Quasimodo's utopia

Zihaal-e-miskeen mukon ba-ranjish,
Bahaal-e-hijra bechara dil hai,

Sunaai deti hai jiski dhadakan
Tumhara dil ya hamara dil hai.

As I watch Disney's Quasimodo sing from the bell tower of Notre Dame, wanting and wishing for that one day to live "out there," I can't help but think about how it must be to live trapped in a single, lonely, tower all one's life.

But then I do not really have to guess, for loneliness does not really have many flavours, no matter where you pluck it from. As the cold settles outside, and creeps through the walls into my quilt, I find myself thinking about love. Again.

In that tangential, normalish way everything seems to reek of love. That is just me, I know. But how does one not fall in love with Esmeralda. That wild free spirit that one wishes would see the human behind the hunchback. But animated adaptations rarely follow the story of yesteryear's on which they are based. The years that stand on the wisdom of appearances being the sentence one is dealt with sometimes, from birth.

Life smirks, and takes a bow. And as I learn to spread myself so thin that I can be beaten into any shape possible, I smirk right back. Spirited? Foolish? But what is the shape of foolishness and what is the taste of spirit? Oh, I digress. The topic was love.

Do you hear laughter in the ranks? In the air? Love. Poor love. What am I pitying love for? Well, tell me someone else who takes more beating for all the stupidity that takes place in this world. For all the perfection in the world, perfect men and perfect women. For all the riches in the world. For all that burns and twists the insides of hearts. For all that and more, there is some fool, some where, pining.

For what, you may ask. A lover's utopia? And what might that be? To be loved back, of course. With equal fervour, with every iota of passion that flows in one's veins, with a touch of dreams and a dash of colour. But perhaps we shouldn't foster such impossible utopias.

I see Quasimodo cringe as Esmeralda kisses Phoebus and I wonder. I wonder at the only flaw in the utopia. For you can love whoever you want. You have been blessed with that gift. What you cannot do, is make "whoever" love you back.

What rubbish! We always knew that, you'll say. Well, try and remember it then, when you are being driven mad with the flames from hell that devour your heart. Remember and find peace. Remember and let go.

And to all the Quasimodos of this world. Stay in love. Your utopia will complete itself one day.

The lines in urdu/persian/hindi at the top are from a song from the film Ghulami, written by Gulzar and sung by Lata Mangeshkar and Shabbir Kumar.

Usi ki talash kyun?

Tez bhagti zindagi ke peeche
Hanfta hua mai,
Saanse jo is zindagi ko chalaye
Woh kahan hai lekin.

Phir ek din dil ki khidki par giri
Kuch madmati baarish ki boonden,
Jaise pukaar kar keh gayi
Main hoon, tumhari zindagi.

Par yeh kya! Woh aayi par
Bijli nahi kadki,
Hawaon me ek bheeni mehak jaagi,
Dhadkane chal padhi, lekin daudi nahi.

Kuch jadoo ki tarah asar to hua
par nazar nahi aaya,
Zamane ke shor me jaise ghula ek dhua
Sannate ka ek kona dhoond raha ho.

Tabhi, hoton ke kisi kone se nikalkar,
Ek hansi god me aa giri,
Aur usne kaha, jis zindagi ko ji rahe ho
Usi ki talash kyun?

A year of strangeness over...

I planned on doing a post before the 1st - a sort of round up of the year that went by - well its still officially New Year season so I guess it's not too late. Besides my MTNL dial-up seems to be behaving somewhat so I'll probably take the chance and try to pen (What's the electronic equivalent of a pen? A keyboard? Can I use that as a verb?) this while being on line.

Last year, or rather just before the beginning of last year I uprooted my life from the city I have called home for the past three decades (well, nearly three anyway) and moved to another city, country and continent, all in one day. If I ever had cribbed about lack of strangeness in my life - here was God - being most generous - for I landed in a land of strange people, filled with strange languages and strange food, and something that would take any Dilli-waala by complete surprise, clean air!

