Turn the page

How sudden some feelings emerge.how sudden!.And take one in their velvet soft grip and transports one to a facinating ancient land where happiness resided.I use the past tense as happiness seems to be felt more acutely in the hindsight.This is like going into a tunnel of diminishing lights,the last part always seemingly brighter than the present.Alas one can't turn back.
And softly they whisper something
chimes and scents of the past
these angels and demons still exist
amidst the changes they last
So here I close another page
and here I reach so fast
I wish I could have lingered more
but the path is laid,the die is cast.

Thank you 2006.You didn't kill me.Let me see if 2007 measures up.Let me see.

A day in the life

"It's cold",he thought aloud.The neon-lights of the stores dotting the streets flickered and presented quite a contrast to the monochrome images in his brain.He was wearing a tshirt and faded blue denim jeans.It had been his habit to wander aimlessly in the streets;it lifted the fog out of his brains,a bit,he thought.Normally he wouldn't smoke,but today he didn't mind,or didn't realise when he lit up a ciggarate.

There is nothing more lonely than walking on a rain-drenched pavement,wanting to see someone,anyone.The streets were deserted,as it was pretty late in the night.People were either inside their beds or in someone elses bed,unmindful of the light drizzle that was making the asphalt streets shimmer like a mirror.He was hearing a music in his brain,some Radiohead tune he loved.He had always liked music.

But tonite he wanted to talk.He knew that not many people understood what he meant.And he had made up his mind early that he would not talk much with people.He had kept his promise.But sometimes he found people who did understand.He took his phone out,dialled a number.He heard a Dire Straits tune.No one picked the phone.

He thought to himself "it's cold and it's late too" and walked on.Neon lights were flashing,the streets still getting washed.The tune in the head was Dire Straits now."Romeo and Juliet".

A Painter paints tonight.

A white paper stares at me

accusing glances,sometimes mixed with tenderness

I sit--cold, blank and at sea

the pencil in my hand shakes.

No words come to my mind tonite

just pictures,of purple faded petals and dried leaves

sounds of churchbells, ancient fight

the obituries of dreams are hard to paint.

The demons,born in my brain

wild children they are,my own.

rituals they follow,my energies they drain

and drink to health.these insolent leeches

Drops of crimson stain the whiteness

and a beauty emerges on the barren paper

colors are the solvent of greatness

my skin is cut.

Spheres inside spheres

Slow moving orbits bring casual remorse
and desert sings refrains
I am in the midst of a epoch
wishing something can change
New moon brings a sudden delight
black dwan brings back pain
A new day someday will break
and I'll be free again
Slow moving orbits bring causal remorse
and desert sings refrains.

How difficult is it to be 'good'.The many layers of fake existance have utterly scarred the beautiful face of truth and reality.It's almost forgotten,but like a trace in the brain of certain memory,a certain very dear memory,it sometimes haunts.The overidentification with masks has now become a survival instinct.How depraved is this form of living and how easily people live and accept it.And how tormentous is it not to accept it,to always feel suffocated inside a mask,to lie and lie until lies are perfected.A perfect unreality.Who would want to trade unreality with reality?It looks monstrous and unreal,but it's as real as a dream to a sleeping man.Maybe oneday we all can shrug off this sleep and open our eyes.Wipe the fog off our eyes and can witness the grandeour of truth.And 'know' that there are absolutes.Like the surface of a 4 dimensional giant sphere,whose axis of rotation is the plane we live on,and which encloses our universe,ever expanding it's boundries,inflating on all 4 dimensions--this giant,absolute spehere.Moving slowly in orbits,sifting the sands of deserts,reflecting gold.

The beginning

The fog is slowly lifting it's veil.And the bright light that shines through seems to be the torch of knowledge,mathematics to be precise.I have always been facinated by the"absolutes",and all the societal absolutes like death and God and virtues and morals seemed always to me to be standing on a very shallow ground.I found that all my beliefs when tested came out as croppers.And I,like a manic,wanted to test each of 'em.It disappointed me and broke my heart--all the shattering of core beliefs,but I wanted to know the truth of absolutes.From whence this craving came,I do not know.It certainly wasn't genetics.And it drove me to extremes,and a whole range of medicines followed(only cuz my dad had the means).But I feel that the fog has been lifting now.I haven't found the absolutes yet,but the cravings have mellowed.maybe the fire inside which was an inferno is turning a placid blueish bonfire.It usually marks the end,isn't it?The end of all destruction when everything is broken down and decimated.But also the arrival of something fresh in it's place.I hope,and though hope has been the most evanescent of 'em all,but I still hope that the destruction is over and there won't be any attempt#15.

