Tuesday, July 28, 2009

Us and Us

A crowneckish cloud, floating just over our triumph. And the moon and the stars are all taken aback by its impudence. Like the off-keyed howl of a psychedelic harmony, it belongs to the whole, and, yet is just too individual to merge into the interstellar strumming altogether. Rainbow- it conceals beneath the wings. The wings, though, are made of flowers. Often, in my sweet indolence, I have smelt the white yoke of hyacinths. I call her my hyacinth girl. No matter, what the voices say.
It's amazing, how you can find your own voice in times of cholera! The other room might sap the last drop of your resistance, but lo and behold, it actually charms the snake into being a snake and that’s all there is!
Beautiful, beautiful death lingers there. In Ginny’s smile. With promises that are never going to be kept. Like the unkempt hair that often sweeps across her face, when I touch the tip of her nose. There lies my salvation. Our salvation.
The worms are in my flesh. I had been wronged in my birth, and will be wronged in my death. Only when I touch the centre of us, even if it cannot hold, it feels like life. And light. And shadow. And extended guitar solos of a certain Mark Knopfler.
Us and Us. It will always be like this.
Remember us, if at all, not as lost violent souls, but as people who had suffered not to be separated, and who had tried to cry unto each other. Like in a mirror.
That’ll do.

Saturday, July 18, 2009

I'm seeking love
But I'm in the thick of it,
This kinda love, I'm so sick of it!

I am seeking love
I hear the clock tick
This kinda love,I'm lovesick!

-Robert Allen Zimmerman.

Friday, July 17, 2009

One or two moments of wistfulness
A sudden twitch of your mouth-
Words, mystery-fanged and heavy.
I remain awake, awake, awake.

Friday, July 10, 2009

Expecting Rain

Each cavity of uneasy moments is full with the splinters of present tense. What could have been a joyride has become a bumpy insight into one’s own recess. Threads, beautiful threads of my back years, have turned into Medusa-hair. The boy is grown, the dream is gone.

Or, is it just that I have not willingly allowed myself to be a part of the circus in town?

I close my eyes. Tired and battered within, how I want to harmonise with the words of a consumptive youth, how I desire to touch the lips of easeful death with my fingertips.

And yet, life keeps whirling about. Like the wheels of a toppled cart....