The Placebic Word.

All that might suggest a layer too deep, but is in fact a banal description. Or that, which might seem too casual, but is a rather amusing metaphor. A thought beneath a thought.

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Faith.

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what summer? 

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April Poetry Month poems

Thought I’d post some of my April Poetry Month poems on this blog. 

Onwards!

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Hand My Soul.

That I find analogy in the mundane, is no joke. My elbow,  cutting through the hand I call one into tans of two, like my soul, split into both - melancholic despair and amused utopia.  Co-existing. 

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Hysteria

She's an eccentric lover.

Laughing her way through salty rain drops making way from her eyes to her numb, cold, wanting lips.

Claustrophobic in an empty, barely furnished semblance of a home, nursing a fleeting slideshow of despair and guileless, pubescent love. Bursting out like a victim of steadfastness from the jailed lock-horns of farce. Deep, senile love doing its frolic, in a smiling head, gleefully clapping her way through a room of dancing others. Diving aimlessly, head first, into a crevice knowing no bounds. And being upstaged by scorn.

Justlikethat.

An illusionary sorry figure transcends from hitherto a parallel gratifying scheme of events. Where love is nothing but a stream of bodies chalked out by the peripherals of their touch. Where love is happiness and grief alike surmounted onto an impenetrable wall of heroin addiction. And heroin being nothing but that, that beats in the blood of a fool, that he be. And two worlds create themselves, with a psychotic ease that nothing but addiction demanded. While in one, every cry was met with an ignorant sigh, two naked bodies danced their way through a streaming flow of void, settling down, arms entwined, in the invisibility of the world set apart from the rest.

As she carelessly muttered helpless cries of a world that belonged to her head, he silently noted how big his thumb really was.

TchTch.

And her thought flow went on to have street bumps. That made little thought vehicles go plop! in the air. And the little yellow-knickered man cried for help. And he noticed how enormously black the sky inside really was. That there are no stars or moon in the head did not help him either.

And whilst his trivialization slowly killed the all-consuming despair, the yellow-knickered man jumped in awe at how close the sky really seemed to be coming in and how small the world inside really seemed to feel. 

"If we could just escape into an all-seemingly delusional corner with our drapes enshrouding us from obscure views, it would be nice. I'd make love to you like there's no tomorrow, gasp with a feeling of self-worth and die in your arms, unable to put up with the ecstasy. And maybe, just perhaps, your sauntering kisses will spring me to life."

Do you like what I say?

No, you don't, you answer."

TchTch.

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His story

I have no idea why I put pen to paper, or why I do, even, connect the dots to form this conclusive idea of a character so far stretched from any semblance of reality. But the deed has been done, and if this is what it takes for me to dissipate my thoughts, so be it. For all the writing I claim to do, and all the awards they claim I deserve, one thing always beat me to the game. His ability to be detached from the stories written in his name.

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Playing God #1

In the old house, they stripped off the wallpaper with little to no care for the laborious effort that went into putting them up. She called it - “the pleasure of annihilation.”

In psychology class, she reasoned out the phrase long and clear -

“The will to obliterate is greater than stable perfection, because the human wants to constantly remind that it is above what it creates. When you’re high and beyond, you only cut the gash deeper, with murderous apathy. It’s easy to pretend concord, but nobody wants to hang on to social affinity. There is visual appeal in ideal fulfilment, but the mental agony that goes into its preservation is just not worth the balance. Chaos is the unrecognised theme of human life, and every one wants a sip of that poison.”

Her rant would have gone on to become a notable class discussion, if she was the teacher. But she wasn’t. And she spoke out of turn. 

The blandness of general decree. 

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Dear N

There is very little in the world that values sensitivity over decorum, very little that uses not fingernails, but an archaeologist's tool to brush off the surface and scan longer, and much of very little that reels from the pure high of emotion, than the grandness of it. 

 Which is where you come in. 

 A lot of times you will be told to be consumed by the outer exuberance. By the too-common-a face of easy-come-easy-go. And you will be too. But I know it different.

I know a rather dainty version of it. Clumsily footing notes to a rather overwhelming tune. Delicately smiling to the feeling raised on skin by a melodic undertone. Creatively weaving stories of an alternative, hyperbolic profoundness of a rather simple tale. Stories that stand just and true. And whoever said a sensitive mind reaps a scorned heart, can have a word or two with me. 

For in you I see a learner. A listener. An imbiber. For the one that consumes, is the only one that lets nature dig deep in. Lets it seep seamlessly, become one, skin to skin, bone to bone, until it's all but one of blood and flesh, ingrained in the very fragment of being. Cause it's in knowing, that you're becoming. 

In your relinquished process of understanding, you're giving a lot more than you think you are. I see you, surrounded by a bed of potential, picking and choosing, like only few can. 

And I beg you, never to let go. Permanent satisfaction rates high and true than momentary lapse of chance. And you have a chance to contribute in a perennial nature to the largeness of things. Let that work you up towards whatever you choose to do. 

In your process of empathy, you're creating a lifetime of endurance. It's no small feat.

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a 55-word poem

A failed attempt trying to dissipate emotions only to limit them to count 55.  Hack, slash, cut.  a synonym for five, beating sticks into the grass of neurons fishing for a word or two, all the while questioning why you follow a rule when the story itself speaks rebellion. Unspoken irony, this poem of 55.  

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Cigarette

There is no particular reason I picked the first one. And none now, that I continue. I'm no role model, hell, I don't inspire myself either. But the only time I've found the cigarette a tad... uhm, distracting, asphyxiating, worthless, is when I found one with you. That your fingers, that should be busy stenciling my face against the graph of time, could hold something that filled your system with anything, but my words was slightly disturbing.

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I try.

With every word I make, carefully construing symbols together, I feel meaning wash out and desolation take over.  Has anyone felt writing to be this tiresome? 

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All that had to be, is; was.  Nothing more can be done, now; gone. 

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You & Me.

sometimes I talk of us as we were a decade ago only to illicit noiseless giggles stemming from ridiculous flashbacks;

cut to today, when you giggle just as much at ridiculousness of a different kind.

every morning your night; your afternoon my dark hours while away into longer fits of chuckles at sexual puns that border on the  truly inappropriate, and sometimes absurd, for me, anyway.  and just as we know it, your silence speaks to me greater promises than little known love affairs decades longer than ours. 

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Yonder lies the sweet love of far-gone eyes; And therein lies the pain.

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You drew us all, Mr. Laxman. An ode.

But see, the Common Man, a recurring observer in R K Laxman's artwork wasn't just his voice to current affairs as they stood. He was a manifestation of us all, every single one of us, as we dealt with the idiosyncrasies that India often is. The Common Man was us, and will always be, and right there, the great artist etched permanence on paper.

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Tomorrow

When we will have lost the battle of pragmatism; we'd subserviently submit ourselves to time and its chances.

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Winter.

Heartburn must be awfully uncomfortable.  Caffeine-ingested free-flowing sick assortment  of ethanol. And that pill you had to pop once but never stopped.  The body,  dancing to the medley of a bad, senile joke.  Aching.  Aching, much like the churn of events forced to loop like that damn playlist, like the time that froze, and fervently hoped that a two minute stare-game would last a lifetime. The moment that lay bare, and stood, to hurt the chest of many a man.  Heartburn, that will be carried to bed, remaining untreated, in psyche, too real.  Only to remind,  what feeling, felt like.