After forever

Age is killing life's magic. I don't want to look at life this way. Things fail to excite me now. It all comes down to such trivial, mundane denominators. The human-animalistic senses and subsequent urges: hunger - more food; thirst - more drink; tired - more sleep; cold - more shelter; libido - more sex. And these trivial senses become distorted and exacerbated thus leading to greed in the extreme and compelling people to do things like drugs, murder, rape, corporate whoring, prostitution in every imaginable sense of the word and cosmetic surgery. And the worst part is, I can understand it, but my empathy isn't empathy per se as it lacks the essential ingredient of compassion. And empathy, as far as my definition of it goes, is understanding with compassion. I understand the implications and the urges so well, but I simply feel sickened that others are reduced to these states. It's like, I want more from them all... From everyone. More than I could be. More, so much more than I am.

Seaside echoes

I watched this sad movie sometime back(the name I can hardly recall); a true story about a Spanish man named Ramon Sampedro; a quadriplegic who had wanted to die for years and was finally euthanised with the help of some friends. He used to write, and I transcribed a poem of his which had been translated into english. I found it beautiful.

Out to sea
Out to sea and in the weightlessness of the deep
Where dreams come true
Two souls unite to fulfill a single wish
Your gaze and mine over and over
Like an echo repeating itself silently
Deeper and deeper
Beyond everything that is flesh and blood
But I always awaken
And I always wish for death
My lips forever entangling in your hair

Fade on forever

I woke up late,being tired
and rolled out the faded leaves of winter
obscene are the green tinges
which still hang on;a foetus love
an aborted childbirth.such mutation!
Love,love,love my bitter pill
antidoting the morphine sweetness
winds of gust and hate
the leaf trembles,quivers and slants.

To stand rapt at the nostalgia
of the fluttering flags of defeat,a paradox eh?
but so is the happy laughter of childhood
Thanksgiving meals included.
Inject in me the liquid of calmness
a coalblack syrup to make viscous
the emptiness
fleeting like a ghost-child.
crumbling dead leaf.
Smouldering edges of my name.
Ashes to ashes,dust to dust.

O Heart! O pera!

It sleeps and wakes and sleeps again
the tune in my head
sounds whirls,in reclusive twirls
fast-paced;ticking of a Swiss watch.

Heavy armoured headiness
and the words come bolting out
You are so beautiful.My fragile angel.
lunar globes;charming and waif like.

The flicker of eyelids,pale and spacey
saucers in white nightsky
The veins of the sky,crimson and thin
only if you look; deep and closely.

And a thin smile surfaces,a hint
incompletes are profound operas,and sad.
There are no characters save one
and no audience;not even the one.

Skies

The gentle sting of the outside rain; a silent hymn,
lush lullaby, imparted by this our sky: Infinite and
encircling, shared heaven.

Porcelina of the ocean blue

The locus of all things tangile are shimmering.And in the earthly nights,I touch stones with my naked fingers.The chill of the fog-wetness on the smoothness of the stones permeates my bones.And she rips open my ribcage,moving into my heart.A porcelain statue,wearing an emrald necklace,she is the angel of all things darkly beautiful.White in her purity,the darkness around her eyes seem unreal.A gothic eyemakeup?.But it's real.As real as the crystal mirrors on the heartcaves.The ocean-flower blossoms and sleeps again.A fragilty which can't bear reality too much,even underwater reality.A transient reality,like the smell of incense.Nah,not the smell but the hint of a smell in the smoke.It moist my eyes and the lovely smile almost breaks my heart.A small crack,which makes the heart look all the more vulnerable but all the more beautiful.It's time to dive naked into happiness.Drenched in the dewdrops of happiness,a mind is born.A parallel mind.Two rail tracks,parallel and moving to some unending destination.I shall rest when the journey is over.I'll sleep like a baby.In a canpoy of sweet lullabys,I'll sleep until the world ends.And then I'll love the taste of this earth.

Echoes of carelessness

This is something which i wrote when I didn't take my meds for a day.It makes no real sense and my writing was all scribbly.I am at horrors at the dependence we have on medicines.Sometimes it seems easy to throw the towel.But oh well,just another med and I'm okay.



and why should I even care?

The whole ridiculous motion of universe has its own trajectory.Motionless are the drops in the crystal glass of lifetime.Why do I let these teardrops collect?Maybe blooddrops.And the scars of a sharp pain remain.It's a disgust to contemplate the banal motion of universe,but it's less boring than feeling the weight of one's eyelids and wondering why a skin tissue might someday feel so heavy.A cotton-soggy heaviness.A wet heaviness.

but why should I care?

Period.

I will

The Sound of Eyes

Our eyes will spill the secrets of our strength,
reflected and viewed only in the eyes of our 'other'.

Each other.

Our love only ever momentarily wilting in the shade,
until the sun of those open eyes shines again.

Crime

There must be a point there besides the open window where freedom lies.It glides and sithers into turmoil. A slippery road.I've fallen many times I know. From the vantage point I deliberate and let the sun drip it's dark shadow.Drop by drop. And I drink it.Open mouthed. Like a newborn sucking the milk of numbness. There are so many windows and so many roads,beyond. And I'd gladly walk If the shade of love canopies over me. Alas! I ask too much. Love conspires with the sun many a times.And leave sunspots. Ugly and unmaskable. And still in the moonlight of lonliness. I look at them lovingly.My children. They,of untamed joy and serene happiness.A constant reminder of my crime. I killed 'em. They were newborn.

No more

To move into a slow phase
I rather stand at the gates

And no one can see thru
locked are the soul-mirrors

Rough boney fingers,streching
and a little more,for a grasp.

When you take everything out of nothing
nothingness still survives.

For such is the effect of love
and such is the effect of wine

Casually I send spiralling puffs
tracks of long lost years they leave.

Steady the ocean which heaves
in the eyes of the beholder

No more I care for release
I surrender to my abode

I hold my head high
where the silences shriek and hopes die.

Shine

Seaside eyes and the stirring contents of oceans they create at will.My kiss imparted to the air we share; it blows on breezes to a distant land to capture and caress your fragile hand.A fragmentary earth, a sphere once whole. Until it broke in pieces like our soul.These tears don't dry for years, and I hear of a golden arrow that is love. It flies and falls and lands most randomly. Or, seemingly.
Like the memories of blood, and veins that pump lineage old and worn and strangely mysterious. A familiarity and timelessness inherent even amid intangibility. No cheek to touch or song to absorb,nor even a flickering eyelid to behold and understand.Just understanding, wherever told, untold. Or misunderstood, but known.
It will always be, beyond this day, as it was beyond the unwound full and unfilled moons of so many thousand yesterdays. These stains and strains mark the blueprints of two fragmentary souls, which join again today, tomorrow... So many tomorrows into forevermore.

For the love of dead

With what sleepless nights
the Gods above created flowers
A dreamy sketch,soft globes
faint,featherlike whispers
too fragile to the touch,these petals
evanescent in their freshness
they fill me with tears.

They fill me with tears
these lovely flowers.yellow,red and white
and some faded.They are dead.
Sharing space with their brothers
too timid in their faded beauty,sinking in their ugliness
For them,the most,my eyes go moist.
won't they feel so lonely?

won't they feel so lonely?
these odourless.lifeless,beauties
limp in their shame,they hang their heads low
Their skin still so soft,so tender
bereft of the Spirit-Goddess they wonder
what human hand would throw them in the bin
so they turn to dust,to become fragile again
fresh again,and loved again.

The dead brothers-in-fate,I weep for you.
I love you.

