Skies respond to randomness,
To random queries of space
To random queries of space scribbled upon post-its;
Scribbled on afternoons of gaping worthlessness…
Worthlessness of a Self gone cockeyed in concentration, concentrating upon the hand-me-down flap of sky-identical blue-
A hapless flap of blue ripped from above, fluttering against Big Bully scissors, quivering in anticipation of its’ own genesis,
A one-dimensional shadow Self ballooning out with each hefty tug of baby-blue-braided fabric trailing at shadow Self’s absolute end…
Like hand-pumps’ exhibitionist exercises in obedience.
Random assertions of space,
Skies respond to them at smug Art Movements
Dog-eared-skin-shedding walls conform to form rooms… art rooms robed in arty paraphernalia that embark upon mighty voyages of confluence
Haphazard confluence of paper thighs and cardboard arms stamped into fatalistic togetherness…
With Super Glue of course!
Shadow Self basking in exaggerated existence directs spit bubbles at sky blue,
Memories of sky-identical blue flushed down tunnels of forgetfulness as shadow Self plunges into brilliantly mythical pools of brick-red-life-blood and pulsating life flesh…
But remember, skies respond to randomness,
To random forgetfulness of flimsy origins
Of brilliantly mythical originary tales sprouting in black-robed-Times Roman across the fancy face of magazines, of arty magazines contemplating Art in practiced baritone,
Of arty magazines substantiating existence, ballooning out….ballooning out paper-in-Super-Glue creations to encompass Nature. Itself.
So. Skies retaliate.
Hapless flap of sky-identical blue glued back to blue.
To sky blue.
To the thing itself.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
A PRIVATE AFFAIR
We all deserve the flourish of a Flag…
A private Flag, stitched with precision along the terrain of pulsating skin;
Causing the furtive flutter of coarse fabric upon a private heartbeat, with the release of a private breath, with the unholy exchange of paper bags of Heaven across windows stamped on to weeping walls embracing dank private alleyways…
The flourish of a Flag. Private.
Rucksacks of paint inflict perforations on the self, spewing forth polychrome rivulets of Choice.
Shreds of white may be soaked to their bare threads to arise Phoenix-like,
to arise in tremulous Blue, or somber Green; to slip underneath stiff public portals cryptic assertions of Democracy, of Peace…of a violently homogeneous polity in a Future foreseen.
To parody Conformity in impish delight,
weave the Flags.
Don them like a Toga or a seven-yards-wonder perhaps.
Emboss on to Official Paper your mock-resignation to the colossal Theatre of Symbols which stages nightly vaudevillian puppetry;
The puppets of the Nation- Flag, Stamp, Anthem and all!
All! Lashed into agility by the frayed ropes of Geography…latitudes and longitudes fast fading into fragments of fiction!
And while Fiction is forged elsewhere, continue with the weaving,
Of a Private.
Of a Private, private Flag.
A private Flag, stitched with precision along the terrain of pulsating skin;
Causing the furtive flutter of coarse fabric upon a private heartbeat, with the release of a private breath, with the unholy exchange of paper bags of Heaven across windows stamped on to weeping walls embracing dank private alleyways…
The flourish of a Flag. Private.
Rucksacks of paint inflict perforations on the self, spewing forth polychrome rivulets of Choice.
Shreds of white may be soaked to their bare threads to arise Phoenix-like,
to arise in tremulous Blue, or somber Green; to slip underneath stiff public portals cryptic assertions of Democracy, of Peace…of a violently homogeneous polity in a Future foreseen.
To parody Conformity in impish delight,
weave the Flags.
Don them like a Toga or a seven-yards-wonder perhaps.
Emboss on to Official Paper your mock-resignation to the colossal Theatre of Symbols which stages nightly vaudevillian puppetry;
The puppets of the Nation- Flag, Stamp, Anthem and all!
All! Lashed into agility by the frayed ropes of Geography…latitudes and longitudes fast fading into fragments of fiction!
And while Fiction is forged elsewhere, continue with the weaving,
Of a Private.
Of a Private, private Flag.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
I WOULD IF I COULD
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 ?
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 ?
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…...
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
DOORBELLS
the mushroom sprouted...
it tore through your being,
a harvest unexpected, unwanted...
it was a blast, wasn't it?
a blast of colours...
colours?
hell yes!
colours unidentified,discomposed...
colours, whose searing blush imprinted on quivering skins, the patterns...
patterns of trivial life, imprinted on skins by the searing blush.
and colours, whose hue and tinge would be debated over still-
was it red? black? yellow? or white?
she was caught unaware...poor thing!
with a baby pink porcelain cup pressed to her lips,
the lips...
lips?
yes,lips....though charred to wooden silence, but lips still.
lips pressed to the cup...pressed in prayer...
a single urgent wisp of prayer, stillborn.
