Once in a while
I try to look away
Once in a while
I look away
Once in a while
You make me fumble
Once in a while
I fumble
Once in a while
You come silently and sit next to me
Once in a while
Silence comes and sits between us
Once in a while
Sun hides behind you
Once in a while
it’s the winter sun
Once in a while
Time leaps
Once in a while
I don’t chase it
Once in a while
Dreams wake up by my side
Once in a while
They sleep walk into the dark
Once in a while
I float
Once in a while
I flutter
Once in a while
It rains!
Once in a while
It rains.
Friday, September 2, 2011
the weather man
A breeze unaware,
of a quiet storm it brews.
rain unaware,
of the hail, of the snow.
the light unaware,
of the black it conceals.
black comes in shades, plenty.
the blackest black she shows.
seasons have never been more seasonal.
she knows not where her heart lies.
i dread being her weather-man.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
love not
love stolen glimpses
love the long stares
love not, the eyes that know no language
love being seen from a mile
love being seen amongst thousand prying eyes
love not, the eyes that meet only behind doors
love hearing what you never say
love hearing you say things i never say
love not, to overhear things i wish you'd never say
love morning alarms
love midnight coffee
love stealing minutes, losing hours
love life
love not, life
love the long stares
love not, the eyes that know no language
love being seen from a mile
love being seen amongst thousand prying eyes
love not, the eyes that meet only behind doors
love hearing what you never say
love hearing you say things i never say
love not, to overhear things i wish you'd never say
love morning alarms
love midnight coffee
love stealing minutes, losing hours
love life
love not, life
Monday, February 2, 2009
Boys don’t cry
Men can’t cry
Tried not to
Wiped them with restless palms.
Ironed out my puckered brows.
Tongued my lips into a smile-like formation
Unnoticed, they seeped in
Welled up in corners
Blatantly refused to dry up
Now, expected without forecasts on an overcast day
Or, maybe on a sunny day
Warnings issued.
“Tissues roll up to fight the impending floods”
“Tissum Tissum cries the world in unison”
“Tissues running out of paper”
“Trees uproot by themselves to get it rolling”
“Last tree on earth to uproot today”
“Watch movies. Donate books. Who the fuck reads them anyways!”
“Newspapers go online”
“A new study shows advanced long term memory loss in children; causes unknown”
“Studies reveal that white board learning affects long term memory”
“Invest in multi-story apartments and live for a day longer”
“800 die as a multi-storey building collapses”
“Swimming lessons to rip your pockets”
“After Vietnam, Afghanistan too sends their first man on moon”
“NASA bombs Quaida997A”
“Fear of death plays with hormones‘
“Couples copulating at public places on a rise”
“Live your last moments in mother’s lap. ‘Mother’s Lap’ now open at Goregaon (opposite Mashoor Babubhaiya mithaiwale)”
Men can’t cry
Tried not to
Wiped them with restless palms.
Ironed out my puckered brows.
Tongued my lips into a smile-like formation
Unnoticed, they seeped in
Welled up in corners
Blatantly refused to dry up
Now, expected without forecasts on an overcast day
Or, maybe on a sunny day
Warnings issued.
“Tissues roll up to fight the impending floods”
“Tissum Tissum cries the world in unison”
“Tissues running out of paper”
“Trees uproot by themselves to get it rolling”
“Last tree on earth to uproot today”
“Watch movies. Donate books. Who the fuck reads them anyways!”
“Newspapers go online”
“A new study shows advanced long term memory loss in children; causes unknown”
“Studies reveal that white board learning affects long term memory”
“Invest in multi-story apartments and live for a day longer”
“800 die as a multi-storey building collapses”
“Swimming lessons to rip your pockets”
“After Vietnam, Afghanistan too sends their first man on moon”
“NASA bombs Quaida997A”
“Fear of death plays with hormones‘
“Couples copulating at public places on a rise”
“Live your last moments in mother’s lap. ‘Mother’s Lap’ now open at Goregaon (opposite Mashoor Babubhaiya mithaiwale)”
Thursday, January 8, 2009
THANKS BHAVNA.
