a tale of 5 w's and a why

in the white rectum of silence, these walls have now ceased to question my existence in it's tall standing on the other side of the puddle.disappointment or out of sheer boredom perhaps. the combined force of agent z's fail to make me talk.
why? because i simply cant relate to them.

"what a horrible meal"
"why can't they hire a north-indian cook"

silent sobs interrupted by high-pitched rambling. each day i choke during breakfast, lunch and dinner and not because of food, mind you!

but then isn't it so much better than daily discourses on
casteism,
nationalism,
humanism?

i wonder.

to the moon and beyond

A breezy night,
a silent corner.
i'm the man
and i'm his lover

defininition of good morning

i manage to grasp the first swirl of leaves, a subject of great pride and greater joy, perhaps equivalent to the receipt of first birthday present and first salary for its nature of compulsive exclusivity.

Annihilating the dictates of sleep, i feel mighty in my otherwise aching body.This morning effortlessly paints a gorgeous dream that i was longing for all these days in my minuscule hours of presumptuous rest, dismissing the need and necessity of dreams altogether.

The sky rattles,
the serendipity of sky,
like a sleeping beauty
felt in her lover's touch.

The previous hours were whiled away in the multiple concoctions of existence and similar mind-wrenching thoughts, while the morning waned almost all of them in the stroke of purple dawn. Leaving me and fellow cicadas in equal proportions of awe.

It seems sunshine is born to unravel mysteries of all times, in the flicker of a discovery, like a traveler finding his shell, walking astray on an unsolicited beach in the fathom of mere incidence.

like the prevalence of my monochromatic thoughts as a matter of daily ritual, the clouds today are no different in their cryptic design except they happen to be my muse today.

the jaded eyelids, talk to the sky
through the clamor of bird twitter
while it smiles at my audacity
in a jingle of breezy wisper

i also happen to like this morning for thinning the profound diversity of this place. blurring the much debated political, and socially irreverent key issues, for intellectuals are fast asleep. The kinds who're perpetually stocked with war journals in their pockets, falter to witness peace at this hour of the day.

oh how i forget they're busy dreaming about a lucrative job in the expansive arena of conflict journalism promising the prospects of a good morning to one and all.

There is a fierce battle drawn between i and them, putting my understanding of 'i' to an eventful test of perseverance. In the rage to preserve it, i will either slay my wits to the pack of wolves or conquer the greatest genesis of human critique.

i do

like a lichen grows
on alabaster's skin
growing, decaying,
alternatively

i thrive on moments,
these days
loving, hating,
most dispassionately

deeparture part 2

The voice of my heart reverberates through the four walls of my mind. sensations amass an enormous chunk of control and equilibrium. clocks are held are as objects of importance while days are being stalked like never before.

'belongings', 'attachments', 'longing' give way to 'anticipation', 'wait'and 'future', looking handsome in their new attire. It's quite a thing to see the whole present-future transition with eyes wide open while all you do is stand in quiet contemplation

deeparture part1

a melange of thoughts race against each other to approach to the finishing line, which apparently happens to be the 'start'. The arousal of first emotional potpourri was welcomed like the first rain. Thus making it an eventful night. It's fascinating to see cold-hearted shedding their skin instantaneously in the touch of a tear.It induces a wicked smile to my demonic demeanor, capitalising on my pride.

22 kg's in a tan-brown trolly bag.

i begin to collect my belongings excluding time ofcourse.

what is the colour of your mind?

yellow,

a pale, faded one.
The one that usually blinds your eye, in it's customary radiance. celebrating despair in a bright lit room. Today i see dollops of yellow in my well-bred grey universe.
An expression of nothingness, yellow stands for a mellowed invoice of the non-conformist.

you got me
but you found me not

you love me
but you know me not

a succumbing

i thought i could live
in the illusion forever
where peace of mind
was awarded a middle finger

in a blindfolded journey
i diverged my train of thought
only to cram into wires
which can never be sought

i 'felt' an uneasiness
and that's when the trouble began
in a detached sense of consciousness
how can i ever understand the man

oh, i forgot
i am practical and non-demanding
depriving me of my response
to anything alarming

so i bear this too
on the road to perdition
giving in to their desires
in the acquired state of salvation

tripping on exams

i didn't click a single picture of the two-cities, i trotted in a span of 12 days. because i could see the visuals threatening the independence of my mind. I abstained from the purchase of memorabilia to be carried in the mammoth-sized luggage i was bagging. i instead chose to mutilate the frame and present some factual-made like fiction frescos below:

1. gender equality is best practiced in mumbai(i was the body guard to my 'modestly' good-looking cousin. This when my length of shorts was shorter than his at any given point of time.)

2.babies should never travel by air, because parents are lame at their attempt of psyching them with the "i'll throw you out of the window" threats.

3.you can never lose your way in the locals, because chances are that one out of the hundred heads will be sensible

4.the new entry to juhu beach will leave you at a remarkably dim-lit, thinly occupied place to have some good time.( i assume at this point of time no filth will match your dirty acts at 12 am there)

5.clouds are not making babies, i testified it in the plane(and so it didn't rain in the entire stay)

6."tamil teeliyam"(i cant speak tamil/shutup), is the golden word to be repeated the moment a black opens his zip.(you shouldn't think pervert coz they were dhotis and not jeans)

7.do not buy a power-vodka, no matter how much you feel like boozing,(contact my roommates for further details)

8.kanzivaram sarees clad with bata chappals is the look for the season(hurry limited stocks, order now)

9. pudhe station -bay of bombay( next station was always abhay. in his bland taste of life, he spiced up my entire trip)

10, oh, it reminds me. i have a cure for maggi mishap under the patent name of me and abhay(how to cook your maggi in the absence of a tastemaker)

11.the amount of sweat released in one hour of dancing equals to spending one minute in mumbai. and hence i missed dancing

12. collaba causeway is a must-visit. it boasts of some egypt style restaurant under a hardcore indian name 'bade-miyan' and shops which are too true to be fake. (for instance you will find under colours of benetton-a brightly lit up store standing proudly next to the United colors of Benetton.

13. a rare sight of beautiful people can be grabbed at theobroma's. it's because they are all tourists.

