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.~~

Slumber

In the deepest slumber,in swoon,in death,even in the grave all is NOT lost.Else there is no immortality for men.Arousing from the most profound of slumbers,we break the gossamer web of some dream.Yet in a second afterword(so frail may that web have been) we remember not that we have dreamed.In the return to life from sleep,there are two stages:first,that of the sense of mental or spiritual;secondly,that of the sense of physical existance.It seems probable that if,upon reaching the second stage,we could recall the impressions of the first,we should find these eloquent in the meories of the gulf beyond.And that gulf is--what?.How at least shall we distinguish its shadows from those of the tomb?But if the impressions of what I have termed the first stage,are not,at will recalled,yet after long interval,do they not come unbidden,while we markvel whence they come?He who has never swooned,is not he who finds strange palaces and wildly familira faces in coals that glow;is not he who beholds floating in mid-air the sad visions that many may not view;is not he ponders over the perfume of some novel flower;is not he whose brain goes bewlidered with the meaning of some musical cadance which has never arrested his attention.

Driftwood

It's easier to cling onto self-generated notions of depravity of the universe than see the real thing.It's monstrously different,and yet it's just another mirror image of the disgust that one always had in one's mind..delusional or hysterical.I can't but ponder over what might be the state of mental balance of the lunatics who are 'cured' and are asked to leave the asylum for a 'wonderful world out there'.Wouldn't they feel heartbroken?Or would they never feel anything.Just a spacious asylum,maybe.

I feel happy thinking of their confused state.It gives me a sensual pleasure to imagine their shattered dreams.

Am i cruel?I have been said I am many times.I just smile.A bitter smile,a smile of sarcasm.of self mockery.

You cannever unravel the complexity that I am.I have tried and failed.Now I try no more.