Their bodies and mine

Trapped in a circus, I feel as though I have fallen from a trampoline onto a steely mesh of barbed net. I will lay there till thorny wires cut through my flesh and splatter the pieces as trophies upon spectators. An ode to victory; this barbaric life sings through the metal as it deepens its magnetic teeth into what I once called, my essence. I can smell the copper wires. The naked stench reminds me of the copper vessels in the kitchen on that day, when, under similar circumstances, I had made a sport out of living. Or the other day, when the swizz knife playfully grazed my skin repeatedly, as my brain tried to comprehend.

A barren field all ploughed out is only home to cacti and scorpions.

An infinite number relationships are made in the course of life, some important some casual and some mistakes. The last four years are a heap of dead bodies rotting outside a gas chamber, silently polluting the air I breathe. These dead bodies are my failed relationships. I can’t get near enough to bury or burn them, the stench of decaying trusts is like a barrier, barricading an entire chunk of proof that I ever lived in that time. When I get out and start a new chapter, I want to have no memories of this time…the pain and betrayal. But, as I hit my head against the steel wall of my prison, desperately seeking amnesia, this rotting stink of my past is like a bell, that pulls me back to stand and look upon the dead and mourn my past.

A little or no value remains in my monument of life, as I set out, yet again to make carvings that may finally congeal. Symbols that might mean a language or a religion that may stick. A single belief that might hold to linger …or a life that may, even once, matter.

I have only a little courage left to indulge again. My efforts seem futile…the concept seems futile. I search on for that safe haven, where the heart stops thinking and the mind stops relenting. But, it’s all a distant hope, as I see new blood splatter on old dried stains. The same mistake, the same price and the same lesson, forgotten. If only now, my heart would surrender and call it a life and my abandoned brain would finally make it all worthwhile.

I could never fully grasp it. I don’t think I ever can. Maybe it isn’t real. Or maybe I'm just the fool again.

Bright Star

How often it is, that life passes us by… fading our glow, as it disperses our glimmer into time and space. Where I was once radiating a blazing passion for life, I now return ashen and frail. Once, I thought I would conquer it all and now I beg for the world to release me. I wither, frightened, in the world of blood hounds…where I remain, the dubious mongrel, neither tame nor ferocious. Life has robbed me of my ambition. Or am I to blame for that? If I don’t dive, I won’t get wet. I see lives around me get bigger and stronger…more purposeful…mine though, is driven by fear and self imposed constraints. Constraints…elaborate, external, veiling my inherent tendency to be plain… stagnant…

The future is uncertain. I am almost out of my embryonic bubble without any indication of what species I belong to. Do I eat meat or grass? Do I kill, or am I a docile pet? Am I the advantaged lot, gifted with the ability to introspect or is that just a farce? Do people with consistent lives of stale satisfaction yearn to be me? I walk among equals as an equation unsolved, desperately seeking parity… a value.

The idea itself, of life beyond this moment, escapes me. I see no future for myself. I have burned out, in my tireless endeavors to so desperately seek meaning and adventure. I am now pale and dreary, what excited me then, repulses me now…a complete change of heart and beliefs… like a seasick captain, ready to raise the flag and surrender. Many great men die young; before the death of their zeal and ambition. Before the perplexity of 9 to 5 and taxes and funds captures their minds and retards their senses. I too aspire that end… an end with some consequence…an answer…any answer.

For too long I have lived amidst my dreams, shining exuberance…living the life of other’s envy. Shining brightly to the face of the world, sharing that bursting bright glow… Like a star…a dying star. The apathy now, is anti climatic.

I need glamour…and drama. I feed on it…my dying fire does. I can only hope I die before I find out there is no more light in the world for me to imbibe.

As I mock your bondage..

