Supernatural Tang ..

>> Tuesday, December 30, 2008

Oh, there are other lovers,
scandalously talented than you,
their unashamed display of superior airs
are consistently awarded
with my favored times.

Un-heavenly morsels, ever-fucked
possessing no wisdom on
crucial contours of anatomy, who
contemplate tricky peaks and skirts
as just a series of wrinkled uplifts
on a flat plane.

They flip pebbles into cosmic waters
to observe the turmoil that ensues
hunting for sex as if for a vortex
to drown themselves in

And in searching for them
I am of the same heedless spirit.

Ruminating by the light of moon
bright enough to give configuration
to aspects and intersections below
I render the void I want.

I entreat perspectives, not an indication
for probable fields of fire, no line
or shading, no subtlety or fidelity
no interest in panorama yonder
its starkest strategic features.

In this dark windless region
beyond atmosphere, it appears

moon could lead me astray
there would be steering
and propulsion mechanism
surely for use

once that is in place,
sentiments safe from meteorites,
in their rugged sheathing,
the moon could be chased down easily
through dead reckoning.


si(mp)ngleton's blotter

>> Sunday, December 14, 2008

Despite my secret suspicion that summer would never end, winter did eventually come trickling in, with it, the time of frozen words. They had given expressive shape to my inarticulated despair but the shocking realization of helplessness drive me to the episodes of wild and reckless rage. Nothing is more uncomfortable than silence when speech is expected. I poke somberly through the content of this dead machine, various sites, the pages I relished reading, unfinished stuff I’d once written passionately, most of which appear beyond my taste. Then I just stare at the monitor, listening to the sound of the birds chirping outside and the rustle of leaves. At length slowly the light begins to fade around me and I remember the book I’d been reading, which lies yonder in the darkness. Muttering scraps and bits of poetic afterward like sparks flaring in a dying fire I turn, and start to back off, tardy at first then with gradually rising haste, until my wobbly steps are clambering along through the accumulating shadows.

Love.. where is love now? After a long pause of hesitation I decide to read that book. It’s a love-story of Empress Noorjahan a.k.a. Mehrunissa and Mughal Emperor Jahangir, a historical love-story or somesuch. Love is all about scheming, plotting, betrayal and blah .. Why should something that ancient take me back to my very own sins? Everything putrid in the past just jumps off and falls away. The ‘exs and ys’, what happened and why. Who want to bite into you like you’re a fresh cool plum and after they have bitten sucked and chewed they expect your juices to come back and stay sweet. All their falseness was real or was there an excitement in creating this effect. I’d probably never know the answer and as though what had enthralled me from the start was the question. Ugh. I need a muse. I gaze at the poor penciled words, same and different, like a figure in the wallpaper and outside the pigeons twitter down the sky and up singing the old skyey sounds of spring and where was love.

It can be found again. Towards those to whom I feel no strong sentiment I gravitate where sentiment exists I run. There is the dense kernel, the compacted core, and how to set loose the chain reaction is the question that tantalizes me, how to produce the illuminating explosion without in the process mutilating oneself. Impossible.

Its almost easier being down and alone than when you’re up and no one’s there to share the view with you. Maniacs like me are supposed to be famous for expecting disaster around every corner from good luck, but now I do have my hopes up, a little whiskey would have this mess straightened out by the next weekend. I need some distraction. The ache isn’t as sharp but there is a warm throbbing that comes with my heartbeats, which are faster than normal maybe because I am smoking practically one cigarette after another.

Aimlessness thrills me. A slight shift in the breeze could fix my direction or alter it. It might as well be the enigma life presents or exactly what am I trying to tell? I know, nobody can really figure out. Nor can I. But I’d try again ..

"Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time..."
John Keats
"Ode on a Grecian urn"


Before I end..

Here is big thank you, to two wonderful bloggers for some more awards..

Sashu for the Butterfly Award

Rakesh Vanamali for the Butterfly and Proximidade awards

Thanks a heap guys and ..

thank you, each one of you, who still visit this dead page off and on.
Apologies for not responding on time.



>> Saturday, September 27, 2008

As one hour becomes the next, one day another, spilling into weeks, I feel drugged by too many incomprehensible verses I had posted lately. There is a ragged overlay of words and pictures disturbingly adhering together in my mind. I had only to nod and arrange these articulations in my gravest expression in order to carry on the masquerade of being a poet. And gazing altogether unaggressively at me are these liquid ruminations with that bottomless eloquence which is all opacity for me. Weary from this run, exhausted, I don’t wish to scribble every thought, which demands repetition. It is like I have cotton not in my ears, but in my thoughts.

It’s a regular cycle, after couple of months my rage and adrenaline fades back, I feel spent. Thereafter I vow not to get sucked in again, to instead go on but these vows fall away like cool ashes the next time I see the bruised and broken evidence of one more day. I envision summer sun, perforated with heat, glowing orange. I want that fireball to be inside me, incinerating these black clutches. Then I’d start writing again..