NO is the biggest smallest word.
I haven’t learnt to say it yet.
Hold your breath when she is sleeping.
Accidentally discovered lanes.
Let go
Do a Delhi to Rishikesh on foot
A cycle ride with someone in the fields
Get to know mother’s secrets and not judge her
Settle down mentally and emotionally, not literally and socially
Stop looking for warmth
Stop making a mess of relationships
Someday I will cross it all. And get there.
wet pebbles, railings
One-night stands reluctantly co-exist with the search for true love.
Hearts that curl up with fear of commitment also nurse the desire to commit and surrender to someone like they did in old love stories.
Smoke filled late hours of the night and fog full early mornings, how do you ever make a choice?
How would it be if we could contract a certain sort of alzheimer's in which we could choose what we want to forget? And light moments that are over and cause intense pain because they are over.
Go Goa and you don’t lose something? Sense of time and sense of control. The white sand beneath as the waves come rushing by. The colour of your skin. Many lose their virginity
Some people come into your life like untimely rain. Brief. Relief.
I never mind dust settling down on my face.
I smile for no reason.
I prefer the cold floor to a warm bed.
Your eyes may rain these two hours, whatever the season.
Buy a flower from the street urchin and make her day
There was something strangely warm about this place; you’d end up embracing people you would not even acknowledge outside.
Darkness I fear, nights I fancy. Rum goes well only with old friends.
Trains mean tracks that meet for a second and then part ways.
Three mood swings in three seconds
Talk to the mike
The feeling of being closer to the sky (top floor houses do that to you)
The exact time the sun enters my window
how often do I remember family and friends or do I stop remembering them at all
distances
love
life.
Complain to a shirt stain
Which is why when you go back visiting even after years, you still smile at the old clock tower. Which is also why you blame it for changing if it does.
I knew wind that howled while the rain sang
I knew the daily sunsets and the occasional sunrise
I knew that streets were wide and the mind-sets, narrow
I knew the lies to tell and the truths to hold back
I knew six different routes to home
I knew five different excuses to get out of there
I knew the old auntie who had no one to wait for but still did, every evening on the cane chair
Arms fold by themselves
Why must the fear of catching a chill overpower the experience of cold breeze seeping through your skin, into your blood? We form miles and cities, we create immeasurable distances. The fear of pain takes over the pleasure of experience . Words are measured, not spoken. Situations are weighed, not lived.
Between what you are and what they think
Between heat of the moment and next morning regrets
Between desire and detachment
Zipper of the old companion travel bag will get stuck before every journey.
The hot sun, not heavy rain, will follow the drizzle.
Heady conversations will be interrupted by ill-timed phone calls. Relax! Hiccups will happen.
To biscuits that come with tea during meetings.
I look forward to the moody Delhi weather, and to standing at the huge window overlooking the flyover when it suddenly rains. I look forward to new faces and old friends.
Greeting cards that are slipped in through the door.
Fifty year old photo studios with framed photos of people posing awkwardly. Swinging by a tree hung tyre as opposed to screaming in a roller coaster. Playing knots and crosses on the last page of a notebook.
Each time you wrong someone, let sleep elude you. Feel guilty. Be restless. Carry the burden of discomfort with you. Give the deceit you indulged in, a sea of importance.
And for choosing to go on foot to faraway places where most prefer to get transported. I should also get paid for making small talk with strangers in buses, trains and on a particularly happy day, anywhere.
Stay still when somebody sleeps on your shoulder. Follow, don’t lead. Give away the last sip of water. Take photographs, don't fight for space in them. Let the one next to you sleep for half an hour more.
Someone came looking for you. You are a roll number. You are seat number twenty-eight. When was the last time someone came looking for you, just like that?
You wanted to leave your baggage? Unfortunately, the only thing that got left behind was the railway station.
Dates? They should just sit pretty on annual calendars.
The idea of incomplete is in fact very appealing. An unfinished conversation, a question that was repeatedly asked but for some reason never got answered, a message that has not been reciprocated, and a glance that awaits another. A trickle of rain leaves behind hope that maybe next time the sky will pour its heart out. Letters at least keep you waiting for the postman. Something will come. Or may be not. What you certainly gain is uncertainty. And that remains. Why seek complete? It means the end.
