I would if I could...
disrobe you, gently, with my eyes.
warm my feet in the heat rising in your cheeks.
engaol the blood-beads erupting on your ravished lip, the shivering lip that you admonished ever-so violently lest it may betray your discomfiture.
I would if I could...
stalk the muddy imprints of your wandering feet, test their depth by shackling my foot to the end of the plumb line and plunging headlong, land on my bottom,curl up in your ribbed bowel, foetal-like.
then,conjure up a gigantic veil to shroud us, hide us away- just you and I.
I would if I could...
stifle your cries, breathe away the tears till two arid river banks cut through your skin mouthing angry narratives of the sudden silencing of their melodramatic gags.
Yes,I would if I could...
I would
I would
I would
....could I, please ?
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Thursday, June 10, 2010
THE FRENZY OF FEAR
the frenzy of fear....
incessant drum-rolls, like irritable hiccups...
hiccups are the price you pay for divine gluttony; your gluttony, for which stands shuddering a God-fearing alibi- the callousness of a murky file of tomato soup sliding off the crack of a mouth and hanging by a hair at the chin....
and then, that preposterous drop dropped into the chasm of infamy by your one violent burp.
the sin, complete.
and fear....anticipated in the black veins fast erupting across the pale-faced egg-shaped surface of the earth.
"amar kichu hobe na toh, saar?"
fear, as it sun-bathes on the flats of your feet as the flats of your feet drag the colossal weight of happily-sun-bathing-fear to the public hand pump and struggles to wash it all away.....but the pump yields not a drop.
fear rolls among synthetically-coloured carrots, licks the crimson off shrivelled tomatoes, sucks a tunnel through and through impoverished brinjals....in your very shopping-bag. you sweat in profusion and mumble the initials of your three and twenty gods and goddesses. the shadow of a stretching dog appears to you as the very missile of wrath set with the precise instructions to puncture the north-east corner of the left valve of your heart.you sleep with gaping pupils, alert claws clutching at a claw-hammer....
and all the while, you hunt for salvation in the kind eyes of the tea stall owner, in the garrulous mien of the butcher, in the accidental pat on the back by an outstretched hand clasping a ten-rupee note in the swaying fetid congregation of a public bus.
but, in the end, do you not pull the trigger yourself on your own brain?
do you not commit suicide while mumbling assuredly- "amar kichhu hobe na!"
and do you not wonder in that single fleeting moment of self-betrayal that the grand machine of annihilation has missed its target by a long shot- from the designated north-east corner of the left valve of your heart to the right side of your skull?
the murder that you anticipated with religious conviction has spurred off the very frenzy of fear.
"what was my sin?" you may ask, teary-eyed, breathing in the pure nothingness of heaven.
was it the the drop of soup? you may wonder.
and each man would hastily procure a pristine white handkerchief, holding it at attention a mere millimeters away from the lips as the lips sucked in noiseless civility the spoonful of tomato soup....the frenzy would thus erupt, in pretty little flowers embroidered into the corners of death-white handkerchiefs.
you would never know the seed that sprouted into this FEAR.
incessant drum-rolls, like irritable hiccups...
hiccups are the price you pay for divine gluttony; your gluttony, for which stands shuddering a God-fearing alibi- the callousness of a murky file of tomato soup sliding off the crack of a mouth and hanging by a hair at the chin....
and then, that preposterous drop dropped into the chasm of infamy by your one violent burp.
the sin, complete.
and fear....anticipated in the black veins fast erupting across the pale-faced egg-shaped surface of the earth.
"amar kichu hobe na toh, saar?"
fear, as it sun-bathes on the flats of your feet as the flats of your feet drag the colossal weight of happily-sun-bathing-fear to the public hand pump and struggles to wash it all away.....but the pump yields not a drop.
fear rolls among synthetically-coloured carrots, licks the crimson off shrivelled tomatoes, sucks a tunnel through and through impoverished brinjals....in your very shopping-bag. you sweat in profusion and mumble the initials of your three and twenty gods and goddesses. the shadow of a stretching dog appears to you as the very missile of wrath set with the precise instructions to puncture the north-east corner of the left valve of your heart.you sleep with gaping pupils, alert claws clutching at a claw-hammer....
and all the while, you hunt for salvation in the kind eyes of the tea stall owner, in the garrulous mien of the butcher, in the accidental pat on the back by an outstretched hand clasping a ten-rupee note in the swaying fetid congregation of a public bus.
but, in the end, do you not pull the trigger yourself on your own brain?
do you not commit suicide while mumbling assuredly- "amar kichhu hobe na!"
and do you not wonder in that single fleeting moment of self-betrayal that the grand machine of annihilation has missed its target by a long shot- from the designated north-east corner of the left valve of your heart to the right side of your skull?
the murder that you anticipated with religious conviction has spurred off the very frenzy of fear.
