Wednesday, 19 December 2007

Heh.Goonight.

Undress Gods and engage in puerile poetics.
Dream of exotic turtles in make-believe lands.
You could eat a chocolate bunny
Or some Awadhi biryani
And hope, hope that someone understands.

Rage, rage at the passing of the night.
It might be the very last night.
For such superbly cheap wine
It might be the very last night.
That you could you ever look so fine.
Or it might be the very last night.

Kiss, kiss before the tongue runs dry.
Or have you run out of people to kiss.
Not that exotic turtle surely
Though it’s very hard to miss.
And you could always say it’s the wine, superbly cheap.

And then if gods are cheap tarts
Not even prophets with prophecies
And peddle their dreams from ice cream carts.
Being either turtles or orange souffl├ęs-
With bluish-green snot in nose.

It is the very last night.
Goonight, sweet ladies. Goonight.

Friday, 16 November 2007

It's despair and departure time.
The abandoned stares into the November air.
November air is always heavy. With crises and rain.
With swan-love-songs and dirges.
And inarticulate pain.

There's a nip in the air
The abandoned shiver in the shade of the clouds
November is busy. With politics and games.
Sporting and sportive
They're terrible with names.

And now for the conclusion.
You had a way with words.
November was terrible. To say goodbye.
Finalities and such-like.
Well, it's nice actually. I,too, love to lie.

Wednesday, 15 August 2007

If I were a beginning, I would be: it was a dark and stormy night...
If I were a month, I would be:august
If I were a day of the week, I would be:friday
If I were a time of day, I would be:4 am
If I were a planet, I would be:venus
If I were a season, I would be: autumn
If I were a sea animal, I would be: sea anemone
If I were a direction, I would be: lost
If I were a piece of furniture, I would be:a book shelf,rather dusty
If I were a sin, I would be: lust
If I were a liquid, I would be: red wine
If I were a fraud/scare, I would be:
If I were a gem, I would be: ruby.
If I were a tree, I would be: neem
If I were a tool, I would be: hammer
If I were a flower/plant, I would be: sage(or thyme?)
If I were a kind of weather, I would be: stormy
If I were a musical instrument, I would be: sarod
If I were an animal, I would be: a lion
If I were an emotion, I would be: love
If I were a vegetable, I would be: olive
If I were a sound, I would be: the soft rustle of leaves
If I were an element, I would be: fire
If I were a car, I would be: vintage
If I were a song, I would be: scarborough fair
If I were a food, I would be:liquer chocolate
If I were a place, I would be: Calcutta
If I were a material, I would be: cotton
If I were a taste, I would be: acquired
If I were a scent, I would be: lingering
If I were a religion, I would be: pagan
If I were a sentence, I would be: twenty years, without parole.
If I were a body part, I would be: lips
If I were a facial expression, I would be: receptive
If I were a subject in college, I would be:literature
If I were a shape, I would be: cloud-like
If I were a quantity, I would be: infinite
If I were a colour, I would be: red
If I were a thing, I would be: a large umbrella
If I were a landmass, I would be: the Himalayas
If I were a book, I would be: Through the Looking Glass.Or Gitobitan.
If I were a monument, I would be: The Lighthouse at Alexandria.
If I were an artist, I would be: a nameless exponent of traditional folk art.Like Patachitra.
If I were a collection of poems, I would be: Twenty Love Poems and A Song Of Despair.
If I were a landscape, I would be: one painted by Monet.
If I were a watch, I would be: one painted by Dali.Melting.
If I were God, I would be: Teutonic.Or Shiva.
If I were a vowel, I would be: O
If I were a consonant, I would be: M
If I were a formula, I would be: hypothetical
If I were a Science, I would be: Physics
If I were a theory, I would be: chaos
If I were a famous person, I would be: Feynman
If I were an electronic equipment, I would be:Bose Speakers
If I were a sport, I would be: spoil(sport)
If I were a movie, I would be: Some Like It Hot
If I were a cartoon, I would be: dexter
If I were an explorer, I would be: i know what i wouldn't be.an imperialist/colonizer
If I were a scientist, I would be: Galileo
If I were a relation, I would be: nameless
If I were a river, I would be: any of the following; Nile,Tigris,Ganges.
If I were intoxication, I would be:i know what you would be.Driven insane.
If I were alone, I would be: happy, and thoughtful.And eating chocolate.
If I were a question, then I would be: "Do I dare to eat a peach?"
If I were a hobby, I would be: not productive, but satisying.
If I were a habit, I would be: crapping.
If I were an end, I would be: merely The Beginning, as they used to say in Hindi films of yesteryears.