The Intolerable hissings of an unquiet mind

To no one else from the underearth
this is what I write
and delete and contemplate and delete again
for the lack of structure is beautiful
in music and movies
of a greyish hue,some diffused foucs
of the aperture,I guess
Some slow jazz song flows softly,peacefully
"Mr.Happy thats what I want to be",he sings
I,sitting cross legged,under many colored stars
blink-blink,they smile lovingly at me
poise and grace are the virtues
of greek statues,dead and cold
The tangents of the fishing chord
in one giant sweep will fill
the galaxies with harmonies,in odd symmetries
and new languages will emerge
from the fragrance of plastic flowers
the fields of which will house the cross
of pain,blood and purple orchids
Until some mathematical conjectures
will dismiss the hysteria
or unleash a new religion of perfect numbers
and the Golden ratios will emerge again
in tattoos on the arm of Spainards
and the snail shells of Corsica
Until then my dear mind
fly,as there is no tomorrow and
Beethoven's Ninth Symphony is overrated.

Attempt#14

A million space-ages ago

the sacred fire glowed

ruffled the dry autumn leaves

ancient memories stored

Delicate structures come and go

infinitines seem too slow

maybe the day has come my love

when the daffodils grow

And while the ocean sighs and breathes

and summerbirds sing in tow

I just think of happier days

the blade in hand I throw

Television viewing and it's sideeffects

I had a sudden insight which struck me as I was watching a video of Jimi hendrix perfom.It was a typical Hendrix song( i can't fuckin remember the name of it),by which I mean an open air Woodstock kinda outdoor enviornment,a lot of barely clothed men and women sitting on the grass and enjoying his music.There was no need for singing along or headbanging,oh fuck it they weren't even standing.It was beautiful to listen and watch and then it struck to me that I am a hippie trapped in some wrong time-zone.I really don't give a rat's ass about what people think and I am quite laid back at heart.But the fuckin trials and tribulations of the times which I live in make me edgy.It's not that I hate it completely,cuz if it was that-- i would've ended my life.There are snippets of good things which make me cling on,hoping for something MORE and BETTER.That makes me pretty average,eh?I always am disgusted with mediocrity,and I..in all my intrinsic sense,am not at all average.I am different.Not special.And thats disturbing.I wish I were different and 'special',but fuck it to hell ,I am plain and different.And it's such a shitty place to be.I hate ranting,but here I am doing just that and I don't fuckin care whosoever reads it would want to pity me.I don't want you pity..i want your love.All of ya'll.

Free flow

stop the catalystic baits for the avalance of disturbing mental projections which invade the mind-boat with pirate like precision.The ticking of the clock implodes inside--all sounds are dead,but the devilish ticking.fanless,prespiring and naked,a frightened animal wails.Who can take the barbs off the soft-skin butterfly wings of hope.In tatters and ugly.Thats a homecoming,we can do without.Stand united,and face the blades of warped space-time.Mute..we are mute.Oh beautiful irony!

In prayer(deformed)

How long must I let it all slip away

and not start building

my beautiful sand castle

The ocean waves would love

to kiss,and wrap

their watery legs around it

and dissolve it in an orgasm

How inconsequential it must feel

to be dissolved ;even in love

and to be one with the grandness

of the infinite sand,and waves

and the million stars gaze on it

in awe,this beautiful castle

stands(although deformed)

And someday you would destroy me too

and make me one in love

would you like to kiss me

and wrap your legs around me

merging yourself in my naked skin

and tranforming myself.

The force of violence of love

will destruct and construct

and someday the million stars

will gaze lovingly

and i'd die-- in worship

in reverance, in love(although deformed)

soft foucs lens

Distant oh so distant are the memories

and vacant is the cold bed

no fire glows in the fire-caves

ashes--the mute spectator,smiles

The crumpled sheets

the endless spaces of a confined room

are lost in the streaks

of violent streaks of immobile rebellion

Nakedness of skin-beautiful goddess

stirs a dream

of the first derobement of a virgin soul

No Jesus to repent for thy sins

Welcome sweetheart--they call thou insanity

i found these flowers beautifully moving.Somehow I have tried my best to be spiritual.maybe somethings are not made for me.there still are too many gaping holes in my headspace and they scare me.I'll be okay someday though,i'm sure.

