Don't wire me your life. I need to know every detail. No, I will never get bored; unless you do.

-

I met you in the evening today; just after the rains while you were smoking by the lamppost on one of our commonly favourite avenues. You only saw me as a ghost.

The dark brown beads knit by tribal hands, worn for a little over a year now, spluttered. Oh, the portentous action of cleaning the nape.

Experiments III & IV

I'm here this night. Leaving the pen to the table and eyes to the sockets.
I'm still shaken. Yes.

-

So, all of life is one bizarre cardiograph, huh?

I want to toil with an artist too. See the work through days and nights, watch-keep the exhibitions, if not sell and sleep sound on my bed each night.

If not, can I direct my scenes and not movies? Please? I promise they will be as good as a photograph and the "a picture is worth a thousand words" adage. They're going to be gorgeous, mind you!

I'll have a lot of ground rules for the shoots. Starting with - The artists will have to have to bear real relationships with one another (I can't bear the thought that they will only be acting the intensities of the scene). It wasn't my inspiration but, something like how the Miranda July film, "You and Me and Everyone We Know" was done.

---

My blog is like a Sony Ericsson phone!

(I have absolutely no basis for this thought. I was thinking about another post - the one above this) and this struck out of no where. I like how it sounds :D)

Why. This life is boiling down to questions and answers.
Why. Don't you make an effort to think over the science.

I need a Godfather. The thought of dying without letting anyone know what my mind was capable of. I need to tell him all when I find him. He will smile at the end of it. And make me feel bad, by passing away right before my eyes after the only time I'd ever spoken to him.

Experiment II - Photographic

Other sand,dust and beings breeze through the streets, museums and monuments that once saw our feet. And how we have no framed memory with us in it, but a few ones (without us) on the 2GB memory chip of the 8MP camera, typifying the place and nothing really more. And how we weren't those darling tourists, scampering about lawns, vantage points and impulsively coordinated places, trying or getting that perfect shot of themselves or others of theirs, knitting a memory woven into all that was not theirs. We still aren't. Doesn't matter, really. Just thought I'd write it down.

Two Mensa Men

One took pride in being a man from the West Coast, and the other in wearing the Iyengar forehead.

Experiments with Sand

Like sand on time,
you stamp your heart with mine.
 

Einstein on the Beach

The semblance of the NITK beach;
its lighthouse
and benches by the rocks.

Liberty, equality, fraternity.

-

The Spaniard said, "You don't think like someone in love, you see like someone in love."

Everywhere there is a fear of humiliation. Deep-seated, overt, covert, some form. It's pretension if there isn't any.
I don't need to bet on this.

Fact

Everybody needs somebody.

S        p      a    c  e.

Why. There has to be magic woven and spells broken.

I want the summer school back. I was slack when I shouldn't have. Mistake.

Yes. There is time. Time for all. Time for revision.

Mirth on the shore,
snow on sand,
songs of yore,
somewhere on land,
hair run through
by another hand.


 

M I T.

There's madness around,
and you run from pillar to post
to save yourself.
Only to find each of them
have been standing
still in madness
since however long
for however long.

Don't chop your other hand,
the only one you can hold on to.

Wicked writers,
I want to be in an asylum
that does not require one of its own.

Each year, there has to be you, who will either not be in a good state of mind or depressed or irritated, on this day. No denials, it has been so, and with valid reasons.

Is it predesigned? Will it continue to be so, each year, moon?

I don't want anything fancy, you know. Some peace and warmth is all I ever want, with this day that splits the year into half as an excuse, each time.

In another web we have
a swirling night with sudden rains
and a man whose hat should never be trusted.

A cliche and a penny

The blame game is the easiest and lousiest.

Im

agine.


-

Where were you when I was burnt and broken?
Why!

Bliss

is somewhere in the middle of nowhere.
Nowhere cannot be a city or a village or a 'humans other than you' inhabited place, by default.

Can I throttle MG and her breed?
Some people spell disaster. They never realise it. They don't have to.
Nevermind. I'm just sore and irritated.

Let's see. Next time!

In a room full of flimsy bohemian crackheads, there is nothing much one can do. Succumb or scoot.
But isn't that the damn case with any socialising activity.

We'll have a gramophone in our house.
You will have to buy a P.B. Srinivaas record for us on one of those special days of the year.

Comfort and a Luxury

Lying down by the window with closed eyes, hands over the tummy, drizzle-filled breeze hitting the face, and earphones playing some healing music makes for such luxury; chorusing with S&G,

I will lay me down,
like a bridge over troubled water.
 ...
I will ease your mind.