Here we are, at the edge of time, falling so desperately all over each other in a vain savage attempt to taste that one moment of sanity, of reality; something that sticks. It lingers on as that which surpasses even death, or birth, or life or living. Something true, tangible…attainable. It fumes above our heads, like cloudy symbols, teasing our incapacity, our inferiority; mocking the life out of us, steering us like slaves, into a chamber of ideality, one from where there is no return. And we call out, to one another, in this mad crowd of perfected greed and irony…and we bump into each other, a seemingly random event, but a need fulfilled. A need created by us. We fall at our feet, and beg to one another, a little love to partake, a little lust to fit in. We hurt inside, slithering in superfluous aims that deceive us, pulling the ground from under our feet, making us wonder and back…and the cycle continues as no one breaks free. We deny ourselves, the mockery and its truth, weaving circles in arrays; patterns of incongruous proportions, overlapping one another…random and chaotic.

We pine our lives, seemingly into futility, but that desire, that fire which eventually consumes us, is the ultimate power. It destroys us, when everything else fails. “Don’t ever say yes, even if I crash and burn”, “for if you deny me my infatuation, you murder my inspiration.”… As it boils me, and as I implode, I will look down upon the rest of them and mock their bonds...their bonds and them teething…gnawing away like starving rats in a glass box…verily away from what is true. If love is the leap, you are my inspiration to jump…to make that attempt, to a silver semblance of insanity.

The world is burning with the rest of Rome, an indispensable act for creation, of minds and art… for love and passion…the world is stable in its chaos, it needs to bleed out the clot… and it will incinerate me till my ashen bones are all that lie unconsumed. But, till then all I will do is ‘pour me a drink’, because no matter how deep I am in whiskey stench…or how wasted I am on that steely stair in the middle of the sand…or how the world tells me I have missed out on practically everything worth living for in my tireless obsessions… I will live on…

I will live on in my pain, and in that pain I will die… So profound is my grief that in my death too, it will weep.

Septic meter

I lay bare soaking, the regurgitated night last,

No semblance of sanitation, shame aside, cast

away with prudery, as fervent drudgery,

I relish my sty, an ode, my delight.

My body decaying, scales of dry slime,

fingernailing scrapes, off peeling skin grime,

Oily Scratches, blotchy patches, hair falling first,

Cocktailing salty fluid, quenching dusty thirst,

Brackish vomit thickening, a filthy hairy mast,

Soiling my existence, a prelude to a past!

The big bang theory

Burning vine escalating veins,

Swelling shivers on satin stains,

Swooning nerves in bursting bloom,

Weeping skin within tendering ‘spoons’.

Tingling thirsts die consuming sweats,

Silvering suns, in mirroring sets,

Sipping flames in teething cuts,

weaving love from thieving lusts.

Sweetly ripened in fruiting harrow,

Silent screams lie dead tomorrow.

Split in seconds, passions parade,

An existence found, the moment astray.

Shallow Man

Scarlet frocks curving lust,

Guilty lips and glittering trusts,

Amber locks on talcum dew

reflecting off the Shimmering hue.

Blushing peaches, bruising skin,

Scented napes on blooming sins,

teasing allures, silently weep,

The reign of beauty, only skin deep.

Burn

The trusty lighter,

The frothy white water

The toilet bowl,

The yellowing stone.

The ‘ash-ing’ portrait,

The melting paste,

The puttering ink,

The ‘wafer-ing’ page.

The ‘love-make’ bills,

The crackling hearts,

The ‘nuc-tear’ fuel,

The exploding past.




(And with this I burn everything, that ever linked my past to yours)

As you said Goodbye

What torn promises, you wouldn't keep,

the wreckage behind you, as you leave,

looking back through the speeding glass,

I appear small, my tears smaller still.

I stand alone, as I quiver,

Choking on my tearful pain,

My heart sinks, my eyes squint,

As you disappear in that rain.



The road looks now, an empty rivulet,

Flooded with my aching lament,

I hold on still, I might hear the engine roar,

As it takes you away, and leaves me sore.





What wreckage remains, as you lead

The death of your promises, upon which I weep,

Silently screaming, my body aches,

I still stand still, as now it quakes.


If I turn away, it wouldn’t be a dream,

You would be gone; I would lay forlorn, still

My mind empty, I hear your goodbye,

I close my eyes and silently cry,

Yellow daffodils and bright blue skies,

Perhaps once again, my life would pass by.

