.
I’m too clever for your pants.
Ive been at this trade ahead my times
Im a single female male animal
Cussing, hussing, cajoling, screaming, hysteria
I pant stress hiss
Pulling my strings
Drawing my last fire out
Im your best employee
And your worst behaved workman
I work with ten hands
Like a dancing Kali.
Deliver my paycheck on time
Or else.
.
Paper tap paper cap
Paper empty tap tap
Paper sing paper write
Sing, play and take a bite
If my words have a sly slur
Your mind is not what it were.
.
I heard you're living away. Far, free, and fabled. has your history emptied itself? Have you forgiven your lovers, loved your friends and befriended your enemies. Are they empty faced and nonchalant, or do they welcome you with open hairy arms, gifting you their homemade wine in cheap but clean glass bottles to seal a new relationship. Are you rich yet. Do they love you for you or your money? From the gold of humanity that flows down by the forest?
Is the goddess happy. Has she blessed you yet. Have your sufferings ended. Have your wounds healed. Have you woken up in the wee hours to catch the sun before anyone else took it away. Have you searched through the whole place, leaving no place, till you've remembered it all in your head.
Have you loved anyone after me. I heard you've found someone beautiful.. Is she dark and wild like me. Does she let her hair lose and ride into the night with you, holding your hands in a way only a brave king's rightful queen can, sharing fate and love and life and death with an equality rare?
Or is she lovely, lovely in a way a village girl can be. Does she smile at you when you return every evening, with bread and love and nothing else; does she take you into her arms and make you understand what a woman's love is like. Does she want your love. Does she make you happy. Doesn't she ever question your lust, your old values.
Does she hide when you rage. Does she turn away, and weep like a child in the kitchen? Doesnt she stand up like me, eye to eye, holding your rage in her eyes and never letting it make you a demon. And do you make sweet love after that, forgiving and forgetting and knowing nothing other than the world you've both built up with your own hands.
Are you happy with your village woman. Do lust for her like you did for me. Do you hold her hands when you've lost your way. Will she mother your children, protect them like a tigress like i said i would.
Is she your queen. Does she fear. Will you love her till you die. Will you look at her when she's wrinkled and dying on a bed. And while you die, would you remember me?
.
.
Black blood in my veins,
Blocking all the summer rains
.I've lost the I in me.There is no eye in me.There is, no I, in me.No words to write, no poetry, no song, no tale to tell.I feel no sex. no lust no need no pleasure no passion.The masquerade is still on, and I've discovered that I'm in it.I've a home i want to return to. But I've to live a dream, prove a point to someone some people somewhere.I want to be perfect but know I'm not and can never be. I want love but am not sure if i need it really.I'm in the race, but unwillingly. I might be incompetent i might be inefficient or just a plain lazy ass.I'm a passive voyeur of sorts, and I hate and I love it.Often I lie down at night on the half made bed of my brown unkempt room, conjuring faces out of my memories - faces with eyes glazed slow satisfied smile for a rush of blood semen and come. I don't think I've ever loved anyone in my life.I've said many goodbyes. Closures. Maybe its a Holywood hegemony, but hey, I need them because it just makes me feel.. final. Better.I don't like goodbyes. And I also, sometimes, like goodbyes.I tell myself a lot of things I tell myself I'm poor and that one day I'd be rich and maybe its a lie.i want to finish a line without having to use punctuation I think I'm strange.When I'm nervous I always take the shit.Music for me is the soft thud of dry-wet shit against the pot in the morning.But music is also ma's silent treading into my room and parting the curtains to let the morning sunlight in.I think I will be unhappy for the most part of my life for all the things I can't have.And i think my whole life is a preparation for that.I want to be many things in life, many people many faces. I don't know what I'd do once I become just one person. I think most of all I'm afraid to be who I really want to be.Most times, I don't know what or who I want to be.I don't usually differentiate between money fame and power. But I want them all.I don't, for one thing, have a clue what I'm going on about. And that's a straightfaced lie, because all of us fear the little truths that seep out once in a while.PS: had written this a long time ago. of course i have changed completely, and do not understand what i myself have gone on about. but then, it IS me, in parts, ages ago. i know no one would care a shit what this means or can mean, but then it doesnt matter!
.
