7/2/2012, Tuesday
Some hard bound moments ago,
thinking I was home and dry,
I left my placid faith cold,
on a paralyzed piece of wood.
I galloped into
a world of overgrown affectations,
a world of metaphors and similes,
a world trying to pare away,
the uncertainty from tomorrows,
a world draped in
the naked shades
of circumscribed salvation,
a self professing happy world of
ritualized incarnations,
a world of knifes and forks,
rutted by the ebb and flow of the clocks.
For once, one day, I returned,
to the comfort of
my warm four-walls,
to pick my, now paralyzed, faith,
and kept it in my pocket,
close to the beatings of my heart,
trying to revive it,
trying to go back to the start..
I don't know what 've I written and why 've I done that. I don't know if anyone can ever interconnect my sporadic thoughts. I don't know if someone will ever try to. But do i care ?? .. I never did.. and I still don't..
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Sunday, January 29, 2012
One last time..
29/1/2012, Sunday
Gingerly forced into it,
by obscene temporal conjunctions,
I went to her again..
On a chilly winter night,
life knocked at my doors,
she kissed me wild,
she took me high,
her teeth dug into my neck,
and her nails made staircase
impressions in my flesh.
She wrote me down
with her brute ire,
into the annals of nothingness.
Gingerly forced into it,
by obscene temporal conjunctions,
I went to her again..
I don't know what 've I written and why 've I done that. I don't know if anyone can ever interconnect my sporadic thoughts. I don't know if someone will ever try to. But do i care ?? .. I never did.. and I still don't..
Gingerly forced into it,
by obscene temporal conjunctions,
I went to her again..
On a chilly winter night,
life knocked at my doors,
she kissed me wild,
she took me high,
her teeth dug into my neck,
and her nails made staircase
impressions in my flesh.
She wrote me down
with her brute ire,
into the annals of nothingness.
Gingerly forced into it,
by obscene temporal conjunctions,
I went to her again..
I don't know what 've I written and why 've I done that. I don't know if anyone can ever interconnect my sporadic thoughts. I don't know if someone will ever try to. But do i care ?? .. I never did.. and I still don't..
Monday, June 27, 2011
I just happened to pass by the WALL !
27/6/2011, Monday..
On an old dilapidated wall, near the very busy bus stand of a city called Dinanagar, that was covered with moistened smoke and grime, there were two things that stood out ( hey.. the description was meant for the wall and not for the city !). On one side of the wall, there was a poster of a movie that called itself 'Pyaasa Mard' and on the other side something was written. Out of this 'something' what I could make out was "the 100th son". Now someone, with an acute acclivity towards editing, must have walked in and adroitly placed "of a bitch" after the remains of the original imprints. Ok, so these were the two things, according to the poor old 'me', that stood out on 'our' wall. Also, between the things that supposedly stood out, there was a poster of our very own 'youth-icon' Mr. Raul Vinci (oops ! I mean Rahul Gandhi). Now, trust me, I didn't interpret anything out of it and nor do I want you to use your brains and interpret anything. And also, this isn't a concocted story, but a mere observation ! (Trust me !).
Now, the common man with all his commonness kept walking past that wall, busy in his daily struggle for subsistence, without paying any heed to things that stand out for people like me. The only thing that the male laity (me included) looked at, while passing by, was the lead lady of 'Pyaasa Mard' who had a real horny expression on her face (could have given Jenna Jameson a run for her money, going by her facial expressions ! I am not really a connoisseur in these matters though !). The lady on the poster of 'Pyaasa Mard' caught my eye as she had her eyes fixed on our youth icon who was dressed in a traditional kurta-pyajama looking elegant while flaunting his trademark dimpled smile. I had my sympathies for the male lead of our movie, who, even after being without clothes (well almost), couldn't catch the eye-balls of the lady he had in his arms. Anyway, thats the way it is nowadays I guess ! And who cares about my guesses anyway !
And what about our impresario, our editor, who added the necessary spice to "the 100th son" ? I heard he got a red beating from the police for his attempted contempt of lineage (oh ! I mean Law !).
Q 1) Do we have anything to be learnt from the above ?
Ans.) NO
Q 2) From a deontological point of view maybe ?
Ans.) ABSOLUTELY NOTHING !
The posters on the wall changed after a few days but the writing was on the wall as I just happened to pass by the WALL again !
I don't know what 've I written and why 've I done that. I don't know if anyone can ever interconnect my sporadic thoughts. I don't know if someone will ever try to. But do i care ?? .. I never did.. and I still don't..
