Monday, 31 May 2010

crisis

I don't know how to explain this crisis, if I said that I wanted to end it all-it would be a lie, and I can't lie well nowadays, for they're letting sleeping dogs lie BUT
1. I'm not a dog
2. I never sleep
3. so how can I lie?
But therefore things are becoming so intolerably intolerable, I feel like gargling warm Dead Sea water and I wonder whether that would just kill me and end it all, or whether my throat would float?

See, at times, I'm all flowers, and then suddenly it's all weed, and it is then that I miss you Aldous Huxley, what Brave New World of many perceptions have you unfolded for me. But you-you ingrate infidel #1 (Mr. Bheeet-gone-swine)-why must you be so bothered about nothing at all? You think you are Ze Alpha and Ze Omega, but I am Mega, Mega, Megahertz and I will drown in you in my endless sea of decibels. I will shout out your existence since this is the week of politicians.

And the marble cracks and the stone topples, a child's laughter rings in my ears, he is so infinitely beautiful and yet never mine....tomorrow I go to the Passport Office, tell me what flight can take me away from here? It is impossible, I am bound here like a little errant marijuana leaf stuck to the last rolling paper. You cannot smoke me, nor can you throw me away...and yet adulterated with nicotine, I shall vaporize soon, away into the ether, along with your difficult, troubled, adolescent dreams.

Friday, 28 May 2010

Lamp.

Moments of colour, these are moments of colour, as orange runs into green
and red runs into blue, and then yellow merges into a startling shade
of spleen. Colour is true, and I love colour, the universe is so splendid
and I am so happy.

How can I explain it? A lamp of coloured glass, broken bits of coloured glass
stuck to each other, stuck to one another, and forming a coagulated mass
and inside a bulb glows, tungsten and fine-
This lamp is mine.

I was thinking of metaphysics. I was thinking of being.
My epistemological ennui *yawn* made me unseeing
and then the lethargy drops, I feel less damp
My eyes turn on their own
Toward my beautiful lamp.


Words fail me when I see red green blue and words fail me when I think
of the true. Questions and answers that sophists have sought
Everything is so unimportant and the rest I forgot
Green was my friend's parrot who was forced to fly away
Red were the chillies that were fed him by day
Yellow was the sunshine that blinded my love
and blue is the ocean that awaits me above
and pink is the sky of my evening pain
and black is the absence
I search for in vain.

All these colours meet in my lamp. They burst into riot, they cry out my name
and they make my universe, oh who would ever be the same-
after they have seen this epiphany of light?
Colours so lovely, you laugh and you cry
you sparkle and sigh
The constellations twinkle in agreement polite
The lamp is the true star,what a beautiful night. :)

Look at the sky. Can it be true?

From twilight to darkness
Horizons must shrink
Solitude's starkness-
The evening so pink.

*****

The pinkness of the evening
is almost a joke.
Look at the sky. Can it be true?
And think about it.
I waited for you.

*******

Pastorals are written
By men in the town
Who sleep with whores
When the sun comes down.
My grief is flimsy
My language is bad
But will you believe me
When I say that I'm sad?

*******

And all around me
Softly falls night
The city then wakes up
Puts on the light-
Or should it be plural? So many lights
Dispelling the grief of so many nights.

But night alone stands, Night.
Never to be lightened.
Around me, nausea tightened
its hold. Its hold, like sticky glue.
Look at the sky. Can it be true?

Wednesday, 12 May 2010

On reading.


What is literature? Where does its unique appeal lie? Human beings constantly struggle to overcome the reality (call it truth if you will) of death. So they tell stories. We enjoy tea, alcohol, nicotine, chocolate, marijuana-each to his/her own- and we build relationships. We read philosophy, we read tabloids, we read palms even. All a futile search for meaning, for constructing ourselves and others. Then one day, someone realizes the bare minimum. He questions the very nature of our paltry existences, and this questioning is often termed "modern", we learn to see ourselves and the world differently.

And then you read one book of 110 pages, and realize that there is something just beyond our grasp, and one hasn't changed the slightest bit after a period of many years. Still, questioning, thinking, fable-making, as one did at the age of 10 after reading The Little Prince.

Why? Because at the end of the day, what else is there to confront (even if one does not fly as a pilot in the 1930s) other than the wind, sand and stars? We're all building stories, futile sandcastles on an endless beach or an eternal desert, until the moment of death. We are our own living, pulsating, laughing, crying, throbbing, dying literatures. Fiction-in-endless-making. Then Kaput!