Flights of Lucifer

And the words fail again

for the wonder of the beauty

silences the innermost turmoils

and what are words,but mere echos

of the faintest whispers of feelings

the bastard child of expression

and confusion.

Naked is the night and shadows

clamour for the rituals

oh! such religion we follow

of glorification of pleasures and flesh

such degradation,such fall into vaacum

look into the dawn of birth,o tired soul

for hope is the wing of Lucifer

and death the destination.

Debut(bark at the moon)-The Confessions

Stop in the jammed silences
flow and then stuck
where teardrops shatters and raindrops mingle
in the aquamarine ocean
of no remorse.
I float,a drifter.

Songs drift in with the heavy air
echoes of angst
hollow paintings unfinished and some
made uglier in their completion
and the sea sleeps
I still float,with a smile.

roundness of eyes,the moonglobes
shine on me
sarcasm is the wrecked boat
love the oars,carved and old
spinning wild are the whirlpools
the confessions-I drown.

welcome us.

Interview

It's sometimes too difficult to try,you see.Too difficult to try to come out of the skin and be really good.And all the more stupid when you know that it's not working.No matter what I said,it was not enough.And I didn't say much for that matter.I wonder how much people can speak.About so many things under the sun.I simply tend to try and show that I am listening.And sometimes when they are talking about something I know,then I realise how little they know and how grand they make it appear.I nodded my head silently when the girl sitting next to me said "and what do you think about global poverty".I think she's pretty with all that make up and I think she just wants to involve me in the discussion.I try to smile and wanted to say "fuck it".Checked myself in time and just nodded my head saying "I don't think much of it".Silence...They all look at me trying to figure if I was just being insolent or a smart ass or I'm just too thickheaded to think.Whatever they thought but I heard someone say "you must participate,thats how we know each other".I don't know what to say and I just remain silent.It would've been more polite I reckon if i didn't look 'em in the eye.Someone fills in the awakward silence by saying something funny.They all laugh and the tension is eased.I wait for the break.

They all talk amongst each other over the coffee break while look out of the window at the cloud formation and at the tiny traffic line from the distance of the buildings height.They might be talking about global poverties or pollutions or bussiness takeovers or latest movies.Or maybe about the strange- young- bloke- out- there- who- seems- too- lost- in- his- own- world-whats-this-punk- doing- here-anyways?.I shrug and try to smile.A friendly smile.No one smiles back.

~end of story~

Round and round

It's so odd.I feel something is wrong,in an intrinsic way.This seems to be an odd way in which the world goes round.The self-righteousness of all the fakes and the glamour behind power,and that too not the real power but a pretense to it,makes me sick to the stomach.

What drives you,O little miserable cripple
flashing the stained whites
of remorseless acts and raped intentions
alas you exist and won't die
And round you move,in skewed orbits
senseless,drunk in misery
for how long will the forces hold you
for how long oh for how long.

Love letter.

The terrible aftermath of happiness.Why should it always leave a bad hangover.Nothing like the intoxication of some good wine;more like the aftertaste of some cheap cocaine.or a badly made food for that matter.How I want happiness to last and how easily it slips.And in its wake makes the already ugly reality seems all the more deserted.A soft flowing memory comes to me.But it isn't even a memory--a dream rather.Of me,my love and world.Our world.And then maybe there wont be too much of a need to hide.The sense of desolation out of being different would be lost and so would the novelty.That would be a good tradeoff i'd say.And once all the anger and fear is lost,we..me and you and all of our kinds can be ourselves.I like to smile,you see.Not the fake plastic smiles,but smiles of something to celeberate.a victory possibly.but victory thats not a culmination of some ongoing pain.A victory of happiness.Happiness as a state of being.We will reach there,my love.we will.

one

The most exciting prognosis for the malady called boredom has to be been-there-done-that. The ever-enchanting taste of newness is just a bitter aftertaste of something ancient. Sparks that excite the dark recesses of minds are the burnt remains of flaming foliage of memory. Alice in Chains are playing in the background singing