Vices of life

Perhaps life's sanctity, and not its futility,

lies in dissolute irony.

For if it were non existent, so would be, expression.



To what worth do I condemn myself that my means and ends lay justified?

To what immorality and insanity do I adhere, so to abet my obsessions?

My finality, does not exist if not for my depraved reality,

and so I live on; with heightened sense of good,

naïve, for my life exhibits evil,

in which I revel with perpetual grief.



I panic at its petulant fragility.

It might be so, it never ends.

Albeit fervent, it isn’t in love,

and the hatred sears me blind.

I feel empty, pining for a sense of morose fulfillment,

it evades me, on a shallow premise,

for it never did exist, my elixir.



So here it lay, on truth,

parched, my loving reverie,

I would bid thee farewell, and kiss thee goodbye

but if only I could accept thee 'thatwise'.

Our Last Dance

Locked in your arms,

My heart, a great stallion,

gazing glassily into yours,

how I wished I could cry.

wrapped in your arms,

delirious in my pain,

I followed along,

as I longed for you to kiss me.



If I could fathom then,

the inevitability of that end,

when your arms would slip slowly off my waist,

when my eyes would leave your beautiful face,

I would have, with all my heart,

Begged for you, to kiss me.



I would have brought my cheek upon yours

as my body would resist my hearts implore,

to be closer still, to be forever filled,

looking beyond you as I would weep,

my tears wouldn’t stop

and I wouldn’t breathe.




I wouldn’t want you to ever leave.

Oh! My sweet love,

How I would have kissed you then,

If only I knew, I would never dance again.

Carnage

The night mourned like a betrayed lover.

It fumed as its face drew angry frowns. It cried, roared and spat infuriated sparks, firing up the woods in its wake. Not a speck of twinkle remained to be seen in the heinous gray. The heavens were livid, aching with vengeance. The wind displaced the muddy earth; it was torn out of its cozy bed. The rain thrashed soft petals as they fell bruised and flowed along with bloody mud. The fierce drops raped young buds till they forcefully flowered and finally fell. As the sky flooded the earth, the tides rose up and fought the tempest. The trees defended the earth against the fearless winds. They valiantly wrestled on, as the storm applauded a premature victory.

All other life lay obsolete in this battle.

All hope lay forgotten, as not a whistle defied the carnage.

It was war between heaven and earth.

A young boy, in a torn cape and tattered boots, was dragging his frail body against the gashes and pricks of wet winds and torn twigs. The banter between earth and above frightened him. He wondered if he had lost his way in this odd communion of nature, which so presented itself as a consequence of the great battle. He checked his compass again to ensure he was still fighting the north.

His eyes squinted, their openings covered with eyelash dew. His face was weeping from the sweat and rain. He held a feeble, lanky walking stick with one hand and with the other he held together his cape in front of his wheezing chest. On his feet there were two peculiar boots. One brown one black, one suede one leather, one broken from the heel and the other torn at the right big toe. His calves extended up to his thighs in a thin cylindrical manner. There were bruises on this knees and dried blood stains on his shin. He had obviously suffered a fall and cut himself, maybe falling off steep edgy stairs. He held plastic over his head like a skillfully crafted hat, made to sit steadily, as he slipped and stumbled to no apparent destination.
He wore not even an expression more than his measly outfit.

It wouldn’t show if he shivered, or if his heart jumped at sinister sounds, or if he palpitated from exhaustion or if he suffered physical pain. What he thought or if he grieved, what he desired and what he believed. Being so inconsequential in the great battle, he could be easily neglected.

Yet, he walked on with withheld purpose.

As he heaved his fragile body over a fallen log, he fell along it, temporarily letting go of his cape and staff as he vainly tried to avoid scraping his body against the thorny bark. He lay cut, and naked, on the glazing pine leaves as they recorded the furious dance of lightening in the sky. He regretted being delayed. The emotion, though naturally anticipated, was lost in the moment, considering his insignificance. As he rolled over on his back, he saw black roaring clouds, threatening him, marking him. He felt ill mannered raindrops patter on his face, not for once considerate of his state, as though his body didn’t exist.