Of the fact that I had dry red cheeks.
Winter is thick with memories of incidents that never took place.
Excerpts taken from theoldnotepad.blogspot.com.
THANKS AGAIN.
NO is the biggest smallest word.
I haven’t learnt to say it yet.
Hold your breath when she is sleeping.
Accidentally discovered lanes.
Let go
Do a Delhi to Rishikesh on foot
A cycle ride with someone in the fields
Get to know mother’s secrets and not judge her
Settle down mentally and emotionally, not literally and socially
Stop looking for warmth
Stop making a mess of relationships
Someday I will cross it all. And get there.
wet pebbles, railings
One-night stands reluctantly co-exist with the search for true love.
Hearts that curl up with fear of commitment also nurse the desire to commit and surrender to someone like they did in old love stories.
Smoke filled late hours of the night and fog full early mornings, how do you ever make a choice?
How would it be if we could contract a certain sort of alzheimer's in which we could choose what we want to forget? And light moments that are over and cause intense pain because they are over.
Go Goa and you don’t lose something? Sense of time and sense of control. The white sand beneath as the waves come rushing by. The colour of your skin. Many lose their virginity
Some people come into your life like untimely rain. Brief. Relief.
I never mind dust settling down on my face.
I smile for no reason.
I prefer the cold floor to a warm bed.
Your eyes may rain these two hours, whatever the season.
Buy a flower from the street urchin and make her day
There was something strangely warm about this place; you’d end up embracing people you would not even acknowledge outside.
Darkness I fear, nights I fancy. Rum goes well only with old friends.
Trains mean tracks that meet for a second and then part ways.
Three mood swings in three seconds
Talk to the mike
The feeling of being closer to the sky (top floor houses do that to you)
The exact time the sun enters my window
how often do I remember family and friends or do I stop remembering them at all
distances
love
life.
Complain to a shirt stain
Which is why when you go back visiting even after years, you still smile at the old clock tower. Which is also why you blame it for changing if it does.
I knew wind that howled while the rain sang
I knew the daily sunsets and the occasional sunrise
I knew that streets were wide and the mind-sets, narrow
I knew the lies to tell and the truths to hold back
I knew six different routes to home
I knew five different excuses to get out of there
I knew the old auntie who had no one to wait for but still did, every evening on the cane chair
Arms fold by themselves
Why must the fear of catching a chill overpower the experience of cold breeze seeping through your skin, into your blood? We form miles and cities, we create immeasurable distances. The fear of pain takes over the pleasure of experience . Words are measured, not spoken. Situations are weighed, not lived.
Between what you are and what they think
Between heat of the moment and next morning regrets
Between desire and detachment
Zipper of the old companion travel bag will get stuck before every journey.
The hot sun, not heavy rain, will follow the drizzle.
Heady conversations will be interrupted by ill-timed phone calls. Relax! Hiccups will happen.
To biscuits that come with tea during meetings.
I look forward to the moody Delhi weather, and to standing at the huge window overlooking the flyover when it suddenly rains. I look forward to new faces and old friends.
Greeting cards that are slipped in through the door.
Fifty year old photo studios with framed photos of people posing awkwardly. Swinging by a tree hung tyre as opposed to screaming in a roller coaster. Playing knots and crosses on the last page of a notebook.
Each time you wrong someone, let sleep elude you. Feel guilty. Be restless. Carry the burden of discomfort with you. Give the deceit you indulged in, a sea of importance.
And for choosing to go on foot to faraway places where most prefer to get transported. I should also get paid for making small talk with strangers in buses, trains and on a particularly happy day, anywhere.
Stay still when somebody sleeps on your shoulder. Follow, don’t lead. Give away the last sip of water. Take photographs, don't fight for space in them. Let the one next to you sleep for half an hour more.
Someone came looking for you. You are a roll number. You are seat number twenty-eight. When was the last time someone came looking for you, just like that?
