even include a human voice to partake in it.
Arguing with the Pantheon in public view. Laughter that would have been otherwise served with a plate of tortellini and labeled as “Another Crazy American” except this is Rome and crazy is a good thing. Casually flirting with epithets and epicurean delights even as I dangerously fall in love with a language and its glory. They keep saying Benvenuto! – Welcome to Bologna, Naples and it continues.
The not so gentle murmur of the Tiber hasn’t even faded in my ears and The Sea starts to make its symphony resonant. Archipelago as they would’ve called it. Atlas says –The Aegan Sea. Mother, mystic, moral compass. All of it. I rise so that I can get lost in the Dadia.
Then suddenly, tending to a temple garden outside a 19 million people city that changes its name every autumn I think. Bombay or Mumbai or just “My SoulCave”. Cradling my inability to be with my own self in the presence of a spirit who might throw a rock at me or may hold me in an eternal embrace. And I feel good with both. Feeling a shift of the blue energy from my spine to my heart. In bouts and turns.
And You ask ..why can’t I be home?
Feel.
Forgive.
Find.
A Life of principles or A Life of clarity or A Life of disenchantments?
A Life ‘s sparsely disguised imperfection, a consummate love affair with reluctance of Being punctuated only by an epochal coming of Time and falling into Age. I am here. As much I can be. As much I can ever be.
You’d say - Insatiable.
As much as I ever was. I exited Automatism. I entered Make-believe. And I gallantly seek it out. I would cease to exist if I didn’t live like this. Do. Recognize Me. Don’t. Analyze me. The attitude or the latitude of change. The highs of low lives and the lows of high living.
You’d say –Then… How do I hold onto you?
I’d say - Don’t.
Let go.
In the stillness of a ricepaper town’s fantasy. Let go. In the webbed microcosm of a download destination. Let go. Amidst the redundant sequence of foreplay and decay. Let go. Atop all of summer’s secret mounds and drunken sounds. Let go. Between baptisma and ekphora. Let go. In the feverish downpour that threatens to break all physical and emotional dams. Let Go. On spring mattresses from that historical night that moaned and then mourned. You must let go.
Because, it won’t come back to haunt you later if you do. That you couldn’t see me the way I wanted you to see me. That you could keep me by letting me go. That guilt will make your veins split. I know that guilt. I live that guilt. Of not knowing myself, the way I wanted to, when I really wanted to. To know that I can cure me in less than 12 steps just to find out I got 24 more to go.
So, I let go.
So, I wrote. For Me. For You. For Us.
I am keen on keenness and arch lights or lack of them and before I fill my lungs with dust at Petra’s ruins, I’ll let you have my heart for a while. I find relief in belief. I ‘ll let you in on me. A cliché must’ve been someone’s discovery. So I have started to admire clichés from a distance. A considerable distance. Though right now I can feel one aiming to cross my path. Right now.
Don’t know where you goin’..till you know where you been..
On the extravagance of History that was lavished at me when I was standing at Ramses throne. Ham-Sa. I am That. The Sky seems to look forever stunned when glancing down at Abu Simmel.
I ve been here and there and then some.
Where are we going? Use the progressive tense, the unbalanced psyche says. Progressive.
The Mahayana cycle spins within me as I measure the possibility of extinction perched on Buddha’s giant toe in Leshan.
Tara’s green aura percolates through Angkor Wat’s roots tying down the sentience that combats serpentine desire nestled in a tiny syringe awaiting my body and more when I step out.
36 sleepless hours of watching pixies trying to catch moonlight in glass jelly jars. On a forgotten island. Ungoogleable names of places that don’t worship the iJesus yet. Downing innumerable plates of Papaya salads that can burn a hole in the tongue. Conversing snappers in Koh Chang and sometimes even include a human voice to partake in it.
Arguing with the Pantheon in public view. Laughter that would have been otherwise served with a plate of tortellini and labeled as “Another Crazy American” except this is Rome and crazy is a good thing. Casually flirting with epithets and epicurean delights even as I dangerously fall in love with a language and its glory. They keep saying Benvenuto! – Welcome to Bologna, Naples and it continues.