Throttle me with anything, you world, I'm back and strong with my essence, the radiance and passion of my aspirations and ambitions and the mirth that, sure as heaven, line them. I've had enough of the judgments, and misconstructions. I've had it! Grow up, untie *yourself* and all your carefully guarded and trusted hard and fast emotions and obsessions and then hop on, if you want. No wasting timing over negatives. No killing people. No crossbowing another's. < Progress, man! >

It's called living light and waiting for the pray'r to be resigned. Simple and easy. "Simple and easy," I tell myself.

`Peace.

+ now.

Just when I was finding my feet,
the teacher gives up on me
gives up on me.

And now if they were to see
it's going to be a moment of glee.
a moment of glee.

-

I felt like a misfit when I was being cynical. I'm positive. Bpositive. Restless, but positive. Homeless, but positive. Incensed, but positive.

Positive is ! an emotional belief. It's a Goddarn conviction. Conviction. And a strength. Strength.

I'm telling myself all of this. I've always told myself all of this.
Repeatedly.

I don't want to become or seem like a lie, you know?

And I don't want to isolate from my writing as before, you know?

I'm in love like Granada is with Spain, or Equador with the Equator and a Spring there, or elsewhere, to the Earth.

The Enfield will swim like a gorgeous young river, leaping and meandering through Chile and Peru.

War Poetry

Walk me through Rome,
Tell me a story unknown,
Let the Freedom grow.

Visual Resumes could also be slighta corny like this, huh? Whatever it is, the mind map-ish idea, more than the presentation, is tempting. I'm going to work on quite a few. For the kicks and for the corporates. Ooh, yea.

-

I doubt there's anything worthy that I can offer as poetry. At least now.

-

It's only a man, only a man who can embark on a voyage and discover new lands, off tumultuous seas.
Only a man can dream beyond wordly ties. Only a man can have a dream spread across the vagaries of his open eyes. Only a man can sleep in peace, like a child, with all of these.

:)

#Inspiration: The "Storms at Sea" edition of Raging Planet. #dimensional

-

Boy are there people who find Kafka depressing, absorbing and even 'identify' with his characters (fine, I was one long ago, but hey, I'm over that)! He sure was having a whale of a time out of the 'existentialists' that existed then. His works have such seasoned crabby humour.

Am I missing something, or is this why people actually like him? Or is this why he is an existential writer? :|

Nigh

Lying down beside my window,
I saw
Two sparrows circling about
just a little over the coconut tree;
way below the now placid skies.

Welcome!

My word

I love you (too).

I haven't been letting you down. Will not.
*You* would now say result =1. Assuredly Update: Not yet.

The disappointed idealist.

We live real.
Flesh and blood.
You may stay ideal
for all I care about.
There's only you for an offering
and nothing for surviving.

Chapter 18: Pride

He can be the only artist in my life.
And as he sings these verses,
or another of his choice,
at a concert again,
it will rain.

I will probably:

- Have seated myself with the ticket I bought the day I heard of the concert. Listen with the palms alternating between the cheek and chin and after the performance, tell the stranger on my right, "He was mine," nodding in delight, not thinking about the ensuing questions that have to be met. Later, watch him sign autographs.

-  Be seated in the first row with the families in the one behind, rapt in the singing; smiling to myself at all the things past. Waiting for him to come back after all the 'thanking people for their appreciation,' and heave a sigh of relief. I should give him the bottle of Minute Maid then.


Or,

-  Stand backstage, and be anxious about how it'd go (although there is nothing to worry about), even with the one on my left constantly bugging me about her issues with the event management company. And off stage, stay by him as his, for the after show. Proud, as ever, while people walk up to congratulate. Satiated with the rightful recognitions.