Wednesday, 1 August 2007

Lollipops.

Often I feel like a child with a
Lollipop, brutally taken away
By force.And then the bullies
Chop!Off went their tongues.

Brutal, sadistic, bad
are our souls, vengeful and mad,
I like it that way.So interesting.
And so eternally sad.

Lollipops evolve, as we do,
metaphors change and take shape,
sometimes we might see them through
and sometimes we are chopped.

Brutal, sadistic and sad am I
Brutal and bad are you
I love it the way we might be,
Chopped.Cannibals.Chew.

Sunday, 22 July 2007

Potter&Me

Once upon a time there was another universe for children created by a woman who earned lots of money.
I grew up in that universe.It was an intrinsic part of my formative years, my puberty, my teenaged years and just as I'm about to leave my teenage behind, Harry ends.
About a year back, college was a big thing...couln't be seen as a Pottermaniac...wasn't quite cool. Those were things left behind.Like bikele khelte jawa and Dexter's Laboratory.Besides, I wasn't a fantasy-fiction addict-that is to say, that I had read a lot of the stuff but I was not completely into it. No such parallel world was mine, as was the world of Harry Potter. I couldn't imagine the psyche of a true LOTR fan.It just didn't include ME in that world. I was an outsider, not there sukhe dukhhe.
Harry Potter happened to me when I was in Class 6. 11 years old.And that was it. This series has been a phenomenon, a cult phenomenon.The prose is nothing fancy, elaborate but...
The issues?Universal.
The style?Addictive.
The characters?Flawed.But capable of much greatness.
I keep trying to analyse what makes these books so powerful, but tonight I can't do that. For I have just finished the Deathly Hallows.And my heart is quite constricted.Such is the magic they have wrought.
Not one for criticism, this.
Purely for magical purposes only.

Thursday, 5 July 2007

Hummingbirds don't hum...or do they?

The saxophone blares above the sorrowful strains of the sarod. And sudden drumbeats enter the trope. I am scared of the music. I am scared of you. I am scared of me.
I fear that your humming shall drive me mad. It is monotonous and everlasting. I close my eyes to keep the sounds out. For a moment. When I open my eyes you are gone. But the humming remains. I fear I no longer love you. It is because you have made yourself smaller and faster than a hummingbird and flown away. The bird has flown away. Only the humming remains.
I need a drink of water. I find something sticky instead. Is it sweat? It is glue. I drink it anyway. I wish to vomit. But the innards stick. And the sarod sings sorrowfully.
You are a purist. Instruments don’t sing. They hum? But that makes you an instrument. I don’t understand. You say they vibrate. As far as I remember we all do. In our limited capacities. I am now scared of me. I am scared of all my molecules that spin. And hum. The humming drives me mad, I tell you.
But you have flown away.
When the humming stops it’s the sarod, and when the sarod stops it’s the silence and when the silence stops…

“Where did you discover the body? Oh how dreadfully mutilated! How sad! Where’s the musician? Gone? That always happens. She died strangled with a sarod string, you say? That’s impossible. They’re awfully delicate. They snap at a moment’s notice. I am talking about the string she apparently killed herself with, not the girl, you stupid hummingbird…”

Wednesday, 4 July 2007

Rain

I live amidst a lake, a veritable lake. Many life forms inhabit this lake.I do not, as of yet.Tomorrow morning shall see.
Marooned at home I have sworn no more bad poetry, not even in the throes of great feeling.
Much Old English.
We shall see.

Wednesday, 20 June 2007

Death.