Madness

Madness O madness
why don't you leave Ashes alone.
why? Goddamn you.

cracks

He laughed
Sudden,unforseen,unfanthomed
a happy uneventful laugh

and noone saw it,expect the crack in the wall
a slight,unassuming,ugly little crack
Almost dignified in it's incompleteness

almost wistful.
And then no one saw the tears
mild,salty and fresh.something caved in?

the nakedness of the skin
and the coldness of the polished floor
Lying there he smiled and cried

smiling at the ugly crack
almost dignified
almost wistful.

and crying at the word 'almost'.
A cruel word.A cruel world

Where?

A boy called Ash grew up to be a man named nothing in particular, everything in general. People called him
by all names under the sun, some profane, some profound.

Where is Ash now?

What is Ash, now?

light my fire

The strange darkness beckons me.And I am once again losing the slippery grip I have on my mind.It treads me softly into spaces which promise beauty and silence and what stares at me is the stillness of graveyards and beauty of decay.The smooth,curvaceous movement of my fingers across the nothingness of universe,just underscores the delusion of my own worlds.Worlds which I create to hide myself.But the very reassuring darkness which is my saviour from the blinding light,turns a monster.A monster out to devour me,but is toothless.So it claws and scars.Impotent attempts at mutilation,transforming into rich tapestry of complex beauty and a billboard of personal tribulations.I feel like a demi-God.Distant and sad,looking at the perversion of something which was exquisite at the inception.
The skin on my cheekbones,as i touch it,seem taut.It's very papery.Very thin I mean.Maybe the cheekbones are prominent and it's quite like the hard boney reality I seem to always stumble upon,beneath the soft exterior.There are no grand delusions though.The cold aloofness of stars in the sky and the warmth of the people around,seem twin-like.It's a beautiful word this.Twin-like.Mirror-images.Just inverted and complexed.And the sudden streaks of crimson dreams are nothing but the vanity of a lost child.Lost not in the crowd from here he cannot find his way back,but lost in the aloneness from where there is no way out.A chruch bell might ring someday and the thousand candles might light someday.Till then it's going to be very difficult.

diary entry

I wrote something in my diary last night.It was read by the doctor,which was a breach of the privacy contract.But it was actually my fault,I left the diary in the open.I certainly didn't like her reading my diary and my demonstrations of rage are kinda acute.I was taken to the punishments today.My head feels tight and electric.I want to lick that feeling.Want to taste it.Electric taste on the tongue.Many colors in the brain.Am i getting any saner.I hope to God I am.Now i'll shut up and let my diary speak.

I always find myself giving too much of myself away,too much of the negative in my character... And also of that which I may perceive to be more "charming" in my illusion but really isn't all that... And when this"charm" is hence disproven I'm left feeling like a moron, but even worse, I feel revealed. As if my best,most natural efforts at entertaining have failed.
People know too much about me, and of my quirks...Sometimes I feel as if there's nothing left to reveal,no further substance. As if I am what I am and it's my all, but it's so shallow, empty. I feel as if I'm a baby's wading pool, small and ridiculous beside your ocean.

blow

Wizzing past the lonely highway
of the murderous intent of my porcelain skin
where the scars of angst
sit pretty,laughing a deadly laugh.
Scattered they croon,an acient tune
underneath the tightness of skin
and reminds me of the ocean in Tasmania
where the green eyed sea monsters
devour the catholic greed and warriors
of the tribal mutiny lay scattered
warriors of courage;a lovely reminder
of the days gone past
And now the spaciousness of my hollowness
reverbrate and shout
purple eyed and bruised,I listen to the music
of your dream and your doubts
and wish for closeness,a proximity of moist
and the eye,mist on a windowsill,darkness and the skies
A flick of the switch and the lights turn on
the empty room looks all the more monstrous
the sound of 'checks' shrill and high
the waves of nothingness engulf
the blackness of fate bleeds tar
and dizzy brain and senseless I write this poem.

In the end.

So free,and so unwound
an intoxicated butterfly,waiting
in measured heaves
the passing of breaths.flash,flash,flash

My world seems a series of unthought reactions. How often do we think upon what we do as we're doing it?For me, I scarcely think beforehand either. Only after. Don't get me wrong, I frequently ponder on the future and feel concern, apprehension, wonder and even on some rare occasions, awe and excitement at those things which it might entail... However I don't often think out my actions before embarking upon them. The rest belongs to my dream world of idealism and the wayI'd LIKE for things to be in what I personally consider the IDEAL = finalised state. But I barely if ever take the time to consider the practical implications and hard work necessary, and those times during which I do, (fleetingly), I often feel altogether overwhelmed by the concept and incapable of the responsibilities living idealistically demands.And then there are the neverending loopholed traps one can so easily fall into: self-righteousness,egocentricity borne of pseudo selflessness, a holier than thou complex of condescending implications...

It's all too easy to give up and say fuck it, isn't it? When everyday runs into a long night before awakening to new vibrance and inspiration. Inspirationis only ever short-lived, and we must remain for the most part in the dark. It is in the darkness that we learn most. And by enduring the dark we gain the capacity for endurance... The longevity needed to accomplish dreams.

Don't we?

Breathing, a measured science
the butterfly flaps it's wings,heralding dawn
a neverending mystery of colors
vibrancy dies an unnoticed death.clap,clap, clap.

Blood petals

It was a bruise
a long scar flashing across the wrist
crimson with blood
dirty with dirt and laughing with mock
The sadness on my face

wasn't due to the wound,visible
A lopsided sadness,fixed and immutable
like ridges in stone
or a lash across the wrist.
The flower petals of love wilting

under the scorch of the sun
dried and ancient,they look beautiful
slightly nostalgic,profoundly amnesic
a paint dried canvas
Almost bored with blood

I wipe the hand clean
A smude leaves a trail,reminiscent
of footprints on the shore,waiting
to be swept away
with the salty waters of the ocean

or tears,
whichever drowns me first.

I eat the lotus

Sometimes I am wondering where is the youthful energy that my age should have?It has vanished or it never was?I think it never was,not atleast the energy which would make me 'enjoy' the shit I was doing just to feel the happiness for a moment.Or maybe I was born with a different vibrational setup.A certain frequency which vibes only with the absoluteness of things and of the grandeour of the beyond.The eartly things have become too banal for me.Maybe impure is the word.I seek purity.And while I am burdened with the fact that I carry a pure core and I have tried my best to scar my periphery,thats my only hope as well.The Alchemy concept is beautifully poetic resemblance.The fire of the collective self-destruction over the years have all melted the baser metals in me.The shining gold is what I hide in my core.Maybe it's a shinning star I hide in my starless heart skies.In the tumultuous waves of my emotion upheavals,it's the star thats should guide.The lonesome star fumbles and takes me to the depths of rage,emotions over reason and jealousy at the people who can think rationaly and can dissect the subtleties of life with ease.I am hurt by ambition and drive.Because I lack it.I never had it.And now the barreness of me angers me.The chains of past bound me and the futility of breaking myself free drains me.No words,no medicines,no therapies seem to help me.I want to help myself.I can't.I will once again wear the mask of 'I am okay,don't waste yer time tellin me otherwise' or maybe the mask of indifference which always works,when I am with people.There are times when I have tried to lower the mask and show my real self.Most don't seem to notice it.Maybe they intentionally don't want to see it.It makes me feel ugly and the 'indifference' mask always brings the response that I am cool.Underneath I seethe.They say I am cool.What irony,what paradox.Maybe I chose the wrong people.But why most times I feel that I am wrong.Intrinsically.Except the core.And the tension is the core.The muck is all around,it's the small lotus which makes the prescence of muck disgusting.Rationally it seems easier to wipe away the lotus.But I love it,I want it to stay.I shall suffer.I am getting back into my 'I am cool' stance.I am wearing the mask again.So all those who want to preach 'duh!!'.