I have a
Broken bicycle
In Michigan
Left out side
In the sun
Rusted busted
Impossible to ride
Red sticker
Plastered wide
I have a
Red vase
In Timbaktu
Discolourd and
Calling you
Faded, shredded
Beside the mosque
Where people chant
Before the dusk
I have a
TV set
In China
Severed wire and
Antenna
Holding still yet
Trying to wind
Simple lives and
A hope behind
I have a
Diary in the
South Pole
Half torn
And half worn
Whole and empty pages
Left amidst ages
When all was yellow
And sober
Wrote your name,
On the cover.
But none of them call me
None of them sing
I’ve traveled the world around
But haven’t found that thing
That which is melody
Melody so warm
My broken down home
That is lost and gone.
And all of the orange streetlights
The music in the car
The bar’s always merry
The road always far
Where your hand like butter
Draws a curtain aside
Where I’m loveless and unwhole
Without my homeride.
.
He says
that I’m a mad-physcho-nympho
that I’m easy,
old
and exhausted.
That my armpits reek of slavery
and my cunt of operated ovaries
He says,
that she’s better than me
because she’s pretty
and a great fuck.
Was a virgin when he met her.
This empty page
Is my psycho nude panic sweaty lusty untamed midnight getaway/
Don’t invade it.
His man arms, soft, and strong,
Curled like a lock around my neck.
His breath,
Struggling upon a hook
Felt icy and intermittent
My hair, disheveled
And uncombed
Fell on his face
And he lowered his head
To whisper my ears:
“Madam,
May I take your coat?”
Saying this,
He hurried outside
Holding my heart
My coat,
And my five buck change
In his fingers.
I
Chanda,
My clandestine whore.
My chocolate skinned
Gajra-on-her-hair
Red lipstick loving
Kolhapuri wearing
Nubile tender feet,
Hair uncombed, untied,
Free like a sufi’s robe.
Her voice, like a river echoing in a cave
My nathni wearing
Village girl turned shaheri chick,
II
Chanda stands,
In a blouse
Tad too yellow and too tight
And a cotton printed saree,
Waving at lusty passers by
Like a 20 buck investment
Selling dreams
Pink horizons
And a hope for happiness.
III
Chanda,
My desi daaru guzzling
Shameless lie
Chanda my wig wearing
Irresistible mindfuck of the century.
Sucking chuski in Chaupathi
Amongst lecherous men and young boys.
My queen of the black gullies
Running out in the first rain
In the middle of the road,
Doing cha cha cha with filthy urchins
Drawing fire from fire in the nights
Riding like a Raani on her horse!
My mad, mad Chanda
Drenched in many sweats
And sins of the babu’s
Virgins.
IV
Chanda
Misunderstood
And ousted from all that is hopeful
Chanda
My quickie in public
An indulgence of the hopeless
Chanda,
Dancing to jawaani janeman
a blast from a radio
At the dead of night.
V
Chadna,
Weeping by river
That runs through this side of the desolate town
My ishq kameena
And angure badan
Chanda,
My insipid suicidal unformed boredom
Trapped in her yellow room
But free like a plastic kite.
Chanda,
My clandestine whore,
Bless you.
As her fingers moved across the strings, touching them, one by one, knowing them, cajoling them to begin again, teasing their thing, making a statement on and on, it hit her.
She would not be able to play again. That the thought could strike her then, like that, when she unarmed and still in love, would be fragile and unseeked. But she did. Realize. And the thought by itself was a relief, like never before. And without a second thought, she began to weep, hysterically, to and fro, banging her head against the pillow, silently punching it, not knowing why she felt so relieved. But she did nonetheless, and finally, she could move on. Sweet release.
In a jutted drunken milieu
I’d forgotten why I started it.
I forgot like you forget an old love staled by time and bitterness. Or like the old photograph of the white bearded Tagore in our old baari, black and white now yellowed and greyed. Like the thousands of “2”s I had scribbled across our old kelvinator fridge with ma’s lipstic when I was taught numbers for the first time.
Panchgani lay pale white beneath the black starry sky and its giant yellow moon. Tomorrow (I told myself), will be colorful. Tomorrow (I told myself), will end this awesome white dream. So today should be beautiful then, shouldn’t it, and so there I sat feet dangling from the 1st floor terrace, very very drunk, with my
I: So what are you, the all forgiving Mata Hari?
He (laughs): Mata Hari? But wasn’t Mata Hari a Russian Spy.
I: Don’t change the topic. What I’m saying is, are you going to be this annoyingly nice to everyone always?
He: Yes. Well, I’ll try.