And then, just before he saw his past and purpose flash before his eyes, he saw that beautiful crooked streak of pure white as it slashed, like a whip, on a weak and unassuming, nameless tree. He saw golden sparks at work as they enflamed the entire tree like gangrene spreading from a finger through the entire body. He watched the fire consume the tree and excrete it, as ashes. He saw other twigs of fire; spurting out from the debris and lighting up the pine covered earth, mimicking a giant volcano as it consumes all life around it.

It seemed that the earth was now sacrificing itself to pay for its defiance, to heavens and above.

He was a part of that sacrifice now, unborn and unrequited. Just moments ago, he had been worthless. He had been braving nature as a whole, for some personal purpose, now of no consequence to him either. Now, he was holy sacrifice, chosen by his earth. His place in this battle was sacrosanct. He watched as the fire approached him. Soon it would devour him like Satan’s hell hounds. He waited for the pain, while he withered at the insinuation of it, whispered by the blazing pine bed, not even six feet from him.

He didn’t run, he couldn’t. He was chosen by nature and terribly weakened, so that he wouldn’t defy his creator and the holy sacrifice.

He waited patiently as the flames engulfed him. He didn’t feel alone. The forest was to be sacrificed with him; he could sense the fear in it. Young saplings and nipped buds; uprooted and laid alongside him at the altar. The twigs and leaves stopped revolting as they whispered in song, their final prayer. They trembled as the icy wind taunted them. He prayed with the forest as he prayed for it.

Soon it was over, though for three days the forest burned. It was penitence. Not a sound now emerged from the barren hill. No life was to ever return to this grave. It was marked by the wrath of heavens above and the sacrifice of the ones below.

My Divine

When blamed of beauty, you guise, guiltily by,
Vain becomes you, yet, you proudly shine,
Your words, pithy, your gaze fleeting,
Float on, idol, divine.
And I will worship the ground,
Upon which your soles, barely linger.


I look over gently,
From your skin to your soul.
Unveiling splendor,
like you, there were never more.
Beauty now prevails, defined ,
impeaching you of thievery, deceit, undue.
And yet I worship the ground,
Upon which your soles, barely linger.


Your presence haunts my fragility, my heart,
Silence looms as my body weeps,
Overwhelmed by your beauty, revered,
I only stare, I stare.

I look away quickly, yielding to worth,
And then I bow, beneath my heart,
And I worship the ground and I worship again,
And I worship again and I worship some more


Morning chirps, breezily by, and
though golden treasures adorn your life.
Your eyes twinkle the deceit of night last,
You were conquered, sold, bought and lost.
Tarnished my love, only tatters remain,
Of your life and your worth, of you, divine.
Yet I worship, with sordid grief,
And yet In that pain, I dwell dutifully, weak.


With reborn hope, I look upon your deeds,
If they could have you, it could, just once, be me,
I would hold you tender, un-break your stupor,
Your warm skin would boil, for me,
Your hairs would rise, your heart would thunder,
Your body would weep, all for me.

But as I would touch you, your precious lips,
Would part in anguish, in protest, in pain,
As tears would flood, your burning face,
I would know my burden was nothing as great.

And soon I would wake, and find me unworthy,
and soon I would sigh, and look away,
And soon you would leave, and break my heart,
Though soon, I would lie and be content.


-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When accused of being beautiful, you look away guilty. You are vain and that brings you pride. You are superior and speak less. Your words aren’t wasted, just like your gaze isn’t. you never give more than what’s needed, in fact you are meager with wasting your looks to common eyes. You are divine. I worship the ground which your feet barely touch.

I sneak a peek at you, so you won’t notice me and turn away. Your skin and soul define a kind of beauty that never before prevailed on earth. You are accused of stealing beauty, deceiving people somehow. And yet, I still cannot help but worship and kiss the ground you walk upon.

Your presence sends my fragile heart into over drive. Silence rings in my ears as my body starts to sweat (weep). I am so overwhelmed by your holy beauty that I can only stare.
But I realize my worth quickly. I am not worthy enough to keep looking at you. And so I bow down as low as I can. Lower than my pride allows me and lower for my love, as it calls. I bow and I worship you.