My Diary Entries

Aug 1 2005

We dissipate in rainbow dreams, our colours merge and
multiply. Like diamond stains and crystal tears we fly
and flourish, live and die.

Aug 9 2005

There are sentiments echoed relentlessly by me; by my
container. What contains these little universes? And
the pourous black holes that eat me or transport me to
new endarkened perspectives.

No you can't get to me
Freudian blackholes which i gaze
everynight,sitting under the skies
of mortar and shadowy lights

No you can't get to me.
Even if you might,amidst
the rubble of the ashen remains
waits the resounding hollowness

of love spinning velveteen dreams
silken,luxuriant like a soft lullaby
and the warm lips of a seductress hinting
a touch of wine a shade of blood,

and the iron grip which Mother Mary
had on baby Jesus.
But you still can't get me
No you won't.

An insufferable sigh passes the wickedness
of the night into nothingness
and lying awake in the aftermath
are the eyes of someone who
still clings to the notion that
they can't get him.

They won't.Won't they?

Mock

Harmless,is that what you think?
A fireflying ; quivering and breathing low
almost dead on the porcelain
criss cross of the hand.
Harmless.Maybe trivial.
There are no requiems
no hymns and no mourners
And so I mourn for the little light angel

Sweeping in a violent emotion
the crystal bowl shines a mocking smile.
Hark! it says
"Death consumes the fire of everyone.
And lifeless,lightless and faceless she died.
What tortures might have snuffed
her glistening body into weightless,
formless and senseless contour
which rises to meet the heaven."

The cruel bowl shall die into million pieces
the insolence of his truth humilates
and enrages me
A beautiful monster that mocks the deaths
is so fragile against a sudden
jerk of my hand.
Laughter
Crash!
death!
Silence.

Now I have three dead
Firefly,crystal bowl and his impertinence

Helium Dreams

Aimless,threadless and floating
the ballons of hope intermingle
and untangle a mystery that hold.
suspended on the ceilings cruel,

badly plastered an alcoholic sloppy hand.
The slight wave.
I think they fluttered,

a demon: pink,violet and fiery red.
Straining to fly away. Poor desperate souls.
caged into a stasis of dreams.

The helium seems to abandon them
a vapour ghost leaves.
thats the color of the soul too.

vaporous and ghost like.
I kill you,you stupid bastards
a needle is all you needed.

now stay and mourn the death
of your rubber based corpse
and your helium dreams.

Before I go-go.

Well it had to be like this.They finally decided that trying to keep me with 'sane' people and wishing i'd be okay by myself is hoping for too much.Once again I am being sent to some kinda 'institution'.The underside of being born into an affluent,social snob family is that they have 'exclusive' for everything.Even asylums.So the place I will be taken to would be ultra modern and beautiful; 'for-the-super richs'.Not quite the thing they showed in 'One flew over cuckoos nest'. Not even 'Girl,Interrupted' kind.My doctor tells me it would be very much like a home.Hehe she had a Freudian-slip at that( a term I learnt from her).An asylum-a Home.I won't be missing mom and dad there,I'm sure.
My doctor still thinks that I might harm myself if I am left alone to myself.She has to be right,after all the certificates she gathered from universities in France and elsewhere are sufficient proof that if she declares someone 'depressive and given to violent self-destructing impulses' she must be listened.And my dad always trusts univ. diplomas.
So now I would be kept in a place under close-circuits i'm sure,hawks keeping an eye on my every itch and even a pointed pen would be considered an object which could be used to harm.I might be given a computer with just enough access so that i can visit only 'safe sites'.My poems would be scrutinized for every hook and line or comma or period which might be a 'pointer for deep seated angst and rebellion'.I am ready for it all.I'm not sure if they are ready for me.
So long..if they think even blogging might be 'dangerous activity'.Otherwise I would keep blogging.And yeah my doctor tells me i'd be out in 3-4 months.Another Freudian slip i'm sure.She used the word 'out'.A jail is it? A luxurious jail? A golden cage? I asked her that.She's a cool one,i must say.She told me that it's ME who tells that the whole world is a cage,so whats the difference if the cage is golden.good retort.But oh well,i never liked golden color.I hope the walls there are white,if not purple.

Meltdown Messiah.

Stand up and radiate
Enlightenment is fast approaching.
Wealth can no longer be quantified.
Jesus expires from sheer redundancy,
Dragged down to the Underworld
by the weight of his beard
to rejoin the cursed and despised.
An iridescent Lucifer takes his place
in the morning sky.
Celebrity is cowardice;
Twilight is pleasure.
Peel back the scabs-
Let the tears burn smooth your skin.
Those halos are made of Kryptonite,
and the stars are no good unless you eat them.
Heaven fancies itself shadowless,
But you, in your tainted imperfection,
Are an electric eel
Swimming the Milky Way;
A Chinese lantern
atop Mount Olympus;
An atom bomb blast,
scorching the earth
where your feet touch down.

Fishpond.

Compelled by austere tragedies the meat of burnt dreams lay frozen in a family barbecue of summer evening a feast for the worms, sucking the thick red blood that ooze; almost oozes from the aneroxic stillness. Cascaded with ghosts of dead rocks and fishpond surfaces,they loiter aimless the spirits of sullen dreams. Nothing but the tick toc of a rusty clock measured and slow. Contemptuous of the carnival understands the vacant eyes of the boy in shadows prodigious silence,listening to the grinding of the stars.crumbling to dust a star-dust which sprinkles the misty lake relics of some ancient God's dream that died a fitting death.

Saved.

I sometimes look for reasons why I am still living.Sometimes the reasons are hard to come by.Sometimes they are as in-the-face as the sarcasm of your mom/dad.I was lying on the floor again last evening(thats one of the ways i relax when my mind is zooming and taking me to all kinda of crazy places) and suddenly I was overwhelmed by the enormity of this thought--"why am i still existing?".I needed an answer urgently and i sensed that.In my overzealous teenage fits,when i didn't get the answers instantly i would start smashing things around and cutting myself..just to attract attention,mind you.I never wanted to die,but to get close.Like not wanting to enter thru' the doors and reach the 'other side' but maybe peep thru the keyholes.And believe me,peeped i did.many times.But these days,teenage angst has paid off well..now i'm bored and old(to borrow a line from Kurt Cobain who incidently said his goodbyes at age 27..i am 23),so i just laid down and waited for the answer to come.I sensed that music was playing in my stereo system.A pink floyd cd i had put and forgotten about it.And then i realised that music ,and music made like THAT is one of the reasons I am here.They really astound me.How can a group of people have soo great a talent.It's unfair.I envy.The artistic freedom they had,and the uninhibited use they made of it,is nothing short of miraculous.It's divine and maks me feel closer to God.The shrikes of monstrous bird,a chopper nosily hovering,reaching into mind shattering crecendo of tumultuous noise merging softly into soothing guitar and keyboard sounds.That time i don't want to stir.Just be one with the music.And be drowned in it.Lost in the cesspool of the ripples it creates,oblivious to every oblivion that stares me in the face.Floyd will rescue me anyday.
Oh and btw, i can create every Floyd tune on my Fender.

Square one.