Death. A casual whisper, a jibe, a threat, an insult...all in a light vein.
How easily one utters the word without sparing a thought for the actual magnitude of the event.
And how suddenly it strikes without warning one stray morning...
Death.
Those who used to jeer at an abrupt ending, or any sort of ending, did so half heartedly. An ending is unpleasant.Because it's morning and the usual chaos continues unabated.
Death.This man introduced Mr.Eliot to me.Mr.Eliot, the banker and the poet.He also spoke of Sriman Shakti Chattopadhyay's spirit-ual habits.With equal ease he could speak of quarks and quirks, cliches and clerks, physics and IAS perks.
This man is dead.
Most people who knew him in his last days would say the genius of the man killed him.His lungs failed to work but he would chew his cigar with the same concentration and work on electromagnetic fields.His friends came to see him on weekends.His family was scattered -alienated by his terrible terrible behaviour.
He was brilliant.Brilliant in the old style sense of the word.Not the new fangled concept of superficial sheen but possessing a profound knowledge of all things.He had a few favourites-Wodehouse,Shakespeare, T.S.Eliot,Lewis Carroll and Einstein.Oh yes, and the Bible.He would quote lines from these often and quiz me.However, I was supposed to be doing physics and maths.He gave up on the Scientific Ahona soon enough.He called me a dhyaronsh,not in a derogatory manner but in a resigned and affectionate way.It was a pleasure to have been an erstwhile veggie I must say.
This man is dead.
He died of drink and nicotine.He grappled with demons.Existential demons.Also the system.This mediocre and corrupt system exhausted him.He was often wont to say Something is rotten in the State Of Denmark and also The tiger in the tiger pit/Is not more irritable than I.
Which is true but then again not.
Dear Arka Jethu, you cannot be dead.But you are.I know you are snorting and passing snide comments wherever you are and thinking that so many people you heartily disliked turned up to see you turn into ashes at Keoratala.And also how, with a terribly snide and subtle touch, the cynic is bid adieu with great solemnity at Keoratala.

Goodbye Jethu.Sorry for doodling and scribbling when you tried to make me understand the intricacies of the universe.
You didn't understand death either.You just said it wasn't an equation.

Nor dread nor hope attend
A dying animal;
A man awaits his end
Dreading and hoping all;
Many times he died,
Many times rose again.
A great man in his pride
Confronting murderous men
Casts derision upon
Supersession of breath;
He knows death to the bone
Man has created death.
(Yeats, yet another of his favourites)

Tuesday, 19 June 2007

Die, Die,Die.

As Mike Teevee, character out of Willy Wonka, once succinctly put it..."Die!Die!Die!"
I have a few questions to ask mankind in general...
1.Aunts aren't gentlemen but why aren't they human?
2.What is the lumbar region made of?Why does it hurt so?
3.Are all cousins terrors?What makes them yell like banshees without provocation?Do they all pinch for recreation?Why does my cousin pinch, yell and punch for pure sportive pleasure?
4.When I asked my cousin whether it was fair game to treat my stomach as punching bag she beamed and whispered "It's a fair sport..."
5.Why does my maid labour under the dismal delusion that that insipid pale shimmering liquid that makes me sob for my good strong black cuppa is tea?
6.Am I a latent Mike Teevee with hidden homicidal talents?
Latent= anagram of talent
7.Are Aunts reborn as Aunts i.e., to the same person?
8.Are Cousins reborn as Cousins or worse still Siblings i.e., to the same person?!!!
9.Is Lumbar Spondylosis a recurrent feature of Reincarnation?
10.If I yell Die!Die!Die! very loudly and very strongly and with a great deal of passion, will there be a holocaust?Even a miniature family version?

To all those who died at the hands of others
Fathers, mothers, sisters and brothers
Uncles, aunts, cousins and nieces
Along with those who rest in shattered pieces
May living man take note of what he's done
And not hand down this cruel streak to his daughter or his son.

Saturday, 16 June 2007

a stray mutter

Sometimes, just sometimes, I don't wish to write a Blog Post on an empty stomach.This is beacuse it invariably makes the post so...well hungry.Depressed.Typical and montonously so. The only word I can find for it is ekgheye.
Anyway this is a strange refection now.Now is the state of flux, that time of the (academic) year when there are finalities, and new beginnings.People one adores are leaving (and I write this on an empty stomach.Fortitude, thy name is Pun-da).Also may be a pretty rotten bunch are about to enter my life and since I hate gossip and trouble and messy kids and in general most people...ah well.
Also I wonder: why did the Corrs completely transit to Pop?I loved them at one point of time.The strains of that violin...ooh...and flute...Hmphh.It just shows.I just detest transition!Yes, well.I forgive them for Toss The Feathers, the sheer energy and verve of which can also transform.
There are many types of transformation.
BUT there is only one kind of curtain.
Yellow.
Maddening,annoying, peaceful, familiar, oxymoronic yellow.

