Friday, July 31, 2009
Hey, come on, that's shoplifting :P

The Idiomatic and The Obvious

Drafts are to personal emails, what Patience is to Maturity .

It's my brother, I tell you. Salvaging me with his seemingly punch-dialogueish association with idiomatic expressions.


God, I am actually arguing with someone over the association between change and prominence wrt human behaviour.

Conviction is the only thing that keeps any argument. Have it, and condescension will take further course. Matters not if the conviction is true or faked. [ vis-a-vis RK! ] But this one I'm having turns out to me being called for a counselling session involving the prophets. The anti-climax (with no belittling).

Thursday, July 30, 2009


The preemption of these nights lives on. IPL got over, dad doesn't stay up late, the street-dogs still get into mid-night wars, a flatness sweeps me. There is a new found emptiness manifesting itself in an adherence to a civil life.

Yesterday, at this hour, I remember gazing into the denseness of the skies through the window of a speeding train. There is nothing about it, except this belief that I have stilled myself from regularities. And then the revision of thought happens.

[ It moves me to wonder if salvation is born thus. Would a conscience and awareness of states and choices warrant it? Redemption is therefore born in us, should I say; pulling ourselves out, gathering ourselves... Liberation should thus be a null set. Then again, the idea of salvation can be dismissed saying it is an intangible pursuit and merely a theoretical fixation irrelevant to our existence. Farty enough.]

Sunday, July 26, 2009

The Whitewash

 You are dying, as the composition in my head crescendoes. My being feels empty already. Will you come back as an immortal melody; sprightly?

What do we owe ourselves and our souls that we dwell in nether regions?


It  is this, I know:

1 2 3 4
   2 3 4 5 6
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8
   2 3 4
   2 3 4
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

1 2 3
1 2 3
   2 3 4
            5 6
   2 3 4
         5 6 7 8
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

And the epilogue reads "a serene bench."

I think I want to write a paper on the subtle potency of the tautology in "yeshtu rateu" (yeshtu?=how much?-in Kannada), and publish it for some eyeballs in some impotent medium like an oestrogen-ramping organization's journal.

Oh, hell, yeah, I feel like doing that. Just like that.


A person of circumstance sounds oh-so-varicose;


You need an answer? I'm going to give you pre-fabricated trash.
You need a solution? "Fuck off."
You mean business? "You've started talking."

You say dollars? I'm counting Yen.
You pay for whores? I pay for charlatans.
You'll  be Co-op farming? I surrender.
Can I trust you on my business always? Upon your involuntary bodily functions, as ever, you may.  


Will you take me away? I'm an ascetic, you're a misfit.
 I've begged you? No, bugged.

You mean business? I've no better option.

What's the business, though? ...

[ I wanted to stop with the first three lines of forward but then the forward-reverse thing got built. ]

Monday, July 20, 2009


Italians don't make movies, they capture us bare. In all our vulnerability. In all our running-aways. In all our hollowness.

Good Morning Heartache is one such of their films. Been haunting me for almost three months after having watching it. A must for anyone out, in and grown out of love (what does anyone understand about it, anyway?).


In hard times,
I hold my candle
weeping against your robe
and you daintily listen to my unspoken woes.

In other times,
you live in your world, I, mine
We don't need acknowledgment
and a bond to keep us, or even enliven our souls.


Francis Bacon wrote humbly brilliant essays. How well he dismisses Tabula Rasa. Bertrand Russel can never measure up to him.


I've a horrid opinion that this blog has become a priori.

Saturday, July 18, 2009

Oh, Nadia,
The sin and the soul.

Lift up your spirits,
gather the bowls
of sublime will.

 Take me to your land,
enchant me, lend me your bicycle.

Travel up the world, Nadia,
 off pain and beauty,
to blindfolded regions.

In your palm, lay the world,
rest it on another,
free yourself, Nadia.

Drench yourself in
the mirage of clouds.

Nothing is what it seems, Nadia
Why did you try those things I just told you?

You are,
and now became,
who you are not.

You disappoint. Always.

Friday, July 17, 2009

Feet after feet,
pass the "use me"
they only have time to throw banana skin
and search for a ring they might have lost in it.

Trashcans/Dustbins can never be consistently rich.


Mount Carmel seems to have changed. The girls and women seem less lesbian and more ultra-modern. CommE has a bunch of snots now. Lord.


People just don't sound right when they try defining time. Nano, sociological, biological, metaphysical, pendulum; Blasted folks have other markers for no-time (an off-shoot of classical metaphysics I suppose.)

Thursday, July 2, 2009

Hope is this that allegories, metaphors, similes, symbolism, adjectives and the breed are never wrenched out.

I want sojourn to mean sojourn, and nothing else, please! 


Shrouded monks

slither past gates

to make love with the night;

just as truth is pathless. 

Thinking and re-thinking is not refining, it's decay. - Shilet.


The lone engine's sound, the gang war of the street dogs past midnight, the suffocation of a surgery, conspiracy, courtesy, el mar, lost wallet, tendrils.

All of this dead-pan, you say?


Die felicity. Die! You just can't measure upto others. Die, die.