Tuesday, 31 August 2010

Things have stopped making sense now
and I am going with the flow
I hope you get the drift?
(I'd rather you did not go.)
Nothing makes sense now.
Not me and not you. I want to talk in French.
And write French poetry in symbols.
Now go away. Otherwise I'll hit you with cymbals.

Saturday, 21 August 2010

last poem

last night

i had a strange dream

disconnected, dreary, dismal,

and dull

you think i remember it

(i don't)

the dream was almost in parenthesis

it had no punctuation

it had nothing

but yes, i thought it had meaning

but i woke up

and it ceased to be

like love

an eternal joke and farce

i saw you gone

and that was enough

anarchy------> freedom

love-------> indifference

death-------> absurd


give me universal darkness

and rid me of my technicolour dreams

and my sepia life. fuck you

pissoffs. fuck you.

i hate you i hate you i don't care

why too? mama tambien? why too?

i say (i fart) a humongous moo

and my turd is like glue

it sticks to me (i must not stick to you)


Liberty is not merely a statue in America.


they will build my bust
because they must
though all else be dust


sex is a nightmare

when you have no love

and love is boring

when you have no sex

and drugs are dangerous

when you have no life

and life is meaningless

when not punctuated

so my dreams, you pissoff

you must punctuate my dreams

and i will fight

to my dying breath

buying death

buying death

buying time too.

pissoffs pissoffs

i hate you.

hate your games

hate your names

this is my epic

and you are less

than my toothpick

you think pathos

i end in bathos


Freedom is when you hold your head high

from spondylosis.

Keep it up.

Tuesday, 17 August 2010

memory qua memory

I could see us, more than four years ago, standing and waiting for our place in the sun. Nervous, wary, fresh- we wanted to meet and mingle, I didn't know any one of us who wanted to be single. We laughed the precious and beautiful laughter of innocence- many of us weighed a few kilos less, the curves of her face were not yet put into place, for example. S. had more hair and more smiles, in fact he was even shy at times. S&S were young and all over each other wanting to make babies like crazy, at random places and at odd hours- who could stop the frenzy of early youth?

There were so many of us, A liked B and B liked C and C didn't like D ad infinitum. A and N were best friends until N never spoke to A again. The little petty intrigues and the bitter fallouts- the winter morning coffee and the endless semester exams, the smoke rising in sepia clouds, who can arrest the motion of time?

The old Milonda's/Ashirbad/jheelpaar. I fed the kaatla who fancied themselves to be dolphins. Bloody fish loved fish chops...what could one say to these performing animals? I remember going there with my first "crush" and moodily chewing the bread myself while he dusted a crumb off my nose. I bet he didn't know how excited that made an 18 year old feel, and how does it even matter, now that the contours of the faces have receded into the abysses of memory- who is he, and she, and they? Only certain friendships stand out- the ones which transcend the minutes, hours, days, months, years- and you forget everything about a span of three months other than your glorious drunk moment- garlanding Herbie Hancock. Yes THE Herbie!

Then one fell in love and it was beautiful, that first surrender of the self to something greater than the self- who would ever know or explain what that felt like? Language stops short, language cannot hope to contend with love or express it- i.e., the language that we are used to and who can claim to know a greater universal language than love? That first, imbecile love is madness- it happens without cause or effect, it is. It is a great moment of being, there is nothing to surpass this first step to self knowledge. So it happened to us. And we learnt.

It has been more than four years since we've been growing in this place and sometimes a dislocated moment can come and dislodge one from one's state of ease and tranquility. That is not to say that most memories are uncomfortable or exciting things. But two things happen simultaneously. Firstly, this is a bubble world. The real world is not like this, will never be like this. And the memories created in this world are even more unreal. They are fragments nay angles of a crystal, each is assimilated into a composite whole, we remember some, we associate others, but we cannot remember every detail- that is humanly impossible. Our bubble world is one that must sustain us through the most difficult and darkest hours of our hitherto adult life.

As the sun set over a glorious football field, as erstwhile friends and acquaintances and closest friends huddled over yet another bubble victory, one had a tipsy and giddy champagne moment. This then is life, the gradual accumulation of memory over memory, memory qua memory, and this insane need for that unreal and transient happiness. This is why we need love and appreciation- time is unkind, my friends. Time is a bitch. It kills you, and yet teaches you to love.

Friday, 13 August 2010

birthday :)

I miss writing on pen and paper. I think it's because I can't think creatively on pen&paper anymore, it's almost a disease now. I had blue cheese today, it was stinking and tasted overwhelmingly of cheese, there was only this singular omnipotent taste of cheese, it was frightening. But I don't think I understand this friend of mine, he's turning into something very strange and thoroughly inexplicable, watching him descend into madness is filling me with this almost surreal sadness- and he won't help me at all, he won't help, and how can he when he can hardly help himself?

So this blue cheese reminded me of some of our weakest moments; this gush of overwhelming (dis)taste, so refined that you cannot even say you dislike it, it's so sophisticated (like Henry James) that nobody can actually mention that they rather hate it. I ate it with a pinched expression implying martyrdom while really, nobody forced me to eat it-in fact I bought it myself. ("When's your first major novel going to be published?" asked the man who sold me the cheese and I smiled and said "Thank you, that would be all, I've quit smoking.") So help me God, all who descend into madness do it not out of choice, but out of utmost necessity.

Then he made me read a strange poem, a surreal birthday gift, and it struck me how unreal our birthdays really were, this birthday being decisive and signalling some sort of both ending and closure, but really how unreal are most of our expectations and desires? He made me read it-so fervent and illusory, I closed my eyes for there was this stab of sudden, strange pain. Mother would have called it dyspepsia but I knew better.
It was the pain of growing old.

Monday, 9 August 2010

I should really start writing again. I was thinking of whether to write on England trip but realized that it was more pathetic than funny at times (other than the conference, which was great.) The problem is absolutely NOBODY reads this blog anymore and I can't write for NOBODY, that wouldn't be any fun.

P.S. - I'm turning 22 soon. This is going to be even less fun. I started this blog 4 years ago. And nobody absolutely NOBODY reads it anymore.