sleep sea

This is another end. The million-tongued, deathly-white demons are doing their crazed, apocalyptic calypso. Adrenalin rushes through their demonic veins, their pomegranate-pink fangs bared. Saliva bubbling with poison. Nails crack. Hair spreads, like jet black serpents, all over their body. Eyes cloud over, open, cloud over again. Reddened and ripe from years of bridled hate. A hundred thousand violins erupt in a philharmonic frenzy. Lightning flashes within, like a punishing lash from a heartless god. But i am content, like a moth, coccooned in thick early-morning sleep.

I remember you. Emerging out of the blackest of nights.

With nothing but a blacker eye

The night swirling about you in curly wisps

Helpless and distraught

All I wanted was to protect you

As if you were a little furry creature,

Curling up in my palms

And I could feel your heart

beat madly within your tiny ribcage

I frantically hummed a familiar refrain

To soothe you

But all that came out was a feverish sigh

Carried over from a previous birth, perhaps

And my caresses died one by one on your cold skin

We walked, not talking though

not joining the happy chorus of the cicadas.

We trod upon the cold, secretive empires of the roaches

and ran our palms over the godless universe of the lizards

We walked into the dawn

until daylight simmered like a distasteful broth

above our heads

Exorcise all the grief into words

that you can preserve.

Maybe some day, they will be read and

appreciated, if you are lucky!

Some fool might even worship

your miserable brain.

Only be prepared

Your words will be consumed

along with onion salad

Sometimes, sat upon.

They may wrap dog poop.

But they will be read!

You will be gone by then

to some place where

words don't exist; grief neither.

Just maggots.

i'm there for you

Accusations are like the second skin

with scars, black spots

warts and vitiligo patches.

Be comfortable in it

Because everyone is going to

accuse you

of everything

love, heartbreak, denial

madness, of starvation

brilliance, beauty

forgetfulness, lust

of being yourself

Do not feel unimportant

Because everyone needs you

You are their favourite martyr

the famous loser

the world cannot exist without

So hang in there

and hey, a smile would be just perfect

another day

The morning wraps itself around the trees

like tears in a man’s eyes

Present, but not quite.

A siren from a distant ship festers

like the wail of a heartbreak

rarefied, oneiric.

Moist earth, the sun’s ass wipe

Sunlight smeared artistically

Angular, aromatic.

Shadows take birth, one by one

like wounded dogs, diffident

self-conscious and pathetic.

The day stretches its lazy morning stretch

like an incomplete death sentence

uncertain, yet unavoidable.

Messy, messy March

March was organically disappointing. I try my best to think up of good things to write about as I am perfectly aware of the fact that life is about good things, too, though it may seem, to (regular) readers of my blog, that I am a pathological cynic and an avid life-hater. But the minute I think of writing something pleasant and positive, something goes horribly wrong and I go back to the sniffly, angry, helpless, “fuck life” mode. Then it all falls into a smooth groove. Things and people compete to make my life miserable and among them this month were John Grogan, (I HATE TO SAY THIS but, I have to…) John Updike and Protima Bedi. So, it really isn’t my fault, you see. That I crib so much!

The Witches of Eastwick

When I read a book, I actually read it. I mean, right from the prologue to the blurbs on the back. This might be one of the first times that I skipped paras, pages, whole chapters together to get through to the last goddamn page and I’m furious it had to happen with Updike, one of the writers I idolize. The Witches of Eastwick was picked up with great anticipation from a second hand book store but, no amount of train journeys, calm afternoons and bone-chilling boredom at office could get me interested in the witchy ministrations of the three women with supernatural powers (you must be a classified moron if you haven’t guessed that much from the title yet). They have incredible orgies with a rich, though not overtly classy, man in town. The language is unbeatably typically Updike, I admit. But the whole point of the book escapes me. The only things that remain are the foursomes, the occasionally delightful witchcraft and Darryl Van Horne’s (the above mentioned rich man) spittle-lined lips and a surprisingly smooth arse.

Marley and Me

John Grogan thinks he has achieved something spectacular writing about his dog. I hate to crush his happy little life, trample upon his near-perfect book but, Marley and Me made me want to throw up. I love dogs. I mean, I really do. I believe they are far more worthy of life than most humans. But, man, this book is so fucking silly that you wish the “ill-mannered darling dog” Marley is shot dead if he doesn’t choke on the living room rug and kills himself. Grogan cannot write and I think he shouldn’t too lest he wants genuine canine lovers to start hating dogs. Skipped more than half the book.

Timepass: The Memoirs of Protima Bedi

Do not read this book unless you are confused, self-destructive, a sex manic, or a hypochondriac or all these put together. It makes you want to apply for gun license and shoot every one in your vicinity. Sometimes, people should stick to doing what they are best at and leave the job of writing books to the real writers.

PS: I pay my respects to Updike. He was a real writer. The Witches of Eastwick was just one of his nightmares.

diary

I want to float in space. Defy all sense of gravity. Cling to imaginary porcelain bubbles and feel as weightless as witches’ knickers. I am so pathetic, I am so full of myself and excessive animistic desires.

I’m the fool! Oh the fool! Weeping each time someone crushes my make-believe worlds and forgetting all the shit at the sight of the morning sun.

Sixty per cent of my time is spent looking up inane things on the internet. This is what I found last week. Eco friendly vibrators are a rage. Oh yeah! They would be a boon for all those horny freaks who want to impress Al Gore, I guess.

People keep sending me pictures of their babies, their private family holidays, their new haircuts, their new offices, new mobile phones, new girlfriends, new parents in law. My mom has no wrinkles on her milky white skin. All she has are worry lines and a large red fiery spot on her forehead. Sometimes, a memory of a smile.

My dreams are of random naked women. In waterbaths, one giving birth to bottles, and another sitting atop a tree, her hair getting caught in the branches. I couldn't care to interpret them. A kindred spirit bought me a packet of crayons. Nicest gift of the year! When a woman says she is discovering herself, she damn well means she is getting laid.

Heat, damp hair, oily face, unfinished work and unadulterated hatred for everything mildly resembling life somewhat sums up my current existence.