The wild dance of shadows in my head
flickering,blinking,screaming.
No one cries a sad symphony
bitter truth hurts the blazing sun
morphing it into a surreal blackhole
nothing escapes.not even the darkness...of makeshift laughter.

A flick of the switch,all awashed.
artificiality smooches away the hollow
of the masked indifference.
Vapid,smooth,cunning and tempting
the taste of the salty tears.
And the taste of the sweeping emptiness..tasteless.

The expensive tombstone hides
the breathing corpse from hurt,and sunshine.
Needlessly riding the oceanic waves
the heart hails the coral sea shells
infinite beauties lie sealed,pearls unborn
or rotten,looted,killed in the pregnancy..oh a merciless death!

Dots in the sky.

The unbridged distances between us
linger on and finally merge into oblivion
in my sleep
A sleep of dreams,fluttering butterfly wings
of eyelids.Soft and colorful
like our future.
Fragile are my dreams,my angel
and tattered are your wings
Relentlessly,the concrete of the roads
try to ashen our hopes.
Entomb me in the ocean of your love
and drape our hope
in the safe womb of your faith.
Scarlet virgin blood of our angst
will dissolve the grey of sadness.
You and I will smile
We will--you'll see,my deartest.

From faded pages

Something I wrote sometime back.

Disquietude…
As you fly through my mind,
unbinding its tortuous tangents;
effusing it with love.

Discomfiture…
As you inflict my core
with senseless emotion,
and promptly dishevel life’s banalities.

Desolation…
As you swim the expanse
of my inchoate heart,
and you part its nebulous waters;
riving it in two.

Smoked out

He was afraid of my diffused anger,I reckon.

Sometimes when anger is like a sharp ray,focussing on a particular object;it is fearsome.But an anger which is akin to passing through a translucent screen..just a halo of it,which can be felt,but not understood,it is that anger which is terrible.Not fearsome but a degree more.It's always such a contarst.Sharp needles,tearing the skin at a minute point.The whole consciousness goes to that point.The whole consciousness BECOMES that point.And then,it transcendes.The pain is no longer there.Until the needle goes deeper and the consciousness has to shift it's weight again.But what of the pain like a heavy head.It's diffused.Irritating,because there is no fixed point it's transfixed to.And what of anger?.Diffused and careless anger.Anger without reason.It's not a mild anger,mind you.It's just an anger which confounds and dazes.The person in whom the anger resides as well as everybody and nobody it's direct against.I somehow think that when you implode rather than explode,the aftereffects are more amusing.

He surely must have been confused.Maybe that amused me.

And then what of the empty anger.It resounds the emptiness.And so gets amplified in turn.What a vicious cycle.Like everything is--cyclic.Every act then becomes an act of anger.The hands on the table,still as they are,might look like death traps just waiting for a moment to strangulate the life out of..umm..anyone.The relaxed posture then might assume an impudence.A slight nod of the head might look like an introduction to some revolutionary rebellion.

Maybe that's the reason the head of the advertising firm who wanted to shoot me for ciggerate ad,told me that I am a dangerous person by my looks.I can no longer act that i understand people.I have decided to even refrain from trying.I just got and left.I guess he shouted out for me to stay.It didn't matter really.He will find another 'dangerous' looking model,or maybe the makeup will make him.I will find another way to earn.

Oh and btw i never liked ciggys much.Weed is better anyday.

End of the Night

it's tough.

It's damn tough to sleep at night.Strange recollections of whatever pasts and possible futures.Or maybe premonitions of altogther another universe.It's 3 am and i can't stop my head from reeling.I stood close the window overlooking the city for some minutes.The lights glimmered and the buildings looked distant and miniature models.On the glass window i was keeping my fingers on the small spots of lights of the distant windows and wiping 'em out of my eyes.It gave me a wicked pleasure.Those buildings were so vulnerable against me--the giant, right now.I was blotting out the lights..figuratively snuffing out the life.from the people who were behind those wondows.I spread my fingers and the whole palm on the mirror kinda cast a web around the innocent sleepy city.I soo wished to crush everything under my all powerful palm.But then i thought..i am might,for a change let me be kind.So i moved away from the window and shutted off my own lights.

And here i am sitting in front of the puter writing with boredom about the thing that made me happy for a moment and listening to a Metallica song which says ~~ and i lied last week to the mirror that i've broken to match my face~~

as i said..it's tough to sleep at night.

Dreams and the Ocean

Tumultuous waves of the coral sea
merge and break against the mute rocks
An uproar.Oh! a magnified uproar
reaches the depths of the depthless skies
dependent,vacant and tearless.they cry
Why the gales float?suspended animation
and quivering at every turn.They seek to
find an oblivion of the patient shore.
Petrified
Amused
Desolate
Dead.
And the winds scream the hollow terror
unheard,unseen the ghost of the distant pasts
unfurled beyound the horizon
and the carcass of our golden dreams lie
Unclaimed
Rotting
Forgotten
Decaying.

Black and White

What hurts me the most is when people who are nothing but goodness have to feel the everyday sadness that life brings to them.It surprises me.I lack the instinct to reach out to anyone who suffers.I am not anti-social,just a-social if that mean anything.I tend to see life in terms of black and white.It might not be anyway close to the 'truth' but artistically speaking,it feels aesthetic.Thats why i find most things bland.They fall in the 'grey' label.Not that I want to start a "manic-depressives-are-beautiful" cult.

There is a lady in Aus.She was treating me back there when i was in Aus.I resisted her genuine attempts to reach my mind and cure me.Arrogant and scared as I was.Even though i acted the kid-who-can't-be-corrected but i always respected her sense of faith.She was devout Christian.Still is.I wouldn't care for a faith in religion,but the faith in life is what i admired in her.She once told me how attached she was to her dad and how after his death she went into depression.She came out of it thru determination and trying to heal the sorrows of others.She loved animals as much as I did and she was the one who named one of my dogs Ernie.I would never see her distraut and there was an air of calmness about her.Even in my most manic of the moods when i was destroying things left and right she would calmly tell me to stop behaving like a spoilt kid.She had kids,the youngest one my age who looked upto me as I was doing music in bands and he always wanted to be a rock star.Somehow the treatment wasnt getting anywhere so dad asked her to leave.We kept in touch.My folks and she i mean.I learnt yesterday that she suffered a breakdown.Her family life was being torn to pieces,and she was holding onto everything with everything she got.But then she could take only so much.Her mom died somedays ago.That might have been the final straw.I taled with her over the phone.She was sounding okay.I didn't know what to say.I am not good at such things.She kinda intuted that.She said that her faith in the goodness of life is unshaken.She told me that one day i would realise that life isn't all that bad though sometimes she appears like a bitch.I didn't speak for sometime and she was silent too.I knew she was crying.I intuted.She asked me to keep the phone down.I did.

She's in the 'white' label.It hurts me that she had to cry.But somehow it makes me feel good.It proves that i am still not completely 'black'.But jeez! that means i am 'grey' too.I donno what to think.Maybe the pendulum has started its swing to the other side of black.
Oh well..tomorrow is just another day.The black of days,the dark of nights..we share this paralyse.

Flowing Rivers

A taciturn mouth,twisted in the contours
lovely and callous.The brutal honesty of
my decayed snapshot.
Visions of laughter;probable,indistinct,almost there
in the glintless eyes.
you can see the curiosity
if you try.

I became still like a stone.
why i know not
perhaps the nightsky with sparkling stones
raise it's symphonic melody and whisper
ere daylight spreads it's sameness.
And birds chirp and disturb
the vacant loss of darkness.

