Eve

Fried brown gold beer
shimmering with overflowing haze
and juddering against the lewdness in air.

The forlorn basturd takes a gulp
and follows it up
with a piece of juicy meat
dipped in mayo.

He enters into the world of
ashpalt swamped with vinyl.

Whoring jewels in blinkin lights
jasmine flowers and denim jackets
the shopping spree and discounted sale
curtains and garlands and incense
and camphor and broken coconuts
and the crowded coffee shops.

And behind all these happened
the birth of Kumara!

the Devi and the Junkie
metamorphosing themselves
from emptiness to form.

As worms and fleas
As Arthropods and insects
As birds and animals
As men and women.
And in each of those forms
they made love .

and inturn, each of these forms
gave birth to this
unending song.
and inturn, each of these forms
gave birth to this
unbroken verse.

-*-*-

He walk into the baazar.
One zillion bees
celebrating yet-another-b'day-eve of Kumara.

A few bees bargaining hard on the pavement
over a pair of rugged shoes.
And a few fees flying on top
with their hands held together.
A few buzzing round and round around the windows
there were a few frustrated bald king bees
buzzing restlessly infront of a garment shoppie.

And among these zillion bees
four stood out.

-- and that yippie
boutiques
lipsticks
lingeries
bryanadams santabarbara
tomcruise johnabraham
orkut radiocity maniratnam
Pop corn steamy hot cappuccino
---and an extended foreplay.


-- and that one complete man
bison jockey
with a smoothie silk tie
drucker kotler
rand bach
red-wine cnbc
low calorie
power-lunch
power-dressing
power-nap
and power-fuk
Everything just-in-time
--High performance delivered.


--and that neo-anarcho-commie-lib
glossy scarf
scrunched kurtas
jute bags
nose rings
glittering eyes
calvino
film noir
ericajong
katchyacker
chomsky gramsci
and ofcourse, Focault
--slam-bam-slam-bam
--thank you,mam

--and that Jatamudi
Om teeeeee
rudraksha arm-band
Shiva tatoo
and that tripped-up-wanna-be-hippie-look
or that wanna-get-tripped-so-that-i-can-be-a-hippie-look
ericclaptn bobmarley
gandharva fatehalukhan
gokharna hash
goa trance
tantra mantra
parapsychlogy
kerouac burroughs
bergman bergson
zorba osho
--and one extended valley orgasm.


and ofcourse, the lonely
gross-generalizer,
the passive observer.
trying to deconstruct
the thin long spun web
but gets choked while
trying to patronize
and patternize
the connecting patterns
but gets disconnected
from the rest
in the process.
Mapping the map
and presupposing the mapmaker.
And thereby,
practising active dualism!
That one forlorn basturd.

-*-*-

In front of tht forlorn basturd
around the round round table
the buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
of the bees.



'kill the fukin buddha, babe!
ur your own budda.'
yapped the complete man.
to the sleepy yippie.

'Yup Babe. I have no long hair
I have no pierced ears.
And I polish my shoes evryday.
yup. If you think
am a conformist, so be it!!!!
There is this level of cowardice
lower than that of the conformist
the fashionable non-conformist.

"I make money.
And I spend, bcos I can.",
he yaoppeed again,
while the yippie ordered
her next round of momos.

"I scorn at mediocrity.
Perfection, my dear. Perfection.
Thts my ideal.
Look at those buffoons outside.
Those gulls
who scorn at perfection
for the sake of travel.
but theyll go nowhere.
But, I, my dear.
I, the Jonathan, The Raymonds man
had put aside travel
for the sake of perfection
and I, my dear, I
can go anywhere.
Anywhere. my dear.
Anywhere. jus instantly.!
and That is freedom.
That is supreme freedom.
Each of us is
in truth an unlimited idea of freedom.
Everything that limits us
we have to put aside."

The momos arrived.