“I like to fly, but my wings have been so denied”

I have been wondering on the theme of reincarnation of late .It amuses me to think if the angst and aimlessness I seem to carry around are traces of something more potent in my previous life .It doesn’t make the burden any less, but it gives a fresh perspective. A “fresh” did I say? Ironical damnit, but what the hell anyways .I have a tingling feeling, maybe out of a sense to belong, that most people do carry their madness in them. Their walls seem to be less porous than mine, so that the lunacy hardly sips out. What would happen to such souls when they go through a rebirth cycle? Do they carry their ethereal madness with them into next birth, if at all the highly crazy idea of reincarnation holds any water. If all of my hypothesis is correct than I am going to one hellova sane person next birth,having vented out almost all of my madness this lifetime. and if all this is utter bullshit and God does indeed play dice, then again I’ll probably turn out to be more madder than Johnny Rotten, Kurt Cobain and Jim Morrison combined. And yeah I’ll probably have a more troubled childhood for a perfect excuse.

reprise of fairy tears

what has been will always be.
unlike whatever we experience--of all things exiting;there are certain things which are forever.a foreververness which lingers even when the thing seems to have been gone,and the lingeringness eventually bringing the form back.exhuming the dead is not what i meant.wiping the dust from the mirrors is what was in my mind.the oceanic waves of melancholy are temporal,trying obsessively to suck the fundamentals of beyond from our eyes,but they can't.the million stars of our world leave a trail,picking which we will always return to our beginnings,our love.love that made us beautiful,innocent and fragile.the mighty tear that drops is the holy water--the salt of the vast,heaving and silent ocean,and it cleanses.bathed in the aftermath of that solitary drop,we are reborn.
we are one.
reaffirmed.

vaccums

silence creates vaccums.
i'm all dressed up and nowhere to go.black asphalt,bricks and mortar beckon me,but i won't move.the taste of inertia is like lsd on the tip of your tongue--when time evaporates into hazy fogs,buds open into carnivourous flowers which can gulp infinities,and stars are little naked children running on black-sand beaches.statues are cute in a way,aren't they?.creating an illusion of stability amongst chaos;boulders amidst flowing waves.i have a weakness for metaphysical and obtuse.where complexities converge into gaping holes,finally coming back full circle into nothingness from which everything started.that might be the fate of this universe,or the beyond after-death.fleeting glimpses of happiness are perception loopholes.just that perception loopholes.
vaccums create silences.

A Blindfold Prayer

The grand dullness of being stuck. There are no alarm bells ringing, and the certainty of awakening from a nightmare to another mechanical day isn't there. one can just dream. like I do.or just wait, wafting along the waves; dipping,rising and dipping again. The strangulation more chocking at the rising than on dipping.well,I can still drag on.shave,take bath and be squeaky clean and wonderfully smelling. and get ready for another dip. or another rising?*shrugs*.

All in all we’re just another brick in the wall

you still are distant and now i no more want any closeness. the doors have been shut on my face by you. I just bolted myself in. now the marvel of something utterly destroyed and handsome is for all to see. from the windows. to sympathize upfront and mock inside. I, drenched in my broken ego, collection the shards of my crystal-heart, covering the windows with blinds, terminating all voices and all lights. the bloodied hands, the bloodied hands.purpleness engulfs me.O god, let me sleep.

A little less conversation

Below is an unedited(kinda) part of an actual coversation that took place.The names have been changed to protect the identity of a certain mr.footloose and yours truley.not that i'd give a fuck about protecting identities,but it gives a good soundbyte kinda thingy.