On an old dilapidated wall, near the very busy bus stand of a city called Dinanagar, that was covered with moistened smoke and grime, there were two things that stood out ( hey.. the description was meant for the wall and not for the city !). On one side of the wall, there was a poster of a movie that called itself 'Pyaasa Mard' and on the other side something was written. Out of this 'something' what I could make out was "the 100th son". Now someone, with an acute acclivity towards editing, must have walked in and adroitly placed "of a bitch" after the remains of the original imprints. Ok, so these were the two things, according to the poor old 'me', that stood out on 'our' wall. Also, between the things that supposedly stood out, there was a poster of our very own 'youth-icon' Mr. Raul Vinci (oops ! I mean Rahul Gandhi). Now, trust me, I didn't interpret anything out of it and nor do I want you to use your brains and interpret anything. And also, this isn't a concocted story, but a mere observation ! (Trust me !).
Now, the common man with all his commonness kept walking past that wall, busy in his daily struggle for subsistence, without paying any heed to things that stand out for people like me. The only thing that the male laity (me included) looked at, while passing by, was the lead lady of 'Pyaasa Mard' who had a real horny expression on her face (could have given Jenna Jameson a run for her money, going by her facial expressions ! I am not really a connoisseur in these matters though !). The lady on the poster of 'Pyaasa Mard' caught my eye as she had her eyes fixed on our youth icon who was dressed in a traditional kurta-pyajama looking elegant while flaunting his trademark dimpled smile. I had my sympathies for the male lead of our movie, who, even after being without clothes (well almost), couldn't catch the eye-balls of the lady he had in his arms. Anyway, thats the way it is nowadays I guess ! And who cares about my guesses anyway !
And what about our impresario, our editor, who added the necessary spice to "the 100th son" ? I heard he got a red beating from the police for his attempted contempt of lineage (oh ! I mean Law !).
Q 1) Do we have anything to be learnt from the above ?
Ans.) NO
Q 2) From a deontological point of view maybe ?
Ans.) ABSOLUTELY NOTHING !
The posters on the wall changed after a few days but the writing was on the wall as I just happened to pass by the WALL again !
I don't know what 've I written and why 've I done that. I don't know if anyone can ever interconnect my sporadic thoughts. I don't know if someone will ever try to. But do i care ?? .. I never did.. and I still don't..
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
A trivial errand..
15/2/2011, Tuesday
Well awake before the dawn
strikes the gong of his
diurnal struggle for subsistence,
he contemplates the silence,
in those repugnant 'illiterate' thoughts.
Those jaded octogenarian eyes,
retrace the 'salutary' fringes,
hesitating to look into the face
of the murky shadows.
Stealthily he regresses to a time
of his youth,
leaving his flaccid present in the lurch,
comforting himself in those days of yore,
when he was a 'believer',
a believer hardcore !
Squatting by the roadside,
draped in a 'charitable' blanket,
covered in dust and grime,
he'll be selling tobacco in sometime.
With deathly rumblings,
turning his 'boisterous' act
into a pantomime,
he waits for 'life' to begin,
for one last time..
I don't know what 've i written and why 've i done that. I don't know if anyone can ever interconnect my sporadic thoughts. I don't know if someone will ever try to. But do i care ?? ... i never did... and i still don't...
Well awake before the dawn
strikes the gong of his
diurnal struggle for subsistence,
he contemplates the silence,
in those repugnant 'illiterate' thoughts.
Those jaded octogenarian eyes,
retrace the 'salutary' fringes,
hesitating to look into the face
of the murky shadows.
Stealthily he regresses to a time
of his youth,
leaving his flaccid present in the lurch,
comforting himself in those days of yore,
when he was a 'believer',
a believer hardcore !
Squatting by the roadside,
draped in a 'charitable' blanket,
covered in dust and grime,
he'll be selling tobacco in sometime.
With deathly rumblings,
turning his 'boisterous' act
into a pantomime,
he waits for 'life' to begin,
for one last time..
I don't know what 've i written and why 've i done that. I don't know if anyone can ever interconnect my sporadic thoughts. I don't know if someone will ever try to. But do i care ?? ... i never did... and i still don't...
Sunday, November 7, 2010
The 7:02 metro..
7/11/2010, Sunday...
The silver coloured, metallic precinct,
pulls away at 7:02 every morning.
Sometimes I let it go,
and sometimes it leaves me behind.
The souls I see over there,
are like famished beasts.
Laconic are their spaces,
and seldom they leave any kind of human traces.
In a race against the ticking clock,
they try to seize time by the forlock.
With a trivial tinge in their voice,
they sing the banal verses
of spontaniety, of choice,
and presciently rejoice.
Flowing in the deluge of ordinariness,
the haggard habitues,
trying hard to do what they are told to,
toil hard, to set foot onto,
the only thing they do impromptu.
That silver coloured, metallic precinct,
pulls away at 7:02 every morning.
Sometimes I let it go,
and sometimes it leaves me behind,
and sometimes like a lyrical lunge,
of an emotionless song,
it takes me along...
I don't know what 've i written and why 've i done that. I don't know if anyone can ever interconnect my sporadic thoughts. I don't know if someone will ever try to. But do i care ?? ... i never did... and i still don't...
