Sublime

In reality, they have an atmosphere in-between. 
In writing, they dissolve themselves.

- inspired by them

From dust to ashes,
through quivery living,
and meandering.

-

Var.

From dust to ashes,
the guileless body lives,
tarnished by rings of ideas
and premises.

-

Combo:

Two words for them who think of dust to ashes and isolate the interim period for one of struggle: Existential Angst.

For the others, like us, it's been 'from womb to an operational end.' We don't need to understand their fancy and dear hypotheses.
---

Narrative Loopholes

Marie, the cousin of Lucien, stitched away in the attic of their ancestral home. She never met anyone. Did not speak of anyone; not to the withered walls around her either.

This was what I was told.

With this my mother thought it fit for me to conjure an image of her; enough to not make me near her room.
However, I'd tip-toe to her door on many occasions, knowing she'd never lend herself to a view through the key-hole. Thus met with expected disappointment each time, I'd return thinking how such a lady could survive (how did she keep getting her wool?).

To be honest, it was the act of reaching out to her doorstep that mattered. I did not want to see a lady who had nothing edible given by any human we knew, and no formal place to clean/relieve herself. I'd asked my mom once (never after) about how the woman could survive, and she went on to say, "witches have that power."

Ha, why do folks think kids will believe 'em? I mean we do get all dreamy when you tell us such stories, but heavensake, don't assume we think such things are possible.

Biographical ideas for every paragraph.

It would not take me anything to sit-down and write an eloquent piece about my fomentations. But, I'd rather be with mediocre writing that lets me gain, than something so fragile that would break me.

What is it to wake up with a punctured soul? The grief the liberation of a cold early morning ride to and from Cantonment Railway Station brings? Do you have an idea?

It's not to do with dissatisfaction. It's insolence, absolute self-centredness, disregard and discourteousness, I have to face everyday that somehow stun me. Like this otherwise charming college junior, Sivaram, who assumes I have an answer to everything and asks me things, just anything, except if I could respond to them. Should I be rude and put my foot down on him? And then, some who in their silent rebel to fit-in and yet seem different-scared of their brittle selves, let their meat that grew with them through the years die in social acceptance. They're too heavy. I don't know if it's got to do with altruism, I wish they were out of such discordance.

Yea, how dare I say such things. I'm screwed up just fine. With all in the life running on the right path, but this stupid larger part of me that runs away from that blaming others for it. Dumbfuck.

As I say, my auscultation and being a bivouac is as pseud as my life. I'm so annoyed. Will anyone believe me when I say I sorely want to shed these? Bah.

Uhm, okay.

Uh, get a life.

Stick out, people; it fucking clogs the shit.

Grand condescending applause. What a joke this is! Haha.

Uncomfortable madness! Just let go, you'll get over mania.

---

An attempt, nothing else. I don't want this to be judged/associated/even regarded.


Aside, Tottochan is such a wonder. Seemingly the only strong competition to Heidi. (Peter Pan is still too cluttered to compare with.)

Writings of a failed actor who was found to be impotent upon death.

In an empty room, I take it upon myself to act. It would end up with a deafening freeze, that critics could probably write off for a character's cerebral turmoil. In five decades of life, repeated attempts at the spotlight, orating to an empty audience, staging myself to me, I had to refill myself everytime. I waned, my speech slurred; trembled to deception.

I could never be a good actor.
With peers who change with money, with them who pedestalise those who treat them like dirt and kick their loyal servants in the gut, with them who seek power and attention, with my shrivelled and devoted wife, with sprightly grandchildren who ask me to try out sneakers for my Chappals (it embarasses them), with friends of my wife I run into at parties that paint themselves with red, violet and black cosmetics, even rouge (sophomore girls in 50-year-old frames of women; sagging breasts can never be hidden, they say), with musicians who conceal their pain to make Adagios, with refugees, with nurses, with my sister who sleeps with someone not her husband, with her desolate husband, with great movies and even greater actors. With Ashame that I am a hypocrite. I shan't.

I suddenly catch some of their laughs, and like them too. I didn't expect this anti-climax.

With this comes the bereavement of my unsure fingers swearing that I could have been more honest and less apocalyptic here at least.

A stoned twirl-back of the head
and I'm with the smell of grass.

Musty and inviting.

Happened with Glass' 'Evening Song'.

My brain is partially working on the lyrics of this post,
and some of it is living many lives in an instant.
(Like it's been born to a thousand gushing springs.)

The rest lays calm,
almost like silence in the storm;
listening to the movement, and
watching the sun set.


 

Poetry / Home

As your fingers deftly play the keys from the piano of Burmese wood in the rich living room

and as my Nikon fm10 captures your essence.

As the walls resonate us, 

this shall falter. 

A hum

My brother stands by my door telling me how I seem like someone who borrows words in bits and pieces and puts them all together. I could say it's true, not factual.

These city rains remind me of the pensive Nox-bestowed Hong Kong lights and my Wills Lights. Draping themselves in the coldness around, sinking together by the lamp-posts. The shadow of my body from incandescent lamps upon the ground, and several flights to drier grounds. (The rains are always in love with earthy entities.) Like the drenched cigarette in my pocket and my hasty attempts to run over to the Noodle Store's lone sodium lamp. Such monotony. Such mood. I'm almost in the same slow-mo, letting these smoke rings fill the roof.

These words remind me of S's. He mentioned on several occasions that adjectives need to be avoided; done away to say the least. My writing wreaked of it, probably. I knew they were getting excessive on the head and the page. But, to strange nights, what would emptiness mean without the root descriptive, empty?

The void seems heavy in bland sentences. Tireless and unwinding. Perhaps why S could not conform to his notion.

I'm suddenly taken back to the high-walled buildings I had been to. Even imagining sipping green tea near the venetian blinds of one of those floors as the evening sky rains. Dusk in all its wrung romanticism. A silent overwhelm.

Qualifiers help. Emptying out the baggage; detoxifying thought. I'm now left with experience alone, in an asylum and a B&H stick. Sans humidity.

The days I had to save up to buy, seem more thoughtful than these where I can afford the Yamaha Guitar you would love, with a single swipe.