14.back home, i received the best welcome of my life. my pet came running down the stairs and refused to back off for the entire day


15. i am willing to take exams all my life, if they promise such a trip everytime.

at the end of the day

The stillness of night brings immense fulfillment to my locomotive thoughts(and limbs these days). This particular hour draws the final curtain that leaves my bones bare, before a nascent flight to dreams.

some days i read
some days i watch
while mostly i think

The sharks and frills(of the day) don't bother me much, as i proceed towards an end. A happy or deviant from it. Over time i can coherently say, that this form of end encapsulates both hope and aspiration in the most subtle form. Gradually releasing all the pent-up emotions, in it's no- stain(of that stinking memory),no-dirt claim.

some days it's enchanting
some days it's bitter
while mostly it's soothing.

strange new melodies seem to strum the unfamiliar territories of my mind today. anticipation, anxiety or accretion? i hold divided views on that. stranded at the end of the tunnel i gait backwards to redeem a fresh daisy hope. Traveling backwards can take you places. and i am curiously waiting for this phenomena to jolt my neutrons.

On a rolling stone, i experience rampant doldrums beyond the scope of generic perplexities of human mind. Like a final thwart prior to that much sought equilibrium. It will either destroy all or flourish the prospects of an inner societal peace.

CALM.
one two three
CALM.

The rain

the walk

leaping into
that other-world
is now more of a habit
almost noiseless
in our steps.

maps are drawn
fiercely
into each others head
while straying
into our individual thoughts


witness the mortals
and immortals alike
how a journey
transcends
in those tiny steps

The musk of rain-moist earth hypnotizes my senses, in concurrence to floyd's crooning in the backdrop. "And aaaai, i become comfortably numb". i am almost static in my being save my mind which is catapulting in a flock of incoherent thoughts.
For some reason i can breathe life, even through a key hole today. While the aching belly is struggling hard to dampen my hydraulic muse. it seems it's going to be a long night, perhaps pleasantly long.

hope is survival

if i were to define life, i would think of cast away. If i were to define hope i will steer my thoughts to a football-face. And if if i have to define love i would ascertain both life and hope(in chuck noland's girlfriend).

Simplicity of this film is magical in it's colourful manifestation of thought-voyaged in to the plot. The dimensions of survival are procured endearingly in a single-location, single-shot actor with no background score and intermittently-heard monologue.

stuck in a rudimentary living, Noland's sorrowful four years belittle infront of his everyday achievements(lighting up a fire, breaking a coconut, humanizing the football. And that compels your mind to find strong nuances of discovery's bear Grylls.

a fiercely insinuating love for nature is subjected to adverse disgust as it bleeds into the nerves of one-man Chuck. If notorious tides weren;t enough, the sinister rains drown his happiness to a permanently inhabited abysmal.

As an advocate of solitude i found this setting hugely melancholic. Being stranded by choice is vastly different from being stranded by compulsion. desertion in it's callous form is a heart-wrenching experience, where the question of survival is preceded by the will 'to live or not to live'.

The prescription for survival is identifiably hope and a little bit of determintion just adds a pinch of salt to it.
as the greeting says, The best thing about this world is the world itself.

the glory of infinity

ever seen raindrops multiply,
at the brush of silvery clouds
performing a ballet
in the feverishly blue sky

the cooing cuckoo's
in the Garden of Eden
on hundred birches
singing sweet odes

and the whistling leaves
in their left-right sway
on a breezy evening
felt upon the traveler's sleeve

one two three?
no fifty,
and a hundred
was it that simple to be?

and what about
the flexing of your lash?
at my heartbeat
visible on your snow-white snout

calculate , come on
the doubling joys,
as hours trickle
by heaps and tonnes

homecoming

and pain knocks my courtyard,
most subserviently this time
without a bang
with much fervor

numbingly,
almost tantalizing
in its incoming
and i fell multiple times
in my little home
like a bunch of nest
that splitters infinitely

pain, which is generally sweet
wretches your bones
when it gets into you
and today i let it enter

bed time stories

ever stared into the moon
pervading into the stillness
of night?
it talks to me silently
through it's sheen:

'of fantasies, experienced by open eyes
of hymns and chants soaked in wine
how artemis neared her m
while hermes watched her infectiously'

how easily darkness vanquishes,
in his pearl-like embrace
as ursa performs it's divinely ballet
to honour his tenderness

'glistening the sky,
draped in its ivory white,
ethereal in it's touch
to beasts and birds alike'

i see it at a comfortable distance
as it crashes straight into my land
without disturbing it's equilibrium
ceasing not to enhance it's high.

quid pro quo

an exchange of glances
probing an insight
to what seemed known
into the strangest of eyes

a refreshing perception
through cocky observations
in return for a spell
commonly viewed as an oracle

words were traded,
facts were vouched
promises were beheld
as the pulse unanimously fused

a communion had begun
uninvited and disguised
like an active militant
gauged in his dainty form

while the thoughts fought
in gardens of attraction
we germinated, what emerged priceless
in our little quid pro quo

a find

before my words dried up,
i grabbed you
like a falling star
while you remained
a static moon
ever so exhuberant,
in your cold lambency.

you brought this mirror
back it's glory
carving your image
in hues of pale yellow
and you call yourself
colourblind
(how did you feel red then?)

today i walk with you
spotting the berry
and the goose
gyrating in a sense
of belonging
as i enunciate
to have found my muse.

i preserve

do you read my silence?
because these days i only converse with me.
it's a chauvinistic thought, but i can relate with only a handful of you, partly because of my obliterated progression(i only grow diagonally these days). Like a buzzing sound in my ear at the night-time, which has no apparent reason to occur.and majorly because of my heightened sense of selectivity in choosing thoughts to construct words.
mediocrity irks me,and society thrives on 'commonness' which transverses into gang rape of individuality.
My mind is not well-stimulated to make an initiative to talk to you. my growing disinterest in life is because of lack of a suitable muse.

where have all the daisies gone?
or a burning blue sky
a quivering hand to hold
at the sea-side.

i reach out to find you
in my altered state of appearance
they call 'invisibility'
and i call it sub- conscious being

My plight is that of an unheard cuckoo, trying to wake up humanity through it's meticulous monologue. Over time I'm losing faith in communication, because the essence of it lies in the fact that the sender and the receiver lie on the same line. the line of thought.
i redeem myself everyday from the clutches of mankind, so grossly proper in their ways and manner.

so here i leap into my zone of nothingness, with a hope of construction and a voice to express
i preserve.


