Blur

Heart, thumping like a conga drum,

From the flight of stairs I climb,

Two steps at a time,

Head still tipsy from

That last deceitful drop

Of caffeine, gone cold at the bottom of the mug,

The flavor of solitude and desolation,

The smell of an open door

Shuffling feet and settling,

Sound of the slow fan, its bent blade,

My spiritless symphony,

The wait is over. It’s my turn.

Tearing my eyes out of the waiting room magazines,

Goodbye half brained beauties,

Dragging my feet,

Blurry letters and continuous questioning,

I find it difficult to breathe sometimes, I say,

She hides my face with a picture of a house,

Bricked walls and red roof,

My chins on a plastic machine,

A prescription for fake tears,

At the price of two fags,

She places a glass in front of my eye,

I look like a freak show clown,

In a carnival, during off-season,

She asks me,

Do you see a home?

Its red roof and brick walls,

I say I see a house,

Am I blind?

Please say yes.

But I married words..

“But I married words” said the widow.

I found this line scrawled on the last page of my diary, which until not very long ago, I used to write in.

And now, I fail to recollect if these lines were mine or borrowed. Google search does not yield me any results. If you are reading these lines, tell me whether you’ve read them somewhere else. And if they’re all mine then this is me, haunted by my own brainchild.

Aren’t we all??

Cookies.

Take a proper look at yourself.

So, what do you see?

What the hell do you see?

Do you enjoy what you see?

Do you trust your perception?

Does it make you feel insecure?

You know something, don’t answer the last question. I know the answer already.

Go on. Tell the world that you feel awesome.

We all know that’s shit.

What troubles me is how much uncertainty actually lies beneath your skin.

Is it probable that you’ve actually stopped existing?

Ok. So my words of wisdom aren’t going to open your mind.

It isn’t going to make you introspect and find yourself.

You’d probably read this and question my sanity.

Honestly, I myself don’t know where I am.

So, where were you yesterday??

Why did you buy your Aviators?

So you really love Absinthe?

Are you happy with your life??

Oh great! You’re shaking.

But you aren’t doing the Jazz Hands this time, are you?

Screw your fear. Drink some beer.

Maybe the shaking will stop.

Airheads affirming uniqueness.

Look at me! Look me in the eyeball!

You don’t want them to bring out the big guns, do you?

Believe me. You don’t want that.

We are all plebeians. Yet we’re all one of a kind.

Embrace the loser in you.

Exonerate yourself.

Feel this great feeling.

Cross over to my side.

We have cookies!

Silence

And thus, it begins.

Out of the blue, like passing a homeless person on a street who doesn’t ask you for your money.

Arising from the spaces linking our fingers, where we conceal all our secrets.

It draws me in deep. Then it immediately pushes me away.

The frosty winds came too early, this year.

Plenty of birds dying in their nests.

We gazed at stars and peeked at fireflies.

Everything was painted the colour of silence.

She licks her lips again, slowly this time. The droplets of sweat that were present are now the salt on her tongue. My eyes are glued to the ebb and fall of the dice she wore around her delicate neck.

Her eyes blinked to the beat of leaves falling from the tress, becoming one with the earth.

She doesn’t utter a word. Not a single one. Just keeps me waiting.

Testing my patience.

Please say something. Anything.

Nothing.

Cross me off that list of yours and name this our last kiss, I say.

She laughs out loud. Bloody hell.

I turn around and walk away to find a new her.

I leave because she is too gorgeous.

More than anything, I leave because I love words too much.

And it is tough to be in love with a mute.

Dead Poets Society

"O Captain! My Captain! Our fearful trip is done,

The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! My Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up--for you the flag is flung for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead."

He read these lines over and over again, day after day. There was something magical about Walt Whitman that he could not give words to, something that gave him a celestial inspiration, something that reached into him and egged him on to write more and more.

He glanced at the scattered papers all around him.
‘Souvenirs’, he called them. 
Souvenirs that mocked him. 
Souvenirs that mirrored his erudite incompetence.

He thought about the recent novels that had been published. They all revolved around the same trash- technologically advanced world, about spies that belong to secret organizations, about children superheroes. He thought about the death of literature. He mourned for the world’s loss. He thought literature surely deserved a eulogy. He sat down to write one.

He wasn’t worthy enough to write it. He knew. But still he continued writing.

He wrote for hours, days, weeks. He never stopped.

He mourned though his words, he wept about the words that were no longer an inspiration to many, and he grieved about his cherished writers and poets. He kept writing.

But he ran out of words. He wasn’t tired. His pen still had ink.

But he had no words.

He laughed at the irony. A writer with no words.

It was rather funny.

He was grappled by a paroxysm of laughter. He chuckled and snickered. He howled and roared. He laughed like a maniac and tears began to flow.

In a fit of glee, he drove his pen deep into his wrist and watch the blood rush out like ink.

His hand jerked and he knocked over the ink pot. 

Red and blue merged together, giving rise to one of the most suitable metaphors.

Blood and ink, wasted.

All in the view that he had no words…

For you, ma....

You haven’t seen me cry, ma,

Not because tears were never my thing,

I’ve never let you realize, ma,

I’ll never let you know.

I’ve seen people sell hope in metal cans, ma

And some rolled up in smoking papers,

But is that truly hope, ma?

What makes them end all hope?

I survive in a world without any color, ma,

My colorblindness makes me conceited,

I always see illusions, ma

Cause, my reflection is a dreamlike haze to me.

I watched you go down the street, ma,

And buy wilted flowers for twice as much,

But they still smell sweet, ma,

As long as they smell like you.

It’s been ages, ma,

Since you’ve cuddled me to sleep,

Am I too big for your lap, ma,

Or did I wander away?