"Yup, am a ruthless bastard.
and yup, i do bend the rules
and make some dough. but fuk that!
truth is fukin fuzzy.
And I don't fukin care about tht.
I just act and
leave the rest to these divine verses.

"Thou hast power only to act
not over the result thereof.
Act thou therefore without prospect
of the result and
without succcumbing to inaction"

Afterall,
I,
a humble being
I,
an atom in the universe.
I,
an universe fullluva atoms'

*-*-*


'Choothball..' , there came the Jatamudi.
U FUKIN PARASITE.
suckin the blood outta people
and then U go on and quote Gita
to defend ur fuked-up, corrupted business.
And to conceal ur insecurity
bobbin outta ur blatant individuality,
U use Bach and tht chootia seagull."

"U bloody randieeeeee
to cover ur stinkin ass,
u use Rand.And Feynman.
'a fathom in the universe. an universe fulllof fatoms'
ROTFL. Jesus fuckin Christ."

"The dialectical world u decay in,
U fukin zombie.
No seagull will come to ur rescue.
Only hungry crows will
to smell ur rottenncarca-ass.
No Roark will snob-stare you.
And no verses in Gita
will redeem you from
your well imagined,
fuked up dialectical world."

"And I, the Jatamudi,
and I, the Jatamudi, from the junkies-own-land
will offer to redeem you.
And recommend you
the best self-help book for
all the zombies like u - 'DIE'

And then, the Jatamudi
tied the tie around the neck of the zombie
and shouted
'Ready Set.
Merry go
round.
and round.
and round. '

*-*-*


'Harmony'
'there is no harmony
only cacophony
no peace no love
no space no time.
all bloody fuked up'
said the Jatamudi to the Yippie gurl.

Steamed momos
Shanghai Chicken
Bloody Mary,
they ordered.

'the maddening pace
frightens me'
he confessed to the yippie
we would run away and
be flower children.
making alms by selling pastries
to the bloody tourists.

'okay, my love'
but, what are we goin to do tonite?' , the yippie asked.

'Here.Now. Here.Now.
'It's all so beautiful.
the little kids swallowing their sausages
the pampering lady and the pissed of husband
the pleading sales man
and the ever busy sales gurls.
Cramped pavements.Shops.
City lights.
People.
Places.
It's all so beautiful.', he said.

the food arrived.
room filled with
the aroma of mayonnaise.

'Here.Now' , she said.
'Now.Here', he said

they smelled the food and
threw it outside the window.
and he poured mayonnaise all over her body
And thus, they started making love on the table.

*-*-*

'Boorshua' said the Neoanarchocommielib
'Enlightenment is totalitarian.
Enligtenment is bourgeoisssieeeeeee

'All the arty flatusus are inventions of the elite
how can there be harmony?
how can there be consonance?
when people are starving? '

'look at that textile showroom
and look at the people standing on both sides of the table
what do you see?'
the neo-anarcho-neo-commie-neo-lib asked
while the jatamudi blinked.

'Hahahaahahaaa, u bloody boorshua!
can't you see the women standing on both sides of that table?
the boorshua shopper gurl and the puny sales gurl?
can't you see?', he asked
jatamudi nodded, visibly pissed off for interrupting him while making love
'and what else do you see?
can't u see any other difference?
can't you see the difference between their tittties?
and how uniformly huge it is on the one side
and uniformly flat on the other side?
can't you see that u moron?'
shouted the neolib.

'the history of the world
and the history of the class struggle
is clearly illustrated, thus.hence proved', he said
and took the steel chair and banged it on the head of the jatamudi
and grabbed the mayo-drenched breast of the yippie
and shouts
"Abolish private property.
Workers of the world
Unite!'

*-*-*

the gross generalizer,
the forlorn bastard
got shitscared
after witnessin too much blood
after listenin to too much noise.
And ran outta the babel shoutin
'karl marx murgabadd.
jesus bastard bastard bastard christtt'

*-*-*

Dawn.
Coated with dew,
the asphalt started to blush.
Empty and pure
like a baby's foot..

the forlorn bastard,
running like a madman,
gasped for breath
and fainted and fell down.
Erroneously, he smelled the dew coated asphalt
and involuntarily
started licking it with frenzied delight.