Right.Anybody checked out the World View bookstore back at JOOD?The cat's whiskers I callit.Delicious!I just wished I wasn't so monetarily challenged when I entered.Also it would be nice if they placed a few seats here and there. Erm, ok.Yes.Next in line cha bar.

Tuesday, 12 June 2007

Admissions, and some other Nuggets of Nothingness.

Lightening. Ooooh.

Shall we pour our heart out for posterity’s sake, or should we go for dinner, as the gong resounds in ones stomach?
I think we should look natty, and wear interesting socks and headgear. After that I am all for some dinner, which should include mushrooms and cheese in whichever capacity they choose to be in.
So striped socks deserve mushrooms, you ask, and I nod my head. Why are we trying to be all confused? It is a most disagreeable state to be in, only surpassed by hunger, which, one might add, is also disgruntling and disgusting.
We all seem to be waiting for the Great Carnival coming up soon.

Headgear, hats, caps, bonnets and those events from Nepal (wink wink nudge nudge), also other debatable carnivalesque modes of defiance. I have been thinking (nudge wink again) and a question, a FAQ, pops into my head.
Food?
In these vast processions of mass mayhem, canine confusion (alright, alright), dastardly deeds, Herculean Henchmen, Polite but in much Pain Professors, and eager beaver parents with wayward wards who give every entrance examination under the sun, and are waiting for final medical lists in Universitus Obscurus, in all useless things we succeed (speaking all the while Lingua Northumbrian).
Yes, yes. We look dandy. It’s the candy. (Today liquor is not quicker)… but what if the dreaded Pangs Of Hunger strike while yelling at a parent who is busy mutilating Beloved Offspring’s Fellow Contenders or, BOFC. BOFCs are vile things and one must kill them. The most potent weapons in order of efficiency and potency;
1. Body Odour- position your arm so, and hear the thud, which potential BOFC standing next to you makes.
2. Elbow. Practice from a month before to make it hard and deadly. One strategic poke/dig and BOFC drifts to heaven without a staircase.
3. Umbrella- that staple of all I Shall Need To Wipe ANYBODY Out missions, BOFCS wouldn’t know what struck them. It can be camouflaged as a shield against the merciless June sun. Except your son would know whose Pop is the Merciless Weasel.
4. Bombs- plant bombs in toilets for BOFCs who will visit in the coming moments. Don’t worry. They all do, accompanied by their parents since the stress is killing and they forget how to urinate. Parents probably make hissing noises and cheer on bowel movements. It is a stress-relieving activity also for parents. It irritates the professors and makes the students wonder. The flipside is that we will all die.
5. Food- tempt the volunteers with food and make them your devoted slaves. They will bark for you, they will kill BOFCs for you. Poison a portion and offer that to BOFCs.

After every successful mission we will all dance, in utmost Carnivalesque fervour, to My Baby Does The Hanky Panky.

Now I am very hungry. So goodbye. Definitely more on this later.

Friday, 8 June 2007

Wee hours of morning mourning alone with the crows and the silence and the
Solitude.

Mourning for those extinguished each morning with memories wiped out with morning cuppa papa she says I want a horse to ride in metropolis from maidan to murshidabad where the nawabs stayed near a bend in the river giver she said give me my horse like banbury cross the lady who rode toed and ringed singed with the fire of unearthly desire to preserve memories in time rhyme metrically geometrically give me a horse hoarse with desire sire…

Daughter he said dead with the weight of hope elope he said wed in murshidabad some old time crook look at him bring him to book nook cranny granny he mentioned pensioned you thought well they forgot ask her the stories of maidan to murshidabad she too felt so many things rings on her toes nobody knows the bend in the river giver am I you think in a blink of the I …