You wanted to leave your baggage? Unfortunately, the only thing that got left behind was the railway station.
Dates? They should just sit pretty on annual calendars.
The idea of incomplete is in fact very appealing. An unfinished conversation, a question that was repeatedly asked but for some reason never got answered, a message that has not been reciprocated, and a glance that awaits another. A trickle of rain leaves behind hope that maybe next time the sky will pour its heart out. Letters at least keep you waiting for the postman. Something will come. Or may be not. What you certainly gain is uncertainty. And that remains. Why seek complete? It means the end.
Of the fact that I had dry red cheeks.
Winter is thick with memories of incidents that never took place.
Excerpts taken from theoldnotepad.blogspot.com.
THANKS AGAIN.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Creepers weave their way up
Only to pull me down
I am falling now
falling frame by frame
I can hear voices
frogs conspiring
Or just snoring
Or planning their French fly with a herb tea for the morning
can’t they hear me scream?
Even I can’t.
My throat’s ripping apart anyways
Wind’s whistling loud
Too loud to decode the notes
or there aren’t just any
everything is not music
But I am still dancing to it
Flapping my hands
Wagging my legs too
Maybe I should try one thing at a time
Maybe I should keep still
And let wind fill me up like a polythene bag
How I wish I ate less
I have left no space for the wind
I can’t make space here. This is not like my private space.
I am missing my private space.
I am also missing my room adjoining the private space
I am missing my grinning wooden cat,
my irritating oval alarm clock
my chair with a broken leg
my yellow shoes, now red brown mustard
(while I am busy missing things, the ground reality strikes; I am closer to the ground)
Wish a hay truck comes by and catches me
The way it does in all the movies
There is not even a bicycle in sight.
Wish I hadn’t learnt what gravity was
Wish Newton hadn’t formulated it in the first place
Wish I had never attended school.
Wish I had a short term memory.
Wish it didn’t run in my mind now.
Wish I could keep my brain out, for a while.
Breathe.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
In.
THUD.
Only to pull me down
I am falling now
falling frame by frame
I can hear voices
frogs conspiring
Or just snoring
Or planning their French fly with a herb tea for the morning
can’t they hear me scream?
Even I can’t.
My throat’s ripping apart anyways
Wind’s whistling loud
Too loud to decode the notes
or there aren’t just any
everything is not music
But I am still dancing to it
Flapping my hands
Wagging my legs too
Maybe I should try one thing at a time
Maybe I should keep still
And let wind fill me up like a polythene bag
How I wish I ate less
I have left no space for the wind
I can’t make space here. This is not like my private space.
I am missing my private space.
I am also missing my room adjoining the private space
I am missing my grinning wooden cat,
my irritating oval alarm clock
my chair with a broken leg
my yellow shoes, now red brown mustard
(while I am busy missing things, the ground reality strikes; I am closer to the ground)
Wish a hay truck comes by and catches me
The way it does in all the movies
There is not even a bicycle in sight.
Wish I hadn’t learnt what gravity was
Wish Newton hadn’t formulated it in the first place
Wish I had never attended school.
Wish I had a short term memory.
Wish it didn’t run in my mind now.
Wish I could keep my brain out, for a while.
Breathe.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
In.
THUD.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Fear life
You saved every penny
Now, they are just pennies
You scoffed every time she brushed past you
You still do, all the time though
You jumped up fences
Now, you topple over a pebble
You read, and you read more
Now, you can’t decipher a single line on your forehead
And oh! you looked up phone numbers
Now, you look up names
You made castles in air
They’re still under construction
You could thread any needle to stamp that button in place on your son’s uniform
Now your hands struggle to lace up your grandson’s shoes.
You were taken by surprise when she wished you on your birthday,
Now, your birthday comes as a surprise to you.
Memories of your first kiss still taste fresh
But you can’t recall what you ate in the morning
You keep living still
Fearing life more than death.
‘Your life is not what you make it.
You are what life makes of you.’