And until we drift into light
and until I become one with void
oblivious to the laughing daffodils,white lilies
I disappoint the star spangled skies
and the people.And they in turn reflect.
Flowing water,stangnant pebbles.
clear,smooth and dead.
Destined to be alive.

death

Death does intrigue me.In some ways it more often than not facinates me.It seems that I always ruffle some feathers and some souls by the often repeated theme on death.I am not obsessed with it.I am curious.The visions,and sometimes the voices which beckons to the other side are always beautiful and alluring.At times like these i wish that my life should flash before my eyes.It does not.And i'm glad.The soft cushion of darkness which can take me from the eye-blinding light of the living world and the sleep might not be without dreams.The two forms of destruction are similar in a way.Self destruction is easier rather than killing the whole world.I don't even find a purpose in hating everyone now.It's reduced to a dull indifference.Amusement is gone now too.So in a way,I laugh a fake laugh at myself now.Now I really didn't want to write on this topic..not because Sabycreep and people like him would judge me as 'morbid',but I really wanted to drape the reality in some kinda sarcasm.I tried and failed.So i give it as it is.I could have let it go,but then it would defeat the purpose.Do comment so that i can stir up a bit.Take my bait and be fooled.I'd amuse myself at your expence.

Nameless,faceless

Insignificant,mute, transient phase
another one amidst the wide landscape
howling winds do blow,fickle,amorous
the dead leaves gather dust--oh a ghastly silence
And the tranquilty never evaporates,frigid
the ever moist eyes.Contempt.Evasion.Fear

The deadly blindness of the lonley alley
requiem to a cold womb.Dark,damp and lovely
No flutter of heavy eyelids,no heaving wings
no one flies in this barren sky;moths and ravens.
Stoned forever and jostled by nothing
the eyes stare into the void.Impregnable.

Live n let live

I am getting well.I need more meds.But I am sick of taking meds.The whole medical profession is kinda getting on my nerves.They can't cure me of manic-depression,nor can they get the damn fever outta my system.I just love to put the blame on every possible scapegoat I can find.It makes me feel superior to them.I used to enjoy the perplexed and confused-concerned looks on people who cared for me when I was having one of swings on the manic depressive pendulum.I craved attention I guess.Not anymore.I didn't even inform anyone about illness.No one would have bothered anyways.haha maybe thats why I didn't tell anyone.The good thing about blogging is..i can write stuff and people might be concerned for REAL,or they might just fake it,but at least it gives the choice to me..to interpret howsoever I like it.I generally think they REALLY care.And I know some really do.It makes my heart glad.In reality it's different.I think the face of a person is an open book about a person's soul.I have been told at times that the strangest thing they find in me is --i seldom talk and my damnable eyes are always looking at 'em.direct.They feel insulted and scared.I feel nothing.umm..nah I guess i used to feel confused at the disharmony b/w what their words and actions were saying and what their faces.their eyes were.I like this drama now.A stale boring drama that I see everytime.The masks change,the soul remains the same.haha how wonderfully and universally connected we are.See i love slinging offence at you guys.Keeps me away from seeing myself in the mirror and chasing my own demons.I remain unchanged.I used to think of changing the world.That desire has gone too.I really am practising 'Live and Let Live'.We all are created equal.Oh yeah that reminds me of a quote by George Orwell in his novel 'Animal Farm' and nah I haven't read that book..i am against reading.,I just heard that quote in a Pink Floyd interview ..it said "All men are created equal.Some are created more equal than the others".hehe what wit.i don't know why i included this quote.It doesn't fit in.Or does it?well who cares.

Me a saint!

This illness is getting to me in a big way.The whole day went past as a dream.I wasn't sleeping,techincally speaking.I probably was wafting in and out of a dream like state.A surface sleep,if you will.I chose to play some western classical music today.Not play as in ME playing it,but play it in the music system.Beethoven or any of the other old foggies for fucks sake were playing wonderfully structured music as my dreams were interwoven of the real things that happened in past and the fantastic-futuristic things which my drug fried mind was throwing up.I was conscious of my body lying at an awkward angle on the bed,the pillows tangential to my head.I always had a bad posture.A sort of loose limbed way while I am standing,sitting or lying.I also was conscious of a loss of desire.Not even that--a loss of even the desire to desire.High fever,in that sense takes one closer to what the sages might term as 'Nirvana'.A total shedding of the desires.I was a saint.Just then the phone rang.I looked sideways.It was raining.The lights were too dim and the whole atmosphere had a surreal gloomy look.I watched it adoringly,soaking in the stillness and the dampness.The phone was rining incessantly.I was enoying ,with a great pleasure,the uneasiness and the irritation of whosoever was calling me up,as I imagined for me not picking up the phone.I let it ring again.And then I picked up the receiver,and barked “yeah”..the voice on the other side said something about some credit cards they wanted to sell.I didn’t speak at all.The voice seemed a bit concerned “you there sir?” .”yeah,I am there.was kinda bored of whatever you were yapping about.can you repeat what all you just ranted?”…there was silence..and then they disconnected the line.I kept the receiver pressed to my ear.The sound of the disconnected beep was feeling beautiful.The phone is now off the hook.No one can disturb me.Wegner I guess is playing some symphony to the ‘victory of the kind human soul’.I just love Germans,for their sense of timing.

Eat This

I decided somedays back that one of these days,I won't let me be 'bored'.I mean not let me 'show' even to myself that I am bored.I had an oppurtunity today.I am ill.I haven't eaten at all.Not that I eat much anyways.I have kept to my bed since morning.No music,no reading,no painting.Just lying down.Not even closing my eyes to sleep.I don't know what all thoughts passed my mind all this time.Maybe none.Maybe too many to remember,and too fleeting.In the afternoon,I felt a bit hungry and my eyes were kinda drooping.I remember I was enjoying it.One part of me was wanting to go and grab something from the nearest takeaway but still another part was wanting to just lie and see myself crave for some food.And then i said ''oh well,lets write some shit on my blog''.Was halfway writing another mercurial poem when i decided to delete the stuff and write about my day.It's gonna be more boring to read and I would enjoy boring ya'll.

Am i too honest for my own good.?oh well i'll think upon it,but i need to eat something now.

unoriginal(first and last)

I felt like mocking the fuck out of people who try to judge me.And fortunately I was listening some music by Eminem.The words felt so right that I thought of using 'em(with some alterations)..so all of ya'll..have fun.

See I'm a poet to some, a regular modern day Shakespeare
Jesus Christ the King of these Latter Day Saints here
To shatter the picture in which of that as they paint
me as a monger of hate and Satan a scatter-brained atheist
But that ain't the case, see it's a matter of taste
We as a people decide if Ash's as bad as they say he is
Or is he the latter - a gateway to escape?
Society scapegoat, who they can be mad at today
See it's easy as cake, simple as whistlin Dixie
while I'm wavin the pistol at sixty Christians against me
Go to war with the Mormons, take a bath with the Catholics
in holy water - no wonder they try to hold me under longer
I'm a motherfuckin spiteful, DELIGHTFUL eyeful
The new Ice Cube - motherfuckers HATE to like you
What did I do? (huh?) I'm just a kid from downunder
makin this butter off these bloodsuckers, cause I'm a muh'fuckin
RENEGADE! Never been afraid to saywhat's on my mind at,
any given time of day
Cause I'm a RENEGADE!
Never been afraid to talkabout anything

You

Shades of divinity
shrouded in sands
of an endless river
of an infinite time
in which I dive,float and drown
and find golden treasures
lifting the veil of illusion
in which I am concealed and wrapped in.