And then at home, just before retiring, hum:

Tu Jo Nahin to Aisay Piya hum

Tu Jo Nahin To Aisay Piya hum

Jaisay Soona Aanganaa

Jaisay Soona Aanganaa

Nain Tehaari Rah Neeharey

Nain Tehaari Rah Neeharey

Nainnan Ko Tarsaona

Nainnan Ko Tarsaona

Mora Saiyaan moh Say bolay Na

Mora Saiyaan moh Say bolay Na

Mein Laakh Jatan Kar Haari

Laakh Jatan Kar Haar Rahi

Mora Saiyyan Moh Say Bolay Na

Mora Saiyyan Moh Say Bolay Na

Pyar Tumhain Kitna Kartay Hain

Pyar Tumhain Kitna Kartay Hain

Tum Yeh Samajh Nahin Pao gay

Tum Yeh Samajh Nahin Pao gay

Jab Hum Na Hongay to Peharwa

Jab Hum Na Hongay to Peharwa

Bolo Kya Tab Aao gay

Bolo Kya Tab Aao gay

Mora Saiyaan moh Sey Bolay Na

Mora Saiyaan moh Sey Bolay Na

Mein Laakh Jatan Kar Haari

Laakh Jatan Kar Haar Rahi

Perhaps even -

nee daya rAda rama ||

kAdane vAreva ru kalyANa rAma ||

nanu brOchE vADani nADE teliya

ina vamSa tilaka inta tAmasamA ||

anniTiki adhikAri vani nE bogaDiti

manninchitE needu mahima ku dakkuvA ||

rAma rAma rAma tyAgarAja hritsadana

nA madi talla Dilla gA nyAyamA vEgamE ||

forgetting that it is the morning Raaga;

Sleeping eventually.


With none but ourselves to say 'touchwood.'

Lilt.

An ode to you

The after thought:

You have been right (minus the warrant for certain deeds).
I surrender.

Smoking, smoking, and smoking.

The Lord is in his cosmic slumber
Parvati says, "I hope he wakes up soon."
And then adds, "But let him not just yet.
My poor. How wearisome it must be for him."

Fresco

Lying down
in that 10X20 room
listening to Imagine in one ear
and gentle hearts beat in another,
was surreal.

And now,
a state not that,
or more exhilarating,
seems like a facade.
Untrue and woven.

Tending

Fill the years and the ears, oh Moon.

Celestial

Warm gentle images, slowed by us,
waft across our kaleidoscope.


I, with some occasional bashfulness,
deflect onto you,
the colored mirror's shine.

And you, shield your sparkling eyes,
letting that rare coughy laugh
in the close mood of the light,
with vintage wine on the table,
and the night that surrounds our backs;

when there is a tingly smile, (hah)
on me, and joy on us.

Oh, could Lennon be singing then?
(Not Imagine - although it is near divine)
Perhaps something you, or I, could tell
when there will be time.

< Overdoing Eliot's line? >


- Whatever fate decrees.

And there is no such vein
that got written here,
for inspiration.

It is, like the Volkhov.
Waltzing inside me.

Laughing and smiling,
unabashedly at this irrationality;
these forced metrics and rhymes.

Winter wore well
its spread wings
against the cold of the skies.

Live with yourself. See how sore and bothered you can be.

Hollow

Is it Rhythm or a poem that the heart chugs on each day?

What is it?

An impure vein
dying its death.

Listen to the beat,
frisking about
like a frivolous beat.

In the lilt of the Nox,
lies a dead prayer,
a king and a queen,
raw silk, magnolia,
and the poems of poets.

Consciousness, decide between metaphorically adopting Newton's Laws and metaphorically vegetating.

-

A lord,
in Venice.

-

There is a wanderer in town.

A weekend of no music.

And now, the Moonlight Sonata
has the onus of sand;
steading by my sleep
and this night.

Somewhere, there is regret that I hadn't made it for the course in Phenomenology.
I should pen up. I should get back to Cog Sci. I could; even with the corporate wall behind me.

Fragile

As fallen yellow leaves
swept away
by the evening breeze.

Incomplete

Fragile and vulnerable
in silence,



falling back on our cigarette pack.

What has to be an elaborate dinner

If writing had to be with a mood and movement, I would consider myself to be a hypocritical writer waiting to edge myself from hypocrisy.

Like lettering a butterfly dream without any qualms.

Eliot!
Why don't you come back
alive and sprightly,
with hair so black and curly.

Can analysis be worthwhile?

Fresh!

Hoo, is that an incense, you blind-folder?

Tudoo - One tight slap-stab

The old tricks to keep one's blood boil threshold intact like counting ten - down or however-else, lettering words like 'tis cool, tis cool, tis fine, fucking fine, yea, it's alright' to the self, etc. actually work in anger, irritation, coldness, indifference and other assorted emotional atyachars.

Illati, iizuthu, oru arai araianum. Matter over. Ah, adukapporam anda silence iruke. Aanandam.

Don't

Keep them within yourself,
keep them private.

And he lived through smoke,
wasted cigarettes,
with a running obsession,
to live and ploy;
Secure young hearts,
and leave them for joy.