You saved every penny
Now, they are just pennies
You scoffed every time she brushed past you
You still do, all the time though
You jumped up fences
Now, you topple over a pebble
You read, and you read more
Now, you can’t decipher a single line on your forehead
And oh! you looked up phone numbers
Now, you look up names
You made castles in air
They’re still under construction
You could thread any needle to stamp that button in place on your son’s uniform
Now your hands struggle to lace up your grandson’s shoes.
You were taken by surprise when she wished you on your birthday,
Now, your birthday comes as a surprise to you.
Memories of your first kiss still taste fresh
But you can’t recall what you ate in the morning
You keep living still
Fearing life more than death.
‘Your life is not what you make it.
You are what life makes of you.’
Friday, December 5, 2008
Dhaagey padey padey kyun ulajh jaatein hain
Kyun unhe suljhate suljhate shaam ho jaati hai
khidki se doobte sooraj ko dekhte hue kyun chai thandi ho jaati hai
Kyun Phir bhi woh pyali hatheliyon mein kuchh garmahat si chod jaati hai
Kyun woh garmaahat ek kampaati sardi ki yaad garam kar deti hai
Yaadein kabhi kyun akeli nahin aati
Mann ko kuchh udher kar kyun woh uske reshe mein bas jaati hain
Kyun ve mann ke udhde dhaage wahin reh jaate hain
Phir ulajhne ko
Kyun unhe suljhate suljhate shaam ho jaati hai
khidki se doobte sooraj ko dekhte hue kyun chai thandi ho jaati hai
Kyun Phir bhi woh pyali hatheliyon mein kuchh garmahat si chod jaati hai
Kyun woh garmaahat ek kampaati sardi ki yaad garam kar deti hai
Yaadein kabhi kyun akeli nahin aati
Mann ko kuchh udher kar kyun woh uske reshe mein bas jaati hain
Kyun ve mann ke udhde dhaage wahin reh jaate hain
Phir ulajhne ko
Monday, December 1, 2008
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Monday, November 24, 2008
I apologize
To him, who lived on my blog (now dead)
To her, who labored on it (now a mother of 11)
To all the 11 kids, who were born in test tubes
To him who thought this was Bible revised (now behind bars)
To her who believed every word of it (now in bars)
To ‘it’ who thought that we shared a lot of things in common
To them who came together bitching about it
To the world which screwed my head enough to lead me into this
To the screw which conspired with the world
To everyone who ever stumbled onto my blog
To everyone who didn’t
To everyone who cared not to
It’s been more than a month.
Hail!
To him, who lived on my blog (now dead)
To her, who labored on it (now a mother of 11)
To all the 11 kids, who were born in test tubes
To him who thought this was Bible revised (now behind bars)
To her who believed every word of it (now in bars)
To ‘it’ who thought that we shared a lot of things in common
To them who came together bitching about it
To the world which screwed my head enough to lead me into this
To the screw which conspired with the world
To everyone who ever stumbled onto my blog
To everyone who didn’t
To everyone who cared not to
It’s been more than a month.
Hail!
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
There is only one cause for every suffering, for any time those tears filmed your eyes and dried before someone could wipe them.
Attachment.
To the green tee u had overgrown last year.
To the puny earth worm which had silently crept into your garden
To the kulfi which stealthily exposed the stick when you were bluing away at the ice cream you couldn't afford.
To the crumpled bus tickets of your only so-called 'expedition' with her.
To the innumerable cutouts so neatly placed in your all color scrapbook, only to realise that something 'cooler' had filled the cavity sooner than you made it.
To the pigeons which nestled in that small corner, you had branded as an architect's inexperience.
To the skies you never knew could be so vivacious, until you shifted out.
To the skeddle daddle of kids scurrying off to schools long before you could snooze that ever irritating oval clock.
To that ever irritating oval clock, which so innocently lived on the banks of the Tableland with variable vivid contours.
To all those old photo albums, which were stolen of all it's moments when someone gifted you a new album; oh! so accomodating.
To the blue baggy sleepers, with it's wings hanging loose, but ever so comforting.
To the red tin box of chocolates which now houses a confetti of pastels, still so inviting.