mr.myself: yeah. i know it's just a matter of perception
mr.myself: i do want to change mine to something grander
mr.myself: but i always tend to notice the things which are slimy,dirty,depraved and ugly.
mr.myself: i just can't not see 'em.
mr.myself: kinda partial blindness, if you will
mr.myself: i know there is beauty in the world,but the goddamned ugliness strikes out so odd that it hides whatever good is in here
mr.myself: i maybe contaminating your thought process too,i'm sorry if i am.it's contagious..so i'll advice you not to speak to me often
mr.myself: i am sick of everything you know
mr.myself: even contemplating death
mr.myself: i am sick of it
mr.myself: there are no absolutes
mr.myself: and it disturbs me a lot
mr.myself: kinda fuckin scares me,though i wouldn't admit it
mr.myself: except here..over chat,when you can't see me
mr.myself: in real life i'd be all smiling mockingly at everything.kinda playing along
x: death is the ultimate
x: but living with death is a horror
mr.myself: *smiles*
mr.myself: you find me crazy?
x: no
x: nothing is crazy
x: its just the frame of references@mind
x: whatever u r thinking is absolutely right from ur frame of mind
x: and I always respect induvidual thoughts
mr.myself: maybe these thoughts aren't all that individual.maybe i've picked 'em along..from the darkest alleys where they'd smoke weed and inhale all sorta things
mr.myself: where sex is as casual as sneeze
mr.myself: and self-respect is as much a living thing as a vrigin whore

well do you find me crazy,dear readers?

Walls

It's too silent,my vacant room
stoney walls
too thick,too indifferent.showing

a single broken crack;
a small parabola.

endless stories it must have seen
and countless coats of
varnished paints.

A sudden stain of purple
the silent neighbour,looks beautiful
bastard
contouring and contorting

violent desperation.
fissures of agony
and other acts of sadness.

how faceless a wall looks
how mirthless the space it contains
ringing bells
ringing bells

someone suck this emptiness away.

A new level

No more the stars shine bright
in the icy waters of hope
and strangely dark are the whispers
that rustled the ancient leaves
mockery of exotic memories
flagging in a mere static of a vast,uncluttered
universal mind of a sleeping baby.
One wonders what lies beyond and more
the alternate truths.
and the immaculate,absolute lies
of glistening lips and seducing
ebony eyelashes;enchanting aren't they?
myrid foxholes and closed alleys
just a flicker of my eyes
and i sense a murder,a betryal of soul.
no two pages fold exactly alike
no signs of life.no sighs.

Megalomania

The stellar heights are intimidating and so are the sacred depths.A wishbone would be helpful.The dark secrets of the ancients always facinated me.Secret societies and their facinating rituals have an allure of their own.Either this or the simple cleanliness of machines.I love huge factories as much as i love ancient castle-relics.A walkdown in the factory of my dad when i was 7 is still vivid in my mind.The place looked so beautiful in the night,with sky high roofs and lines and lines of machines.The place that looked so dead in the night would be throbbing with sounds and click-clacks in the day,throwing out stories and predictions and encapsulations and all.The smell of the ink was beautiful and i wanted to hug everyone who invented any damn machine.A world inhabited with machines seemed a perfect utopia to me back then.I have grown more selfish now.it has to be just me,me and me and the whole damn space.

Envy

I am envious of anyone who is better than me.Anyone who looks more handsome and there isn't any resemblance with me,anyone who can write better,anyone who can make music better,anyone who can invent,do math,make beautiful paintings,or have more balanced(or even more eccentric)behaviors,is like an enemy to me sometimes.Those are the moments of lunacy when i want to be ALL.they don't last long,but they do come and go.it's strange and confusing.

Look ma! No sun

Anything which is sad has no right to exist.Anything which is ugly must die,without rotting.I am in a state of mind of peace and my thoughts are destructive.The world,if I were a giant,would have been my playground and I would have loved to kick and annihilate buildings and people alike.I am tired of poetry as it seems such a waste.

The winds blow with a dead ease
a wicked calm seeps
and forever the echoes scream
a long deep well.no ends
Where are the heavens and hells
and where is Christ
hanging loosely in Gucci underwear
a passion thats wasted.
Techicolor leaves which we crumble
everyday without remorse
a large buffet is laid
without heads without thoughts
Beware my masters I am tired
and I will explode the myth
on a dreamy sunday,i'll kill you all
and never wake up from my unborn dream

I like writing bad poetry sometimes and I still can't botch it ALL.I am not displeased with it,it's just in my blood not to mutilate something completely.A sudden thought just came into my mind.What if there was no sun.There must have been life,somehow from where? I don't know but lets say there IS life and NO sun.I would be so happy.Beautiful sunless afternoons.Let people die of cold.The bodies don't smell foul when they die like that.