Since then nothing has seemed to be unachievable - not a climb up the Alps (on a cable car though), not cooking daily and not killing anybody in the process, not sharing a house with two cats, a charming old lady who doesn't speak a word of any language I know, a hot Austrian babe, a gentle Korean dude and a very eccentric Dutch guy. This in addition to a very happening professional life but then that is off limits for the blog.

A very good thing about staying alone, far away from anything you have known all your life, is that it clears up your head about a lot of things. Who one cares about, who one can't live without and who one can, what kind of work does one want to do, what does one want to work for, what is one afraid of, how much stress can one handle alone and how well can one cook (this one is actually a sensational discovery).

One is happy to be financially self-sufficient enough to be able to deport one self home, once annually, and to have been able to satisfy one's desire of having a sterling silver Mac as a first laptop and a Canon DSLR as a first camera. Now I am not boasting here, for one also went bankrupt for a day - a pure zilch in the bank account - before one started getting the salary. As a result of that of course, now one is better planned.

There is much more happening in life about which I can only write in cryptic verse.

Familiar smells in a movie hall,
Being at someones beck and call,
Beds, such welcoming, generous hosts,
Empty houses filled with ghosts,
Of rare visitors and waiting that,
Never ends, dollops of uncouth fat,
Dressed to kill with two left feet,
Mystery work causing the colour of beet,
Confusion reigning unchecked, supreme,
There are many uses of whipped cream.


To put it in one word, one has survived. About nine more months of survival training left. After that we deliver the baby (I am telling you clean air causes such genetic mutations).

So, Happy New Year everyone. Keep visiting, because the year promises to be choc-a-bloc full of more strangeness.

Cheers.

PS: The arcane reference to MTNL in the beginning was to indicate that I am visiting home for sometime, before I become Alice again.

When patience runs red

When patience runs red,
Like poison that bled,
Times of darkened cold,
Worthless warmth be sold,
Hearts burn to nought,
So fervently sought,
Forever out of reach,
What must this teach,
Nascent flesh is shred,
When patience runs red.


One returns home...

Nylon stockings

Bloomingdale was a teddy bear with a lot of gumption. He would take the most arduous punches from Miss Kitts and not utter a squeak. Oh yes! He was very well respected for it too. Everyone from the pink teaspoons of the Tinklen tea-set to the Sergeant Shackleboot from Miss Kitts' brother's army men admired and respected him. It was all hunky-dory, till he burst a few stitches at the seam. Life was almost as smooth as the honey in his friend Pooh's honey jar.

Then 'it' happened all quite suddenly, really. Miss Kitts was having one of her sleeping over friends, over. And decided to celebrate the night with a bang - a pillow-y bang, or rather a banging of pillows, or to put it more plainly, a pillow fight. Bloomingdale was, as usual, at hand. So he got flung with force that was actually meant for a much fluffier pillow. The cast iron grill on the east window was a tad rusty and it scratched open the seam on one of his paws. Oh bother! What was he going to do now?

It would soon be the time for the evening of the first snowflake. He had been all ready to be wrapped up in his red and orange striped scarf and get singed when thrown too close to the fireplace. Oh, how he loved the flickering warmth - it hurt a little - the singeing, but mostly the warmth was nice as was the Miss. He was just a little scared of the fire but he was covered with special non-inflammable fur, so he was safe. But now, he had icky white fluffy thing peeking out of his paw. Eeew! How hideous! How could he show his paw in high society in such a condition.

Everybody was concerned about Bloomingdale's paw. Mrs. Tinklenot suggested that he should use a Play-doh plaster to patch the paw. But Play-doh does not stick very well on the fur. He guessed tea kettles did not get very bright ideas. Sergeant Shackleboot suggested that he use the bayonet of one of his men to pin the ripped seam together. But the bayonets were not detachable from the rifles, which were in turn not detachable from his men. It was a tad embarrassing to walk with soldiers dangling around one's paw and very impolite to say the least. No. Bloomingdale wanted a more genteel solution to his problem. A more elegant solution. Something that oozed finesse.