I: But that’s … beyond human strength.
He(smiles): that’s what you think.
I: And it’s also foolish.
He(laughs out): I know.
I: Not even if your heart is broken once again?
He: you have to stop thinking of me as a Buddha. I’m just another guy.
I: So you’re saying is, you’re not the Sisyphus either?
He: Who’s Sisyphus?
I (whispered): The man who rolled a rock to the top of a mountain every time only for it to roll back down again, and then he would have to roll it back again.
He: Why would he do that?
I (annoyed): Because it was his punishment!
He: What was the punishment for?
I: He stole fire from the Gods.
He: Did he?
I: No. I think that was Prometheus.
He: Was it?
I: Fuck it V, you ask so many questions. Besides, I’m very drunk. I have these thoughts running inside my head like a cinema reel.
He: Wait. I’ll stop your mind.
I: Haha. Right.
He: No. I’m serious.
I: How-?
He touches my forehead with his left hand.
I: Right. Like that is stopping my thoughts.
He looks at me calmly. I try hard, but can’t read his eyes.
I: Today. Is Monday. Holi. Tomorrow. We leave. Shoots. Requirements. Production coordination. Channel meeting Wednesday. Thursday…
That’s when my head goes completely blank. I only see with my right eye, the other covered by the palms of his hands. I slowly drink in his well kept, wise face, his eyes glowing in the marble white moon light. I notice the waves of Panchgani terrain behind him… the valley spread out like a shy bride under the luminous moonlight. I will remember all of this, I tell myself.
He slides his hands down from my forehead, to my nose, to my lips. I feel him stroke my mouth – gently. I instinctively bite them, and taste salt – these very hands had rolled some awesome pot few hours before. These fingers: godly.
He leans close to my face. I feel his warm breath on my lips, his nose on mine; wine and pot and a strange beautiful something else I couldn’t name.
And he whispers slowly: Do you feel something?
I nod.
He: You realize that you and I have something?
I nod again.
He: Will you go for a walk with me?
I whisper: Yes.
We don’t, of course. We go downstairs – I barefoot – to the lawn, talk for another 2 hours non stop (again) and suddenly it is morning: 6:30a.m, and the sun is almost out. I get up. The magic, I feels, is broken.
I say (carefully, feeling the vodka and chantille wearing off): I think you should go sleep.
He looks at me, I still cant read his eyes. Yes – he says – maybe I should, and smiles. I leave, sadness washing over me like summer wind. I would have liked to say thank you, for a beautiful time. But that would sound so commonplace and profane; and it was not. So I climb up the stairs, and go away to sleep it off.
.
Because you think I’m a freak and that the metal in my head is cold as is my heart because you despise happiness like plastic because you’re a maniac, so severed and broken and empty of emotions because you think love is a dreadful thing it best be gotten rid of like it were some disease because you think music is your soul but music really is your poison and you hide behind it and glory in it but really you are just a naïve sonofagun a fuckin faggot because you imagine you give me a mindfuck because you tell me I am your friend and you don’t wanna ‘jeopardize’ that but everyone knows that’s BS because you are confused and a sick-o and mind retard because you don’t know the beauty of a night without intoxication because you are away from home and think art of living is the best thing since yoga because you’re numb dumb unfeeling psycho and will never be man enough and guess what?
I’ve moved on!
.
Oh, what is my damage?
are you put off by my odour?
or is it my plain cream dress,
a little loose on the waist
and torn around the edges?
was it the song I sang, or
the beauty of the sunset I mentioned?
or.. oh, wait,
is it who I am
that is too torn,
too clumsy, too outdated
falling apart and greasy, for you?
wait, let the door open while you leave
and let the Wind in because
she has seen me age
without grace, yes, but
at least she knows how.
This is not a
Thoughtful farewell
But an archaic hell.
Or a vacant heart ringing a loveless bell.
There’d be no goodbyes,
No bare faced lies
No papercut wound on the pillow
For I’d just wallow
And swallow
The coffee spilt and ashes on my bed
Like a blue dress and a song and a dusty map to your head
All of this and more
I have left before
For life is sea without a shore
There isn’t gonna be a smell of you
A story true
The calm of your absence
And all your nonsense
Your fooling around
On a mundane noon
Or the maniac in me
To be rising soon
All of this and more
I have left before
Hoping to reach the shore.