a song which attempts to describe my state:

all around me are familiar faces
worn out places
worn out faces
bright and early for the daily races
going no where
going no where
their tears are filling up their glasses
no expression
no expression
hide my head i wanna drown my sorrow
no tomorrow
no tomorrow
and i find i kind of funny
i find it kind of sad
the dreams in which i'm dying are the best i've ever had
i find it hard to tell you
i find it hard to take
when people run in circles its a very very
mad world
mad world
children waiting for the day they feel good
happy birthday
happy birthday
and i feel the way that every child should
sit and listen
sit and listen
went to school and i was very nervous
no one knew me
no one new me
hello teacher tell me what's my lesson
look right through me
look right through me
and i find i kind of funny
i find it kind of sad
the dreams in which i'm dying are the best i've ever had
i find it hard to tell you
i find it hard to take
when people run in circles its a very very
mad world
mad world
enlarging your world
mad world

the leaf and the dew

quivering in it's chill.
the last dew
of the early dawn
adores the leaf and hates it too

as much as it seeks,
her effortless caress,
the droplet fears
a loss of identity, a loss of life

for one hustle,
is it all it takes
to shed a tear
in it's falling self

trust no protection,
it bears the greatest danger
it when the strongest of bonds
weaken your strength

breaks away the dew
this time from her home
before the leaf corners it,
in her invitation to death

the flute

in its brisk stagger
across the glistened glade,
a clarion is made,
to the earthy town.

unleashing future
in bounties
of a self-made man
through a pollen shower
of red lilacs

ramming it's path
which leads to his ear
and touches his heart
in the sound of a twilight shower

"o mystic wind,
you smell of my beloved
in your distinct garb,
you brought him here
and embraced me in your breeze"

i proclaim

1. not to expect anything because expectation is ungratifying
2. to induce a sense of clarity in all my endeavors, because you cannot live in grey forever
3. to see through things for their greater hidden cause
4. nothing can devastate me, as long as i 'think'
5.to acknowledge love in all its manifestations
6. to understand animals better than social animals
7.trust is instinctive and faith is worked upon
8.what can't be reasoned cannot be acknowledged
9.to have no regards for self-depreciating morons
10.that silence is the most beautiful thing two people share, provided they are in love
11.acceptance is survival
12.its good to shed tears (annually)
13.life is best lived in moments and experiences
14.to learn to differentiate between 'impulse' and 'instinct'
15.to value the power of expression
16.to do things only if they interest me
17.defeat is not purposeless
18.its not difficult to understand nature's plan if you see it on a large size map
19. words are a thing of joy as long as they are put to correct use
20.relationships are complicated if you don't know what to seek from them
21.to look for depth in matter and its anti
22. a person who has learnt to be alone has learnt to live
23.generalisations tend to confuse me, because no two people are same
24- to watch closely my thoughts every time i wish to express
25. independence is a necessity
26. i am born to dance apart from what i do
27. yes you can read a person like a book, over and over again provided it;s interesting
28. shadows aren't deceptive. just know yourself well
29. everything has an innate music, pleasant mostly
30. worldly age is deceptive

i believe in i and surrender everything else to it.

designed by eddies

what is darkness?

a lost hope,

a vengeful day

a cold moon

a plain defeat

an antidote to happiness

it's wonderful how grief becomes an inspiration

to experience life in stillness of emotion

a bare lull in the cacophony of silence.

a night well spent

After flipping thirty pages of a stray magazine, fatigue began to hit her tremendously. She is lying on the magazine in a half-dead state, pretending to ignore the marching hands of the wall-clock.

ten minutes to two, eleven minutes to two, twelve minutes to two.

Sleep eluded her from several days and today was nothing different. She is in no mood to track her eye-lid movement. It was fourteen blinks per minute yesterday. So, she decides to track the obscure shadows instead.

By 2.40, she possibly became familiar with all the neighbourhood car alarms. She saw her head tapping to one. In a sudden twitch, her neck began to hurt badly which coaxed her otherwise stiff body to see the night of the day.

Emergency lamp is turned off.

Like a glaring warden, emergency light of the phone commands her tiny pupils to expand. She had flashed her phone at the window after hearing quaint noises. As she began to concentrate, she felt the window at the extreme corner of the room, being smashed by a pointed object. Perhaps a knife or an equivalent sharp object. It induces copious fear in her now fully-awaken system.

She trembles incessantly as she follows the continual low sounds of the abrasive glass.
It's quarter to four and she decides it's time for some immediate action before the robber makes his way through the glass window. Meanwhile she thinks of peeping throught the window but rules it out as it might alert the robber who would in turn injure her.

She formulates a plan or rather two. She plans to get to the kitchen and collect all the dangerous tools of mass consumption. red chilly powder always yields results. She decided she'll blow the red elixir into the robber's eye through the tiny slit betweent he window and the grill. This plan seemed perfect until she realised she will be all alone executing it and it didn't go quite well with her.

So, she decided to wake her mother in the adjacent room instead. She quickly tip-toed and frantically woke up her devilishly sleeping mum.

"Are you okay?"
"You sure it's not a dream?", asked the groggy-eyed mum.

She voiced her fear in the most aggressive manner and convinced her mother of the robber's misdoing. Together they marched at the battlefield, to the adjacent room. On the way she explained how swift these robbers are screeching the glass pane, in order to break it and enter.

Her mum sheds a drop of sweat, while she is bathing in it. She remains near the kitchen, backing up her carefully chosen resources while her mum walks up to the window.

Mother fixes her eye and tries to follow the sound. Her breath is tight and is released in a cranky haul at the window. She lifts the asian- sky- shop excercise rod and knocks it against the window, producing a loud meowwwwwwwwww.

it's 4.25 and she burries her swollen eyes unto the ground, while the mother walks away into her room grumbling .

elevation

every step becomes,
a milestone,
in the discovery of
'i'
leading to a pedigree of
unusual
'how and 'why'

the tale of survival,
is inscribed in blood
tearing the myth
of its ceaseless pain

what's forgone,
in the rites of humanity,
haunts you forever
in your bare chastity

swords rattle every
tiny second,
as battles watch them
in their naked closure

'you become the player,
and fall to your fallacies
or become the spectator
in the eye of poised victory'

choices we make, stakes we decide
fate we make, destiny we bribe.

proclamation

i was tired of running,

chasing shadows of anon,

like a cryptic verve

surrounding the moonlight

until i saw the design

to man's fury.

his integrity lost in his self-consolation

just before

his reclaim from his chaos.

The rhyme and reason behind poetry

Words become fodder to a conscious man, fanning his existence in a myriad abysmal of language. If writing poetry is riding on snow, reading it is like floating in the labyrinth waters. And you emerge enormously quenched every time.

For all this while, I have considered poetry to be a gifted ventilation to pent-up emotions but only now i bring myself to believe, that it is a vagina of emotions. Inserting words, pushing words, producing life, through the lubrication of massive reading. Eventually experiencing motherhood, in your upbringing of verse.

Words sown by Yeats and Shelly blossom into embellishments of this other-worldly craft. Reading poetry is both reassuring and reconfirming to the rites of your expanding mind, as it's effect is purely psychosomatic.

It is mystical how a coat or a cat play the protagonist to a breath-taking piece of art, where poetry does it with utmost ease and matching eloquence.