He was pondering on this rather distressing situation with his muzzle buried in his forepaws when he heard old man Santa grumbling something about out-of-reach-stockings being hung by petty parents of callous children. Stockings! Why of course! Stockings! All he had to do was to put on a pair of stockings and that would hide the burst seam. And it was just by pure chance, that the Miss had forgotten her pair of bear-brown stockings from last year at the back of the toy closet. Bloomingdale was ecstatic.

He could not wait for the warm, cozy evening of the first snowflake. Even the dancing fire did not scare him now. After all he even had his nice orange-red striped scarf and exquisite contrast matched bear-brown stockings to show off now. Such lovely, shiny, nylon stockings.

The Pale Blue Dot

For everybody who had trouble understanding my previous post.

For more information please visit Pale Blue Dot (Wikipedia). And for a better resolution version, visit here.

Before some one argues that this is making the Earth seem inconsequential, in the grand scheme of things - think before you put your foot in your mouth. Think what that image shows. Think how special, how fortunate we are. Also, think how fragile and how delicate. I do not want to take sides here and put down seekers of extraterrestrial life or believers of God or anybody else. I just want to say, what I have been saying since the previous post. We have only one chance, one life to live in this place we share with millions of our kind. Whatever be your nation, religion, language or shoe-size, we are all humans. Whether we believe the Earth and humankind to be of miracle of divine creation or of evolutionary biodiversity, it does not matter. We do not have a second place, to call home.


There is a video embedded in this page. It may not be visible in a RSS/ATOM feed.

Freedom Writers

Sometimes we do not see the world around us as it is. Sometimes we see only what we want to see. Sometimes we see what we have been taught to see. For generations.

I have laughed on people who have never read Tintin. I have ridiculed people who have never heard of Industrial Light and Magic. I cheated and read the last page of Diary of Anne Frank before I actually finished the novel. I cheated some more and never actually finished it.

I am watching a movie called Freedom Writers. Now almost as unspoken policy, on this blog, I never write about anything remotely social, political or something that stands up for anything. I have never championed a cause here. Why? Well, one primary reason is that I am too lazy.

But every now and then... every now and then... even the most laziest part of me will be moved to action (ummm... don't start wondering which part that is). This is one such time.

Someday, I am sure each and every one of you will face a dilemma. A situation that will ask you to overcome everything you've ever known and learn to love another human being for just being that, for just being another human being.

Yes, I am preaching. I may appear pompous and condescending, and say things I know nothing about. So if you have a problem with that, then there is something very simple you can do. No, not break your monitor. No, not kill me either. Simply stop reading this blog post. See, it's easy. Like I said.

But I am so fed up of seeing such petty idiotic discrimination happen everyday around me in the world, I can't take it any more! (The `not taking' it is going to last only for the duration of this post and after that laziness wins again!)

Black against white against yellow against brown. Fat against fit against thin. Women against men against children. Lesbians against gays against heterosexuals. Muslims against Jews against Hindus against Christians against Atheists. Creationists against scientists against artists. Teachers against students against administrators. Lawyers against politicians against valentines. Oui against yes against Da against Si. And so ad infinitum.

I am making no claims to be better than the next guy or girl. I have my own prejudices to take care of. But I am going to offer you my hand. No! Not in marriage! Heavens! What are you thinking!

I offer it to you as a sign of mutual respect and as a promise. A simple promise of tolerance.

Doors

How long does one have to bang on a door before one realizes that the door will never open again? I used to like open doors. I used to like the open. I always thought the feeling was mutual.