"what was my sin?" you may ask, teary-eyed, breathing in the pure nothingness of heaven.
was it the the drop of soup? you may wonder.
and each man would hastily procure a pristine white handkerchief, holding it at attention a mere millimeters away from the lips as the lips sucked in noiseless civility the spoonful of tomato soup....the frenzy would thus erupt, in pretty little flowers embroidered into the corners of death-white handkerchiefs.
you would never know the seed that sprouted into this FEAR.
Monday, January 4, 2010
OF MACBETHS AND INSOMNIA....
The creative prowess of the mind- imagination….
The mind that is terrified to behold its own black reflection.… The mind that would be precise in its operation of tearing out the eyelids so that sleep may find no abode. The mind that waits impatiently at the shore, biting its nails, with vigilant eyes fixed beyond the horizon.
Macbeth and Lady Macbeth would sleep no more…
And such had been the decree of their minds; iron-fisted, whip-wielding minds marching above, slow and menacing- the rhythmical march of boots on cold cobbled stones...
Macbeth and Lady Macbeth had never slept. They have forever been awake, attentive to calls from above, careful to avoid the sharp bites of whiplashes.
They have forever been awake…
Untie the mind, take apart the pieces, gently…what do you see?
Macbeth desires no crown…no! Not the mere expanse of space that the crown encompasses…no! Not that! he desires much more…Desire in Macbeth is a vintage bottle of concoction- a heady blend of naked power and brute domination stifled to silence by the cork; the bottle, moldy at the mouth, frothing and hissing incessantly. He desires to behold shuddering vulnerability staring back at him as he raises the spear of death above the head of his captive…. Yes! Shuddering vulnerability! Lusty vulnerability reflected in the glassy eyes of a helpless nymph in shackles. Dominion it would be for him…the dominion over the inaccessible; the vicious pairing of victory at war and satiation of throbbing lust….force triumphing in both. And his captives would fall at his feet, kiss his boots; their eyes would scream for mercy…and then Macbeth, the King , would descend upon the suffering soil of mortals…he would don the robes of benevolence…the king as protector…All hail the king! They would rejoice….Macbeth shall live forever!
And what of Lady Macbeth, you ask?
What desires does her mind harbor- The desire to be queen, and no more? Or, is it much more than that? Scavenge through the cluttered shelves of her mind…see what keeps her awake.
In Lady Macbeth too, there burns the intense desire for dominion; and yet, has she not dominated enough? Does she not call the ramparts of her husband’s castle ‘my battlements’? Does she not usurp the envisioned murder weapon as ‘my keen knife’? Does she not order Macbeth to put the night’s business into her dispatch? And yet, her dagger shall not pierce Duncan’s heart. The woman shall only beget life, not destroy. So does she desire to be ‘unsexed’….
To be unsexed…a terrible feat would be performed on her being, the womb razed out, left to grope for the last wisps of breath, her sex denied, ridiculed, kicked and smothered in mud. Would she really have that?
No, she would not. And yet, she fears to manifest the deepest desire of her heart. The fiery woman sailing the tide, unburdened hair lashing against her face, etching merciless determination onto her soul with every whiplash…such is her absolute desire. But the combs rush towards her, barring their canines, bunching up the free cascade of her hair, binding it into submission. ‘You are free!’ they assure her, ‘but keep within the circle’, they warn.
So what does she truly crave for? Once again I ask, what keeps her awake?
The answer is desire for feminine power…the power of the most powerful erotic being. Power shall burst forth, anarchic, chaotic; power desired in its barest of manifestations; and power that would enable her to render all things powerless. She also desires the power of visual presence- her presence, and the absence of all action. The mental capacity of all beings shall shrink to the mere space of her body. Yet, nowhere does she exude the slightest wisps of eroticism…but such is her misery….the bottled up desires frothing at the mouth, the desires that she dare not mouth. She desires for that which she does not have. No, she would not be content with the mere crown of queen. She would represent the queen as an icon of desire….unattainable desire translating into awe and willful subservience.