I remember you used to sing to me, ma,

On a lazy Sunday afternoon,

You sang about time healing everything, ma,

Are you still waiting?

I’ve harbored misery, ma,

And dejection’s been a close friend,

But nothing reassures me like you, ma,

With you, I never pretend.

I wore scarlet tinted sunglasses, ma,

To validate my complacence,

But they dropped and got smashed, ma,

Under a cart full of authenticity,

I’ll lie one day in a coffin, ma,

And your tears won’t blemish my body anymore,

I’ll perish in a plastic basket, ma,

Frosty, pale and sore.

It’ll rain hope someday, ma,

And it will nurture your rebellious wounds,

I’ll drain the clouds dry, ma,

I’ll make it shower on you.

You’ll never see me cry, ma,

Not in a million years,

I’ll fade away slowly, ma,

Leaving behind all those unseen tears,

For you, ma..... for you...

The Bogeyman

I got Dash when I was seven. He was the most adorable and cutest dog I’ve ever laid my eyes on. I got him as a gift from my father coz I had done really well in my exams. The Science paper was the most difficult of all. But Dash made up for all the effort I had put in. I promised my parents I would take very good care of him. His glossy coat was beautiful and I loved to show him off to all my friends. Dash would bark at them if they were mean to me. He was very protective of me. My friends liked him. I used to play football with him but I was afraid he would get hurt.

Soon, Dash became very big and I could play football very easily with him. He would run around in the garden and bask in the sunlight. My Maid used to be very scared of him coz he would always bark at her. Probably he realized that I don’t like her. She always used to steal chocolates from me whenever mom gave me any.

Once I got into a fight with a boy in my neighborhood. Dash saw him punching me hard. He got very angry. So he went and bit him. I had to go and apologize to him. But secretly, I liked the fact that he got bit. Dash slowly started to bite everyone I didn’t like. It was like we had a telepathic connection.

Once, Dash bit a screaming, stubborn child coz he realized I was getting irritated. His parents threatened to shoot my Dash. I got scared and hid him inside my dad’s tool shed. Dash used to get very impatient and twitchy in there. But I never let anyone hurt him.

Remember how my maid used to eat all my chocolates? You would have realized by now, I love chocolates. So I had decided that when I become older I would open a candy store. My parents were very happy and they backed me up. They supported me throughout.

When I grew up, I moved out of my parents place. I now live in my candy store, with Dash. My candy store is very famous. The chocolates are very tasty. Many children try to steal candy. I know who they are. They come by often. Hardly do they ever leave. They love the chocolates I sell. They meet Dash and play with him. He’s very good with naughty children. He loves children.

Especially when I add a little BBQ sauce!

(Legend of the Bogeyman-  a very scary story that parents tell their children when they misbehave. The "Bogeyman" is a monster that got burnt when he was a child because he did not listen to his parents. He grabs naughty children to cook and eat them.

Bogeyman may be called "Boogerman" or "Boogermonster" and was most often used to keep young children from playing outside past dark, or wandering off in the forest.)

Kings among Cowards

(Image courtesy)

We robbed sleep from scarecrows

And sold it to the dawn

In exchange for cigars rolled

In maps to forgotten treasures

And now they’ll be lost forever

We look at our palms

We connect the scars on our skin

Like a coat of constellations

Sigh, we are safe now

Absconding from our shadows,

Leaving them behind us

We hunted for true love

And paid in beauty

We’re vagabond salesmen,

We sell dreams

Festive, Jaded, broken,

We have them all!

The Inferno

The fire crackles on,

And the shadows frolic with the fire,

The music swaying in the mind,

Seducing it with every flicker.

The frosty breeze,

Pacifies the senses,

As it blows through the trees,

It whispers its secret,

To the silent night.

The fervor from the fire,

Consoling,

Tranquilizing,

Intoxicating every breath.

Like the inferno,

The hope in me still flickers,

Of something that may be,

But now,

Solitude is the only friend,

Enveloped by an ocean of unknowns,

Their vacant faces, indistinguishable,

Under the diffuse light.

The frost threatens to enter my consciousness,

But hope still remains, for it’s the fire’s will,

And just like the flames that trace my feet,

My thoughts and dreams, stabs my soul.

I’m alone, but I can’t feel the cold just yet,

The faces that surround me attain a mask-like quality,

Frozen to their favorite expressions,

For they are all playing a part,

And I still don’t know mine,

Mutely, I watch their rites and mind games,

It all feels hallucinatory, fictitious,

But it’s all the fire’s creation,

Sleep overpowers me, as the phantoms vanish in the dark,

The warmth retreats to an unknown void,

Lonesomeness has never been so terrifying, yet so consoling,

A night of paradoxes,

I battle my sleep with the intrepidness of the ancients,

And yet, I am conquered,

All I beg for, while my eyes stir of their own desire,

Is that the night have mercy on my soul.

The Phantom

Sometimes I’m the hunter,

Other times, I’m the hunted,

They stroll past me on the crowded street, among the vexatious mob,

Of beggars and business men and children of the condemned,

From their delusive depths, expressed from many of their human drawbacks,

This crowd is not of physical flesh.

Their volatile consciences, vanishing in the spicy summer,

Phantoms of the near future,

Day by day, mutely, still.

The finest minds of my era,

Drifting, winding;

An icon of spite and disgust, made evident.

The treasure, she hides in chambers, shielded behind,

Their dreary eyes, their kaleidoscopic visions,

But they can never see me,

Because I,

I resemble someone who is,

Invisible.  

The impulse

Such is the name because such is the emotion,

Such is the being because such is the resolution,

Such is the pick because such are the options,

Such is the deed because such is the intention,

Such is the spirit because such is the drill,

Such is the woman because such is the will…