Grey walls choke a 7 feet by 10 feet space. Glossy plaster peeling off like scabs, covers the walls from corner to corner. The gloss reflects the lost rays of the setting sun, streaming into the room through the ventilator high-up on the west wall. The sound of the ceiling fan slashing the stale air in the room is the only thing competing with the sound of my erratic breathing.

She met me because she thought I was this melancholic, sombre guy. She had this fascination for sad souls. When I turned out to be a happy clown instead, she went into shock. A shock that lasted ten years. A shock that curiously, nurtured nothing but hope. How could I be sad around her?

The ceiling fan drawls slowly, like I do now. At the end of every sentence, every word. It's the drug they inject into me every week. It is to keep me calm, they say. I do not understand. It has been four days since the last shot. I am calm. Very calm.

When a shock wears off, the effect I guess, is unpredictable. Celine was singing," If that's what it takes" into my ears as I walked in. I was a little late than usual. The budget meeting had taken too long. The neighbour's chihuahua, Biscuit, was yelping in their yard. I remember reminding myself to trim the grass over the weekend. The brass doorknob felt strangely cold, even though the setting sun gave it plenty of attention. Twilight was especially beautiful from our porch. I stood there, with one of my feet inside the half-opened door.

The bed feels strange and hard to touch. The white bed sheet is crumpled. Why is it crumpled? The bed is not placed right. I hate the screeching noise, when I drag the bed. The floor is... slanting. I hate slanting floors. I always fall off, out of the door if I do not hold onto the leg of the bed. I don't want to fall anymore. The door. If I can only get it to open. I can escape this. Somebody! Open the door. Open the door! Somebody stop her.

Incongruent

"Lots of confusion sometimes brings lots of clarity in its wake. Much like a storm brings peaceful seas. That is the one motivation for weathering the storm in fact," Michail said.

Elena just looked at him and smiled. Her crooked, half twitched lips made for the most alluring smile. At least that's what Michail had told her. She saw the navy blue checked cotton shirt he was wearing with a navy blue tie - from Ralph Lauren obviously. She nodded her head as if to shake the thought away. "Why is he not wearing a belt?"

"That is why when the boss said that I have to do the Lansdown account also, I thought to myself, maybe a promotion is somewhere on the cards. Of course, that was after I wanted to beat him up first thing in the morning, but one can't really do that to bosses. It's like the bad boss you get on the final level of Wolfestien - you know - you can empty all your bullets and you still wouldn't be able to kill the guy. You know why? The damn game is built like that. One just can't win."

She looked at the brunette who walked by. "Nice. Must be a size more than me. I wonder how the satin sheets would feel on her?" Her auburn hair caught the sun like a fly in a spider's web. The heels were not making the type of click she liked hearing on the road. "Hmmm.... maybe the Christian Louboutin's she saw last week would sound better. No, they would sound perfect in fact but they will tear up the satin bed sheet. Oh well, one can't have everything."

"That's why Elena, that's why am I so crazy about you... you don't care if I win or lose." He wrapped his arms around her waist a little tighter than usual as if to make sure that she was really there with him. "I am so excited Elena. Sis has been wanting to meet ever since I told her about you. I hope she likes you."

"Oh yes, my darling! I hope she likes me. I so hope she likes me."

Just once

The world looks beautiful in hallucinations.

The wall comes alive with molten monsters from my technicolor nightmares. The generally don't do much. Because they don't get the chance. Before they can budge, the world explodes in a cacophony of sounds that peel off layers of my flesh in slow, sustained torture.

I was 23 last year. As lost as my mustard corduroys and black checked cotton shirt. All I wanted to do was live the fast life. She hated my dressing sense and loved my money. She also loved all my friends, but that is not relevant here.

Sounds like a B-grade movie doesn't it? Believe me it sank faster than any movie at the box office. If my doing an item number would have saved the movie, I'd have gladly done it. But life does not allow re-runs.