Rising to the surface again,
I see my own reflection
of gentle purity and easy smiles
but the vacant eyes
still betray--and the vaccum
still waits for the fight.

You're my last remaning light.

Job

I tend to make people feel out of place.That was an observation some manager made when I went for a job interview yesterday.I was lost in some thought of my own.They had given me a form to fill.I filled it to the best of my knowledge.The post was for some front office where the one has to direct the ppl to the department they want to buy stuff from.They thought that since i was presentable as far as my photograph goes,i'd be good in making people feel good too.I wanted to be liked by people for a change,so i wnted this job.I had promised myself not to show my 'I don't really care if you hire me or not' to them.The first round i cleared.They asked name and etc and told me to go for the personal interview.The HR was a lady in her 30s.Looking prim and was trying to be very friendly.My initial cold 'good morning' maybe damped her spirits.Someone had advised me to put on a fake plastic smile and try to appear as i would gladly kiss their ass.She asked me why i wanted the job? I wanted to say "to amuse myself" but I said that i wanted the job cuz I thought the company was wonderful and that my abilities to make people comfortable around me(I could just stop myself from laughing when i was saying that) would be perfect for such a job.She was clever.She asked me why am i so confident that I make people comfortable around myself.I said that i just know it.It's something everyone tells me.She smiled .I should have smiled back.I just kept looking.She finally asked me my hobbies.But somehow I started getting bored.I said that my hobbies are music and poetry.She told me that Shelly and some other dude were her fav. poets.I told her that according to me they suck.She didn't look all that pleased.She tried venturing into music.Told me that Ricky Martin is so cool and what do i think of the band called 'Blue'.I told her that R.Martin is the darling of silicon babes and bimbos and boybands have no right to exist.She ventured to tell me that my opinions are kinda violent.I told her that i am doing my best not to smash the flower vase thats kept on the table.She told me that i should leave and better try my hand at something which does not involve human beings.

As i was about to leave she said"One more thing .You make people feel out of place.One day you'll make them all run away."

I wanted to say "I care?" but i decided to be kind.I flashed my plastic smile and just left.

It's another whisper,
a downright mute accusation
of the flowing flowers and the rainbows
in the slow moving,grinding wheel of hope
he sits;shivering,naked and blind.
Free of fear and the aspirations of the moon
he sits on the grass,frozen in wonder
or is it just boredom.
you can't ever know
a lifeless gleam sparkles his eyes
Was that the raven that cried,or the emptiness
that echoes and dies a trembling death
within the womb of the night.
And then he lies down,tired and deflated
while the sweat drops merge with the dew
and a smoke of indifference rise,from afar
mystical,shrouded in pain.A prayer leaves
the shaking lips.And then the same vacant eyes
which rise to the horizon,are frozen to the ground

Will you be there to meet him?
Must he rise alone.

I won't

Static.
It grows on you
a mind numbing sensation of uniform complexities
and gaping mundanities.

Slow.
Death creeps on you
freezing cold death of a razor blade
sharp,intricate and useless.

Dull.
A hazy twilight of hope
redemption and happines,interwined and decayed
atrophy of the aesthetic senses.

Why?
A familiar itch
Jesus was crucified into oblivious magnificence
but we won't die a glorified death.

I won't.

The Comparisons

Saby has a link in this blog..'Slyvia Plath reincarnated' which directs to my blog.I am amazed at the parallel.How can one ,even someone as sick as saby is,compare me with S.Plath.I had no idea of anyone existed by that name until sometime ago.And even then i didn't bother to check what/who she was.I however thought that she might be some drug infested rock n roll chick who had a melancholy streak in her.Even in the past I was compared with people like Kurt Cobian and Jim Morrison,both of whom I loved as musicians but hated as individuals.An extension of self hate maybe.I would have liked people to compare me musically with them(though on second thoughts highly unlikely to compare me musically with Kurt,I was never a grunge guy..acid music is what we did),but all they saw was the same self destructive streak.I have kind of developed a paranoia about me living past 27.Both died at around that age.I have 4 years to reach 'em.oh well..Sylvia Plath though is a different kinda person.De.vile if i gather first remarked bout her in one of our talks.I however read about her only when i saw the name again in Saby's link.She seemed to be a real talent with words.A troubled soul nevertheless.And yeah,she too killed herself.I am not gonna kill myself.It's too damn easy.In that sense I am a sadist
.Not that there aren't good moments living in here.I do enjoy the company of certain ppl.But mostly things and people disappoint me.Or as Kurt sang ~Things have never been so swellI have never failed to fail~

And yeah Sebia..i'll write something funny sometime soon.I had the mood to write something nicer today,but that link kinda swayed my moods.

The Wait

The wait is sometimes so delicious.A seething sense of antagonism rises in me.It will quell soon.No worries.I have experienced such endless waits before,and I am quite impervious to their power over me now.And yet,even now,like a faded memory it comes back..the sense of the deliciousness of the wait and the annoyance it brings.It gives me a sensual pleasure to sense that I am sitting so still.My hands are moving over the keyboard,and the whole body is still.Completely still as far as I can notice.There are no thoughts intruding my headspace right now.A single though occupies the empty recess of my brain.--I MUST WAIT.I am not even listening to any music.Which is doubley strange.I only music which I like when I am in such a laid-back-with-no-desire-to-twitch-a-muscle mode is either Radiohead or early Floyd.It's depressing as some might say,but sometimes when the inner depression is being echoed out..it's soothing.I even think that i degrade myself when i call it 'depression'.It's needs a cause.I have none.Maybe it's emptiness.A hollow emptiness.Just like in monuments with high ceilings which aren't corroded by tourists.Where softest whispers are amplified,as if by the silence which hangs in the space b/w the canpoy and the floor.In my case however it's like the noise reaching to such high vibrations that no sound is heard anymore.A quiteness which isn't due to non existant noise,but a noise too unbearable to be recorded by the ears.Dizzying isn't it?Or plain stupid ramblings..don't blame me,I was waiting ,and had nothing better to do.

We are the world.

I wrote this after reading a news article about the death of Terry Shciavo.She didn't mean anything to me,and I am usually unruffled to the point of callousness when it comes to deaths.I have seen some ghastly ones in my lifetime of 23 yrs and they kinda have left me numb.But somehow this death ignited some long lost spark in me.It had died now,ofcourse..and once again I am back to my usual 'i -don't-give-a-damn-about-people' thingy..but i wrote this poem.almost in tears last night.I donno what the fuck touched me there..the new item began with"Terri Schiavo, who had been in a persistent vegetative state for 15 years, has died at age 41. Schiavo's feeding tube was removed 13 days ago, after her parents lost a protracted battle with husband Michael Schiavo for guardianship"..fuck that.


This time it will go away.
It won't hurt that much.
It's just a moment afterall
A night's sleep and a new beginning.

Oh how we fool ourselves
the iron vaults of the numbed heart
sometimes open,oh dreadful pain!
a heart of flesh still quivers.

A silent death,how paradoxical
she probably didn't feel anything
maybe infinite sadness
we would never know..we ever care?

The angels of God might laugh
a great farce follows her departure
please let her die in peace
she never got a chance when she was alive.

Was she ever alive? we would never know..we ever care?

Smiling me

Suddenly I am happy.No reason as such,just happy.I was flicking the TV channels when a home-videos-of-kids-doing-silly-kiddish-things caught my eye.I dislike kids.They are too noisy and too clumsy.But that video brought up memories of my own childhood and an incident when I was 'recorded' and it might have made into that damn TV channel.