For the moment …
I wish to thank

Man in Painting

For their kind gesture of bestowing some wonderful awards.

Man in painting had conferred Arte-y-pico award, long ago. Quoting from his blog – "This award was created for bloggers who inspire others with their creativity and their talents, also for contributing to the blogging world in whatever medium."
It has to be passed to five others. I apologize for not doing the needful. I read barely 4-5 blogs regularly and vice-versa. They are the ones who inspired me to write and improve and passing it on to them would be as absurd as - ‘Dhoni giving an award to Sachin!’

Vinay and Scarlett honored me with ‘The Brilliante Weblog Award.’
The name is self-explanatory.
Again, this award should be passed on but almost everyone I read has already been given this award.

The best part about getting these awards is the generous words of appreciation written by these wonderful writers. It indeed is a very special feeling. I’d cherish the lovely words especially coz it comes from ‘special people’.

A big thank you, to all of you.


"Beyond myself
I wait for my arrival."
- From "the Balcony" by Octavio Paz


In the candlelight...

>> Tuesday, September 9, 2008

tonight against sterile walls, I’d cast
wild unfettered shadows, vaporous ghosts
variously interlocked, and at odds,
materializing voluminously

asymmetrical pairings
suggesting duality and correspondence,
any two taken together, tantalizing
in unharmonious apposition

apparitions reminding me of myself,
a parody of powerlessness, each of us frozen
by the reflection of malformed mistake,
that is the other..

the rest of me, the completion of me,
the ones in whom, I seek refuge from ‘self’
my alibi, my future, in whose service
I repudiate my identity

I’d hug my shadow, and see instead
laughing at me behind the illusion of
my very own form, pouring forth,
my worst enemy; me...


The Sham Poet

>> Saturday, September 6, 2008

Her poetry, an echo of cry, made years before,
within her, she simulates an imaginary scream
vacuous diatribe of poet, nursing her sickness
with hurt and gloom, a satisfying mourning
in counting and contemplating, all those lost
in short life, an excitement of extemporizing
everything and everyone, beginning with ‘the I’
dropped and resembled, mosaic of smithereens,
cemented, sutured, wired, bolted..

She could retrace scraps, arrange artistically
forgotten fa├žades, shadowboxing none deftly,
amidst an inchoate dimming consciousness
she has visions spotted with soot, the real ‘I’
came and went, like a recurrent dream, while
under disguise of poet she watched intently,
the suppositions spawned, sufferings spilled
studying her, with coldhearted fascination
of a strategically-set spy….


the Dream is Over..

>> Tuesday, September 2, 2008

You were stream, running through valley or plain
tumbling over rocks, like an artery or a vein
bringing an immobilized land to life, implying
existence, embedded like the heart of

a separate source of life, without you
my farm was inert, stilled, were it not for the wind
in the trees, a noise from the sky, utterly silent.

Interposed between my denuded self, and its
clamorous longing for obliteration, a devotion
linked me to this talismanic image, out of
an innocent future,

obscured, masked, uncreated,
as much me and mine as my poetry,
my childhood or my intensities.

In the tangible world, near your flesh,
a flurry of images, slow comforting sex,
orderly thoughts of ‘morrow, next day and
the next, mundane details of daily routine

one of those visions has settled familiarly
in that raw contact, a morsel of intimacy
momentarily being absorbed into your being, as if
they weren’t appendages but the very incarnation of
a whole warm wonderful body ..

Since the impassioned vulnerability of this aria,
I’ve learned to mime; these words are no longer words
stained with my blood but words I repeat and rhyme,

meaningless without function, like

the sole archaeological evidence of a fairy tale or
lasting imprint of the fetus, blankest watermark
devised for masturbatory fantasies
that shall follow henceforth ..



>> Friday, August 29, 2008

along muddy, trash-strewn lanes
past taverns and hotels, I linger
whiskeyed eyes peering through
tree-lined boulevards,
fogged over windows up on heights
where exists a large mansion,
betwixt darkened verandas
little plays take place
in the alleys of my mind

there are three of us,
a family, you, me and our love,
playful, affectionate, mournful,
prattling, hushed, I dart ahead
like a honeybee tasting modest delights
in the strange sanctuary of darkness
afloat on stilled black waters
drifting in slow aimless swirls

thus we wander, left and right
around boulders and bushes
cuffed, rolled, embraced
whence fire roars all the way
in a curled conflagration,
burning ancient sins, until at last
nothing remains of you or me
except a smoldering pile of char

enflamed dramas, send me reeling
back to toss and writhe in my cot,
crying like a baby in swamp,
I’d sleep all my life, assaulted by
night exaltations, morning terrors,
while someplace far off,
you’d careen about the skies,
a wandering star or comet
due to return in a distant future.