I sniffed my first Cocaine in the green room of a theatre studio. I was nervous as hell, going out on the stage for the first time. Innocuous white powder. Don't get me wrong. I knew perfectly that drug abuse could kill me. I had no intention of becoming an addict. I was merely nervous. Somebody suggested the euphoria will wipe out all signs of nervousness. Besides, I had always been curious.

I was so scared of needles that I never injected anything into me. Not LSD. Not Ecstasy. Tablets or vials were too easily available. I lost her among all this. Not that I felt the loss. All I could feel was the peace that enveloped my world. No sounds. No smells. No lights.

Yesterday, I turned 24. They found me lying in a storm water drain. Now, I am lying in a sterile, white, hospital bed staring at the intravenous drip feeding my body. My body. I do not have any right to this body anymore. So it refuses to listen to me and erupts with pain of its own whim and fancy. I cannot bear to see the looks of dejection and hopelessness on the face of my parents. I cannot stand the sunlight streaming through the windows.

True. The world looks more beautiful in hallucinations.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to anyone, any place or anything is purely coincidental and not intended.

Ambiguous clarity

White spaces stare at me
Dare me to write
Write some semblance
Of sanity

When words cease
To ease
The crease
in the fabric of silence

Sleep comes in hiccups
Shamefully sucking up
To the big bully time
That stagnant, stinking time

Anger? Disgust? Loneliness?
Echoes bouncing in emptiness
Without stop, without fail
Empty, prosaic wail

Don't analyze, don't try
to understand
Just be me, mute
banned

Singing...
Sohorer ushnotomo dine
peech gola roddure
bristhir bishash
Tomay dilaam
In a loop of iTunes

Looped in my life
into every knot
Butter fighting a knife
melting taut

Stop. Now..
I will this non
Sense drawn upon
Me? Wow!

Sunsets

Bronze David Replica in Piazzale de Michelangelo, Florence, Italy, 13 October, 2007.

Charcoal dreams

So I splurged! So sue me!

I splurged on -

1. A 30 sheet A4 size sketchbook of 180 g/m^2 paper.
   
2. A packet of willow charcoal - medium 5-6 mm.
   
3. A 48 shade pack of oil pastels.
   
4. A Moleskine plain notebook.

This resulted in some well-deserved euphoria and combined with the resurgent artistic personality of my schizophrenic self to produce the following:

Pssst! I cheated a lil bit ... it's not completely charcoal. I drew it in pencil first. Since I don't have a scanner handy at home, I took a picture of it. The chic amber lighting is not Photoshop - it's my table lamp!

Okay.. so now... who wants to model for my next one?

The Taunt -1

Why must you taunt me so?
Standing there, shrouded in
moonlit silence that streams
through the window.

Cool winds carry a sweaty smell
delicately twirling like cream in
morning coffee; a taste
I know so well.

I can see the hems of nubile skin
lining the robe of floating lace
alive as her master alike,
ah! my beloved's djinn.

I can feel the fingers, lying
wanton on the window sill; Oh what a waste!
Caresses that could awaken the dead
quiver in doubt, shying.

That smouldering gaze of gentle eyes
bathe me in desire so cool,
The fiery beast freezes in hell
tormented by stifled sighs.

Soon

Soon it will be that time again. When the leaves of my life turn a bright flaming yellow and wither away. They will litter the road like the unwanted urchins from the nearby slum. Have you seen them smile? I wish I could smile like them.

Soon it will be that day again. When a new color flowed into my painting. A transparent color. A salty color. A heavy color of freedom and lightness. It washed my life in hues unknown before. Have you seen this color? I wish I could make it flow back to where it came from.

Soon it will be that moment again. A moment frozen eternally in time, with clarity par excellence. A moment that vanquished the rebellion in my heart. A moment of eternal peace. Have you felt such peace? I wish I could say no to that.

Soon it will be those sounds again. Sounds of hushed whispers and strangled cries. Sounds of silence mercilessly cutting down the sound of the mob. Sounds whose tone I cannot remember. Have you ever tried to remember a forgotten voice? I wish I could remember it once more.