The not so gentle murmur of the Tiber hasn’t even faded in my ears and The Sea starts to make its symphony resonant. Archipelago as they would’ve called it. Atlas says –The Aegan Sea. Mother, mystic, moral compass. All of it. I rise so that I can get lost in the Dadia.
Then suddenly, tending to a temple garden outside a 19 million people city that changes its name every autumn I think. Bombay or Mumbai or just “My SoulCave”. Cradling my inability to be with my own self in the presence of a spirit who might throw a rock at me or may hold me in an eternal embrace. And I feel good with both. Feeling a shift of the blue energy from my spine to my heart. In bouts and turns.
And You ask ..why can’t I be home?
Feel.
Forgive.
Find.
A Life of principles or A Life of clarity or A Life of disenchantments?
A Life ‘s sparsely disguised imperfection, a consummate love affair with reluctance of Being punctuated only by an epochal coming of Time and falling into Age. I am here. As much I can be. As much I can ever be.
You’d say - Insatiable.
As much as I ever was. I exited Automatism. I entered Make-believe. And I gallantly seek it out. I would cease to exist if I didn’t live like this. Do. Recognize Me. Don’t. Analyze me. The attitude or the latitude of change. The highs of low lives and the lows of high living.
You’d say –Then… How do I hold onto you?
I’d say - Don’t.
Let go.
In the stillness of a ricepaper town’s fantasy. Let go. In the webbed microcosm of a download destination. Let go. Amidst the redundant sequence of foreplay and decay. Let go. Atop all of summer’s secret mounds and drunken sounds. Let go. Between baptisma and ekphora. Let go. In the feverish downpour that threatens to break all physical and emotional dams. Let Go. On spring mattresses from that historical night that moaned and then mourned. You must let go.
Because, it won’t come back to haunt you later if you do. That you couldn’t see me the way I wanted you to see me. That you could keep me by letting me go. That guilt will make your veins split. I know that guilt. I live that guilt. Of not knowing myself, the way I wanted to, when I really wanted to. To know that I can cure me in less than 12 steps just to find out I got 24 more to go.
So, I let go.
Are you being served?
I turned 17 today. And I am fucking mad.
Quote :"Your non-chalance upsets me"
Reply: "Your quotes-by-Bergman life upsets me ..Your approximate conversations about Dostoevsky even when you can't pronounce his name accurately,upsets me.I am appalled by the fact that God fucking Lord allows room for such significant divine errors where You actually possess a human skin and seasons havent helped you shed that serpent ever.Your need for public consent and applause upsets me.Your bouregoise nose of Lower East Side uppity Politesse in the garb of a fucked up rascist bent upsets me.Your jejune litanies of a great capitalist America upset me.Your supremely screwed up attempts to play Street and Slick when you are around me upset me.Your documented frequency of head-bobbing at every single city event at Chi upsets. Above all...Your now famous, reclaimed virginity(Hymen Posideon),while deflowered by a dildo,upsets me the most!"
Its justice that I am chosen to break and then reshape You(pretty thing)coz..I can and I must.
Coz as long as I break hearts, its love enough for me.
Quote :"Your non-chalance upsets me"
Reply: "Your quotes-by-Bergman life upsets me ..Your approximate conversations about Dostoevsky even when you can't pronounce his name accurately,upsets me.I am appalled by the fact that God fucking Lord allows room for such significant divine errors where You actually possess a human skin and seasons havent helped you shed that serpent ever.Your need for public consent and applause upsets me.Your bouregoise nose of Lower East Side uppity Politesse in the garb of a fucked up rascist bent upsets me.Your jejune litanies of a great capitalist America upset me.Your supremely screwed up attempts to play Street and Slick when you are around me upset me.Your documented frequency of head-bobbing at every single city event at Chi upsets. Above all...Your now famous, reclaimed virginity(Hymen Posideon),while deflowered by a dildo,upsets me the most!"
Its justice that I am chosen to break and then reshape You(pretty thing)coz..I can and I must.
Coz as long as I break hearts, its love enough for me.