Father she sighed bride eye cannot be me granny is dead last winter ma she said but you misheard bird you thought some other bird crows maybe nobody knows glows in the dark like memories she sees she told me all before she died cried that is why I ask for horse remorse for all the bends amends eye never saw raw regret we never met but now how it is time for some sublime…

Daughter he wailed failed am I then as son one whose mother is dead fed up son never heard bird song only raucous wails fails the crow I do not know mother is dead all the stories from maidan to murshidabad unheard untold old woman died pride all lost cost who will pay day after day tell me daughter slaughter the son questions answers who is to say…

Father she sings maidan to murshidabad move not in rings go get your things if I am old enough you can be bold enough let me go know that the future is to story preserve and try deserve the efforts to drink rather than sink the river giver all that it is I look at the bend I call it friend and it tells me what I should say day after day and I tell you father you too shall pray…


And maidan to murshidabad the people they say
Stories, our stories, their stories…
Day after day.

Wednesday, 6 June 2007

In dusty corners of old forgotten attics where memories and broken nostalgia mingle to hate our existence where we met many years ago when the dirt was less but still considerable where we made erotic gestures like batting eyelids and other things there I know you wait endlessly for me but I don’t have the courage to return…

In the cool riverside breeze of the last millennium with gothic pillars and white magnificence there I know you also wait for me to gaze at sinking horizons in the calm serenity of renewed vigour and youth for I know that the river is older than our love…

In the sublime snowscapes of old half-remembered dreams in which snowball fights decided the winner or loser of an unequal match where both parties wanted to make utter hatred in cozy log cabins and blue tinged green veined red cheeks looked like luscious apples…

In the myopic vision of many lost generations who believed that love was immortal splendid sad but did not know how to translate this and got married got disillusioned had children who also did the same whose initial grand visions ended in sordid divorce and they knew not the scope of true love…

In the universe of our many delusions only one thing do I know with certainty that I have loved and my love was true and so did you and we wait for eternity to end so that we can reunite for this bitter joy is what sustains us this never being together this eternal anticipation and constricted feeling at the same time liberating…

Thus ends the saga and thus begins it for in our end lies our beginning and we shall meet in those sepia attics and the whiteness until universal darkness shall engulf us in a different understanding
and still may we love…

Monday, 4 June 2007

When It's Almost Tuesday

When It's Almost Tuesday, Midnight.

Dearee Dooooo....
Midnight beckons with silver wings
Like all pretty witty things
Hot as Hortense, sad as sapphire
this weather is not what i desire
Come take me to Trollish Delights
Where we while away the nights
In fluorescent memories obscene
Vulgar in tone, colour green.
Come let us go to OceanBlue
where the fishies fishy you
And then in a little glen
We shall practise a little zen
Come take me to Viagra Falls
where the phone is immune to calls
the Dog, at least, so has decreed
Brood not, unless you Breed.

Thursday, 31 May 2007

I have been tagged by the brilliant and narcisstic Oliver. The problem is: I haven't read for a loooong time.

total number of books owned
700 or some such figure.Many lie in cartons.Many lie in peoples houses.Blast them.In fact, many are Enid Blytons.

last books i bought
My wild wild ways- Errol Flynn.
Duplicate Death- Georgette Heyer.
The Portrait Of the Artist As A Young Man- James Joyce.

last books i read
refer above and,
Points Of View-W.Somerset Maugham
Herbert- Nabarun Bhattacharya

books i am currently reading
From Hell-Alan Moore
The Unbearable Lightness of Being-Milan Kundera

five books that i have really enjoyed or that have influenced me
100 years of solitude- Gabriel Garcia Marquez
heart of darkness- Joseph Conrad
Lolita-Vladimir Nabokov
Of Human Bondage- W. Somerset Maugham
Blandings Castle- P.G.Wodehouse
In an Antique Land-Amitava Ghosh
Waiting For The Barbarians, and Foe- J.M.Coetzee
Maus 1 and 2-Art Spiegelman.
1,2,3...Infinity- George Gamow
White Teeth-Zadie Smith.
Jagori-Satinath Bhaduri
Wait!That's not five.Hmmm.Could never really count.Ah,
Brighton Rock-Graham Greene.
The Collected Works Of T.S.Eliot.
Aam Aantir Bhepu-Bibhutibhushan Bandopadhyay
Quiet Flows the Don- Mikhail Sholokhov
There are, of course, many more.Lack of space. :(

books that i plan to buy next
any number of graphic novels which are too expensive :(

books that caught my attention but never read
Satanic Verses.This shall be remedied as soon as possible.

books i own but never got around to reading
On Beauty. Zadie Smith at her worst.Well, I tried.
Finnegan's Wake, James Joyce. I can't even find it now.