He saw the first rays of sun
caressing the asphalt.
And then, slowly
cocooning the entire place
with its unbounded warmth.

And over the gliterring asphalt, he saw
left becoming right
and right becoming left.
And yesterday becoming today.
And today becoming tomorrow.
And Dawn metamorphizing into Eve.


He got up.
and infront of him,
unaware of any grief,
stood the oceanic sky
stretching with ceaseless joy
and undiminished mercy.

-*-*-

Hide and Seek

That day,
when the Sun
was about to begin
its game of hide and seek,
the little boy exclaimed.
and his exclaim
got mixed with
zillion other exclaimations
of zillion other little boys
and got fused
in as those little secrets
whispered by twilight winds.

The boy then tied
every tiny bit
of those winds of awe
floating on the cosmic way
to the string
and flew his kite
and tried to block
the setting sun.
but the kite
got struck
into the tree.
The evil wind
plays with the little boy
a petty game of
hide and seek!

Thus, the boy grew up
by questioning his exclaimations.
And by doubting his questions
and by questioning his doubts.
and started playing
with himself
a game of hide
and seek.

And thus,
the cosmos sighed a sigh
with relief.
*-*-*
And he still keeps playing.
But there is nothing to hide now.
except those lost pages
scribbled with pain.
But there is nothing to hide now.
except the blistering self-hate
behind the bruised face.
But there is nothing to hide now.
except the last tinges of vanity
behind the bruised face.
*-*-*
Hang-over.
And watch, Bergman.
Dysentery .
Accompanied with kazantzakis.
Weed.Along with Nick Drake.
Masturbation. And then, Moonlight sonata.
Constipation. And then, read Ken wilbur.
Pornography with Bach.
Puke.Putrid Puke.
-*-*
Whose game is the little boy playing now?
Whom does he play with?
What should he play for?

Yet, He keeps playing.
To Him, it doesn't matter
if there is nothing to hide
as long as
there is lots
and lots
to Seek!

He waits for the angelic sky
to tickle his bruised face
with its rose bud lips
and to drench his thrist
by whispering those ancient secrets
into his dumbded down ears.
And give back
his own piece of exclaim
which once painted the sky
with infinite tones of orange.

And even today
the little one's
primordial sound
of exclaim
is still floating
as those
little secrets
ushered by twilight winds
which keeps the world moving
and makes the sky weep.
*-*-*

Decay. And Die Slow.

Vincent

Starry, starry night
Paint your palette blue and gray
Look out on a summer's day
With eyes that know the darkness in my soul...
Shadows on the hills
Sketch the trees and the daffodils
Catch the breeze and the winter chills
In colors on the snowy linen land.


Now I understand
What you tried to say, to me
And how you suffered for your sanity
And how you tried to set them free:
They would not listen; they did not know how --
Perhaps they'll listen now.


Starry, starry night
Flaming flowers that brightly blaze
Swirling clouds in violet haze
Reflect in Vincent's eyes of china blue
Colors changing hue
Morning fields of amber grain
Weathered faces lined in pain
Are soothed beneath the artist's loving hand.


For they could not love you
But still, your love was true
And when no hope was left inside
On that starry, starry night
You took your life as lovers often do--
But I could've told you, Vincent:
This world was never meant
For one as beautiful as you.


Starry, Starry night
Portraits hung in empty halls
Frameless heads on nameless walls
With eyes that watch the world and can't forget
Like the strangers that you've met
The ragged men in ragged clothes
The silver thorn, a bloody rose
Lie crushed and broken on the virgin snow.



Now I think I know
What you tried to say, to me
And how you suffered for your sanity
And how you tried to set them free:
They would not listen; they're not listening still--
Perhaps they never will.