I was a toddler and in our montessori school we had to enact a nursery rhyme for the Anzac day celeberations in our school.I was a 'lost soul' even when I was kid but since dad had donated generous amounts to the school and the church so I was taken as one of the actors.We were acting 'Humpty- Dumpty' and they decided that the only way they could be sure of me not messing things on stage would be to cast me in a cardboard egg shaped dress and make me Mr.Humpty-Dumpty.Dad and Mom were excited and so was I about the prospect of me-getting-on-stage-and-being-a-central-character.I was okay in rehearsals until the A-day arrived.Everything was running smoothly.Dad and mom was fliming me...I was sitting on a 3 ft makeshift wall on stage,ready to fall when the 'had a great fall' lines come.And somehow when the lines came..i didn't fall.I was sitting there,my egg-shaped dress over me.The instructor(I saw the video and hence i know) repeated the lines 7 times,and still no fall.Needless to say the show was a huge flop.The people there had the sense of humor to find the thing 'hilarious',but to me..it was just a sleep due to boredom.

The traits of boredom were in me since a very small age.It's just that sleep has left me now a bit.

I am still smiling thinking of that homevideo. TV viewing is sometimes good too.

He laughs

A way ward day,rumbling,breathing slow and heavy.A bloodless sun that shouted violent anger.Mindlessness,tension,sticky atmosphere.I've seen it all and yet,nothing at all.A new day?Complex webs interlocked and we..pawns with strings attached,or mere fodder to be devoured by the hungry God.Born on the notion of an omnipotent and a loving God,we forget the villany and the infinite thirst for blood.A great aim of our being born is to be,one day,an offering to God's hunger.A great mockery, a grand illusion painted by the great Gardener up above.He plants the seedlings,and we oh poor seedlings think of us a volitional beings.We fight,survival of the fittest,and then we all turn to dust nah..food,the fittest as well as the weakest.And He gets stronger,to plant more seeds and to laugh when the plants fight amongst themselves,in the battle to be the last to quench His unsatiated thirst.

She

Feverish monsters of unfurled future
complex,intricate and lonesome
They sit in wait ;and slowly I move.
Suspended animation of a wide eyed soul
hung on amphetamine and paranoia
A sudden chill grasps ;muted, I ponder.
Discolored photoframes,decayed leaves
of our possible pasts lay scattered.
Crushed by the tiny feet of childhood
fragile petals.The smell still lingers on.
The night sky blossoms a starlit robe
Wearing the blackness she sits pretty
Her halo all the more dreamy
,in gloom,she cries;The Moon.
Breathing heavy ,the night sighs it's last
the pearly tears fade into a soft dawn
cruel,isn't it?The way she cries
And beautiful the way she dies and exhumes

Bullet the blue skies

It had a strange taste of sweet delight
Uncertain,squeaky,parabloic height
unwelcome guest this cold sudden fright
A tight leash,can't breath,losing sight.
Cornered you sit alone,drop of sweat hangs
anticipation,frustration,and hunger pangs
tears won't roll out,you choke oh dang!
a soft lullaby of a metal bullet that bangs.
Sleep now you weary one,deathbed awaits
soft,inviting,accomodating, open gates
a hollow laugh,welcomes the dawn,too late
stick the pen in ink,let the paper mutilate.

Death of the night.

Unknown,unhurried and unsung
my heart sings a tune
meandering into the speechless abyss
haunting the timelessness
A tune of lazy happiness.

Awake,the murmur says
the day has grown,a beautiful crimson day.
chirping are the birds,blooming are the flowers
lilies of golden hue,dipped in dew
A pregnent promise.

Dreams,oh lovely dreams of dark
evanescent into the piercing sun rays
the chords morph to chaos.
why oh why the sun must rise?
why oh why night must die?