8:15 in the morning...
yes, 8:15 it was, when the postman yawned his way into your land...
into your land...
and dropped the Little Boy into your letter-box...
I shudder to behold doorbells-
they gleam a menacing shade of crimson...
the crimson of sudden mushroom harvests, of cloth-patterns embossed on skins,
of soft lips parched black, dripping tea-drops.
the crimson radiating off the bare backs of the world...
the doorbell....
the doorbell that hunts for answers, retaliation, a kick for a kick...
and so the dates are rolled out...like mock red carpets, one after the other-
1941 tied in a love-knot to 1945,
1945 furnishing its abode with reels of unyielding metallic curtains...
the metallic curtains, lovingly erecting haphazard walls...
the doorbell continues to ring...
a jarring sound that knows no respite.
you have to answer it, there is indeed,no respite...
and the mushroom sprouted....twice.
it tore through your being,
a harvest unexpected, unwanted...
it was a blast, wasn't it?
a blast of colours...
colours?
hell yes!
colours unidentified,discomposed...
colours, whose searing blush imprinted on quivering skins, the patterns...
patterns of trivial life, imprinted on skins by the searing blush.
and colours, whose hue and tinge would be debated over still-
was it red? black? yellow? or white?
she was caught unaware...poor thing!
with a baby pink porcelain cup pressed to her lips,
the lips...
lips?
yes,lips....though charred to wooden silence, but lips still.
lips pressed to the cup...pressed in prayer...
a single urgent wisp of prayer, stillborn.
8:15 in the morning...
yes, 8:15 it was, when the postman yawned his way into your land...
into your land...
and dropped the Little Boy into your letter-box...
I shudder to behold doorbells-
they gleam a menacing shade of crimson...
the crimson of sudden mushroom harvests, of cloth-patterns embossed on skins,
of soft lips parched black, dripping tea-drops.
the crimson radiating off the bare backs of the world...
the doorbell....
the doorbell that hunts for answers, retaliation, a kick for a kick...
and so the dates are rolled out...like mock red carpets, one after the other-
1941 tied in a love-knot to 1945,
1945 furnishing its abode with reels of unyielding metallic curtains...
the metallic curtains, lovingly erecting haphazard walls...
the doorbell continues to ring...
a jarring sound that knows no respite.
you have to answer it, there is indeed,no respite...
and the mushroom sprouted....twice.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
MIND IT?
how would it sound if she blew her nose on rich green satin?
would you wince? grimace perhaps? shake a disillusioned head at the depravity of a wanton age?
but is it not music still?
earnest attempts at the trumpet...pathetic, but earnest?
here! let me assist you-
a gentle puncture would do the trick...go forth! go, puncture those insidious pupils that are insomniac by choice, noting vigorously every minute detail of your life in artful shorthand from behind rich green satin curtains!
go and set ablaze every brewery frothing at the mouth with despicable precocious lies!
and now...
now the court would be adjourned, brick by brick.
jurymen would stumble in the dark, elbows kicking shins, knees punching bellies, angry curses wrestling each other for a firmer foothold...
come on! smile now!
the hegemony of the stiff-collars has perished, extermination of all pupils carried out with sparkling precision!
accept the anarchistic music with open arms!
poor girl, her nose will be spurting red streamers soon...
tell her! go, tell her!
tell her the party is elsewhere!
come on girl! welcome to the club!
would you wince? grimace perhaps? shake a disillusioned head at the depravity of a wanton age?
but is it not music still?
earnest attempts at the trumpet...pathetic, but earnest?
here! let me assist you-
a gentle puncture would do the trick...go forth! go, puncture those insidious pupils that are insomniac by choice, noting vigorously every minute detail of your life in artful shorthand from behind rich green satin curtains!
go and set ablaze every brewery frothing at the mouth with despicable precocious lies!
and now...
now the court would be adjourned, brick by brick.
jurymen would stumble in the dark, elbows kicking shins, knees punching bellies, angry curses wrestling each other for a firmer foothold...
come on! smile now!
the hegemony of the stiff-collars has perished, extermination of all pupils carried out with sparkling precision!
accept the anarchistic music with open arms!
poor girl, her nose will be spurting red streamers soon...
tell her! go, tell her!
tell her the party is elsewhere!
come on girl! welcome to the club!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