Musiqua
A slice of music , a charm wrapped in cellophane, a blue rhythm dancing on a mahogany table.The notes spill over from a Celtic goblet,dipped in liquer,armadale or stoli. Inebriated music, this.
A cut through a song and a cultic cure for the ailing spirit.
The fierce rapture of Nada Brahma , the divine damage and the path to reconstruction, the rebuild stature from earth’s magma to the opulence of nature.
Couplets piercing a stone’s heart, left singing in the Rock Valley, a dent in History and a broken mark of Time..
The hymn of heavens, a slow combustion and a slower churning of desire in His devout chest.
The crests and troughs, the oblivion embowering calm and vice versa..
Distortion along the edges of a metallic razor. Stings and sings and repeats it all.
The interregnum.
Pages of Ages, written on the gaunt faces of redolent paper. Slam Poetry and the harmony to accompany the main course of verbal rapidity.
Sound-open to interpretation.
Silence-open to relocation.
Either in lieu or in abundance of the familiar auditory metaphors and despite a kinesthetic demeanor, Music lifts me up.
Interim
I will re-arrange the rules,redefine that regressional attitude and force you to re-assess your stance on Life and vegan food and leather.I am greatly appreciative of the fact that my 174 cms seem so petrifying to you that you quiver and quake while conversing me,despite your "Decades of experience" and my 20 odd years pitted in reverse. I am not aggressive. If I truly was, I would have scythed your kidneys out and played golf with them. I merely am derivative and mostly calculate my responses from the subjective social conditioning.In my wake I will leave an empire or a post modern legacy of perspicacious analysis and state of being.You will leave a trail of peroxide dementia and bad makeup tips.I dont particularly care for Legends or Icons, I am a nimble icono-"p"-last.I will leave you cold and stunned and everything in between when I strike my final blow,I am just bout as hazardous as a well-oiled kitana sitting in the ancient cupboard waiting for the juiciest of heads.Here is the difference, You might be predisposed but I am ready Right Now.
There nothing even remotely as noxious as I,when provoked
A slice of music , a charm wrapped in cellophane, a blue rhythm dancing on a mahogany table.The notes spill over from a Celtic goblet,dipped in liquer,armadale or stoli. Inebriated music, this.
A cut through a song and a cultic cure for the ailing spirit.
The fierce rapture of Nada Brahma , the divine damage and the path to reconstruction, the rebuild stature from earth’s magma to the opulence of nature.
Couplets piercing a stone’s heart, left singing in the Rock Valley, a dent in History and a broken mark of Time..
The hymn of heavens, a slow combustion and a slower churning of desire in His devout chest.
The crests and troughs, the oblivion embowering calm and vice versa..
Distortion along the edges of a metallic razor. Stings and sings and repeats it all.
The interregnum.
Pages of Ages, written on the gaunt faces of redolent paper. Slam Poetry and the harmony to accompany the main course of verbal rapidity.
Sound-open to interpretation.
Silence-open to relocation.
Either in lieu or in abundance of the familiar auditory metaphors and despite a kinesthetic demeanor, Music lifts me up.
Interim
I will re-arrange the rules,redefine that regressional attitude and force you to re-assess your stance on Life and vegan food and leather.I am greatly appreciative of the fact that my 174 cms seem so petrifying to you that you quiver and quake while conversing me,despite your "Decades of experience" and my 20 odd years pitted in reverse. I am not aggressive. If I truly was, I would have scythed your kidneys out and played golf with them. I merely am derivative and mostly calculate my responses from the subjective social conditioning.In my wake I will leave an empire or a post modern legacy of perspicacious analysis and state of being.You will leave a trail of peroxide dementia and bad makeup tips.I dont particularly care for Legends or Icons, I am a nimble icono-"p"-last.I will leave you cold and stunned and everything in between when I strike my final blow,I am just bout as hazardous as a well-oiled kitana sitting in the ancient cupboard waiting for the juiciest of heads.Here is the difference, You might be predisposed but I am ready Right Now.
There nothing even remotely as noxious as I,when provoked
City of overflowing images is in a soporific mode, a solid frozen state of consciousness.