The Core

There is a growing awareness in me of my own uncleanliness.An unclean spirit.Impurity of the original kind.I have tried to be blind to it.It has caught up with me,in a big way.Restlessness has abated and morphed into something more placid.A sense of belonging with the yuck that I feel.Something in me astonishes me.I demand too much of an integration.I wanted to be bad to the core,and that seemed an easier task than being completely good.And somehow the work isn't finished.The core isn't corroded yet.It won't.I have tried my best.It won't take over the rust of disgust.It stands clean and shining,a dot amidst an ocean of filth.And the beauty of that tiny dot is what hurts.I have come to realise that wiping myself of the face of existance isn't the way to destroy that speck.It won't budge.Death somehow is not THE END.It's another circle.A vicious one.I can't live unclean and for me to be completely numb,I need to be completely unclean.I would rather write a poem on this tearing apart,but am too devoid of any inspiration.People like me are dangerous,but to whom? I always wondered.I am a bad influence maybe.I need a break..a certain dissociation from 'life'.I would want to return.When and in what form I know not.It won't be a rebirth,as I am not particularly amused by the idea of suicide.It's time consuming and involves a lot of variables and somehow there are people who would really miss me,and somehow I am not THAT selfish to hurt them.I need the solitude of oblivion.I am so oblivious to it in the end.The constant self talk must be replaced by a frozen silence.The perfect idea to live forever would be to live in a frozen state.Life is so beautiful.And so is ice.

~~~in my imgination unbirdled wild
oh how like a way- ward child
that smilingly smashes all his toys
world after world i create and destroy~~~

Night Out

It was a rustic evening.I was listening to the beautiful music made by Mark Knofler and suddenly it struck me that Ihaven't laughed in a while.Laughter is divine and just as experiences of divine are rare,so is it.I decided it was time for me to have such an experience.So i went out.It was close to 10 pm and the streets were kinda lonley.I wanted to be happy.The air was cool and the wind had an excitement.I knew i would find some reason to laugh...to be happy.I walked for an hour.Walking at night is wonderful thing when you have nothing else to do.I guess i was smoking too.I saw some drunk dude coming out with his girl from some pub.They looked as if they were anticipating something exciting.But the look on the boys face was more of the vulgar kind and the girl seemed nervous.Oh well..thats certainly not a reason to smile.In the parking of a crowded shop was this big car and standing near to it was this HUGE woman,with some packets in her hand and a man,I am assuming him to be her chauffer,but can be her husband for that matter.She looked bossy and he looked meek.I wanted to laugh,but all what came out was a duh!.I moved on.

I decided to head back.And i finally reached home.Mark Knofler was still playing."why worry" was the song.It made me smile..nah..laugh.

Mr.Selfdestruct

Meaningless and faceless
A little listless
typing away the ticking of
the merciless clock
I sit,waiting.

I sit waiting for a resonance
an inspiration
scars of beautiful laughter
to adorn an expressionless skin
a skin pale in color.

A skin pale in color,and blood
An everflowing blood.
Shall we wait to eternity
for a grand happiness to decend
An everlasting happiness.

An everlasting happiness,illusion
Of a monstrous kind
Blank sheets of numbness cover
the silken sensations of love
Into a galaxy of memories.

A galaxy of memories,of concrete
scattered like stars
Piercing the soft feet of the angels
ripping apart the flesh of present
And the story continues.

Lonliness:An Ode

The world of illuminate lights
soft cushion winds,endless nights
The time is right to fly
into the distant blue skies.

Roll away the whispers,dear time
of unformed words and soft chimes
flutter my eyelids,clear liquid eyes
porcelain skins bleeding crimson sighs

A dream--hush! a dream cries.
painted canvas fades and dries
shadows of smiling eyes lift and rise
merge into the laughing sun and dies.

Unmoved I sit,another dream to paint
empty canvas empty eyes so faint
these lines will sketch a new song
these trembling hands will ring the gong

And yet she will not stir
She will not stir

No one

Eroded sand dunes of escapists dream
are washed.
On infinite waves of destructive time
we float.
The depth in the eyes of a newborn baby
it drowns.
And no one sheds a tear.

Softly they speak the golden words
I sleep.
Shadows on walls feast in contempt
their lonliness.
Murky depths of disfigured emotions
it smiles.
And no one says a prayer.

Shed the skin of solitary sadness
she withers.
Carpets of stars light the still waters
they tremble.
Filter the soul a million times
zero.
And no one understands my poem
still ....no one.

Birds of Prey

Everything about life is so fragile, and the slightest variations concoct such vastly different conclusions. This disturbs me terribly, and has me focusing all too frequently on the details – and the details within the details. It’s difficult for me to take a step back and look at the bigger picture, as ironically preoccupied as I appear to be with it.

I change strains quickly. Now I feel a dreamy haze descend upon me as I’m emerged in a sleepy sense of obliviousness. There is so much going on around me of which I am completely unaware; so much too that I have, somewhere along the line, made a conscious decision to block from my consciousness, yet which my subconscious remains privy to and is still deeply affected by. I simply no longer know what it is that affects me so. Vague, indiscernible hurts that most probably stem from compassion. Compassion I am not using at all productively. Compassion unused is compassion wasted, and turns toxic in one’s system when it is not channeled into a creative outlet. It becomes tainted and turns inward viciously, causing psyche-soul blockages as it bogs one down in a quagmire of personally self-serving despair. Hence the ‘poor me’ complex. I wish it were easier to focus on the just, intrinsically good things that life has to offer.

The Coocoo bird (not sure if that’s the spelling, but it’s the sound) migrates from New Guinea to certain Australian coastlines [ours being one of them] in springtime. Many of them find good potential homes in the nature reserve that our house backs onto, so we are offered a front-row seat to the strange behaviour of these huge birds. They’re BIG, very big – like large, clumsy-looking dogs. Coocoos’ scour the tree tops for suitable Magpie and Currawong nests that they can utilise for their purposes, obviously being too lazy to make their own. When the Magpie/Currawong mother and father leave the nest to search for more sticks or soft things to cushion their homes with, their eggs are left exposed to the alert eyes of the Coocoo, who then descends upon the developing babies and tosses them out of the tree. The Coocoo then lays its own eggs in their place, and the Magpie returns to see a group of eggs it believes to be its own resting peacefully. She sits on them for the next few weeks and waits for her babies to hatch. When the eggs hatch the babies are giants, soon larger than their Magpie parents, but still as hungry and helpless as most infants. They make a wailing sound almost identical to that of a human baby crying, and they chase their parents everywhere demanding food and attention. The twist to this story? It often goes that the Magpie-mummy is so thoroughly exhausted at having perpetually met the demands of this hungry baby, that by the time the Coocoo is old enough to fend for itself, the Magpie dies. Bizarrely cruel but evolutionarily genius, eh? The Coocoo is essentially killing two birds (or several) with one stone [mind the pun]: It eradicates the baby Magpies, and shifts parental responsibility onto the Magpie parents who it ultimately kills by default, its own chain of production kept in perfect tact. The baby-turned-young-adult Coocoo then flies back to New Guinea only to return to Australian shores a year later, in order to repeat the process yet again
.
Is life not utterly insane?

Fissures

Fissures.That's just the right word.Fragmentation might have been close and Schziophrenia might have been techincal,but fissure is apt and poetic.I am talking about the gulf between what we are inside and what we tend to reflect outside.It's survial instinct.But isn't 'instinct' what we associate animals with?.Not men.Ofcourse man being a social 'animal' nothwithstanding,aren't we humans supposed to be one step closer to Godhead.Maybe it's just a vanity.Vanity of the crowned species who can walk and build railroads,and yeah I forgot..who think they think.The surroundings as I see it ,I can't entertain a thought of celeberation.I see people being happy,or atleast trying their best to drown their sorrows in the grey,murky,formless confusion around them which they,in all their innocence,or stupidity if you please,take to be 'everybody -else-is-happy-so-why-can't-i'.I have seen the eyes of those who are 'happy'.They are either intoxicated with the wine of dreams or the alcohol of past glories.And sometimes it's just good old fashined whisky.Rarely I have encountered happy eyes fixated on the 'here-now'.I don't want to be a part of that drug called hope.I am cleansed of it.Apathy is what I live in.It's by choice,so save your 'oh dear me!' and 'urgh cry baby' to yourself ,whosoever read this.

On second thoughts..keep 'em rolling.

Silence of the Gods

It was raining outside last evening.From the glass window of my room in the hotel,the serenic beauty of the glittering asphalt looked enchanting.The reflection of street lights made the concrete assume a lusture which was more endearing than most things natural.I felt warm and happy.A lopsided smile.A neon sign,was flashing intermittently on the huge billboard.The lights in my room were rather dull.Intentional ofcourse.I always found rain to be a little dampening.Never mind the pun.

Sometimes,silence reaches the great heights where the philosophers and meditation masters always talk about.It was such a brief moment,but I sensed an absolute stillness in myself.It was brief because as soon as my consciousness touched it,the silence was gone.I had two options..to either scream like a manic at the loss of that beautiful silence..or to reflect upon what grace it brought,even if in passing.I decided to paint silence.A black backdrop and a solitary candle with a fragile flame.Nah that would be too in-the-face.A pair of eyes,expressionless and a mouth that is filled with a hint of a smile,but just holding it.Well that was too complex.I was drawing some lines on the paper when the phone rang.A shriek.Montonous and echoing.I picked up the phone."Please be okay son.You worry us...Why are you silent?..You can talk with me,please...i am your mom.." click. My mother is so gentle.She is a wonderful soul.She wanted to comfort me.I wanted to tell her that I am okay and that I love her.Words just didn't come.Silence had smitten me.

Death becomes Her

She was breathing.I am sure she was breathing when I raised my head,and looked at her from my semi closed eyes.I was lying on the floor,and she was resting peacefully on the rug.I had a psychological breakdown due to not taking my medicines and indulging in one of insane excesses of self destruction by means of alochol binge.It was ring on the door or maybe it was the phone,which stirred me.It was evening.I must have been lying on the naked floor since morning.No food,no water.And she? She must have had her food atleast.She learnt that living with me isn't easy.One has to be self reliant when I am such a lazy and moody punk.A thought probably floated through my mind-- she didn't raise her head at the sound of the ring as she always does.She must be tired too,or must have learnt the indifference from me.I thought that and put my head down again.

Some hours...

It was night when i came back to consciousness.She was still sleeping peacefully.Almost TOO peacefully.The calmness of death has already draped her in it's rich trapestry.The shock of this realization was sudden.Sudden and pointed like ice crystals tearing thru the skin.I lighted a ciggerrate.My hands prolly were shaking as I dialled the doctor.I could only utter an incomprehensible 'come fast' i guess.And then i waited.I was still looking at her peaceful sleep when the doctor came.She pronounced the obvious.She might have thought of some extreme reaction from me.My coldness,nah my stoicness shocked her.I asked her to leave.

Tzara now lies deep inside the ground.A small flower tucked below her neck and her body lying in a spacious shoebox as a coffin,my Tzara sleeps eternally.

~~Breathe,keep breathing.I can't do it alone.~~