As morning awakes, your life illuminated by sunlight. Though It’s decorating you in all the riches it can offer, still holding you as an idol of divinity, your beautiful twinkling eyes reveal your truth. You have been unfaithful to my devotion, philandering with evil, you were like a prostitute for the vices of life. You have been discarded, torn and tattered. But I still worship you, though now with filthy sorrow. I still remain loyal and though weak with self loathing, I still wait for you painfully.

But as I think and ponder on your actions. I question my position. If every vice has had a go at you, if nothing substantial of you remains why can’t I have you? I would hold you softly, yet with passion. I would be the one for whom your blood would boil, the one to give you the shivers of excitement. Your heart would pace and your body would sweat. All this for me.

But, as I touch you precious lips, I can see the anguish on your face. You are in pain, being taken by me. you cry to be free you weep in the pain that my presence has brought upon you. It is then that I know that my burden of never getting you, of never being worthy enough for your love, is lesser than the pain It would cause you, by just being mine. With this realization, I wake up. I know I am unworthy and it was all a dream. As I look away, I know you are leaving, and you break my heart doing so, but I could always lie to myself again, pretend that you love me, and be content.

666

At this instant, I've had 666 visitors on the blog! SPOOKY!





And i know, my blog is pink. Cannot change it now, too attached. Don't sweat it!

Freaky Valentine!

I am apprehensive about writing this piece because, for the first time, I feel I will not be able to give that night its full due. What started, as a dismal commemoration of being single one valentines’ eve, soon turned out to be the wildest night of my life!

We weren’t drunk, nor stoned. We were just wallowing… An hour passed with depressing songs of love. Love lost, lost love found, love lost and found and lost and never found…

It started out slow, a move here a movement there. Shoulder shrugging dance soon gave way to heavy head banging. No external intoxication, pure adrenalin! Suddenly, a pillow came flying my way, before I knew it, the four pillows on my bed were being ripped apart in the process of a pillow fight. There was screaming, it seemed in tune with Papa Roach (Last Resort). We wrestled with intentions of murder! There was sweat and hair all over our faces. We were hyperventilating…. almost asthmatic. Nothing deterred us. We were rolling on the cold floor, unable to breathe with laughter dominating each bronchiole. My body gave up; I now suffered from chronic hilarity! We were epileptically seizing in post traumatic laughter. It looked nothing like the pillow fight-ic arousal bits on American television. It was ugly.

Then it stopped… Time out… One could feel the tension. Though breathing, each knew that the other, silently prepared for the next attack. Eyes alert, were now Hi Tech cameras, programmed to spot and process movements in the split existence of a second….. Someone slightly shifted…. That was enough…. And the pillows rained, they thundered! Covers were torn, ripped into tatters; they were just slowing us down….props of nameless shapes were now used to smother faces and bodies alike. Each oppressor; overwhelmed and unrestrained.

In lieu of the chaotic, barbaric brutality, strategic symphony soon set in. Each doe-eyed the other. Innocent nonchalance could barely sustain to cover the exuberance boiling within….
They cornered me. I never knew where the first blow came from as I hit the cold ground, half struggling to get off my bean bag. The bag seemed to participate too. It was a wormhole, quick sand, one could never get out! The blows never stopped! I gathered all my strength and sat up. I snatched someone’s pillow. She was defenseless now! The others noticed that too…we were vultures, loyal to none but the meat of helpless prey. And we rained again, this time we were hailing! Pecking of the flesh till her skin turned red!

It had been hours, or so it seemed. After a point, our hands shivering with fatigue, just threw misdirected aims into thin air. At times, our own pillows would hit us, tiring mid way an attack. The laughter though, never ceased. It never ceased.

I will never know how it ended. How I closed the door and got on my bed. How the discarded cigarette butts reached the trash can or how a torn pillow cover ended up pasted to the wall. I will never know why my floor is sticky or how my beanbag is covered in icing! I will never know! And it’s beautiful to know that I will never know!