Soon it will be that reason again. A reason to live life beyond any other reason. A reason that makes me breathe, without question, every second of the day. A reason that I surrender to, unconditionally. Have you ever encountered such a reason? I wish I could be unreasonable with this reason.

Soon it will be that place again. That room, those walls, that floor, that tubelight, that refrigerator, that doorbell. A place, I love, for every grain of weak cement that plasters those walls. A place with the happiness that makes courage change into dreams. Have you ever been in such a place? I wish I could return to that place.

Soon. Too soon. It is always too soon. I wish it would cease to be so, some day.

Mind Blowing Mahiya

One thirty-eight ante meridian. I just finished eating a bowl of cornflakes in chilled milk. Now, I am ready for this.

Any one who has been reading this blog long enough has probably read my ode to why I am not getting any. Well that summed up my life then. Things have changed. A bit.

I say just a bit, because when I try to write erotic poetry I am asked, "Have you been watching porn? Again!" So I have obviously not transmogrified into a suave Casanova overnight.

Apparently, my vocabulary on the subject of the lustful art practiced between satin sheet is not delicate enough. Even though it may run with the efficiency of a well oiled pump, well oiled pumps can be big turn-offs for the genteel sex, who are apparently looking for some finesse in the matter. For so much that is apparent, you may think I am blind to not see the obvious. In my defense I'd like to say that it is very hard to keep one's eyes focused on such things when other more engrossing sights are in view.

Speaking of viewing, ever since "Desperate Housewives" had it's TRPs eaten away by "The L Word" I knew my time had come. After all, one can only be so "Lost" at the ripe old age of twenty-eight. But as I careened around delicate curves (yea I've been taking ski and roller skate lessons), avoiding accidental slips on wet surfaces due to rash driving, it seems like nature handed me a raw deal.

Square pegs do not fit into circular holes (no.. no puns are intended with pegs and holes). It seems the feminine primal urge has some sort of genetic selection algorithm that is biased toward the tall-thin variety of my species. Obviously, my marked deviation from this model serves some higher purpose, but it spells "bad luck" for many of my lower purposes.

So even though I may debate how nonsensical the idea of one-night stands seem to me or why I am very liable to be dumped after the first time I break the bed, I have only progressed a little bit in my quest for Nirvana (suggestion to all spirited teens: If you have to have better luck than mine, do be safe).

Before I leave you, in case you have still have not figured out what the title has to do this with post, your Mahiya¹ has obviously not paid enough attention to blowing your mind to smithereens. If that is true, then accept my congratulations and condolences; if not, then you know exactly what I am talking about.



1. Mahiya is a term used to refer to the 'dear one' in Hindi/Punjabi. It derives from the word mahin, meaning cattle. Figuratively, it means the lover, deriving from the popular romance of Sohni and Mahiwal in which the hero, Mahiwal, was a cowherd. The name of the post is taken from a song by the same name from the Hindi movie, Cash.

Vous avez?

Have you ever doubted yourself so much that the doubt becomes one with your self? Of course you have.

Have you ever given up all your rational thinking for something, and then seen that something atomized by nothing but concentrated thought? Maybe you have.

Have you ever wanted to talk so much that the words are glued to you tongue and all you can do is scream? Maybe that too.

Have been ever been accused of being good? Just plain, simple, good?

***

Have you ever felt condemned to see what no one else can? Have you felt wronged, cheated, betrayed? At the end of it have you felt foolish and laughed at yourself? Of course you have.

Have you seen the past fast-forward and the future rewind and the present pause? Just because you held the keys of time in your palm? Maybe you have.

Have you ever wanted to read all the books of the world and then be able to say something nobody has ever said before? Maybe that too.

Have you ever survived a dream that was not your own?