Probing crimson. The zone where day breaks the night but not enough to rid it of the sinewy murkiness. A few dull moments ago it appeared a pitch black room of profound desperation and adaptable echoes with an almost varicose tranquility to thrive in.
The Man watches his ghost walk down the emptiness that’s New York.Think of the vacant department stores, the bored mannequins, the muted architecture, the friendless surveillance cameras in sedated corporate boardrooms. Far away from the burgeoning financial district- the road ahead, sleeps in his eyes. Without the thousand spinning heads or liquid bodies. An Interrupted city, not sleeping not waking- the brimful life-the suppressed melancholia Music is the drug of choice, the bass rhythms dissolve words, they script their own elemental libretto of brilliant ricochets along the geometry of ever extending walls. The strength of being alive has never been quite so palpable as it is when everything is deadly silent. Welcome to my side, a short inconsequential distance between us. No isolation or objectivity. Sit back, Observe and savor every bite you take out of the Present. It will abscond. The fading of Time into cavernous enclaves of History. Strange nostalgia. stilted distances and experiential silences. You are outgrowing Time and you feel indestructible. The city offers unexplored, unhinged seduction by way of its rainshot streets, the multitude of cars, the whispering crowds.. the possibility of finding a love on those streets or inside those cars or within those crowds. Every season I ‘d reinterpret my Life, everything is restructured to avoid rigor mortis. The casual moseying along the tracks , the sadism of sex, the honest lies..You know the trend. I don’t want to fear God or Love or Silence before am done living. Of all the aphorisms…
I like all that I live…
The slightest taste of blood in my mouth, the thinnest cloud of smoke over my head. The blood callings, the entrapments, the machete-wielding ghosts of improbable angst are exorcized in a slow surreal manner. There is your book, your movie, your song-Its all right there. We could never abandon this city, we could never entirely dispose each other or conceal the battle scars. We are This- we carved our lives out of this city’s heart. Many neon moons later we discover our paradoxical state of existence. We are the city. And we are the slow iridescence of night lights along Harlem, that’s where I met Her. She is the venial sin, a rare indulgence , the perfect Jazz tune you’d ever hear. The Theatre of beauty-She and the city. The violence of Life and its consummate beauty lies in its impossibility. She and the city-Both Impossible as hell…
Probing crimson. The zone where day breaks the night but not enough to rid it of the sinewy murkiness. A few dull moments ago it appeared a pitch black room of profound desperation and adaptable echoes with an almost varicose tranquility to thrive in.
The Man watches his ghost walk down the emptiness that’s New York.Think of the vacant department stores, the bored mannequins, the muted architecture, the friendless surveillance cameras in sedated corporate boardrooms. Far away from the burgeoning financial district- the road ahead, sleeps in his eyes. Without the thousand spinning heads or liquid bodies. An Interrupted city, not sleeping not waking- the brimful life-the suppressed melancholia Music is the drug of choice, the bass rhythms dissolve words, they script their own elemental libretto of brilliant ricochets along the geometry of ever extending walls. The strength of being alive has never been quite so palpable as it is when everything is deadly silent. Welcome to my side, a short inconsequential distance between us. No isolation or objectivity. Sit back, Observe and savor every bite you take out of the Present. It will abscond. The fading of Time into cavernous enclaves of History. Strange nostalgia. stilted distances and experiential silences. You are outgrowing Time and you feel indestructible. The city offers unexplored, unhinged seduction by way of its rainshot streets, the multitude of cars, the whispering crowds.. the possibility of finding a love on those streets or inside those cars or within those crowds. Every season I ‘d reinterpret my Life, everything is restructured to avoid rigor mortis. The casual moseying along the tracks , the sadism of sex, the honest lies..You know the trend. I don’t want to fear God or Love or Silence before am done living. Of all the aphorisms…
I like all that I live…
The slightest taste of blood in my mouth, the thinnest cloud of smoke over my head. The blood callings, the entrapments, the machete-wielding ghosts of improbable angst are exorcized in a slow surreal manner. There is your book, your movie, your song-Its all right there. We could never abandon this city, we could never entirely dispose each other or conceal the battle scars. We are This- we carved our lives out of this city’s heart. Many neon moons later we discover our paradoxical state of existence. We are the city. And we are the slow iridescence of night lights along Harlem, that’s where I met Her. She is the venial sin, a rare indulgence , the perfect Jazz tune you’d ever hear. The Theatre of beauty-She and the city. The violence of Life and its consummate beauty lies in its impossibility. She and the city-Both Impossible as hell…
To Starish...Whom I never Knew
In a place like this, where blues fuse with crystal meth and tongues touch to kill with a caress, I am a derelict living out my own American dream.