Thank You for Drinking

I am currently reading this very ‘trashy’ yet oddly captivating book called ‘Bobbed Hair and Bathtub Gin’. It’s about these four female writers and their tumultuous journey in and out of the writing arena. I was, somewhat ‘questionably’, inspired by this contemporary exhibition of female defiance in contrast to the daintily worded cries of the corseted bosom in, say, a Henry James portrayal of Rebellion. As the Karenin wife or Madam Bovary would drape themselves in curtains while prancing about married men and horny suitors and Daisy Miller or Scarlet o’ Hara would trollop around spilling out shame from behind laced, heart shaped corsets, the feisty writers of this dynamic piece of work would bare it all in four beds in one night with silk and gin!

I personally like bathing at midnight. It feels almost poetic. A day ends and another begins. All in that instant.

Nights glazed in pining for dreams, soaking in a cold bath, I soon forget if its gin or swirling water. The cubicle is dark with only moonlight pouring in. I open the window to allow additional street lights. Cold breeze gently teases my bare body. I look out at stars and night. I sit dripping on the bathroom floor, legs folded, and my knees against my bare shoulders, feeling the rigidity of my collarbone against them. My bare back shivers as the cold door resists my body heat. My painted nails reflect the streetlight as my wet hair curls into my neck. As I rest my cold cheeks on one knee, I gaze at the fresh scar on the other. I gently encircle it with the tip on my fingers. I feel cold and beautiful. The scar looks like the number 8. Or infinity.

It feels bald and reminds me of the membranes inside egg shells.

This scar is my trophy, for a month long life of dreams. A dream, that led me to infinite nights of coquettish philandering with intoxication and absurdity. I wouldn’t know when I was awake or distinguish one night from another. I still think of it fondly. I long for another brush against that infidelity, something to exaggerate my delirium. A Euphoric fiesta of every thing good and everything sinful. An iniquitous blend of strawberry and cream, that so define immorality when together.

Painted lips and powdered nose, I knew I belonged only to that burning elixir. Looking fondly at my beautiful drink in its clear glass, I recite;

“I owe you nothing. And you are nothing to me. Thank you for curing me of my ridiculous obsession with love.” (Moulin Rouge)

As I Rode from Perdition

I have never hated anybody in life. And, people say, that when you near death, you always find it in yourself to forgive. But I know now, that I don’t care. I feel vindictive. I want to hurt the people who hurt me that day. I find it odd that barring the importance of the helmet, this feeling of hatred for some selected people is all that the accident taught me.

I keep running it in my head over and over again. It seems to me that shock has robbed me of the most important second of my life.

Everything was going perfectly that day.

I remember turning to look for my cap. I remember turning back to say that I had spotted it.

I remember knowing that I was in the process of an accident. I remember not being scared, just confused. Falling felt almost comfortable. Time dilated as I felt every second of the swing as the bike began its side wards descent. I knew I wasn’t dying, my life didn’t flash before me. I think I let go of the bike and held her for a second. She wouldn’t let the handles go. All rationality required letting go of the swiftly skidding bike. I think I remember jumping off. Years of sports had harnessed my reflexes. I should have rolled and then skidded over to the middle of the road if my wounds are to be trusted. I remember looking over while skidding. The bike was on top of her as she skid on the road as well, headfirst. I remember thinking about her helmet. I remember knowing that I didn’t have one. I had to save my face. Almost instantly I pulled my head, with all my weight on my right hand and knee. I remember scraping against gravel and hot road as I came to a stop. I remember breathing in dust and tasting salty stones.

I saw the sunglasses my dad had gifted me. I remember wanting to cry. I couldn’t reach for them just yet. I looked back and saw her head exposed to oncoming traffic. Instinctively, I reached out and pulled her head aside. I felt stupid as people started to crowd. I wanted them all to go away. I didn’t feel hurt.
Her helmet was cracked in two like a flimsy egg shell. She was bleeding from her forehead. The sight of blood jerked me back to reality. There wasn’t any water to clean the wound. I remember thanking the helmet in my mind. Surprisingly I didn’t think of god or family. I remembered having no first aid for the first time in my life. I wanted to cry again. She kept looking at me. It was just the two of us there. Everybody else was silent noise. I knew I needed to say something to snap her out of her shock but I couldn’t bring myself to say anything.
I think I smiled. I don’t know why I smiled, but I knew that she would understand what I wanted to convey. She smiled back.

