Thankyou 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.”

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.