To the kaliedoscopic aircraft, which never took flight, now accomodating your special team force which ever sits so attentively as if your foe's army would somehow slither into the drawer and loot the Toy kingdom reserves.
To the mirror you hung on the ceiling which told you that you were never alone, even when asleep.
To the tube colors which bottled up in the neck, but your beliefs were colored that down it's neck luscious paint still revels.
To the balloon seller at the gate who stands still throughout the day, and simply disappears when his balloons go ghastly in the dark. You never see him leaving. Either he is at the gate or he is nowhere.
To the bee clones which create a bigger hullabaloo in the house than the infiltrates at the borders. It gets ruthlessly killed everytime. Thanks to the humble sex.
To the plants you feed daily and the plants which feed you daily.
To the invisible chat modes which give you the freedom to pick up people you love than vice-versa.
To the torn 5 Rupee note which was a part of your wallet ever since it tore. You never knew you would value it more than the new born crisp currency from an ATM.
To everything you thought was yours, and everything which you wanted to be yours.
You get attached to everything but dust, grease and happiness.
Attachment.
To the green tee u had overgrown last year.
To the puny earth worm which had silently crept into your garden
To the kulfi which stealthily exposed the stick when you were bluing away at the ice cream you couldn't afford.
To the crumpled bus tickets of your only so-called 'expedition' with her.
To the innumerable cutouts so neatly placed in your all color scrapbook, only to realise that something 'cooler' had filled the cavity sooner than you made it.
To the pigeons which nestled in that small corner, you had branded as an architect's inexperience.
To the skies you never knew could be so vivacious, until you shifted out.
To the skeddle daddle of kids scurrying off to schools long before you could snooze that ever irritating oval clock.
To that ever irritating oval clock, which so innocently lived on the banks of the Tableland with variable vivid contours.
To all those old photo albums, which were stolen of all it's moments when someone gifted you a new album; oh! so accomodating.
To the blue baggy sleepers, with it's wings hanging loose, but ever so comforting.
To the red tin box of chocolates which now houses a confetti of pastels, still so inviting.
To the kaliedoscopic aircraft, which never took flight, now accomodating your special team force which ever sits so attentively as if your foe's army would somehow slither into the drawer and loot the Toy kingdom reserves.
To the mirror you hung on the ceiling which told you that you were never alone, even when asleep.
To the tube colors which bottled up in the neck, but your beliefs were colored that down it's neck luscious paint still revels.
To the balloon seller at the gate who stands still throughout the day, and simply disappears when his balloons go ghastly in the dark. You never see him leaving. Either he is at the gate or he is nowhere.
To the bee clones which create a bigger hullabaloo in the house than the infiltrates at the borders. It gets ruthlessly killed everytime. Thanks to the humble sex.
To the plants you feed daily and the plants which feed you daily.
To the invisible chat modes which give you the freedom to pick up people you love than vice-versa.
To the torn 5 Rupee note which was a part of your wallet ever since it tore. You never knew you would value it more than the new born crisp currency from an ATM.
To everything you thought was yours, and everything which you wanted to be yours.
You get attached to everything but dust, grease and happiness.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Line of fear(LOF)
fear the wild, fear discipline
fear anonymity, fear fame
fear the one above you, fear the one below
fear hundred lies, fear a speck of truth
fear captivity, fear unbound freeom
fear speed, fear static
fear unresolved mysteries, fear resolved chemistry
fear butcher knives, fear pulp mercy
fear bears, fear bulls
fear spending, fear saving
fear living without her, fear living with her
fear compromises, fear your ego
fear desires, fear condoms
fear morals, fear morals
fear greys, fear vivid
fear aeging, fear inexperience
fear the ghosts of past, fear the machines of future
fear God, fear not
fear the word 'fear'
self driven fear
chauffer driven death.
fear the wild, fear discipline
fear anonymity, fear fame
fear the one above you, fear the one below
fear hundred lies, fear a speck of truth
fear captivity, fear unbound freeom
fear speed, fear static
fear unresolved mysteries, fear resolved chemistry
fear butcher knives, fear pulp mercy
fear bears, fear bulls
fear spending, fear saving
fear living without her, fear living with her
fear compromises, fear your ego
fear desires, fear condoms
fear morals, fear morals
fear greys, fear vivid
fear aeging, fear inexperience
fear the ghosts of past, fear the machines of future
fear God, fear not
fear the word 'fear'
self driven fear
chauffer driven death.