I didn’t know if I was hurt. Actually, I don’t remember feeling anything at that instant. I was just brazenly calm. Somehow, I remembered first aid checks. I asked her to move her hands and feet, to spot prospective bone injury, doing the same myself. Everything seemed to be functional.

I remember sitting outside someone’s home sipping plain soda. I remember hating the taste, but it was cold and I desperately needed to do something with my hands. I focused on the taste as it washed down the mud from my mouth. I faced away from her.
As I sat alone in some idiosyncratic peace, the memories flooded me with pure fear. I relived the incident again and again. I could feel my control giving up, as tears started pouring out. Fear is my only way of describing my state.

I saw her head, dragging against the ground with such force that only tatters of the helmet remained. Every time I saw the helmet, I feared for my life. All that while, my reflexes were the only grace that saved my life that day. Paranoia soon set in. I could feel the panic of the on coming shock attack. I had never been in shock. I faced away from everyone.

At that instant, my right hand decided to go numb. I couldn’t flex it with out excruciating pain. It exaggerated the panic. I started to weep like a baby for the fear of losing my right arm. My knee wound started becoming septic, as my knee revolted in pain. I hadn’t felt so much pain ever before. I could feel my whole face wet with tears. I needed comfort. Even amidst my best friends, I longed for another kind of comfort all together. I needed some one to hold me and hug me. I wanted to bawl without shame. I wanted everybody to know I was hurt and come to my aid. I was alone and afraid. I remember pitying myself. I couldn’t fathom how or why I was thinking about such mundane things. I wanted to snap out of it, but it felt too comfortable just thinking about the prospect of the men I loved being around at that instant.

Then I remember looking at my hand. I was moving my fingers and twitching my shoulders unknowingly. I wasn’t paralyzed. I put all my focus on myself. I felt her presence behind me, she was as hurt as I was, but more worried about me. I could feel her eyes on me. I knew she wanted to talk. I wanted to smile at her again. I felt angry at myself.

At that instant I knew something was truly important to me. Maybe it wouldn’t be my life’s motto, but at that moment it was everything I would live by.

I was important.

Here I was broken, and thinking about all the people I wanted around to pamper me, all the people who still didn’t care how close to death I was that day.
In my life, I have always given importance to things I can’t have. I have always run loops behind ideas that have only existed in my head and are in fact miles away from reality. Much of my trauma that day was self inflicted. It wasn’t the shortage of friends it was just the absence of the ones I had wanted there.

Not much of an insight from a near death Experience?!

The Castle I loved

*(Think of the castle as a burning Cigarette)


I was in love.

I was in love with the magnificent fortress that lay entrenched in the dirty snow atop the steep muddy cliff of ‘PALL MALL’. The cliff itself was branded by the imperial symbol of its sovereign, showing two regal lions pawing the sides and a knight's helmet on top. The inside of the shield read "Per aspera ad Astra” or "Through hardships to the stars". The banner underneath the shield held another Latin phrase, "In hoc signo vinces” or "By this sign shall you conquer".

A fiery orange castle lay gently enclosed within grey fragile dusty rocks of the fortress. It burned poignantly with purpose. Bright golden flames episodically paved way for the pensive yet potent ‘orange’ of dormancy.

As the smoke blew, the incinerating orange allowed itself to be consumed by the grey rocky crust, extinguishing into oblivion, apparently having served its purpose.
The ‘modus operandi’ made the castle even more intimidating.

It called to me with promises of fantasy and fulfillment. Its blistering eye was menacing yet inviting.

I was in love.

It spoke to me, inviting my lips to a sweet release. I closed my eyes and smooth fumes enervated my body. I saw its burning heart crackling ablaze within the magma. As I neared it, pungent smoke filled my lungs. It hit my brain and then my heart. Closing my eyes I felt my brain dissolve into oblivion as my heart fell into a quiet abyss.