>> Tuesday, August 26, 2008

neither lewd nor respectable, in
short enough distance from you
to appear suspiciously intriguing
despite my teasing proximity
conspicuously puzzling centrality,
evanescing, a struggling stammerer
still subduing the nemesis syllable
not a stone-throwing lover, but
a word-throwing poet, unlike you
soft, sentimental and ineffective,
I'd leave behind paroles, besides
a delightful playful word itself,
the sonic prankishness of
two syllabic pops and closing click
encasing unobtrusive twin vowels.

You were Fucktastic



>> Sunday, August 24, 2008

I am in these verses,
improbably evolved into somebody else already
there is little left for me to imitate or fantasize
the temptation to quash oneself, become imperfect
a sham, looking like myself
sounding like myself, even laying claim to
convenient scraps of my stories, and yet
beneath the disguise of me, someone entirely other.

Speculate, will you? speculation requires
a gambler’s taste for running a risk
daring to tamper with the taboo
which has marked my own past
try your luck, make your mistakes, overdo, undo
follow an imaginative line that yields nothing,
then something might creep in this mess,
rounded, pointed, structured
projecting the illusion of having been
spontaneously generated, coincidental,

untidy and improbably probable, as love.

How violently my mood wavers

radiant with a crude forcefulness
anguishing heartache stricken minutes later
it might subordinate you to me,
everything exists in generous proportions
an infatuation with the exciting fullness of
a wavering presence, which made you visualize
bold carnality with mists of innocence hanging over
that might enable you to go somewhere

for it is only in part the urge to suppress
the sudden-lit fire, to feel against your palm
beneath this soft plump mass of flesh
the power of my heart.....

Go figure!



>> Monday, August 11, 2008

the night that followed
your arrival
I’d gone deeper
in embrace of death,
I was dying, or dead
with nothing left of me,
except a shadow cast
on the near wall

those words tumbling
like a death rattle, a last
prolonged exhalation

your visit sounded
a final knell, driving me
into purgatory, which
I neither had the courage
nor wisdom
to descry on my own

there is no forward
or back,
an ascent to heaven
or descent to hell
until I lose myself
and my thoughts
in vinaceous smell
stumbling backwards
in the flow of time.....


obscure longings...

>> Thursday, August 7, 2008

This is 51st post on Terminal Moraine.
I’ve been ‘blogging’ for over three years and this is the first time I completed 50 posts in one place! I had abandoned ‘my tryst with sins’ after 48 posts, which means that finally after three years of wallowing, I’m about to complete a fragmented century!! The quantity isn’t worth reveling and certainly not earth-shattering still .. its an event of sorts…
On that note, it’s kind of deplorable that most of my ‘old blogging pals’ got dispersed. Some are hitched or have lost interest or both. I do wish they come back .. but then as they say .. if wishes were blah …

I wanted to scribble something, a kind of dedication for my muse(s) .. who wangled me into being a poet(!) .. haah .. if at all I am one..
Perhaps it could have been better. I lost interest midway ergo I am posting it the way it is ..
This isn’t a poem . .just few lines for those beguiling stimulants.. who only complain ..
and so here is my quetch..


Comes again the longing -
all bacchanalian paraphernalia
plentiful, untouched, disorderly
the desire that has no name
it has to do with being
both seventeen and seventy

With winter sun striking down the backyard
or is it dusk in our garden, you beside me
in my arms a child to whom we would later,
by the crib, recite our poetry ..

Desire has a smell of
cantaloupes and honeydews
an attachment so rooted
it could not help branching
into affection both infernal and holy


Seduce, the resonance of this word
transpired on me
neither from pulp magazines or pornography
it befell through agonized readings
of your celestial poetry
it is facile to be intimate
hiding behind these words pounding
securing all our pores
the sun heating and drugging
our senses to cover monstrosity

in the shade and darkness
cool and clothed in our grounds
how do I voice a word
to lift that underside of love..
would you resolve in "three words"
this dilemma of insuperable integrity ?



>> Monday, August 4, 2008

the wind that parted clouds
has opened the sky
melting in the sunlight
at this moment, all is change
transformation seems permanent

a promise of bridging dead chasm
between body and mind
then sundering the soul
eternal gain and irretrievable loss
to be parceled out equally

with simultaneous depression
and exaltation, languidly
for a moment or two
I've lost my ability to imagine
you reading these words

poetry therefore has briefly
come undone or has regressed
to a moan, and you turn into
half-forgotten incantatory chant
invoked to ward off my loneliness



>> Thursday, July 31, 2008

I share with you
prosaic summer evenings
cicadas in sycamores
a nostalgia for
the life never led

you, simply by the virtue of
continuing presence, enthrall me
as would any phantasm of life
enrapture a woman slumped
irrevocably into sleep

this may be purgatory
I take it as a long coveted
entirely unexpected reverie
the dream of a dream come true
and at the end of
this dream awaits
not an awakening, but …
an abysmal dream
or an elongated -
Silence, perhaps.