What compels me to read poetry is it's mind-expanding, neural-healing capabilities. A poets takes you on a voyage of muse, culturally rich and historically enlightening. You scale the landscape of timeless beauty, vouching for unsung celebrities of life. It's when clouds become more deary than your folks. Not only you understand the genesis of nature, but also feel it's spiritual association, steering you to the state of divine ecstasy.

With every inkling you develop a faithful bond with your thoughts, revisiting them year after another. Just like a painting, poetry strokes the unbaked slices of your calibre, canvassing a picture of your inner-self. Both vivid and gleaming.

The nature of the medium is such that it allows you to be vocal and reluctant at the same time. Just when you digress in to the galaxy of metaphors, a comma lands you to the earthy finishing. Thankfully, there are no rules or covenants to compose poetry. It's freedom is captivated in your head.

A worthy aspect of poetry is its remarkable sing- a -song fluidity. Like a rivulet it flows across all shapes and forms.

Poetry by all means is an elixir to sky-high imagination and a catapult to massive soul-search or as Byron puts it:
"I can never get people to understand that poetry is the expression of excited passion, and that there is no such thing as a life of passion any more than a continuous earthquake, or an eternal fever. Besides, who would ever shave themselves in such a state?"

the interface

pain spirals through cavernous
spaces of universe,
in its hysterical form
entwined in prosperous arms of hope.

dust becomes gold,
gold bereft of its shimmer,
in its eventful surrender to sand
through a perpetual abrasion with rock

and comes a point when suffering
is mistaken for strength,
like a spectacular umbra.
cast upon on a ghastly crest.

'hell breaks lose,
as hope combats it's
outlandish optimism
in it's quest for survival
ravaging its long worshiped gods.'

unanimously misled

Until yesterday the skies
froze to the colours of grey,
the world may have looked a sundry place
while it drenched
in its visions of dismay.

Beheld, the figurative clouds
tricked and frayed
the horizon
like a whizzler on a sunny day
and a saint wrecking damages to the bay

illusions, delusions, mysteries, what not!
failed to make up for its own discord

just as the silver lining
flung to pieces
as a frail sunshine, consumed it all
lapping sight
from the arms of its mirage

"let there be storm in the guise of gust
or be heaven dressed in absolute crimson."

comma fullstop

Yes she spoke,
through the veils of
her wisper
as nothingness prevailed in
abundance


like a gaping ant
twice beaten
at the same joint
in recurrence
of her brave attempts


lament is not her answer
and happiness is anyway
redeemed
such is the mercy of life
where,

sweet beginnings are rewarded
happy 'endings'.

dare be the truth

ballads are often misunderstood as songs,
lake is often confused with a river
heat is dangerously described as warmth
and reality is repetitively lived as dreams

and one fine day myths are broken, only to elevate to you to a greater realm of truth~

Truth embraces you in it's monotone, where misconceptions are befriended only to be stabbed later. At first it grips you in an endermic pain, for the grief of ' living in misconceptions' is hard to part. But once you're through, truth surprises you by its sheer power. It's when ballad, lake, heat make far more sense as dreams seen with open eyes, than a long cherished fantasy.

Truth is all pervasive, for it sets no standards of good or bad. All it demands is willingness to accept and the valour to confront it. No wonder, dreams of gold is weighed down by pocketful of neighbourhood sand.

Truth is a miraculous healer, it leaves no room for a temptatious escapade. It brings in confirming clarity to steer on unsteady paths. Truth is reassuring, it brings no false promises.

Nomatter how hard it might be, truth is the only way to sail through hardships.
Truth won't conquer, it already is a winner.

warm and tender love

i was lost in the deep and darkest night
No direction, not a single hope in sight
When I saw a fire burning brightly through
The storm that raged above
In the shadows of your warm and tender love

Love doesn't need a seed to grow, it's the scent of a rose at a distance or a breeze from the adjacent river. That's precisely what this song coaxes you to believe. your world begins to change when you're in love is because you begin to see it with a new perspective.

Yes it is overrated
and most often misunderstood

A complex emotion
simply overlooked

a reason to exist,
and die at the same time

i don't claim to have understood love but like all emotions i acclaim to live it and flow by its grip.

the incomplete arc

At the horizon,
lies a smile, to shed hundred tears for,
to swizzle like wind,
tickle the golden hair,
oozing into the tiny ear

At the horizon,
lies warmth
sans the ebullient sun.
for the gleaming eyes,
know the trick
to melt an ardent heart.

At the horizon,
promises will be made,lived in every breath,
the fingers may not curl
for lips will be touched
in ballads of nestling love

At the horizon,
the wait for another day,
will be replaced by 'next minute'
spent in fables,
made of tell-tales together

At the horizon,
the sun, the wind, and the day
will see the amount of life
induced in
orange, purple, blue and green.

i see myself,
getting dissolved in time,
being churned in its uncertainity
at the same time,
pretending to revel in its brevity

through a looking glass,
time is all i have
an endowment unearned,
zoomed to the joy
of seeing another day

it's all and nothing
bred in realms of reality
making space for both
hope and lament
as the seconds trickle by

it eludes me,
the more i offer myself to chase
and refutes this,
when i cease to acknowledge
it's silent passing by

is it the cure to the wound?
or the wound itself
as i realise-it's not about the amount time in life
but
the amount of life in the time.

fear is,

waking up at the middle of night, walking past her in a tip-toed manner. Deluding the sounds emanated from the nocturnal crawlies. The fact that the disguise of a musketeer will fade any moment under the discoloured skin of darkness, hearing her groan in the backdrop.

She will be calm as a falling leave, surrendering herself to her bemusing fate and i will be the giant spectator feeling tiny as the house rodent. My world will topple and shatter mercilessly on my toes. 'What could have gone wrong?', 'i took all the measures', 'i love her the most'

i weep,
i weep more,
until i feel my wet face buried under the pillow, as the alarm clatters violently

fine dining

there are no lilacs growing in the paradise,
but the incense of a fresh scar scattered wide
the violet carves no magic in the sky
it barks and hows and sweetly cries

the grass i plod on,
grabs me by its fawn
as i breathe,
in the hollow compartments of night

i wish not to be seen
through crooked glances,
tearing every inch of my muscle
in the name of fine dining

"the stage is set sans the effigy and fire
in course of your earthly delights
oh my mate now, savour the boiling blood
while i cheer myself to grace your supper"

burnt alive

and you lay there still,
somewhere between ashes and flame
lighting the trenches,
just as i begin to love darkness

your ardent heat melts my indifference
shredding me to sweats
filling the pool with guilt
and defiance.

you grow, as i snub
and disappear when i recall
you are traced when i'm lost
and i lose you when i'm found.

you're the lamp
and the djinn
while i play the servant and the master
alternatively.

walk, stoop, walk

the other side of the hill.
is the road less travelled
where sun resides forever
where haze dies,
brutally with every blink
and memories arise every
new minute.

it's where you stand alone,
unabashed
with winds and hawks
singing in a monologic delight
the space bends to you
as dreams die,
in sundry reality of life

the other side of the hill
where not many survive,
not many realise,
neither the blind nor the wise
the place called the other side

depth of love is inversely proportionate to the level of dependency

the story

i have experienced the state, when i'm not comfortable in being numb. Despite of a splitting headache gruelling my enormous nerves. It's like looking up the sky and finding it immensely cryptic, when clouds seem familiar and strangers at the same time.



