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.

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.

eyes that never met
speak of smiles that were never exchanged.
quivering lips that fumble
speak of eyes that could have met.

Blues ooze,
you lick.

it kicks.
you slurp.

it bangs.
you guzzle.

out of the blue,
you're blue.

*statutory warning: sadness is addictive. If it makes you feel positive, then it's just been fucking your head without the rubber.

'burqa'
veiled smiles
lay hidden forever.
eyes that smile
lay smitten forever.

dying fire
made a last wish;
'thou cremate me in kerosene before my last breath'

dying feelings
made a last wish;
'thou replace all the kerosene with love'

fire died.
feelings expired.
entered new born desires.

Uffffff !
gug chug klug glup
chalak chalak
pch

zhue zhmyoo zpluish
chipak chipak
pch

ghoop ghdum ghdup
attuck attuck
pch

phui phueeew
chatack! chatack!
pch

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.

Dust settles,
over unsettled fights.
call it justice lingered
or justice denied.
shattered victims,
battered witnesses,
tattered files,
taste dust.
turn to dust.
sneeze.

God bless them.

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.

slackened smiles hang loose on a taut rope
a dead rope pulled by two mighty hooks
one hooked to the brain and other to the heart
deriding giggles of pain run through
when both fight for ' nothing '

stretch a balloon and blow it.
it takes a hundred different forms
before you let it loose.
stretch time and blow it.
it takes no form, gives no life
and then you want to stretch it more.

The unfounded comma theory
when there are too many commas in a sentence, its time for a fullstop.
when there are too many loose ends in life, its time to cut all the threads loose.

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.

Concrete : version 1
You were a genuine mix in my life.
We tumbled in rollers
and rumbled down the road
only to lead some idiots to the gardens
and be laid until it rained.
When we rose,
we were still together
until the boy came running from the garden
and kicked you far off
idiot
i gave him what i could
he tumbled
and new idiots ran over him,
to reach the garden.
i lay there through many a seasons.
until the roads were laid again,
to be swept onto the pavement where u quietly lay.
a soft push
a nudge
turned u to dust
and i lay thinking
is this all i ever had?
just when
the idiots ran past again,
to the garden,
and they blew you in all directions
but mine.

In love with photomopped world (2 entries down). Sarcasm doesn't get sharper than this for me.

Conceptual freedom
Ripped off wings,
skies to fall from,
water to sink in,
smoke to choke with,
rains to pierce through,
and excuse the damn bars which were never visible.
Freedom doesn't come with flying tricolored kites.
and service doesn't come without bending on your knees
Freedom, if ever attained, gets captured in dreams
and dreams get captured by minds other than yours.
when you wake up
they leave you only with an image;
of wings spanning universe,
skies to float on,
ripples to lay on,
clad in smoke knit fabric of heaven,
waiting for rain drops to trickle down like fingers tickling down the neck.

The unfounded 'fullstop theory'
The world would end by the time you reach the next fullstop. There are ways it can be avoided; One, u stop reading right here, but now that your eyes are running over these words as they come, you have decided not to stop there and go on with it, so, going by the second method, i don't let the world end by not letting this sentence end, which, hereby means i would have to continue writing even if it reaches unparalled, undreamed, unimaginable, unthought, unsparing, uncalled, unworthy, unprecedented, undesirable, unclean, unruly, unavoidable, unforeseen, unhinged, unheard, unnecessary, unpleasant, unrelenting, uncompromising, unremitting, unfit, unsolicited, ungovernable, unstable, unbridled, unhealthy, unutterable(oops!) stupidity and still it will undershoot your desired life span, or, i simply disobey the grammar (which i so often do), and let the sentence end without a full stop < There! the sentence ended without the fullstop. < OOPS!


Alive still.

Conclusion: Fullstop theory baseless.
Long live full stops . . .