An Aimless Walk

>> Tuesday, July 29, 2008

I'd sauntered these puddle-smeared pavements many times
Imprinting trails of treadmark, had long ceased to see them
Here is both cover and footing where I expect muck
My knees make musical rubs in the cool shearing dirt
Purple dust drifts and a sour raindrop splashes on my nose
The piles of brickbats scattered in the weeds are warm.
Overhead clouds wheel, uttering their musical burrs and rattle
Sunlight shatters like quicksilver against their orotund form
I could be broken, sundered, busted down the middle
Self-ripped from self, a woman pasted back together
Silence presses in and up, empty space on either side
Giving an echoing weighless feeling as if I lack ballast
A mystical element, which might any moment float upward
From the vaporous depths come floating great words,
Muffled sounds, wrapped in cotton, "I would save you
My embrace would settle this tangled contradictory mess
All you need is time and desire, a new day is dawning,"
Hush, for you have an infinite capacity to repeat dull truths
And old lies with all the insistence of self-discovery,
It isn’t the dawn that interests me; but the night…



>> Saturday, July 26, 2008

11 AM:

I’ve had my coffee plus bread plus vodka,
my pulse racing along at a merry clip, alert and shaky
despite all, love kindles, there were worse lives after all
it’s always possible, even in the ashes of our long-over lives
something stirs, a phoenix, bad as it is, lets get fried

I look at him, a preposterous fake house on a fake hill
dredged up from the swamp, the very preposterousness of life,
his callused fingers whispering in my palm, inflames love
we love each other for one night , singing songs
watching wheeling constellations, a perfect encounter,
not to be repeated, like the best last line of beloved hymn,
a graceful arc from the bright, or certain death
in the dark impenetrable mystery of forest.

11 PM :

My descent into sleep is contaminated
controlled by your words, my dreams shaped by them
the waking mind sculpted by artistry of your verses
in their convoluted metaphors and sublime parapets
moves love now, all day and night, tracking down its prey
suddenly leaping upon it with a brutal fury
rolling over, in soft rust-colored pine needles
burying its hungry mouth in the warm body

it requires no purpose or objective in this world
to be justified or desired, where we’ve fallen
amid groggy sated and confused, whispering lullaby words
let the soil below stink, turning into a scarlet muck
let us crawl through it until our mouths and nostrils replete
and we drown in it with our hands on each other’s throats
I no longer resist this love. I relish it.



>> Sunday, July 20, 2008

earmarked for death in this grotesque pandemonium
inept at descrying my way back to the surface
only light which exists here, is that of memory flaring up,
illuminating rough pictures and writings overhead
which you'd painted once, to invoke and placate me

I abide, gazing in wonder
turning first into warmth and recognition
then growing violent or somber, I stumble
scrambling my way along another shaft in this warren
until I see in its glow a mingling of shadow and light
it moves and dances

a miasma, gray and noxious
spreading into every corner of my consciousness
you are wordless, unnamed
when depleted, return
I would step out of these shadows
where in silence I labor my days away
and stand revealed

on sacrificial altar of memories, we’d lay together
fading as if we’d melt with the mist of the forgotten
reviving again with an intensity
my life like these words carry no meaning
whether I live or die, I’d remain
the emblem of your sins……



>> Wednesday, July 16, 2008

Everything about me is a bit of lie
except these eyes, wherein past
and future blur, the knowledge of
an impending crisis remains
they have paid for vanity and ignorance
for contractions, those stinging looks
tender tears, spiritual aspirations
and the lewd desires

narrating their fidelity and misfortunes
would require deeper dredgings,
a darker sense of irony
or perhaps it requires neither gravity
nor complexity, but another person,
who would see in them
a simple four lettered comedy
which is all, it might have been.


spying out of fear and intimidation
a howling lunacy, or human perversity
passion spills in the miniature streams of
ever changing channels, inches deep,
rippled and plaited on gray images
refusing to answer any more of your questions
associations, past, present or life to come
they would not apologize or verify
penetrate their obfuscating rhetoric, they don’t rip
all they carry now is a stone look, and yet
they are two virulent strains of a virus
to which only a few men are immune….


kitsch II

>> Saturday, July 12, 2008

Debris of life
littered with memory
shadows retreating,
deathly calm
blue and green from
depraved thoughts
sinking in darkness,
keeping memoirs of
sunrise close

this is usually
how I write,
out of sudden
wonder or panic
or a fucking
aspect of past,
the world lost forever
and my life
ending sordidly

dedicating myself
into destroying
what’d destroyed me
while making love to
ravenous darkness
is remedial coitus,
a camouflaged
narcissism or

I haven’t
had enough,
the medicine
this writing stinks
just jargon
and craps
the prospect of
an orgasm



>> Saturday, July 5, 2008

I play with the images
you’d set floating in my mind,
every little illusion casting
an identical shadow as we race,
surrendering to the delirium
of which I’d remain in control
knowing it’d be over soon,
that the world would become
frozen again.

I don’t even know what to say
at such moments,
however, you know,
"I love you," you say.
If something has to be said,
what makes more sense?
we tell each other
we are lovers, in love
even while my conviction
that we are on divergent paths
is revived from one conversation
to the next.