There is no respite because there exists no problem. There is no pain, for there is no hope. This all engulfing feeling is 'nothing' and nothing is surely pervasive today. Meanwhile jaded hands try to sync with coldplay, crooning lonely in the backdrop of a frameless mind.



Wish i could explain the point from which things appear blurred. Like a deviant shadow, difficult to discard, and dangerous to keep. The truth is i demand a lot and never give up.

This is where the story ends or begins perhaps.

oh jesus!

The town is painted red, i see stars all over the place. In the crowded mall, at the coffeebar. a tiny one on the tea stall and mostly over my head. i see humungus stars, like the galaxy hovering on tin-tin and calvin. They get me dizzy, indicative of an apparent sickness. The christmas sickness.

Amid the gala of black santa at office(black is the new white, as said by obama), i made a few observations, worthy of the space here.

1> Christmas is a polite way of spreading greed. Like an epidemic, greed envelops everybody, from the sweet old baker to a barely talking two-year olds. Going by the indian definition of gift, in the times of recession, christmas will become the fastest route to bankruptcy.

2> Many of the christmas rituals were celebrated before Christ was born. Therefore it's easy to guess the amount of truth behind the cause of celebrating christmas as the 'birth of christ'. Acoording to historians, Romans declared 25th December to celebrate Saturnia-a festival of merriment. Whereas christmas was invented to compete the pagan festival on the same date. So christmas marked the birth of resentment, more than anything else.

(look how resentment is celebrated now)

3>How many people celebrating Christmas know even the c of Christ? The ones who know, seem to remember everything but the religious aspect of it. Most of us remember it for exotic plum cakes or the flamboyant rum and turkey delight. Applying the same logic of Diwali reduced to a day of free lunches complimentary with presents.

(MERRYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!!!!chrismas).

on the rosy side,

Christmas brings in gaiety and merriment to a lot of people. A lot of fat people get to make big dough in the disguise of the big donor, where kilograms are weighed in currency.

(The more the merry)

growing up

there, in the soft mud
i saw it sprouting,
the seed of a being
rooted to it's cause (of)
-binding freedom-
in its undaunted existence.

the harp and the arrow
failed to shelter,
for fear is hard to kill
and killing is feared no more
in the by-lanes of life
walking brave this time.

the blue night

like a whizzer,

on the naked sand

~sepentined~

in arms of disarray

touch me,

and i bite

fold me,

and i whine.

poison me,

and i shine

till then, wait for the blue night

pours the porcelain

In my dreams I'm dying all the time
Then I wake its a kaleidoscopic mind
I never meant to hurt you
I never meant to lie
So this is goodbye This is goodbye...

There are songs of pain and there are songs of ecstasy. And in between lies a moment of heightened gravity where things fall back flat, unperturbed. The song attempts to capture the visuals of the same through an intriguing serenade. The hues of grey are defined well in the melodies blurred

This one has been customarily tagged as a break-up song but i most assertively deny, for i experience the poise of the singer not seen in those circumstances otherwise. If there exists a thing called sweet pain, i am sure has emanated from this heart and transversed through the abysmal of a dense clay material.

This song is all-engulfing, in the train, on the bike and other pervasive sources of noise alike. This song requires no particular mood, to swing to. It doesn't make you wobble your booty, it it makes you wobble your heart, (coming from an avant-garde known for his house-booties jiggling on the house). It's peppy yet non-chalant, it's sonorous yet dull. It's dark yet flickeringly delightful.

I invaded 'the extreme ways' and ' flower', but came back most accomplished on this track. It's wonderfully created. and i thereby proclaim to be a moby-fan.

love bestowed

uphill,
the shrine of insanity
i stand seeking.
the virtue
which translates clouds into sheets splattered
and wind into the dreams woven underneath
atop,
lies a treasure devoid of emotions unclean
surrounded by guards of deceit
selling hearts in bits and piece
and the takers queue
in the form of prayers unsung.

unearthly worm

splatter splatter

wisdom rains

in a pot full of drain

and wakes the

crawly worm.

sneaking in the landscapes

of muddy houses

to find his earth,

he calls as home

my electric blue cloud

seer at my house,
rave at my heart
fizzle of an acid,
tearing all apart.

in a flash of wisdom,
vices disappear far
engulfing me in a thwart
like a nail on a pink wall

white lies, opaque in twilight
blubbering a penitence within
clasping its drenched hands
in it's acts of rinse and rinse

and grows the platypus merrily,
in a dainty grove beneath
when it offers a warm nap
drifting the drops and dreams

sale to the horizon

on the falling raft,
as the ennui resides
bring forth my arm
to know i do survive
the waters aren't buoyant
the seas aren't still
the mist is prolonged
and the ray seems defined

drift me away from the shore of words
as i count the sand, bereft of letters in it.

the prince and the pauper, with roles reversed more than often

Freud and Hitler, two of the most influential personalities go on becoming their biggest opponents from being room-mates for years.

ravaged part II

Post the havoc caused by in humans in Mumbai, I admit of being shaken to the extent of falling to words, in an attempt to vent out. I wouldn't sound typical by blaming the authorities, which anyway has become the latest national anthem. I wouldn't tell tales of brutality, the men in the sheath of religion have concurred. For, I candidly claim of having touched by the relentless odour of terrorism.

I like many more individuals was unshamedly unaware of the terrorist attacks, until it became talk of the office and country at large. I saw people who had never, not even accidentally had stopped at a news channel, staying glued to 24*7 news ,all night in enormous grit. I however overlooked and underestimated the scenic appalling at my own TV set until I seered into the eyes, which had pain beyond explanation.

There were arms, and there were corpses, both competing against each in number and size. There was silence and shrieks both muting the loudest of crowds. It was not terror against man, it was history re-lived, cropped from incidents like The jaliawallah and likes. The gun shots turned everything to stand still, including an inkling to live. As heard from the survivors themselves.