The silver coloured, metallic precinct,
pulls away at 7:02 every morning.
Sometimes I let it go,
and sometimes it leaves me behind.
The souls I see over there,
are like famished beasts.
Laconic are their spaces,
and seldom they leave any kind of human traces.
In a race against the ticking clock,
they try to seize time by the forlock.
With a trivial tinge in their voice,
they sing the banal verses
of spontaniety, of choice,
and presciently rejoice.
Flowing in the deluge of ordinariness,
the haggard habitues,
trying hard to do what they are told to,
toil hard, to set foot onto,
the only thing they do impromptu.
That silver coloured, metallic precinct,
pulls away at 7:02 every morning.
Sometimes I let it go,
and sometimes it leaves me behind,
and sometimes like a lyrical lunge,
of an emotionless song,
it takes me along...
I don't know what 've i written and why 've i done that. I don't know if anyone can ever interconnect my sporadic thoughts. I don't know if someone will ever try to. But do i care ?? ... i never did... and i still don't...
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
A mouthful of deadly life..
11/8/2010, Wednesday...
When the strident creatures were
feeding on the silence,
of a rainy winter night,
he walked past the shadow
of an old groggy lamp-post.
Soaked in an unknown pain,
his face sheltered, long streaks of grime.
Walking along the long road,
to the incognito tunes of those sloshing drops of rain,
swallowing heavily,
he tried to free himself
from the grasp of a sacrosanct chain.
Along that long road,
in the proximity of a crossroad,
and under the only sky star,
there was a baptismal public bar.
There, the cult of happy men,
celebrated the ethereal felicity
of a fluid substance.
His mug was filled to the brim,
they say, he drank all of it and
died in a following strife.
"He used to drink too much", they said,
too much of a fluid substance,
a fluid substance, they called life.
I don't know what 've i written and why 've i done that. I don't know if anyone can ever interconnect my sporadic thoughts. I don't know if someone will ever try to. But do i care ?? ... i never did... and i still don't...
When the strident creatures were
feeding on the silence,
of a rainy winter night,
he walked past the shadow
of an old groggy lamp-post.
Soaked in an unknown pain,
his face sheltered, long streaks of grime.
Walking along the long road,
to the incognito tunes of those sloshing drops of rain,
swallowing heavily,
he tried to free himself
from the grasp of a sacrosanct chain.
Along that long road,
in the proximity of a crossroad,
and under the only sky star,
there was a baptismal public bar.
There, the cult of happy men,
celebrated the ethereal felicity
of a fluid substance.
His mug was filled to the brim,
they say, he drank all of it and
died in a following strife.
"He used to drink too much", they said,
too much of a fluid substance,
a fluid substance, they called life.
I don't know what 've i written and why 've i done that. I don't know if anyone can ever interconnect my sporadic thoughts. I don't know if someone will ever try to. But do i care ?? ... i never did... and i still don't...
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
A watery eyed dreamer..
5/5/2010, Wednesday..
When the remains of the dawned sun,
that now shone on the other side,
were engendering perfunctory glances,
a cloud skipped past
the cemetery bound light.
The wind, being a dab at whispering,
dabbed the tympanum of his deaf ears,
re-kindling his relapse,
into the relegated slumber,
of a wistful relict.
The clemency on his inside's outside
had a devious premonition.
The old yellow annals of his past life
were flipping past.
With some contingent cargo, loaded
in his sack
and with very little prescience
on his back,
with tactile libidos and
and tacit dreams
gunning down his sense of being,
that notoriously halcyonic reality
slaked itself on his vitality.
In a moment that came and went,
a tear trickled down
his eyes like a gleam,
as the watery eyed dreamer,
dreamt of his dream..
I don't know what 've i written and why 've i done that. I don't know if anyone can ever interconnect my sporadic thoughts.I don't know if someone will ever try to. But do i care ?? ... i never did... and i still don't...
When the remains of the dawned sun,
that now shone on the other side,
were engendering perfunctory glances,
a cloud skipped past
the cemetery bound light.
The wind, being a dab at whispering,
dabbed the tympanum of his deaf ears,
re-kindling his relapse,
into the relegated slumber,
of a wistful relict.
The clemency on his inside's outside
had a devious premonition.
The old yellow annals of his past life
were flipping past.
With some contingent cargo, loaded
in his sack
and with very little prescience
on his back,
with tactile libidos and
and tacit dreams
gunning down his sense of being,
that notoriously halcyonic reality
slaked itself on his vitality.
In a moment that came and went,
a tear trickled down
his eyes like a gleam,
as the watery eyed dreamer,
dreamt of his dream..
I don't know what 've i written and why 've i done that. I don't know if anyone can ever interconnect my sporadic thoughts.I don't know if someone will ever try to. But do i care ?? ... i never did... and i still don't...
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