(Vincent - Don McLean)

Kickin' the Yogi

the punk fixed up
an appointment with
the good ol' yogi from Nazareth.

'redeem me you scum, you fukin delivery boy', punk boy said
The Nazarene smiled and said,
'From where?
To where?'.

punkster got angry and said
'you fukin boorshua..
ur making spineless slaves outta ordinary men..
you and your phoney preachings..
.you are the fukin biggest economic hitman...
glorifyin misery and hunger and starvation.
and givin false beliefs to people
that suffering is the path to salvation..
there is no redemptionther eis no salvationthere is no soulthere is no nothing..
you are a fukin CIA agent' .

Punkster got up
and kicked the yogi.
And then went on to write a book
which became a bestseller.
"If you meet Nazarene on the road, Kick him!"

Nazarene smiled.
and said
'ji is us'

the Yogi and the Schizoid

the Yogi and the Schizoid are connected by madness.
While the yogi is the master of his madness, the schizoid is its slave.

When?

When will it take me?
and drench me to quench the thirst?
Till there is a 'me' in the thist,
the thirst could never be quenched.
thirst is fake.

and so i want to take a knife and
stab myself in my throat
but out of my fantasy
i create my thirst
and look out for oceans and seas to drink

and thru the fantasy i create a voice
which forces my stabbed throat to speak
and when the throat refuses to open up
the mind does
and when the voice becomes unbearable
i bang my head on a rock
thinking the voice comes from the head
i bleed might bad
but still the sound keeps coming..
from where?
and when wil it stop?
when?

An arrow into the air

"I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend."

--- Longfellow

 

 

The Duo

I loved this article. made a nice read.. it's a great sunday.. life is gud.

good steak..

"Cloquet hated reality but realized it was still the only place to get a good steak."
-- Woody Allen

36 chowringhee lane

 

i had a stupid thought today(as most of mine turn out to be, nowadays)..
why not cut the tongue? so tht i culd move out of tht dichotomy.. and could keep quiet for ever..
but.. cuttin the tongue makes u mute but not silent.. they r different.. yea, they are..
it shld evolve.. and thn, u will arrive..
and am bloggin abt this shows tht am not yet! and now am thinkin of a suitable title to this post! sigh!
am nothin but this attention seekin whore!

is death a choice? but pretending to be dead definitely is. its kinda kool.
so, i hearby declare tht i am dead or rather, hereby i declare am Dead already and so this dead man's declaration is therefore invalid.. but your highness, i plea to reconsider your decision and accept this declaration as either legal or valid or both.

so i can write filthy stuff abt some b-skool and no one can sue me.. can quit givin a notice period of 12 minutes and 32 seconds.. need not repay my mortgage.. could escape frm all the reductionists who tag me with freudian symbols.. need not hcnge my orkut profile or foto evry 3 days.. need not upate the currently readin booklist..and me not scrappin back might not be considered as an act of chutzpah or disrespect to err frenship.. it would be far far simpler.. if each one pretends to be dead already.

chutia.. am drudging into pointless posts for the past few days..

no choice

am tired and i want to sleep.. sleep a sleep with such overfilling fullness..

why does the mind keep talkin? why can't it shut itself?yea, shuttin down happens in blotches..for a few hours or days.. but i tread back to old ways..and once into it, how badly i want to move outta it? how badly i want to move out of a conversation.. but why initiate it in the first place.. why? why this dichotomy? whn i keep quiet for sometime, i dunno wht to do with all the overflowin, screamin energy..so i initiate a talk.. a frivulous one, that. and whn i do, it keeps tellin me to shuddup..to shut the fuk up and go back.. but once into it, it takes time to go back...why shld i keep reminding me of myself? why cant't tht i stretch across into the zonals of awareness without the need for constant tickling..wht shld i do? wht the hell shld i do?

no choice.. till the fruit is ripe enough.. no choice.