I wonder at the letters
I begin to write,
left unfinished
phone calls I break off
dialing before the last digit,
if this isn’t me on the brink
after a brief intermission
as though nothing has changed
and if I am not back
where I’d began?

"take this yearning seriously
you want me," you say
and I rush to see you
in solitude I ask myself
if love is really in question
if it isn’t vulnerability
and embitterness
the neediness to which,
I am attracted?



>> Monday, June 30, 2008

The yellowing sheets are spattered
crisscrossed with fragmentary outlines
stirring around dispiriting accumulation of
disconnected beginnings middles and endings
as regular tortures seem on vacation
when I drove myself insane
tormenting an intractable self into confession
by and large the usual estranged stuff
cleaning up the mess
making sure that love was stale
and there was nothing nourishing in memories
exonerated from this bruising combat
without a score to settle
without reparations due
without hatred boiling in my heart
is there a way of existing
that will make all this nothingness
truly nothing?



>> Tuesday, June 24, 2008

Pain, its imitation, seems to be in nature of crown
a spire, a halo, here not simply to grace or embellish
but to express, to symbolize, only a measure of
how narrow and cloistered my life has become
a hackneyed conception of self and yet enthralling,
with whom I can share the failure of the moment
and in whose rejection, I annihilate my own…


de novo

>> Thursday, June 19, 2008

Images begin to contract and then blur, at the sight of
trivial remains that had marked the passage of seasons
torrential washed concrete walls are immaculate, gleaming
as much with malice as with remembrance, some nails
were driven through them, no picture had been hung
in the empty backrooms few scratches, black scuff marks
allude to games, too bare to be faced, that is all.

In the darkness striped with light that comes through gaps,
amidst the smell of stale smoke, dirt, and fragrance of soil
I feel repelled at certain somber reverberations
yes again, the scuttlings and squeaks of rain
a contemptuous-sound-tinged coquettish invitation
mingled with individual noises of horns, vehicles,
children’s cries, multiplying to a steady rhythmic throb,
soft beats, vintage, a creation of sun and heat, once
we were audience to its drama and ode-singing chorus .

Inside the room as the evening grows teary
no abyss opens beneath me at the sight of emptiness,
the rain outside rises in its raucous crescendo, unobstructed,
falling with unexpected passages of emphasis, altering pace
and without being wracked too much by memories of
the handsome rugs, tables, dishes and chairs
once jointly owned by you and me, now yours alone
I furnish a new place of my own.


alter ego

>> Sunday, June 15, 2008

We might have separated as easily
as we’d come together,
that relationship never going beyond
leaving faint impressions, and me
content to be
just another of her failures, catching glimpses of her
in other people, picking echoes and fragrance of
an aborted familiarity

the months go by,
we remain together, wondering if
a lover would somehow resolve this deadlock,
or another vocation,
psychotherapy for both of us.

whatsoever little spirit smolders on
in me is visible, only on her
it provides for us
to assault head-on
what we take to be
our demons,
I can never leave her, nor she me,
not that is until
an outright disaster makes it simply ludicrous
to go on waiting
for the miraculous conversion of
the other.

when I throw open
‘em benighted windows,
stand in the breeze
preferring to breathe
fumes from within, I know
I can outsmart her
with the aid of logic, analogy
and assorted techniques of

I had lit her once
held her tightly within lips
and with a flick of finger
I’d thrown her out
she wavered awhile
then smoked fiercely, combusting into
an ashy cylinder

scoured by the wind
I believed all these reversals, recoveries,
all this movement of hers,
to be the evidence of a game,
a petite specter
audacious and determined
I liked that idea -
she burnt herself out
I haven’t really,
not quite yet.

pS : this is the first time, I’ve scribbled something without a single drag of her , not that I’m trying to quit or something, just that its been raining and I’m too lazy to go out …
I know she kills slowly but then as they say, who’s in hurry?



>> Friday, June 6, 2008

This vertiginous mood, transcendent heat, a life reaching its climax and visions of decay heaped on decay. The placidity with which I’d waited on events fading away in the daylight. I lay mummified on bed for hours at a stretch. Parts of me are built to be awake and yearning to be both absolutely still and moving everywhere at once. The most ordinary sound outside seems oppressive as a bayonet rending my head. Even a beam of sunlight filtering through drawn curtains, intolerable.

I neither act nor withdraw, I simply wait. I do wait. There is the twist. As the tart taste of past prickles my mouth, I am beginning to recover just a little bit of optimism. Perhaps the experiment which never ended, is only beginning, it exceeds my understanding. My self-dramatizing mind had waited for more excruciation but something is different which forces me to recall those other startling and baffling metamorphoses I had witnessed. In another transition, I must have changed already in ways I dont yet know but I have with me my solitude. In the silence I can hear myself think. I’m making an effort to see and hear beyond the quicksilver talk of my mind. It is the surface, which leads to depth, lurching into blackness and vulgarity.

