Vignette / Lightness

There was dainty mirth;
that Eliot would have found
in a nonchalant street musician in Venice.


--- < ! respond >

Restless feet,
ready to fly for a cigarette;


Man by the dinner table on one-
not making the piano request.


the hunched poet on another-
by the stream in the city.

Large liquid eyes-
pained by the rulebook of the world.

Here's what concern says to you:
"Free yourself, young man.
You need to be so much more
than you see or have to be."

 --- < respond >

 In the restaurant by the sea,
 there was no malady.

---

Letter your doubts
and make paper boats of them during the rains.

--- < ! respond >

Neengadha thendral,
paadadho un idazh?

-- < respond >

Melisaiyil urangavum,
kadal karai-il kanaa kaanavum,
chandiranai purindhukollavum,
ni vendaamo?

--- < respond >

Viz. the previous post:

Was I stoned, or something?!

Timepass Farts

I found myself blurting this as soon as I woke up from my evening nap, "Some people are worth more than conjugal bliss." It does not make sense now, though.

--

It's about how capiche sounds and not what it means.

--

An argument is tedious. There's deduction and induction, there has to be conviction, there could be emotion, and some condescension. Reminding me of the moods of this pseudo piece, here.

Analysis, on the other hand, is spawn of free ends. It's about the moot. Libertarian, in a better sense.

Language, the coordinating factor, doesn't help much. Just like this post, facts without a cause.
Ha, that's an argument.

< No, was a priori before it turned into an argument. >

Darn, all statements are arguments.
Aristotle made statements. Emphasised, rather.

Hmm, now emphasis has been dragged into what Butch says in Pulp Fiction -

Shit! Of all the fucking things she could forget, she forgets my father's watch! ... : I specifically reminded her - bedside table! On the Kangaroo! I said the words, "Don't forget my father’s watch."

or dismissed and coiled away for something emanating from a social handicap among other things.


Trashing all of the above statements, it is

Streets that follow like a tedious argument

Of insidious intent

To lead you to an overwhelming question …

Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”

Let us go and make our visit.

 

that I would like to bask upon.

Some thought on a Saturday morning led me to think there is pain in imagination (this might have accentuated it.)

That sounded like an easy statement to make.
And then, giving equal thought to what constitutes expression, the generation loss, constructs, and talking to people, I mightily killed my pet thought.

--

Where is Helene?  

     "    is Ralph? 

     "    is Philip? 

           is everybody? 

--

 

November Rain

For a long evening
of no disdain.

November Rain,
Silently plotting
the meadows, towns
and this very city.

Reminding me of
our primitive Worldspace set
tuned to KL Radio and Orbit Rock
on such dainty days.

Light

Everything is light when this feather sits besides me.
Everything goes awry when it flies away

and says each time, "You never once made me sway."

Should I have? Should the wind have?
Did I not? Did the wind not?

It is a stray feather, alright,
with no place to stay.

I put it at someplace
secure and safe.

But,
it departs so often that,
the air smells its flight
more often than my hand-held
gentle admiration of its lightness.

Missing the rhythm,
skipping beats.

Gul Mohurs along the way,
rising as tarts each day.

Cancalam

The Evening Song
does not stead by me.

It's a night
of insecurity.

I came across a new word today - tenebrous.

Pretty sure I won't remember to use it tomorrow, or later.

(Should this be on twitter, instead?) Hmm.