He lived for 45 years,
as mad as his obsessions.

He could have had a thought on his last breath,
that could have been,
"Why didn't I?"

He could have decided to stop.
Said, "Stop the drama."
And let death takeover.

No, this could have been more drama for him.

He might have thought.
"What is with my own dramatics?"
"What is with these defined _?"
"What is with you being dramatic?"


Do you think he might have died,
silently among exuberant folks,
lost in their own sweet world,
caring less enough for the braggart
they thought him to be?

What would his last thought have been,
in that case?
was he allowed one?
or did he die with his paranoid self?

He should have lived.
Shred and lived.
Less of obsessions,
more expression
love for people
hate for people
as a normal being.

He could have,
not lied to himself that he wasn't any of that.

-----

Smell of God
in my pockets;
I pull out my hands from them,
and there I found an assurance.

-------

There is something gay (old usage) and wrenching about the photograph of a happy gay couple.

Wait for the sailor
and for the mast;
wait a thousand nights
and days.

Wait until the ship sinks;
for Jupiter to show up in the sky;
for the sea to swell.

Wait,
and don't go for another moment.

Work haunts you when you wake up at 5.30, your usual weekday time, and are fluttered about having to get ready, and then something about it being a Saturday strikes you and it still is a suspicious thing. You have to go to office. Oh but well, we get back to sleep.

In isolation people find love,
when together, they find need.

--
A game should be foolproof.
Like a clear sky, and the unpredictable effects of the hemp plant.

(To be continued as prose)

--

The painting washed away by Neruda.

Overheard in the head:

A part of it wants you to quit smoking.
A part of it wants to smoke with you.

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.

Thought (n) - mail drafts you never want to send for the sheer incompleteness and privateness.

Self Talk (Ignore)

Damnit. Why didn't I think Doppler's? Vis-a-vis the previous post. But, that would mean disinterestedness playing a part somewhere.

Comfort

How else can I be
with you in troubling times
but with bosom
consorting the same dissonance
and a face thusly placid
with vacuous mutters
to keep up the faked ignorances.

How else can I?
Unless you allow free speech,
bring yourself out,
and let us devise.

Different kinds of Respect

It should be liberating to have a Godfather.
At least, stifling responses wouldn't be of much concern
and yes, did I say liberating?
It has to be relieving as well.

Who wants ties with this mad connection made of people, and inanimate things.



--

Nothing more stimulating than a discussion that has accommodating people who aren't bothered about who gets the lead, or what has to be scrutinised and what not.

It's difficult being a woman.

And you < have to > think, the man has it easier.

--

Pirandello,
for an instant.
married to something,
for an instant,
Slipping away,
irritatedly.

Whiling away,
for what seemed like
an eternity,
Straightening ties with your wife,
for an eternity.
Cycling away
circularly.

Real trips

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.

Happened recently.

How would empathy for oneself seem?

-Like being able to astutely (remember and) feel the taste of medicated blood soaked cotton blobs around the gums, while the dentist was working on a root canal surgery drilling such that nano teeth particles and the  saline solution, hit the roof of the mouth and gave their own distinct taste and presence.

Good Lord, I am empathetic of myself?

A life between Mumbai and Delhi, simmering shoes that always wore a strut, impudence for all the vanity.

One night, of the many, saw her returning to her single apartment a little beyond twelve.
And the feeling of being a slut cringed in her. She wasn't one for real, though. But the late nights, her outrageous clothing, insolence, and many such apocalyptica prescribed by society for a woman, caught her off guard. I think she felt nauseous about herself.

Of course she didn't have the balls to confront herself with that or even pull herself and say, "I care two hoots." Neither did she want to tell anyone she felt morally screwed.

Oh, man.
 (incomplete)

--

Another Just:
 Do you want me to step down?
run far away
and hurt myself?

:D

Daybreak,

it's no more than shambles.

The thing about beating around a social occasion is that you find yourself giving excuses worse than the actual.

(Let's call this fiction?)

A sip of infidelity

Eloquent speech,
well-built frame,
man of many tournaments,
smart-dresser,

sat across me at the conference table.
Minting astute thoughts,
and languid glances.
It was before I could surrender, that,
I was reminded that I have a family.

< wish the ones below were removed >

And, so, my slow posture retired
knowing it would lean towards this man
in other conferences;
and the family would fade to
a passive impotent remembrance.

Sore

Pure acads beckon the soul cringed inside uncomfortable walls.