Photomopped world
cropped hearts, trimmed feelings.
dry tears, rippled cheeks.
black blood, red eyes.
cutout words, smudged meanings.
raised eyebrows, suppressed smiles.
lasso garlands, cut throats.
dodged skin, burnt shadows.
sponged lips, tasteless kisses.
99% exposure, 9% revealing.
saturated spaces, halftone memories.
stroking fingers, liquified noises.
extract love, invert skirts.
feather light phones, heavy roses.
flattened bellies, quick masked faces.
layered promises, ctrl+z.
free path selection, erased goals.
auto select cream, distort perspectives.
mirrored mirrors, virtual races.
channeled muck, blurred steps.
magic wands, brushed dreams.
diffused auras, solarized asses.
merged sexes, custom shaped edges.
cloned mothers, fragmented fathers.
grades of grain, sheared tongues.
rotate canvas, land on moon.
skewed icecaps, green only in patches.
merged noises, pixelated music.
plastic wrap mouths, blame strawberries.
hyphenated characters, always half hidden.
rulers divide, then align to grid.
show bounding box, think now.
control 'see', control 'we'.
don't fade, purge all.

pink piss, pink sweat.
at least the sweat doesn't taste sweet still, hopes rendered.

Tired
When the world gets tired of sleeping
and the sun gets tired of setting,
when the leaves are tired of falling off every fall
and new leaves are tired of waking up every spring,
when too much life seeps into the dreams
and dreams are tired of turning into realities,
when stories are tired of ending
and endings are tired of being nothing without their stories,
when money is tired of alluring
and people are tired of spending,
when lips are tired of parting
and ears tire of silence,
when hearts are tired of loving
and the head gets tired of believing,
when the fingers are tired of lifting up for every letter i type
and letters are tired of being strung into words which change their meaning every f***ing time,

retire.

i know i am wrong.
i feel it's right to be wrong
when all that is left
is my right to be wrong.

whenever i thought i was right
you proved me wrong

you proved me wrong
every time, for everything.

i don't wish to be right again
God bless my decisions.
"guide me to a path where the end meets the start.
devoid of all the light and glory.
may i make all the wrong decisions in life,
for who knows it might be right for me"


who decides what is right?
EVERYONE DOES.
this is where all the problem starts.

maybe i write all wrong,
but who wants to be right anyways !

Honestly, i am not an honest man.

i feel wilderness in an isolated cubicle.
i see moon igniting fire when you are besides.
i dream of things which are real.
when i said i was stepping out, i was being sucked into it.
now, i am strumming music out of feelings i thought were dead.
i am tasting air which was long trapped in that box of chocolate we shared.
i am pumping greens into hollow barks of the tree we sat under.
i am tearing off letters to make space for new ones.
i am spying; on myself.
white lies. black lies.
a liar, a liar i am.
honestly, i ain't honest.

spaces.
end.

red never screams.
black never sleeps.

i stay still in my dreams.
i wake up and i'm drowning under the bed.

i drown. i hide.
playing catch up with myself.

find me i scream.
i don't get a reply.

i blare i'm here.
i don't seem to listen.

i swim out of the sea.
i am scarred. i am here.

where is 'here'?
i rover around on a crab.

i dig around into a shell.
i cant find myself.

passing thought : 'i cant imagine star fishes suck the stars out of u. they never would.'

passing thought passes me a bottle swimming out to me.
i scream into the bottle. find me. it screams back at me. louder though.
no rolled paper, no story, no history drips out of the bottle.
plain sand. and a living being, so minute that u cant even see it breathing.

i curl it around my finger and pull it for a dance. a dancing mountain breathing no snow. crabs peep out. i crush the mounds under my dancing feet. rejoice.
relapse. a mutiny. sands walking out to me. streams sliding me underneath.

i am drowning again.
find me. i cant.
i drown every waking minute.
i cant see myself dying. i can always feel it.

long live crabs. crap.

passing thought: teach the crabs to walk. i wouldn't eat someone who can't even walk straight.