In this feeble yet euphoric state I’d envisioned only general scenes blended from million repetitions. The accusations, the stuttered insults, the invisible blows of abuse and torment that rose up to my tingling, jangling ear. The shrieking fight over the mildew somewhere, which was grey blue and deathly. Certain dreams, where people hadn’t named names, they had merely shown up with bruises, and informed that they were sorry, slouched and grimaced in such a way as to exude, I hoped, regret.

That is gone. What has taken over is daydreams, suddenly copious, reentering the life I had lost, not that long ago. And the the knowledge that it’s too late and so the distress, settled, bearable, sans pain. I remember me as a palate of conflicting colors, crimson in love with splotches of green, ultramarine in spirit or permanently mauve, with dark toppings and hazy strokes. I wasn’t seasoned; few more colors had to arrive, grays and purples. I was a mess. I know I am exacerbated, reduced to precisely what I’d been leery of at the outset. Now I am something faded but perfectly acceptable. I see no color outside, only glitter and I have long since reasoned, I would likely prefer authentic enthusiastic meanness.

I remain an amateur at life, smelling like a walking cigarette, flushed, perhaps alcohol induced, relying on my skills of misdirection, awaiting symptoms of infatuation, which sends me into paroxysm of exhilaration. Then I would throw my head in musical bliss, pounding fresh melodies. Presently everything around me is in its natural order; a life basking in artificially created atmosphere, undisturbed by the sunlight on panes, the same dusty lamp glowing on the table. I do write, it has no conclusion but just dribbles off in much the same way it begins. My imagination keeps on getting noisier and noisier as I get quieter and quieter.



>> Friday, May 16, 2008

feculent atmosphere -
writer concocts a plot
musician devises
thunder-haunted backdrop
painter envisions a mural
together they etch
deep dark pools
profound as sleep
night or death.

when splatter falls short
amidst eloquent labyrinths,
quails to taper off,
as if through sieve
straight and thin..
in cessation
dribbles vomit out
pelting the asphalt.

in this silvery twilight
a golden eye enkindles
a cosmic embryo
in process of formation

brimming and suspended
a child’s face -
barest impression of
the face and soul..

pS :- I don't generally do this.. but I was looking at this picture and few lines resulted ..



>> Monday, May 5, 2008

"Nostalgia, subjectivism, inwardness is in self-indulgent doghouse. You dare ask me since when? I want to sleep. And get that bloody light out of my eyes."

"I am catapulted through this static wall into a clustered vastness, the notional void of mind, the bright grid of life placing around, like an infinite cage. It isn’t an atmosphere in which an octogenarian (well mentally) feels sexy.. but I try"

"You don’t waste time of a dying soul with disclosures, confessions, repudiations…"

"You and I are creatures of subterranean dark, the mist and the cold. We are time-travelers and suddenly the past is alive, the dead start walking.. cracked walls gleam. Those unlived lives are just a keyboard away and we’re off to another search. You pluck a tread and it leads to.. everywhere...."

"Exulting in existing ..? still fairly fascinated by the drama of your own fucking self…?"

"Look, I too am partially obscured but I’ve arranged a little diversion. Nothing in the world is ever lost and everything is somehow connected. Plug it in, hit the key and thousands of others lost to us could pop up instantly."

"If you have worked in memory which is life itself there is no integration except in death."



>> Monday, April 28, 2008

Today again I eavesdropped my pathetic life
I didn't think much about the way I failed you
about being such a mess,
instead just perched around, listening to my heartbeat
wondering if it might stop someday soon.

Now that it is all over, and
I rummage through yellowing memories,
fingers are always darting toward me, rolling noisily
I begin to count them
feeling dizzy and nauseated
I put them back for another day.

Brushing aside splinters, slivers, tears,
I watch the mindless machinery of

life orbiting in the day and night, and try
to envision myself performing
my trivial functions in it,
since you had gone away.

I am on track,
I never shattered in obvious way, or
exploded into pieces
I had come across traces of me here and there
I have a feeling that when
I finally reach the woman who dreamed
she might be dead.



>> Friday, April 25, 2008

She recalled the tang in throat when her head bounced off. She was accustomed to familiar, secure. This moment appeared gluey, sluggish.

She tried capturing her face, retrieved chiseled lines that made her sad, so did her olive hands, ragged fingernails, crinkles on corners of eyes and news that life would go on and on.


'feel good' factor..

>> Wednesday, April 23, 2008

Moments like these ... make blogging worthwhile.
I never knew my blog looks that pretty - the screenshot on her site definitely appears so. I have my doubts that I merit this generosity but it will keep me really happy for a long time ...

Thank you chewmouse - for this kind review of my humble blog on your beautiful page .. :)



>> Saturday, April 19, 2008

The events I catalogued here are perhaps of
other people, I just hung around the fringes,

You could see the numbered pages leafing
inside my head, life is narrowing down.
I could predict.