Wednesday, 30 May 2007

Dull Monotones and Bright Sunlight

When it's very hot( like now) I feel like a fizzy drink. Any drink with fizziness and minus dizziness is good for (my) bizzyness. So i'm drinking Lehar Club Soda and all because my father commented on my rapidly bloating physique; and he said(randomly, as usual)...
"I believe both your legs would together weigh about 30 kgs.The right would weigh 17 kilos, and the left about 13.I think you should refrain from kicking anybody or anything as of now."
Really, he can be very very rude.
My room,which is in shades of pleasant yellow, only seem to remind me of startling bilious sunlight. To escape the pain I went to a rooftop pub on Lindsay Street, i.e., in Lindsay Hotel called the Blue and Beyond.
Contrary to popular perception or expectation it is not done up in shades of blue.
But you can see a lot of Calcutta from there so i like it.
I went with a friend of mine who I have stood up more times than I care to recall and she cares to forget. However, I was as late as usual as we made our way to this li'l place of my choice and she made me part with 40 precious bucks to get a pack of 20...and why?
Oh they were coffee flavoured...
En route so I bade the 40 bucks bye bye and then we ascended. It was hot but they have this air conditioned glass cage thing and we entered. In recent time, I am completely bronchially butchered. I was dying for some strong chilled beer.Literally dying.
Nursing my cold, I ordered a pot of hot coffee.
Regular?Black?Milk?Vant?
I don't know why the waiter was doing his best to make me feel inept, stupid and sad.
Coffee.
Regular would be best.
Coffee.
PLEASE!

Friend:I'm hungry
Me:I have no money.
Friend:I have some.
Me:Be sure of it before we order.
Waiter:*polite cough*
Yes ma'am?
Firangis at neighbouring table: *animated gibberish*

waiter takes away ash tray.
Friend: This is symbolic.
Me: Amar kashi pachhe.
Friend:Let's ask him to parcel the food.
Me: But there are only a few puny pieces of babycorn left.Ya, so let's.

Three hours are over. We have consumed only a mocktail and a pot of coffee, and the cheapest starter on the menu(vegetarian).It is time to leave. We ask for the bill.

Friend:Pay for the coffee and the VAT.
Me: I hate VAT.Does it include service tax?
Friend:No.
Me: Will you tip?
Friend:No money.You?
Me:Yup

*pregnant pause*

We pay the bill. And run.

Saturday, 26 May 2007

what is so french about your omelette?

Erm.

nothing in particular.
the cheese was rotting on thursday, but he said that's a delicacy.
so we're going to have stinky rotten cheese coz a loser says that's a delicacy.
and the vinegar soaked olives i'm sure is a tithe we have to pay that thief who filches sensibilities on sunday evenings by the pool...

and shall he partake too of french omelette?

everybody has french omelette,it's a fad
and like all fads has a time span
and like all time spans is relative
and like all relatives are unwelcome...
ergo french omelette is unwelcome!

oh woe the day!

oh my sensibilities, oh the lack of activities, oh this abysmal loss of voice, oh why oh why do we exist...

it's the cheese!now i know...i know...the fuckin rotten stinky cheese...that's what we live for and not the olives...

THE OMELETTE, DEAR SIRS, MAY CONTAIN OLIVES AND CHEESE BUT THE ESSENTIAL INGREDIENT IS EGG.

and the "french" bit is just affectation, excuse the poor git who knows no better

Friday, 25 May 2007

Smoke.