Where accidents are intended. A town of latent phantoms. They come out when dragged out. We didn’t succeed though.
Tried dragging by the neck, a counterfeit life. Ended on a pithy string, a sodden slave to the ubiquitous urban ennui.
So now, I am standing by a full bar with an empty heart.
I am told, she will come back when pleases.
To assault us all, when she pleases.
Till then, moonlight and darkness can tango in unison, upon naked rooftops.
Dowsed in night sweat mixed with tequila and praying for single-mindedly lethal dances to evoke her spirit.
Show us your face or reveal what you’re made of.
In my burnt mind, I carry a kirilian frame.
Voltages shooting through a somnolent body, leaving in ink an uncommon name.
And then a smiling masochist’s head kisses the pistol
So much for Russian roulette
Though this had been a long and scorching wait
To discern my own fate
And that…its not with You
Where accidents are intended. A town of latent phantoms. They come out when dragged out. We didn’t succeed though.
Tried dragging by the neck, a counterfeit life. Ended on a pithy string, a sodden slave to the ubiquitous urban ennui.
So now, I am standing by a full bar with an empty heart.
I am told, she will come back when pleases.
To assault us all, when she pleases.
Till then, moonlight and darkness can tango in unison, upon naked rooftops.
Dowsed in night sweat mixed with tequila and praying for single-mindedly lethal dances to evoke her spirit.
Show us your face or reveal what you’re made of.
In my burnt mind, I carry a kirilian frame.
Voltages shooting through a somnolent body, leaving in ink an uncommon name.
And then a smiling masochist’s head kisses the pistol
So much for Russian roulette
Though this had been a long and scorching wait
To discern my own fate
And that…its not with You
Helena's Ode
Young tempest, strikes of might against a brickfull home. If I cease with this high strung night, what shall it be? Battles of this Grecian paradise are legendary, the cordoned arena screams of a Byzantine power, the Turkish war cries in the middle of the night. The last of the tribes and their ouzo dowsed insanities. Sometimes you are not as much in possession of your past as it is of you. Slit throats, gurgling blood pools into the salt white seas, the demise of an Era. I shiver with reverence – to my unclaimed Gods and my undying ancestors. The Minon muses, I beg of thee to divulge the secrets into my frequently solitary heart. I know that in my car is an old and crippled book of an epiphany- Herodotus in my mind’s eye; I can imagine my end in the lap of this alluring concubine. I have been married to New York and my secret affair with Greece(Athens)is as much a truth as that. The Corinthian pillars harbor an overriding love for misguided and kaput souls like mine. The kind of love that sets you free of the weights that pull you down. The must be the beginning of t infinity.
No Exits
Rising with Red. Fading with Black.
Maheed is my own roadside prophet. His blood hot tarpaulin, makeshift home welcomes this passerby with warmth usually unheard of in most of the uber-urban world. I desist from such pleasantness, it often leaves a cynic with a bad taste in their mouth; that the world can actually be a nice place.
He is a man without a country. He ran away from Iraq no sooner than the insurgency strengthened its hold over his miniscule village north of the capital. Even in his flight, he was caught at a check post and held in detention for longer than a month. His time in captivity was defined by cruel and unusual torture practiced on his then 19 yr old mind and body to extract information about his Persian father- a rebel and a writer. His parents had transgressed the laws of geographical sanctity when they married – a Persian and an Iraqi Kurd. His escape from the prison is a story that warrants patience and courage in its narration as in listening.