Balloons

When the designs of a greater God imply we must flow,who are we to resist.A thousand helium balloons suspened midair without chords.The utter uselessness of such existence!.And such tranquility.Neither the great journey upwards now the limp decent downwards is liked.To break a perfect synchronity is ugly.But the ecstacy of being free is beautiful.The trajectory maybe wayward and the end near as the helium esacpes,but the abandon is worth it.Eventually the lone balloon will fall down and will be scorned by the assortment who never fell,never feel and never flew.They however will never know the pleasure of heights.It's not the point.The point is,breaking free is ugly.The gaps make the bunch look ridiculous.And unity is strength.No wind shakes the united.They stand proud,protected and secure.

Farewell my love.

For all the golden silences
don't you sit alone and stare,too
visit the rumble again
and again in the mindfields.
Poppies flutter and dust flows
vast arid landscapes
where many a green memories
and discolored photograps sleep.
Razor sharp stains,deep and red
I think I heard a laugh
a lovely crecent,reminicent of love
When love turns to stone
and stones to dust,a shadow flies
halts and decends and cries
A weeping child a brooding man
an eclactic mix.
Vibrancy is the state of my mind
and madness is abandoned
For all her shouts,the disowned
bastard child must die a lonely death
A death she planned for me.
Goodbye old lover.Good riddance.

Lust and Love

Feels a little safer now,soft cushion safety.How many lies lurk beneath the ultimate truth.And every smattering of a libidinous desire confronts a dead end of unquenched thirst.Is that someone i'd bed tomorrow too or i'd be too bored?.Is this a sign of life or a sign of deadness,to not want?.Love still sits in her shrine,a dark glow around her.She is innocent in her virginty,the pure of her blood staining her from the insides.And she is dull,restless and beautiful.Almost fragile,except the fire in her which makes her a little quirky.Ofcourse they would misunderstand her.The Gods would be clubbed with devils.Thats what they always wanted it.The line between God and the Devil to be decimated.Slowly she raises her eyes and I see a look of laughter.She mocks at them and confides in me.I kill myself everytime I go for such casual adventures and with an expertness of experience,I make it appear happy.Such lies i am capable of.

In motion I looked under the stars
Sheets of dark stain,moist
are they the acts of love of war
or venting pain the vacant eyes hoist.

I suck at rhyming.But they make sense.to me.And thats the only thing that matters.

The great wave

Sand-castles are perfect,arent they.Beautiful,transient phases finally crumbling back to where they originated..sameness,dead sand-sea.The moment that hurts is the last near-perfect image of completion.Something grandiose in it.And wistfulness at the imagery of what might have been,could have been.Until a great wave comes along.And then you look back at the remains and can still see the castles you were building,which to any other passerby would appear as sticky deformed mud.A tear drop in the eye,prisms the sunlight into multi-colors and the movie rolls back..flash-back,or just life flashing before your eyes.Is it time to go?.But you do want to hold on.The incompleteness hurts you.And you know when completion happens,you would want to go.The castle would form again,but then the picture of destruction is what you can't escape from.And yeah,you can build something thats destroyed but what of the image that still haunts you--of destruction,even when rebuilding is over.

Guess whos back

i am back.It has been a most demanding month for me.To finally feel that you've come to the end of the road and nothing but a deep pit awaits you,to suck you in.. and then to return.It's a great feeling.Something like being reborn.Am I talking like some new age Christian?. I don't know.maybe.It's not religion though,which I am talking of.And Jesus certainly didn't appear before me to tell me "Son you are gonna be saved".It's just that..fuck it.
I am sick of my anger.And its so confusing.I am the calmest of the people at times and sometimes the blinding rage grips me.Those moments are short but they are disaster.there are answers I seek.Infact I feel i know the answers,it's the lack of character in me to implement those answers which infuriates me.There is so much thats wrong in me and I am still not perfectly wrong.This is what I always wanted.Perfection.

I am having an escapist dream these days.To run to some place..some Buddhist place maybe.Tibet ..where there aren't many human beings and be a monk there.Or maybe a samurai.I don't want any attention.I am thru' with my cravings for it.I always despised attention in a way.Because they don't understand.Not those who watched the shows and shout like mad for an encore,saying"ooh Kurt Cobin/Jim Morrison's angst..",nor those who would read a poetry and exclaim "beautiful! sadly beautiful." and most certainly not those who said"ah! another young rot shouting for attention".I kinda sought the truth..maybe there are many truths.

And yeah I missed you all.