Here are some facts which pondered me to write an incident i was waken to~
1. The fisherman Union claims of having complained to the naval authorities about the enormous RDX loading on the sea post.

2. Intelligence had informed officials, including chief minister and home minister about a terror attack in Mumbai On November11 through a satellite phone reading.

3.The NSG forces took more than four hours to get into action after having being informed of the terrorist captive, where by then the death toll had already surmounted in the hotel firing.

4. talking of unity, after the attacks, it was interesting to know that our leaders, did i say (Leader of the Opposition) L.K. Advani and the PM travelled to Mumbai on separate aeroplanes.

5.operation 'water rat'-an expose conducted by CNN-IBN to estimate security measures at our coast revealed the area is in a state of utter regress. There was absolutely no security post, which should have otherwise been strict and vigilant.

and lastly:
The pigeons outside the Gateway of India opposite to once a massive Taj, have stories of horror to tell. They not only witnessed acts of brutality, but have sobered to the extent of laying numb in there. According to the locals, the birds haven't moved an inch after the bullet exchange in the past three days. They lay immobile, engrossed in humanity perhaps.
( I pray for their well-being too!)

ravaged

in the skelet of

humanity

pinned another

wretch

corpses bleed, in the bruise of somebody

else

thunders,

applauds

and inconsolable sighs

emanated

from a fire destroying self constructed

homes

to the bearing, it was much more indeed

to the bullets, it was a sky beneath

and to the spectators, a show of higher curiosity

big, bang boom, "mom diwali arrived pretty early, too soon".

degeneration

Painting by Edson Dias

unheard voices,
sneering glances,
chained in sermons
of a convoluted self.
why do i become what i never was?
through the glamorous process
of birth, lust and mediocrity alas.

where beauty of a flower
remains trapped in rosy verbose
where seasons flutter
in the storm of thoughts
through robotics of wit,
and sarcasm, bleeding profuse,
in this ghastly 'all'

the delicately woven reverie
couldn't make it to the top
for all there lying,
was a nail bearing ball
as million faces plunged in cavity
which deepened only remorse
greying every single day

oh cowardly soul, what fears you the most
a heartless form or a broken heart in hand?

when journey makes you forget the destination

I am tired of running, breathing sporadically through my frozen nose. Yes, i have been chased since the time i don't exactly remember and I'm not talking about my unfaithful shadow here. I try to eye the enemy through semi-numb senses, which lands me into a cavernous abysmal. This fall is extremely unpleasant and no matter how much i holler (through my fully numb senses now), i have the world unheeded to my tribulation. the journey inside is dramatic, from extreme fear to extreme void. Quite transient to the extent of waking me up cruelly every morning.

Clearly this ain't no dream but the horrendous of horrendous nightmares, the ones which brutally make you realise that you're alive. Each day i see myself in this abysmal, going to a place, popularly addressed as nowhere. Here void becomes the only thing of clarity you have in your head. Each day i sweat profusely seeing this anon enemy, while shadows only foul-play occasionally. It's not that I'm blinded or daft to find out the cause, but over the time I've become a victim of my own self, my own 'fatigued self'.

Interestingly, i take pride in discerning the fact that in this treacherous journey, i seek great comfort in crumpling the stones i meet on my path. 'Anger', 'Jealously', 'Indifference' are bleeding bruised, while their scars are clearly visible on my body. Deception is one thing, i strongly don't believe in, which is why the enemies always manage to spot me from a distance. Their footmarks trail along mine, while the difference is categorically seen in the end. Where my footmarks lose out to the magnum space, i receive in the void. It is then i begin to feel alive, floating to the loose shreds of my sub-conscious. To it i surrender a lot more than just the senses.

shine on emerald (a dedication)

Give me a word
Give me a sign
Show me where to look
Tell what will I find ( will I find )
Lay me on the ground
Fly me in the sky
Show me where to look
Tell me what will I find ( will I find )

Oh, heaven let your light shine down (x4)

Love is in the water
Love is in the air
Show me where to go
Tell me will love be there ( love be there )
Teach me how to speak
Teach me how to share
Teach me where to go
Tell me will love be there ( love be there )

Oh, heaven let your light shine down (x4)

Im going to let it shine (x2)
Heavens little light gonna shine on me
Yea yea heavens little light gonna shine on me
Its gonna shine, shine on me
Its gonna shine, come on in shine
...................................
shine-collective soul

How sweet!

"These candies appear tempting, i plan to flick coupla them"(a bunch of toffees which would remind you of those 3-year-olds running across the field in the hues of electric blue, pink and yellow)
"well! they're all expired, i believe"
"oh, so why are they are here?( boss, we're at a candy manufacturer's boardroom, what else do you expect?)
"you know the country is facing a strong economic recession and may be the client has something in mind", says the servicing chick with an einstein look on her face.
ha ha ha... (bosses are always known for their amazing sense of humour)
"huhaaaaaf past three", i say it in a musical yawn only to conceal my dumb silence.
"our stuff is great, i hope we sell them this time round", meanwhile i am told, " i expect you to be 'sweet' to the client which means speak as little as you can".
yes boss!
...............................................................
"and here is the mind-numbing, eye-grabbing, scintiallting, oh so riveting(while the client is lost in checking out vivek oberoi, semi-nude in the thought blurb)..........................unimaginably witty creative"

SFX: drum rolls out

"it's nice, it's naughty(no the brand is not the pink nokia phone priyanka chopra is promoting), its cheeky too", replies the client biting her lips(she must have gone in the pool as well!!!)

but.......my only concern is it's not 'sweet'
i grin at the boss innocently(note- i'm still mum)
"Ms.. i beg to interrupt, but the brief was 'funnnnnnnnnn"( trying hard not to concentrate on the remark, the servicing chic just made)
"but you must remember at the end of the day the purpose of our product is to spread sweetness", replies the client
(and crash them into inconsolable diabetes, you fuck-face, i have to speak! in my head of course.)