It's a continual shoring up against one thing
or another, splintered parts, eroding and
crumbling away.

I’d come a long way from somewhere, untying
myriad caged wings, with me anything is possible,
even vitue.


There’s nothing else that I want tonight, except
a cold ivory touch in an ill-lit
corner, where

no game or ambush awaits me, as I sear
forgetting the sensations, flames against
pliant skin

tapping wet windy messages in numb eyes,
at once, brilliant and shadowy, drenched in
amplified smell.

off I'd go into the wild blue yonder, climbing
high into sky, down I’d dive, spouting a flame
from under.

then walk in the dark on dust and ashes, harking
for a name, my own, even here no identity shall
claim me.



>> Tuesday, April 8, 2008

The party was nifty. Derelict humanity trampled his success, leaving him at twilight, in condition resembling prison riot. He felt torn between social discourses, grotesque impatience to ostracize.

"You planning litigation?"
He turned, readying a polite quip.
He was thinking absently, employment, freedom, hemlines and how she’d managed to find a lipstick that was hypnotic.



>> Friday, April 4, 2008

A cursory glance confirms; love couldn’t destory her. It's avuncular sort, the kind retired cricketers possess for bats. She resolves to dream of him, he is impishly defiantly absent.

She distrusts new feelings, like tickets to a circus. Amorphous shakes would tumble the detritus of a poet. She desires a ruse, are you her muse?



>> Tuesday, March 18, 2008

Lets bury present in
malodorous muck -
that steaming bog of
vile licentiousness,
rest tongues in sheath
and use the pen -
to slash and parry.

Once we get started
these things are addictive -
we’ll sit in dark
everything out of focus
squatting in middle
playing with history.

All that vexes -
uneasy wheeling sky,
unsettling flecks of
three quarter moon
cresting the horizon -
resolving temporarily
as we turn scraps of
papers into stories.

My life that’d slid off
somewhere in the past
yours that’d kept
delaying its arrival -
in an empty space
they’d both converge
clinging transiently.

Aah the curse of
co-incidences –
surge the blood-lust
lure me again
on tricky streets,
point me out
and whittle me down
into kindling –

Then read and grieve.



>> Thursday, March 13, 2008

Yesterday, you were a lighter smudge
in dingy sky, whereby shafts tinged
the soiled chunks of
my life, the muddy footpaths, and branches
not that I blame you entirely
for perpetual gray fog,
it being, the winter of memories.

Now that you’ve embraced the drab,
color looks out of place everywhere
tomorrow, like the February sun
you might emanate lucidity without warmth.
the world reveals itself
in tiny increments, integrated tangibly
when ingested over time,
in this distant year, the month of March
has offered, the foretaste of summer.

The slide of winter into spring
had been imperceptible,
frozen gray, to gutsy gray,
buds impaired, no color anywhere
today held, just briefly,
a touch of magic-
that cannabinolic splendor of
the morning after sleepless nights.



>> Wednesday, March 5, 2008

You may not find me ..
In ruptured images once beheld,
tortuous outlines of setting sun,
subtle interplays of elegiac poetry
or in tangled discursive reminisces
when you and I melted indiscriminately.

I am afraid one day
you would step back in murky
faint hues of obliterated past,
as our conversation continues
in certain grim spareness of
your immure papered rooms
though neither of us spoke again.

Oblivious of precedence
my words might turn up where
you’d laid them aside in midsentences-
on the edge of the bathroom sink,
hanging between empty cocktail glasses
and disks of sodden lemon
or crumpled among bedsheets.


The evidence against me..

>> Wednesday, February 27, 2008

Scarlett remembered me for a tag -its an honour in itself. I can never get tired of praising her. She is special and I second all that Asuph has written here...

Coming back to the tag in question. This is fun as it entails digging forgotten gems (in my case junks) and as others have rightly observed – its like bottling the old wine in new flavor.

Post 5 links to 5 of your previously written posts. The posts have to relate to the 5 key words given : family, friend, yourself, your love, anything you like. Tag 5 friends to do this meme. Try to tag at least 2 new acquaintances (if not, your current blog buddies will do) so that you get to know them each a little bit better.

Yet again, I am late – though this required minimum effort in terms of writing.. finding the right post to match the key words was tough and 'linking' is still a massive task for me! Besides, I had caught the renovation bug all over again and wanted to give my old hut a new life and glitter :D Its fun playing with the template! Its too facile now and I’ve added all kinds of pictures on header footer left right center.

Talking about pictures -I’d unceasingly done tags but the only one I couldn’t complete was that of
Punds .
He rarely visits – but I wish to apologize. I couldn’t take up.. though I love pictures (looking at them) I’m clumsy with the camera. I did not click any photo last year. Since eons I'm stuck in Delhi and the last picture I clicked could well be three years old. I do have a 3-year-old camera phone, which is never used for taking pictures, is seldom used for talking and is regularly used as an alarm clock!