Now he sits in front of me, in a makeshift world living a makeshift life. For the rest of the world, he doesn’t exist beyond a number or a statistic.
This is the status seeker, the absent human being. A person whose very existence negates itself.
When men are demoted as the untermensch, when lives are abandoned because the fear of loneliness is too much to bear, when you have to kill yourself in a foreign country just to prove that if they sent you back to your own, they’d kill you there as well.
Refugee is a bad word. It’s a seven-lettered curse of the nations. It’s a fragmented life on Guinea’s tough and darkness-laden prong or the erstwhile descendants of Guadalajara trying to flee and dissimilate into an American frost. Its potential as a threat is inescapable, its reality even more so.
The non-existent people, the forgotten tribes, the random strangers you don’t see: the undefined vacuum that holds their stories and their survival. UN camps for asylum seekers essentially embower the first pathway to hell on earth.
How do you expunge records of your only child’s existence from your limited memory?
Fatality is no more a cause or concern, it’s a revolving door now. You pass through it so many times, it feels rational to stop expecting a decent life and start yielding in to the indecency of a half-death.
I can’t correct much of what’s wrong with the world, am a leica carrying troubadour at the best but my spine feels a rivet loaded burden of bedlam and calamity every time I step into a camp of this nature. Stoic in its ample conscious credence. What a significant injury to the heart, a prolonged and tinny laugh that sometimes escapes an incompletely gashed throat- I am dying and am invisible to you.
Automatism for death and the dead. We will allow an entire race to perish. Murder writ large over our hands and our conscience.
We don’t care.
We can only generate provocative paradoxes and sift through archived accounts of racial cleansing and live burials. Of children roasted as meat, of women split open by the firing end of a sinister rifle. Of families shot to ground on whims of a rabid regime.
What skin are you made up of, baby? Where are your dubious angels? Where is your laying ground? Your trifling wish?
Temptation scales further and the man inside wants to defeat to bits those who are generating this excruciating exodus, your manhood is often threatened by the collective inaction that perpetuates this inconceivable violence of mind and body.
What is sacred or maybe nothing at all?
Is it worth its weight in bloody dollars or euros the lack of sleep you experience even on a pills-induced night?
I didn’t say we are on a lookout for heroes, just people: like you and me, like Us. Who see and care and feel. People who can wade through waters of reproach and regret to find a home for those left in the middle, to view, not as lumbering incursion but a necessary realization – We are here together. Not separate islands but one mass of subsistence and evolution. You gotta do it now, baby. Now.
Maheed is my own roadside prophet. His blood hot tarpaulin, makeshift home welcomes this passerby with warmth usually unheard of in most of the uber-urban world. I desist from such pleasantness, it often leaves a cynic with a bad taste in their mouth; that the world can actually be a nice place.
He is a man without a country. He ran away from Iraq no sooner than the insurgency strengthened its hold over his miniscule village north of the capital. Even in his flight, he was caught at a check post and held in detention for longer than a month. His time in captivity was defined by cruel and unusual torture practiced on his then 19 yr old mind and body to extract information about his Persian father- a rebel and a writer. His parents had transgressed the laws of geographical sanctity when they married – a Persian and an Iraqi Kurd. His escape from the prison is a story that warrants patience and courage in its narration as in listening.
Now he sits in front of me, in a makeshift world living a makeshift life. For the rest of the world, he doesn’t exist beyond a number or a statistic.
This is the status seeker, the absent human being. A person whose very existence negates itself.
When men are demoted as the untermensch, when lives are abandoned because the fear of loneliness is too much to bear, when you have to kill yourself in a foreign country just to prove that if they sent you back to your own, they’d kill you there as well.
Refugee is a bad word. It’s a seven-lettered curse of the nations. It’s a fragmented life on Guinea’s tough and darkness-laden prong or the erstwhile descendants of Guadalajara trying to flee and dissimilate into an American frost. Its potential as a threat is inescapable, its reality even more so.
The non-existent people, the forgotten tribes, the random strangers you don’t see: the undefined vacuum that holds their stories and their survival. UN camps for asylum seekers essentially embower the first pathway to hell on earth.
How do you expunge records of your only child’s existence from your limited memory?