"'i think our personal favourite is this route"", said in chorus( i wonder if these servicin chicks have been sleeping together or what)
the client seems to ignore that as always

The next creative is presented, "It;s a story of a guy.....and see the title of this story is 'how sweet'', while i grin away to glory
"well now you have no reasons to complaint i presume", making it clear obvious that i am the writer on this.
"hahaaa, this is funny", the client looks at me.
haaaaaaaaaaaaaaahaaaaa- the servicing chics in chorus again
and i am smiling sweetly to the former ofcourse.
(by now the boss has gone into an identity crisis)
"hmmm...,
i think my fellow here would like to sleep over the idea, and get back to you", curtly says the client
"now what should i give you?", shrieks the servicin chick in her usual tone
"may be an expensive bed and pink sheets", winks the other one.

hahaha, " you know what's the scene on this Dubai film, i think.."
"oh come now you;re digressing from the agenda madum", snaps the servicing at the client.
(while i am saved from visualising the client on those pink sheets with oberoi now, i would choose Obama, not that twain have a remotest co-relation here)

"alright then ladies and 'a gentleman', we shall get back to you in the evening", quite evidently the client seems to has given up on morons like us.
meanwhile i checked my watch it was 4.30 already.
"sure, it was nice meeting you today" (servicin, i heard you guys complaining of cranky clients who call you for a job meeting every hour)

as the meeting comes to its finale, i said "ok then, hope you have a good sleep", sweetly.
followed by a ROFL by the client and a mourning back in office.

un-wind

today i plod on winds,
unflinchingly
for it bears an incense
purantic.
what's been in the air for sometime,
is legible only now
i colour no more,
for the space is already mine.
and this possession
is no price for the freedom it
yields,
electrical like the blue sky,
eccentric like the cuckoo's nest
beauty in peace
and peace therein.

Angry young(and older) man

anger is the second name for 'inflated ego'
anger is the hazardous black which ignites the matchstick, burning homes
anger cannot be controlled. It makes you loose control,
anger is not a tornado or a low tide, it is but a cumilation of both, on a moonless night
anger equals to destruction, anger is anti-peace
anger is the bullet, injuring wisdom
anger cannot be CHANNELISED, it burns all the routes,

i stop here, i don't think anger in any form can dispel any of the above stated. so venting it is out of question. it's more like a treadmill, the more you pull it out, the more it comes to you. Most importantly it hinders the foresight, rupturing your very faithful sight for that matter.
Having said all this one cant really stop treading anger, but be aware of its destination. 'awareness' is conspicuously essential but comes with a twist here. The more you make the world aware of your anger, the more will be its repercussions, which would mean instead of burning four windows, you burn six now. Anger becomes an Achilles heel, faltering your own steps here.

Those who say that anger is momentary and is good to vent it(the 5 minute volcano active-volcano dies policy) for it's very good riddance is nothing but casuistry. Because they are the people who ignore the implication of that 5 minutes of untreated fire. Anger breeds in the periphery of your conscience and when you channelise it, you allow it to grow. It must be killed at the point of origin itself, that's where awareness comes into picture. Anger cant be defeated, it has to be depleted. Go, angry young man, kill it before it kills you.

ice-breaker

together,
we swanned,
in the rosary of winds
which unfurled truth
of 'you' and 'me'

while it was cold
and cankerous,
before you fought with the sun
with a rage overpowering
for 'me' and 'us'

and 'you' melted thereafter.

hole in the pot

in the whirlpool,
of fleeting glances
i swim,
drown,
alternatively.

one moment, you flash
as a galaxy
dressed in a thousand stars,
and other
you frizzle like a dust storm
maverick.

but then,
i can't blame you,
for your uncertainty
because i was the water
unstoppable, undefined.

off words

"i look into spaces,

and find blemishes

when you ask me

to read between the lines

i follow the words

and run away from its meaning

when you ask me

to read between the lines"

...........................................................

today, i leave a blankpaper alongside you, let me know you!

change

what will be,

from what was

is change.

Atop

In the most trivial of conversations, i was interrupted(for the good) and told that life can be explained in as simple as three sentences -
1. when you see a hill and call it a hill
2. when you see a hill and not call it a hill
3. when you see a hill and call it a hill

to my shock, i didn't bear the trademark 'confused' look, which is clearly the look to hint out that i unapologetically doubt other person's normalcy. However everything made so much sense this time around, and to my shock i saw myself nodding (again)to the explanation of these sentences

stage1: when we see a thing as 'it' is, as per the norms and conventions. That is 'A' for apple and 'H' for hill. Where we most statedly adopt the baggage of our ignorant ancestors and remain in convenient bliss.

stage 2: which statistically me and my friend found that only a handful of people enter into, where a hill is anything but for a hill. i mean the mere reason that it bears a pointed conical top, or coloured brown in their sketch book fails to justify its occurrence as a hill. in other words it's the 'why' stage, where questions form a pile of square, tart, box anything but for hill.

we also mutually came to a conclusion, that it might be hard to get to this stage but it is multiplicatedly harder to move ahead
a. it brings in lot of instability
b. it tempts you to loose focus at every nook
c. if a hill is not a hill, it is open to a subject of debate, it can be a stone which is pelted on him time and again, which creates a ruckus followed by dismay.

chances are that he might be lost, at every seeming turn and keeps on moving round and round around the pointed, conical land form.

Stage3: not even handful of people make it here, but those who do need no explanation of what it feels like to see the same hill now. After having seen a hill, perceiving it to be anything but for a hill and accepting it to be a hill. Mind you, the word is acceptance here, by the virtue of interrogation, unrest, introspection, experiencing, inference and more, a hill is so placidly defined as a hill. and these are the people who know a hill is more than a conical, pointed land form-enlightened attained, gone through purgatory.

i am travelling each day to make my way to 'the top', 'a hilltop'.

the maggot

dormant
behind the curtains of time
reviving the relict
forlorn, forgotten
having lost its sight
to gain only vision
recuperating
in a self-inflicted
ailment
some call it derision
i call it hibernation
the time beseiged
is soon to fly
and spread colours myriad
doubt no more
oh, passersby
a butterfly is to be born
right here, within.

love

'love is a corollory to SELF'

the purpose of my life

Is to be able to experience heaven on a breezy night
to hold hands of my love, the day it rains
to fall asleep in the nursing sun
to grin at the nasal sounds, i make on a cold evening

to describe butterflies in myriad colours on Feb afternoons
to write a sonnet, in the memory of fallen autumn leaves
to look into the eyes of a straying pup and say 'hey i care for you'
to wake up each day and question myself 'what is the purpose of my life'?

hope

the best definition of hope, i get is when i see the eyes of a shuddering bare body, touched by the first sunlight or an insomniac nearing sleep.

snow on the sahara, quivers my heart

Only tell me that you still want me here
When you wander off out there
To those hills of dust and hard winds that blow
In that dry white ocean alone
Lose out in the desert
Ou are lost out in the desert

But to stand with you in a ring of fire
Ill forget the days gone by
Ill protect your body and guard your soul
From mirages in your sight
Lost out in the desert
You are lost out in the desert

If your hopes scatter like the dust across your track
Ill be the moon that shines on your path
The sun may blind our eyes,
Ill pray the skies above
For snow to fall on the sahara
anggun...............................................