There wouldn’t be
A radical beginning
Or an automated sinning
That I can purge for the life of me
There isn’t going to be
A humane answer to anything
No packets of waste
Left for you to taste
While I smoke outside,
And you rage inside
If I could be a whore
Of your sea less shore
I would live forevermore
Now that my love is dead
We’re happy and well fed
But if you were here
There’s nothing I’d fear.
For all of this and more
I have left before
For life is just sea without a shore.
Twenty years, and I don’t know.
I have left an unkempt room with the lights on. I have friends smiling down the road, waving at me as I see my hand wave out to them. Their smiling faces bid me farewell. I turn my head from right to left and back right. I hear a song play at English dadu’s gramo. The old gun, drunk and gone for the day. I hear a whisper as I turn around and see a face amongst the crowd. And suddenly I’m back at the old room in Sarai Juleinna, sloshed with rum and whiskey and gola that Kaur had scored from the chaiwallah. Tushar so stoned and drunk at the same time that he suddenly starts a conversation about Marx, and I tell him, “Do you know what Marx said before he died?” “No. What?”. “Thank God, I’m not a Marxist” reply I with a smirk of the ones who know it all. I remember nothing more till I wake up beside a six inch pile of dog shit, my clothes stinking of strange alien pee. The alien was Babu, Kaur’s orphan bitch. I wake and as I head for the washroom, I see Adesh, jerking off from the the half closed door. Adesh, Kaur’s scheduled tribal husband from IIM joka who we told her was a ‘catch’.
THAT.
With that vision in my head, I head towards the entrance door. I pick up my cell phone and switch it on. in a second of it dying out again and myself realizing it had conked off sometime in the last evening, I pick up a nearby cell phone and figure its
Impossible. But I head outside anyway. Not knowing I will never come back, and that Kaur will be my enemy in days to come and go.
I commoned him
Like a common smell-less fart
Or my uncle’s ugly pink house
Like an orkut scrap and a facebook wallpost
Or a pop song last in the charts
Like a five buck coffee at the airport
Or a joint that didn’t get me wasted
Canteen food at college
Like spam,
Or a beverage I will never remember
I commoned him,
And brought him down
To the ordinary platform of my head
And moved on.
She used to be the king in her bedroom, smokin’ up bone barrels below the bridge. He used to be the farm boy of untaken flowers from the ridge.
Her hair would turn in the wind, and she would scream out a song. He would play out his tune from his mouth organ. She would write herself a forest, a kingdom and a planet. He would make a universe with his music.
She would drive like fire in the highway her hair crushed straight by the dry wind. He would roar his bullet in symphony by the great yellow canyon. She would dance the harvest dance her hips moving like ripples. He would be staggered by the beauty of the moon its cathode phony light. She would pray by the cave, her hum echoing through the jungle. He would kneel by the river tracing through sleeping life below the rocks.
She would wake under the iron sun, red and lopsided with admiration. He would remove his bag with expert hands of one who has left home long ago. She would say goodbye to the charcoal and what remained of the night’s fire. He would cut through the ropes and start the engine desiring it speed and power.
And through out this, not once did she look him or he her. They weren’t in love. They lived thousand worlds apart in their own islands of dreams. They were both beautiful and living alone, perhaps never to meet.
It’s purple blood
Comin’ out of my come
The blue in me skin is
Where the rope’s undone.
The skin’s all
Ripped off at the edges
I got pins
Stickin’ ‘em all in pages
On the outside
All’s well and severed
My head’s a madhouse
Null and chequered
My monkey’s been
All over the place
And I’m lyin’ on the
Floor with a
Bedsheet ‘round my face
There’s a reason for this
There’s a season for this
You’re a killer on the loose
You’re the one I choose
You make me
Clutter in a drain
Your fuck is
Damage for my brain
I drew a
Flower and a pen
From the loft
Above the oven
An album
With your picture
From where I
Forged your signature
Then I
Sent myself a card
Asking if my
Days are still hard
Was I lonely
Without the music
Still insane
And tragic
Was my gun
Still in place
In the drawer
Beneath the lace
Was I mad
And still ugly
Or in love?
And I said, hardly.
I wish I had a better word of choice
Or a livelier song to the fill this void.
I know I’m a little late
And a tad old fashioned
What with my red rose
And my red tie
But I have love running inside of me
Like electric.
Oh, darling,
Would you now measure my pocket size?
And not this
Giant blood pumping machine in my chest?
No matter.