This isn't a poem.
its an outburst.
scattered confessions spewn
on my face
which will remind me of where i stand
not just before you, but before myself
if anyone ever reads this
i am glad they will know what garbage is my head
i am happy they'll know
facts
i am selfish
extremely selfish
i remember the load shed, the only time i got drunk
it fails to go out of my head
i know i might not have cried if she wasn't with me
but i did.
selfish even when senses are senseless
i remember telling her how it hurts me to spend extravagantly on food
when there are so many people sleeping empty stomachs
and my very next statement declared
that i cant change it
i cant help but spend on food
i want to change lives but i would rather save up money for a 'mac'. A hypocrite!
i talk of change, everyone does for that matter.
what change do i bring if i can't even change myself
i can't think of my life without a computer (only a mac whenever i do buy it), without movies, without branded things which give me airs of utter stupidity
i can't or i don't want to.
i have visited villages which might not have even be charted on the ever changing map of the country
i have interacted with every person who smiled back (maybe because i dont want to miss on photographs which i can sometime put together for an exhibit(selfish again) or maybe in this case i simply like it)
when my parents smile i don't always return it back
i am not trying to be selfish
but my withdrawal is as good
i look for a space
but wasn't this space always mine
something has changed
i think only i have.
i dont wish to do things to be known, to be praised
but i can't throw it out of my head
do i call it competitiveness or just a lust for fame
i have realized i am not good as a design person (which as they say lives for others)
i fare better as an artist (with absolutely no knowledge of arts)
i have always been trying to get out of things
i call it freedom
'freedom doesn't come with flying kites', to quote myself
it doesnt even come with writing about it
it needs to be experienced
not just thought of
maybe there are so many more blatant confessions
which should have come in
but the fact that it's being read stops them from featuring in
selfish again
i dont know why i write this blog
maybe to get some admirers for my crude writing (though it's also good to contain my outbursts like these- here, i shouldn't have mentioned this, but i did)
if it's true i should delete it
but i won't.
i am selfish.
i adore straight advices i get from some ppl
i am awed by the simplicity of it
it leaves me thinking of how it never struck me
i inhale them only to let them out
nothing changes.
i know when i am done writing this
i would not even reply to her message (the content of which should make me feel happy but...)
i have kept my mother waiting for food
i would comfortably lie on my bed to watch a movie
watch it without taking notice of any details
which i gladly keep declaring is the best part of watching a movie
unworthy opinions.
dying respect for myself.
its an outburst.
scattered confessions spewn
on my face
which will remind me of where i stand
not just before you, but before myself
if anyone ever reads this
i am glad they will know what garbage is my head
i am happy they'll know
facts
i am selfish
extremely selfish
i remember the load shed, the only time i got drunk
it fails to go out of my head
i know i might not have cried if she wasn't with me
but i did.
selfish even when senses are senseless
i remember telling her how it hurts me to spend extravagantly on food
when there are so many people sleeping empty stomachs
and my very next statement declared
that i cant change it
i cant help but spend on food
i want to change lives but i would rather save up money for a 'mac'. A hypocrite!
i talk of change, everyone does for that matter.
what change do i bring if i can't even change myself
i can't think of my life without a computer (only a mac whenever i do buy it), without movies, without branded things which give me airs of utter stupidity
i can't or i don't want to.
i have visited villages which might not have even be charted on the ever changing map of the country
i have interacted with every person who smiled back (maybe because i dont want to miss on photographs which i can sometime put together for an exhibit(selfish again) or maybe in this case i simply like it)
when my parents smile i don't always return it back
i am not trying to be selfish
but my withdrawal is as good
i look for a space
but wasn't this space always mine
something has changed
i think only i have.