Fatality is no more a cause or concern, it’s a revolving door now. You pass through it so many times, it feels rational to stop expecting a decent life and start yielding in to the indecency of a half-death.
I can’t correct much of what’s wrong with the world, am a leica carrying troubadour at the best but my spine feels a rivet loaded burden of bedlam and calamity every time I step into a camp of this nature. Stoic in its ample conscious credence. What a significant injury to the heart, a prolonged and tinny laugh that sometimes escapes an incompletely gashed throat- I am dying and am invisible to you.
Automatism for death and the dead. We will allow an entire race to perish. Murder writ large over our hands and our conscience.
We don’t care.
We can only generate provocative paradoxes and sift through archived accounts of racial cleansing and live burials. Of children roasted as meat, of women split open by the firing end of a sinister rifle. Of families shot to ground on whims of a rabid regime.
What skin are you made up of, baby? Where are your dubious angels? Where is your laying ground? Your trifling wish?
Temptation scales further and the man inside wants to defeat to bits those who are generating this excruciating exodus, your manhood is often threatened by the collective inaction that perpetuates this inconceivable violence of mind and body.
What is sacred or maybe nothing at all?
Is it worth its weight in bloody dollars or euros the lack of sleep you experience even on a pills-induced night?
I didn’t say we are on a lookout for heroes, just people: like you and me, like Us. Who see and care and feel. People who can wade through waters of reproach and regret to find a home for those left in the middle, to view, not as lumbering incursion but a necessary realization – We are here together. Not separate islands but one mass of subsistence and evolution. You gotta do it now, baby. Now.
Tricks and Tarts
A Girl made of darkness
Walks through my impending sensibilities
Meanders in the heat of the burning mind
Never loses the exclusive soul of what goes silent
Left behind in the shivering cold, on the city’s edge
Becomes my own mind
You know where you dart
With speeding trains of caffeine and cocaine crossing through the heart
When the pounding in your chest rises with the hour’s glass
I know where you run
When it breaks the magic of your sway
The naked snow swims in luscious, remote skies
Bleeds chill into her pallid skin
Will you let me in?
Greasy garbage queues are huddled to form the city’s mass
You smoke away your sanity’s last
Here we are
So You must elevate
Fix it though, before You raise the bar
Don’t run anymore
Try to fly afar
Who wonders now, why we did we jump off the rock and onto the boat?
Rites of passage will wither away in the choking noise
You will be left your dark vein and a bruised life
Girl, you can gladly find
You are no more a leftover human child
Your Dark was in quanta
Dispenses every hour in packets of cigarettes and torment
Your Light is a secret whiplash
But you’d rather feign fractured elegance
Than try to make it alright
Leave, in a while
Write, I will
Not odes to aphorisms
The girls I commonly find.
Of something to myself, remind
I once met a raging storm
She called herself A girl
A girl who owned my mind
Walks through my impending sensibilities
Meanders in the heat of the burning mind
Never loses the exclusive soul of what goes silent
Left behind in the shivering cold, on the city’s edge
Becomes my own mind
You know where you dart
With speeding trains of caffeine and cocaine crossing through the heart
When the pounding in your chest rises with the hour’s glass
I know where you run
When it breaks the magic of your sway
The naked snow swims in luscious, remote skies
Bleeds chill into her pallid skin
Will you let me in?
Greasy garbage queues are huddled to form the city’s mass
You smoke away your sanity’s last
Here we are
So You must elevate
Fix it though, before You raise the bar
Don’t run anymore
Try to fly afar
Who wonders now, why we did we jump off the rock and onto the boat?
Rites of passage will wither away in the choking noise
You will be left your dark vein and a bruised life
Girl, you can gladly find
You are no more a leftover human child
Your Dark was in quanta
Dispenses every hour in packets of cigarettes and torment
Your Light is a secret whiplash
But you’d rather feign fractured elegance
Than try to make it alright
Leave, in a while
Write, I will
Not odes to aphorisms
The girls I commonly find.
Of something to myself, remind
I once met a raging storm
She called herself A girl
A girl who owned my mind
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