***

Have you ever felt afraid of dying? Of living? Of breathing in your next breath? Or uttering the next syllable from your lips? Of course you have.

Have you ever known like you were meant to be known, seen like you were meant to be seen, heard like you were meant to be heard. Understood like you were meant to understand? Maybe you have.

Have you ever felt tiny and yet awed by your place in the scheme of things? Have you ever felt supreme and yet humbled by the most fleeting emotion? Maybe that too.

Have you ever seen your reflection in another person's eyes?

***

Have you ever hated what other's love about you? Have you ever feared what other's hate about you?

Have you bathed in a moment of clarity amidst a whirlpool of confusion?

Have you held your own when everything in you is hell bent on destroying it?

Have you ever firmly, squarely, quite gracefully and absolutely suddenly landed hard, flat on your arse?

***

It hurts.

Senses alight

He settled down in his usual place. The comfortable sofa in a distant corner of the cafe where the bright afternoon sun invariably got lost. His Moleskine notebook lay poised beside his big mug of hot chocolate. The black Mont Blanc Miesterstuck had been a family heirloom. He sifted through the pages of his notebook. It was the perfect page - blank and inviting. Ready to soak in the colour of indigo blue.

But what should he write? What was there in the world today that demanded to be imprisoned in his words. Pigeons hid under a table laid outside on the pavement. `A simple way to escape the sun,' he thought. `Should I write about them? The secret life of city pigeons..' Just as he seemed to be drawn into this idea, he glanced to his left.

A sun burnt, loose fitting orange top and trousers the colour of dark chocolate. She ambled into the cafe with the grace of an elephant high on mahua. The sombre note of an oboe broke into his thoughts and he smiled. He knew the slow, infectious, beckoning tune.

Pores, on a delicate touch,
well up and overflow with sweat;
Filling up the air with the poison smell,
dripping languour so carefully slow, so tauntingly wet.

***

A tinkling clarinet sneaked over the oboe as a smooth violin wrapped itself around the sharp shadows of the noon sun. Pista green bag and a desperate knot on the nape of a shapely neck, holding up a turquoise halter, flowed past on a floating skirt of ivory crepe. Elegantly light, the tune turned ethereal.

The fresh lemon of tangled wet hair,
filters a whiff of you from deep inside;
Suspended by strings of a submerged quiet,
my heartbeats toast the rising, tempestuous tide.


***

The violin was wrecking havoc with a wild run of notes. An unruly pair of drums seemed to have joined in to strengthen the rising crescendo of octaves. A mischievous tuba picked up high, every low the violin dropped. He just sat there unable to write, transfixed by the music, bound by his thoughts. It was nearing closing time and he had no idea how to end it. His indecisive reverie was chopped in two by the decisive click of shining black stilettoes on the linoleum floor. Shimmering legs of silken bronze cut through his thoughts like a knife slicing cheesecake. Oh, and what a slice they cut.

A taste of breath, stale and toxic
Running faster than blood pumped anew,
Exhaustion driving the final stake;
Shattering this olfactory myth 'tween me and you.

Sunflowers

How much more starving will it take to kill it. Does it even need food? It must. It has to. Has to? There is no `has to.' Maybe I can choke it to death... What am I talking about! Is it so easy to fall apart? Like a proverbial pack of cards. Go up in flames and burn everything inside. I can see my self scattered all around ... in tiny shreds. Legs that don't want to walk. Eyes that don't want to see. There is no escape from this. I must drown in my own silence till every bit of life has oozed out and become one with it. Then at least I won't cry that the tears do not flow anymore. Then what will I do? Exist. That is doing enough for now.

From beyond

Raise me from
the dead of sleep,
From the silent mort
over which you weep.

Command me, to breathe in
hungry gasps of noisome you;
Tie me up in servitude, alive,
willing ally in the perverse coup.

Omit mercy. Wipe it out.
Whip me up in writhing pain;
In infernal desire, make me live,
just make me love again.