i dont wish to do things to be known, to be praised
but i can't throw it out of my head
do i call it competitiveness or just a lust for fame
i have realized i am not good as a design person (which as they say lives for others)
i fare better as an artist (with absolutely no knowledge of arts)
i have always been trying to get out of things
i call it freedom
'freedom doesn't come with flying kites', to quote myself
it doesnt even come with writing about it
it needs to be experienced
not just thought of
maybe there are so many more blatant confessions
which should have come in
but the fact that it's being read stops them from featuring in
selfish again
i dont know why i write this blog
maybe to get some admirers for my crude writing (though it's also good to contain my outbursts like these- here, i shouldn't have mentioned this, but i did)
if it's true i should delete it
but i won't.
i am selfish.
i adore straight advices i get from some ppl
i am awed by the simplicity of it
it leaves me thinking of how it never struck me
i inhale them only to let them out
nothing changes.
i know when i am done writing this
i would not even reply to her message (the content of which should make me feel happy but...)
i have kept my mother waiting for food
i would comfortably lie on my bed to watch a movie
watch it without taking notice of any details
which i gladly keep declaring is the best part of watching a movie
unworthy opinions.
dying respect for myself.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Monday, September 15, 2008
No 'mistakes'
she was all of 9
no, a month older.
she killed her parents
she killed her parents !
she hated to be loved
she loved to be alone
she killed them
her lips shone whore red
she killed them
her bald blond barbies loathed her
she loved them
she hung them in her closet
and she hung her little old Christmas stockings o'er their bald faces
she loved them
her old laughing monk
derided her all the time
she loved him
she loved to see him swinging on his belly
she softly pulled out one of his legs
she loved him
her 'low rise' dog
barked every time she sang a poem
she loved him
she painted him daisy yellow
and stuck a bone in his li'l loud mouth
she loved him
her first mother loved her first father
her first father loved her second mother
they all stayed together
they all loved her
they so lovingly called her 'miss take'
she loved them
she killed them all.
she was all of 9
no, a month older.
she killed her parents
she killed her parents !
she hated to be loved
she loved to be alone
she killed them
her lips shone whore red
she killed them
her bald blond barbies loathed her
she loved them
she hung them in her closet
and she hung her little old Christmas stockings o'er their bald faces
she loved them
her old laughing monk
derided her all the time
she loved him
she loved to see him swinging on his belly
she softly pulled out one of his legs
she loved him
her 'low rise' dog
barked every time she sang a poem
she loved him
she painted him daisy yellow
and stuck a bone in his li'l loud mouth
she loved him
her first mother loved her first father
her first father loved her second mother
they all stayed together
they all loved her
they so lovingly called her 'miss take'
she loved them
she killed them all.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Concrete : version 2
We tumbled with sand, tumbled with gravel
tumbled to all beats, in all sorts of ovals
we tumbled in it all, together
only to be laid as roads
to be stamped upon by
that rotund school kid with a sack as plump as him
that gaunt woman who dragged her mop as she brushed past every dawn
that superfluous lorry which made a record wheels die screaming
that man with the tapering iron shoes who missed his soccer ball every time
that rookie who rode his two wheeler on a single wheel, just so he could stamp us in some kind of geometric patterns
we got all roughed up, but never got ruffled
until the day it rained.
who knew then, that the mix was all mixed up.
u say it wasn't you
i know it wasn't me
But something had seeped in
and it left a puddle for us to drown and for them to fall.
We tumbled with sand, tumbled with gravel
tumbled to all beats, in all sorts of ovals
we tumbled in it all, together
only to be laid as roads
to be stamped upon by
that rotund school kid with a sack as plump as him
that gaunt woman who dragged her mop as she brushed past every dawn
that superfluous lorry which made a record wheels die screaming
that man with the tapering iron shoes who missed his soccer ball every time
that rookie who rode his two wheeler on a single wheel, just so he could stamp us in some kind of geometric patterns
we got all roughed up, but never got ruffled
until the day it rained.
who knew then, that the mix was all mixed up.
u say it wasn't you
i know it wasn't me
But something had seeped in
and it left a puddle for us to drown and for them to fall.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)