these words bear the sound of rain, to my quenched ears. I dont know if it's the voice of anggun, or her deep felt lyrics that kindle a sense of freedom. there is an uncanny truth in the lady's voice which lets you travel to the inner trenches of your heart.
i conveniently put this singer at par with the avant gardes-enigma, evanescense and alike.

shine on lady~

and the paradox dissolves

Post torment i feel 'what can break you certainly makes you stronger'.

paradoxical

"the lamp which flutters incessantly, becomes the source of your stillness and the thing of stillness, that is you becomes the source of my torment"

elusive

the path to stillness is ever sullen with noise,

what fades to black becomes illuminant all of a sudden

in the eerie of nowhere, moonlight appears frigid

and guides me to a conspiracy unwritten

the moment that was, and the moment this is,

enamoured by disloyalty and indifference

even the scented wind carries an air,

and pretends to have known me never

in cognito

"there is no smoke without fire they say, but according to me what's important is the residue, a witness to both smoke and fire"

quivering

the wind is mine

the breeze is yours,

while we remain distant,

we shall forever be close

'hops and leaps and stretches and frowns and squirts and prances and pounce,
corny and cheesy and molly

where is my bunny?
the straight hare wants a bunny now now and now.

winter has arrived

erratic reveries,
comforted under wools
of time
bear a chill, exuberant
under the closet of spine
~winter has arrived~

Behind 'Time'

10, 9, 8, 7 , 6 , 5, 4, 3, 2, 1...

'your time has come lady'.

'your time has come'. followed by what? will the freebies fall upon me amid the paparazzi or it simply means i am gifted a rolex oyester spedking, for being on time. but hey i am never on time and i don't understand the fuss created over time.

even in the changing times people don't shy away from slyly putting 'Indian standard time', as a justification for arriving late in an event . And then there are deadlines, which clearly is the time for men at forty, to behave like fourteen, taking an inherent pride to break them, and experience the same joy time and again.

A survey conducted in America reveals 'time-out' is the third most popular phrase used by the whites after 'shut-up' and 'fuck off', which outshines than the fact that 98% of kindergarten stories begin with 'once upon a time', this is a clear victory, presuming you have by now joined me, in my race against time.

'mam may i got go the toilet'

no! this is not the right time, i wonder why kids don't assertively reply, 'time and tide wait for none', which is likely to piss off the the teachers though.

in a timely advice, once given to a friend, i realised the gaping significance of time in our lives. from birthday's to death anniversaries, everything is dictated by time,

'harsh times', 'good times', everything falls categorically into 'time of our life'. who invented this legendary time? but then talking about legends who came, saw and conquered at one point of time, would be a consumption of your precious time.

at times, we feel a sense of liberation in saying 'i don't have time', brutally honest it may sound, but is highly effective. And glaringly simple, i want to avoid you, so i don't have time, while time has scored brownie points already.

Centuries have passed and more shall, but the war between man and time will nothing but timeless.

chaos(ed)

entangled threads shrive the verdict,

of a reckoning self

' black is black and blue is blue'.

while light cuts brutally the truth.

there in noise,

and whispers that clamour,

where stillness adopts the motion

and travels across

the familiar walls of mind

to 'unlearn'

and 'unwind'

and experience

complacence dwelling ever since

from the bird's eye

capturing,
environs of liberty,
she fists the infinite.
envisioning,
matter and its anti.
A horizon with remnants
of nothing
but the 'absolute'

now and within

On this wayward,
Where do I go?
Where do I come?
The light cornering the street,
Fades to wilt,
The air descends to gravity
Bereft of its warmth
The roads don’t want to know me,
The paths choose to ignore me
Ennui resides, hope adjourns,
Apocalypse is here,
Now and within.

what's up?

"dancing with words, and writing rhymes"*


this message has been issued to answer the most recurrent question "what's up", p.s next time it would be "the blue sky, or the squeaky fan"

You know I Can't Smile Without You,
I Can't Smile Without You,
I can't laugh and I can't sing,
I'm findin' it hard to do anything.
You see, I feel sad when you're sad,
I feel glad when you're glad,
If You only knew what I'm go ing through,
I just Can't Smile Without You.
You came along just like a song
and brightened my day,
Who'd've believe that
you were part of a dream
Now it all seems light years away.

And now you know I Can't Smile WIthout You,
I Can't Smile Without You,
I can't laugh and I can't sing,
I'm finding it hard to do anything.

You see, I feel sad when you're sad,
I feel glad when you're glad,
If you only knew what I"m going through,
I just can't smile.

Now some people say happiness
takes so very long to find.
Well I'm finding it hard
leaving your love behind me.
And you see,
I Can't Smile Without You,
I Can't Smile Without You,
barry manilow- played 120 times and still counting..

hermitage

with the usual
sepulchral eyes,
you ponder and plunder
what lies deep to be dug
in the outskirts of disdain.

the chromium voices echo
your abysmal,
as you lay complacent
in the aurora of
your burning self.

chirruping the essence
of living in the
most doomed monotone,
where silences reckon
what lacks in the blaring world.

a falling leaf,
questions
no entity,
but rejoices the
brevity of its fall,

where trickles only freedom
what world describes as loss.

the leper

soiled in,
drudgery of imposition
the leper shreds his
'self',
freed from impervious,
laws of mankind
he bathes his,
'naked self' .

the moment

cologned in synchrony
this hour,
this pulse,
as moments gush
effable,
take my hand
as i reach out
to grasp the chroma
this moment.

pearled

here ,
in the ambush of
incoherent thoughts
i study the stillness,
of the reckoned silence
like a falling pearl
singular,
enlightening the mind.

winds of same

across the jammed doors
she pleads my heed
bereft of the belonging,
i rake in her
screening memories,
of the unsolicited past
through a lightening
oh, it's apparent flash.

loo(K) who's thinking?

lying timid, in the absolute absymal
most comfortably lost
in the salvaging thoughts
of moths and flies
including the one
which savours my blood tonight.
befriending the voluminous stink
of fa(e)ces and the faceless
churning from within.
moving in circles,
not just the flush water
a mindful of filth
mom, please dont see me in this
and say your usual thing
"shit!"
"what have you been upto?"
coz, i have my usual reply
"i've been thinking...."

incompetence

hollering winds, shielded they stand,
against me,
against my breath.

in the stormy night, stranded i am,
mocking birds,
mocking at me.

cornering the silence of this existence,
i run,
i run for cover.

chased by the cryptic stars,
beaming loud
beaming the misfortunes.

in search of discreet directions,
right! right!
what is right?

a flight of endless steps
prancing,
prancing breathlessly,

wayward impulses, wary of nothing,
disappearing,
disappering noticeably.

enter the state of turmoil,
mist gallores
mystic indeed

in my dreams, yet another day
i compete
i compete with the self