Ash strewn upon the ground
Making a whispering sound
Smoke to the soul bound

Ash strewn upon the soul
Smoke made a cogent whole
Is your life on a roll

Questions that the hungry ask
When they’re put to task
Smoky eyes behind the mask

Smoke curling into rings
Remember all the bitter things
We did in boxing rings

Questions that the thirsty drink
Hovering at the brink
O sea I swim not I sink

Candlelit and smoky eve
The sun has downed so shall we grieve
There is no reprieve

Smoke is in my soul
Fragmented as much as whole
Paying a daily toll

Eyes ask questions of the night
And dance in the candlelight
Until the ash is out of sight.

Thursday, 3 May 2007

why do cows sing afternoon songs?

1. mangoes
2.yorkshire pudding
3.kebabs, you buffoon
4.the timely release of dung
5.a creole continuum
6.bovine bravado
7. evening blues
8. midweek madness
9. death of a salesman
10.moooooo........

moo, methinks.
perchance to bark.

Wednesday, 18 April 2007

4 am at morning.

Every morning, at about 4, when the world starts waking up, I go to sleep.
Don't ask me why, but sometimes the sounds of dawn are so beautiful that my insomnia seems insignificant in comparison.
the fan whirrs overhead
and the crow caws gently, in a haze of incomprehension
shokaal hoyechhe naki?
but it's not morning yet,it's in-between and trying to sleep in this period of transition
is well, difficult
plus I'm hungry,really hungry
my punctuation and grammar disintegrate...dissolve into waves of fatigue that ask my fingers to stop typing
and the mind to go on
and the stomach says,
shokaal to holo
ebar ektu khete toh paro
and i'm hungry,really hungry
but i know that i'll fall asleep in about 20 minutes
and when I wake up
the sounds will be a lot different
and i'll feel as if i need cha more than i need food
i'll be late, for everything, as usual.
Forgive me, all those inconvenienced
especially,my stomach....

Tuesday, 6 February 2007

French Omelette

Delectable dreams.
Candi(e)d revelations.
Mad margarine and messy marmalade.
I'm a French Omelette.

I live in a saprophytic,not symbiotic,cosmos.
Mushrooms.(Seriously).And I turn down
Onion Soup.Tastes somewhat like grass.
Not the intoxicating variety.

Will you take me to a chapel?
To offer prayers?Can a French Omelette pray?Is it allowed?
Would it have been better
had there been some olives(in me)?

Olive branches being,you know, symbolic.
You have them in pieces of peace,corny
and cliched as it sounds.
Being transcendental art,or thereabouts.
Akin to me.

I wasn't born to be breakfast.

Born for greater things?Like a square meal?
No;not born symmetrical.
Born sad.

Ah,said the discerning gourmand:
Alienation.

Utopia

vast despairing dark deeds Death dormant mere words or mortal aspirations
and some such things like melancholy
laughter at unsubtle humour or pauses without punctuation and
blatant bad breath or other afflictions.
disjointed Joyce-like latin american you-know-what mojo stories violence and love
and hatred and sex but all without rhyme and reason to water plants of insanity,
insincerity strikes like rabies ;to die of hydrophobia and you wake up and find
dogs and cats and rats all vampyre bats
blood sucking instruments of poetic justice. but you don't think it matters much when
the debate is poetic justice versus poetic liberty because all roads lead to Rome
Gypsies don't call Bohemia home and Utopia is a land no map will show
Only your mind which moves about like your mojo and mainly vegetables don't grow
much in kitchen gardens in this Utopia
no punctuation again no cause for much pause-only obsessive dreams and angst ridden ideas
as expectations exceed the insincerity
insanity bites the dust lust you must...
where are you when they kill your neighbour
where are you when they kill your child
where are you when they kill you
you should attend your post mortem and a most post-conscious concept to do so
you can see your heart and kidney and spleen and your bile and your brain and all that is green
and call your journey through some strange idiotic epic,some land
only a utopian or some such understands. give of your best to the master what master
comma or coma or trauma and you know that they don't want to know
who's dead;wouldn't mind it so if it was you and you and you and you....
dimensionless-Death and all the stories of endless lifetimes and eternal sorrows
trial-tribulations-jubilation-celebration-
without pause or punctuation but with mojo
like all higher feelings all together now and call me later;please call will you; I love you and I love it and I love shit and I love liberty and equality and mojo
and endless decisions and never any justice.