For I have left it pumping blue veins
In a little corner
By the old room in the attic
Behind the books
And cushions
Where cobwebs run.
So you won’t hear
While it beats.
Hear?
That's how emptiness speaks.
Sometimes with his worried mind
Chakravarty pictures soldiers in a line.
White horses raging through the white sand
As he, holds the princess’ hand.
Then Chakravarty, with a frigid erection
Leads his princess in a misdirection
And when he reaches the temple door
The clock has just struck four
He throws his princess down on the floor
He takes out a brown leather case
Where his dagger rests, with a jeweled base
Chakravarty with his expert hands
Unties the princess’ hands
Beholding the princess in a solid stare
His throbbing heart about to bare
The secrets of an ancient tale
Of vagabonds drunk over ale
But Chakravarty being an easy guy
Leaves his princess. Bids her g’bye.
And all his dreams and magazines
Go rot in dust. They serve nothing.
For Chakravarty with his careful rub
Is a regular guy, just lookin’ for love
There’s no way, on a sunny day
Chakravarty’d be all happy and gay
For him and his tribe of vice
Is empty without the burning lies
And Chakravarty with his lonely heart
Ends his tale before it starts.
For Chakravarty with his frigid erection
Led his princess ina misdirection.
The wordman said, ‘Come, come. I’d take your breath away.’
‘I know,’ said the mighty wordman. He looked this way and that as he drove his grey chariot. A thousand words spilt out of his eyes and hair. They fell on his lap, like satin white feathers of a dove. The preacher held one of the thousand words in her fingers and placed it on one of the pieces of her heart. It disappeared.
‘Oh but wordman! Look what your words are doing to the broken pieces of my heart! They are disappearing!’
The wordman stopped his chariot. He looked at the mad preacher for a long time in wonderment, and said, as surprised himself:
‘No, my love. My words are just… mending your heart.’
And the preacher stared down at her lap.
It was true.
All of the thousand words that had slid down the wordman had each fallen on the broken pieces of the preacher’s heart, and was disappearing one by one.
And somewhere deep inside, the preacher felt something healing. Something soft and fluttering, something new being born.
She, afraid, spread her wings and flew away..
Fucking you is
Plastic on the floor.
Armies in a lost battle
Death at my door.
A dog in my backyard
Pills for my pain
Beer in broken bottle
Wet paint and rain.
Aren’t I
Obsessive
Aren’t I
Submissive
Am I
Inobtrusive
In love
-------------------------------
Fucking you is
Piss in pot
Mellow come
A hooker’s snot
Fucking you is
High on hash
Gold teeth hustler
Faking Slash
Aren’t I
obsessive
Aren’t I
Reclusive
Am I
Figurative
In love.
Fucking you is
Acne creams
When I scream
Baby dreams
Breaking my jaw
Dirt beneath nails
Slitting my nerves
Ugly as hell
I’m too
Obsessive
And also
Submissive
Not to mention
Pshychotic
In love.
ho ri ha ri ho gayi main
teri deewani..." lol...tui hoeto bhab bi cheesy to the extremes maybe , but honestly, it always reminds me of you, and that intense passion for love and life which i saw in you..:D dont let that die in you girl, that what i love in you more than anything else in anyone else. dats why sufi poetry and rumi and that infinite love reminds me of you. but its such an unbelievable feeling to be able to feel a love like dat, i cant hold on it for long, but whenever i do, its fucking high.but you know the thing, dat sort of thing is not for a person, its more like its for something inside me...when you do things from your soul, you feel a river moving in you..one must love THAT..you know yesterday i was watching this ukraininan artist dance to mirabai's bhajan "mere to girdhar gopal/dusra na koi.."" omg it was so intense!! i mean that sort of love!! you know, i was thinking this morning i was reading rumi, that sort of love , that sort of feeling cant be contained or borne by any human agency, no wonder their love was always for the One transient being, but maybe you know, it was a love for that river moving inside you, the flame burning inside you, something inside OUR selves..honestly, girl, all this i feel and it suits none but you.:)"If the foot of the trees were not tied to earth, they would be pursuing me.. For I have blossomed so much, I am the envy of the gardens.." seee you soon.
"main albeli main mastani
gaaun bajaaun sabko rijhaaun
main deen dhram se begaani
main deewani main deewani "..lol..shit!!! god i need to get well soon and clear my thoughts, this is just fucking cheesy and plain nuts >:(