I was in love.

It gave me bliss, as I slowly sucked its life away.

The castle aged.

Burning deep and slow it soon fell from its magnificence till it was only but a shack. Its luster was lost along with the passion in its eye. It still burned, though dimly, with purpose. On some starless nights, its embers still glowed, resting yet robust.

As my life passed, I saw the dilapidated castle again. It was small and fading, burnt and thrashed to the ground. As the skies wept and icy waters flooded the gates, its dying embers silently cried themselves into a morbid gray. I heard it fizzle. It was the scream of protest. Of pain and death.

As the castle lay engulfed with its life extinguished, I thought of unconditional love. I thought of commitment and fulfillment and I thought of guilt.

I had killed it slowly, feeding my needs with every breath. Now withered it lay vanquished. A life worthwhile now dismissed.

Neon butterflies and Gingerbread Windows

Outlined world, the colour bleeding out,

a leg on my arm, many heads on their limbs.

As smooth hair tickles my bald lips,

my cheeks betray their infidelity.

As long and coarse, as grainy and salted,

engraved lines are drawn to deceive.




A whistle announces time; a silence follows the stampede.

It comes to crash, and then to whirl,

shiny polka dots on the ripped expanse.

The draped and dressed window, my horizon,

it outlines my existence, my world in multitudes of two.

It’s symmetry sacrosanct, so sustained.



The reality of the salty flesh dawns,

as gray light chips into my reason,

as the great mist surrounds, I fear to reach out, I close my eyes.

The gray disappears, the black comfort returns,

it flickers till I am strong again.

The stereo eye singing softly, my pupils dilate the limbs around me.



Digging up sand, burying my feet,

Inhaling divinity, residual yet potent,

my eyes burn and lips cry, I reach out for the smoke.

It engulfs me, I swirl I spin, I never breathe.

A big shiny coin, almost transparent,

conically extrapolates reality.

I touch its glass, it holds to linger,

It’s wetness invites my parched insides.


Rolling in a pool of transparent blood,

it smells potent and burns my throat,

My eyes cry, the cry of fire,

My body grieves my losing life.








I look up to a long palm, reaching out to the sky,

white stubby fingers, no opposable thumbs.

It hits a surface as I stand and stumble,

on that palm reality now defines.

I crawl to gravity, on smooth cold ripples,

gray and hard, they never end.

I think of steel and then of the night,

Of yellow yolk covered in gray.





I see limbs; they now have heads,

their shadows obstruct the bleeding lights.

My body grunts as I drag against the wind,

stillness awaits, I no longer breathe divine.






He stands insidious, in an insipid life,

bled out colours, drained unfilled.

Dying embers carpet his authority,

slow and menacing, he commands the night.

I now see his putrid life, his ugly sinister fiery eyes,

I am betrayed, I am defied.

I see him and I am steered in high tide,

tears flood me as I sink.

Thrown by physical manifestations of grief,

my dying life, I no longer search.






As reality unveils, I crawl feebly on embers,

Capturing, that last whiff of psychedelic dream.

Neon butterflies and gingerbread windows,

Outlined and bleeding, I dream my episodic life.

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/*Brief Expl:
(1 : I wake up with people around me...sloshed n asleep...over each other...Someone’s sandy hair is on my face, it has left a mark on my cheeks.

2 : I hear the guard whistle...the sound changes to waves crashing..I don know where I am...I look up n see stars through my eyes..I admire the symmetry of my window, my window is my set of decorated eyes.

3 : I taste my salty lips and try and open my eyes, it seems as though some 1 is chipping their way in..Its not bright...there is grey light around..but its smoky so i close my eyes again and attempt to open them again n again till I finally do...I can hear music and see hands and feet all over...

4 : The room is filled with residual smoke...it is potent enough..I try not to inhale any more

5 : I see the coin shaped base of a shot glass...it takes me some time to figure out the cone shaped glass surrounded by alcohol which burns my throat..i then describe my feet as i stand on them

6 : I crawl down stairs, people brush past me...

7 : 'he' refers to the last 'joint')
*\