And now, their desires would be joined….unbridled desires shall pour forth. The potters-wheel has been summoned, wet clay lies ready…the process of sculpting to life the abstract eddies of desire would now begin. Now they would spill an enormous drop of ink right at the centre of the barren canvas and drag the tips of their pens from within that gleaming pool of ink, outwards, like words spilling out of a single drop of blood…...
The mind that is terrified to behold its own black reflection.… The mind that would be precise in its operation of tearing out the eyelids so that sleep may find no abode. The mind that waits impatiently at the shore, biting its nails, with vigilant eyes fixed beyond the horizon.
Macbeth and Lady Macbeth would sleep no more…
And such had been the decree of their minds; iron-fisted, whip-wielding minds marching above, slow and menacing- the rhythmical march of boots on cold cobbled stones...
Macbeth and Lady Macbeth had never slept. They have forever been awake, attentive to calls from above, careful to avoid the sharp bites of whiplashes.
They have forever been awake…
Untie the mind, take apart the pieces, gently…what do you see?
Macbeth desires no crown…no! Not the mere expanse of space that the crown encompasses…no! Not that! he desires much more…Desire in Macbeth is a vintage bottle of concoction- a heady blend of naked power and brute domination stifled to silence by the cork; the bottle, moldy at the mouth, frothing and hissing incessantly. He desires to behold shuddering vulnerability staring back at him as he raises the spear of death above the head of his captive…. Yes! Shuddering vulnerability! Lusty vulnerability reflected in the glassy eyes of a helpless nymph in shackles. Dominion it would be for him…the dominion over the inaccessible; the vicious pairing of victory at war and satiation of throbbing lust….force triumphing in both. And his captives would fall at his feet, kiss his boots; their eyes would scream for mercy…and then Macbeth, the King , would descend upon the suffering soil of mortals…he would don the robes of benevolence…the king as protector…All hail the king! They would rejoice….Macbeth shall live forever!
And what of Lady Macbeth, you ask?
What desires does her mind harbor- The desire to be queen, and no more? Or, is it much more than that? Scavenge through the cluttered shelves of her mind…see what keeps her awake.
In Lady Macbeth too, there burns the intense desire for dominion; and yet, has she not dominated enough? Does she not call the ramparts of her husband’s castle ‘my battlements’? Does she not usurp the envisioned murder weapon as ‘my keen knife’? Does she not order Macbeth to put the night’s business into her dispatch? And yet, her dagger shall not pierce Duncan’s heart. The woman shall only beget life, not destroy. So does she desire to be ‘unsexed’….
To be unsexed…a terrible feat would be performed on her being, the womb razed out, left to grope for the last wisps of breath, her sex denied, ridiculed, kicked and smothered in mud. Would she really have that?
No, she would not. And yet, she fears to manifest the deepest desire of her heart. The fiery woman sailing the tide, unburdened hair lashing against her face, etching merciless determination onto her soul with every whiplash…such is her absolute desire. But the combs rush towards her, barring their canines, bunching up the free cascade of her hair, binding it into submission. ‘You are free!’ they assure her, ‘but keep within the circle’, they warn.
So what does she truly crave for? Once again I ask, what keeps her awake?
The answer is desire for feminine power…the power of the most powerful erotic being. Power shall burst forth, anarchic, chaotic; power desired in its barest of manifestations; and power that would enable her to render all things powerless. She also desires the power of visual presence- her presence, and the absence of all action. The mental capacity of all beings shall shrink to the mere space of her body. Yet, nowhere does she exude the slightest wisps of eroticism…but such is her misery….the bottled up desires frothing at the mouth, the desires that she dare not mouth. She desires for that which she does not have. No, she would not be content with the mere crown of queen. She would represent the queen as an icon of desire….unattainable desire translating into awe and willful subservience.
And now, their desires would be joined….unbridled desires shall pour forth. The potters-wheel has been summoned, wet clay lies ready…the process of sculpting to life the abstract eddies of desire would now begin. Now they would spill an enormous drop of ink right at the centre of the barren canvas and drag the tips of their pens from within that gleaming pool of ink, outwards, like words spilling out of a single drop of blood…...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
