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.