Anyway, of late I’d been doodling poetrics hence the posts linked here are from my older blog.

Family : There are no posts on family per say but casual references which aren’t specific but are thorough. Needless to say, I am a pampered spoilt brat and love my family to the core. My parents and sister (& latest additions- her kids) are both my strength and weakness. The scrabble (originally posted on
Sulekha ) which remotely qualifies was written when my sister was expecting her first child . That ‘event’ had generated a new sense to my blunted sensibilities.
Another family member mentioned regularly in various posts is - Don. Every phenomenal moment spent with him is incandescent with inextinguishable joy.
He is my everything ..

Friends : I don’t have friends. In the so-called real world I’ve lost contact with everyone. I remember certain faces, livid, rapt in bemused oblivion, drifting into unknown. I’d sporadically cited
two girlfriends in earlier posts though presently I possess no knowledge of their whereabouts. Friendship is perhaps an art or maneuvering wherein I have no glowing records to showcase. The world at large, camaraderie, hangouts, sociability and all drat are part and parcel of an alien world, which for me has abruptly become sardonic.

Whenever my sister calls, her first question is – "how are your buddies?" Which means – Amitabh Bachchan and Sachin Tendulkar. They are
my best buddies . :D

(On second thoughts, blogging pals are my sole pals. Some of them have stopped visiting or visit occasionally – I’ll use this opportunity to tell them –
all of them are/were valued! )

Yourself : I’m megalomaniac, largely an apathetic woman who at times seems palpating with the forces of life. All my posts are full of nostalgic musings, recollections and are
an extension of me . Even the fictitious characters have my clamoring traits .

Love : Over the years of long spinsterhood, I’ve assembled an invisible ‘harem’ of had-beens and could-have-beens. I’d started 'blogging' in that
jilted lover kinda state. The hopelessness of everything had emblazoned it with exalted tones of great passion. It was cathartic and I can say for sure - its over and done with! I retain a visceral memory of him- it persists as one of that reminiscence in which sound and scent are preserved but no objective context.

Twice since, I’d perceived I was close to ‘loving’ again but fortunately or unfortunately I
failed! Though passion blooms rarely in my garden – it holds that midsummer fullness. I’m still searching – and waiting for the moment when from beautiful and wanton – I’ll turn handsome and acceptable ..

[My latest crush is the guy who plays Ram in the new Ramayan aired on NDTV imagine. (yeah - I watch it regulary) I don't know his name. I could say he is hot but in fact - he looks godly.]

Anything : My scribbles reflect the phases of multitudinous emotions that have assailed me off and on.. each one is special in its way but I’d like to link something from my first ever blogging site. This is the
first story I'd posted online. Its raw.. it can do with some editing and more spice . .but I think this and this were some creative attempts that I could have improved upon.

I know most people don’t like being tagged. I don’t want to force anyone.

If I had my way –
I’d like to tag
Punds , Dredger , Nidhi , Ashen Glow and Hotice .

If you guys are already tagged OR don’t wish to comply – take it easy – I can assure you its fun but the rest is upto you!

Note for readers - If someone is still reading, I encourage you to check them out. They are wonderful writers. :)

"A word is dead when it is said, some say. I say it just begins to live that day" [ED]


Seven kinds of nonsense..

>> Friday, February 8, 2008

Over the years, I’ve become an expert on my myriad failures of self-knowledge. I did not intend to write anything and I am not exactly ‘writing’ .. I read few blogs after a long time today and wanted to post ‘something’. The inability to write speaks eloquently about my basic design flaw. The fact remains that our most potent and necessary dreams can derive from simple misunderstanding. I was slow to comprehend that my dream of becoming a ‘writer’ actually was a mask for more urgent need - to escape failures .. the insistent everyday failures .. from there on the pen, or rather the keyboard lay dead under my cramped fingers. It is as if all the letters of the alphabet, all combinations of letters into words, all the infinite possibilities of written language has ceased to exist.

What’s wrong in reveling in failures? Most of us remain children all our lives, perpetually attracted to all wrong things, repeatedly falling for everything that is cheap and superficial. I’ve discovered the intense pleasures inherent in defeat and I practice failure which forever shall remain my sole grace. There is perverse pleasure in pain, in suffering and even in humiliation. The need to make a romance out of ugly reality is a basic human craving and also the accompanying need to disguise whatever form of truth is scattered about us.. "Truth" infact is a windowless place where the light can come only through cracks.

Something else I’m blind to, seems to be loneliness, which we desire yet despair and that forces us to endure terrible humiliations and indulge into meaningless relationships. You had no life to begin with and the world is small, dusty maze of clapboard and neon, crawling with strangers and to most of us it yields only loneliness, however we may have swaggered down its avenues. There wasn’t enough life to go around with, whatever delights it held would remain the secrets of those who had found them first but if you are young, shy and not entirely sure what you were looking for anyway, it is a deary place. You can hang around blogs, chatrooms, or meander outside a pub and settle for insipid pleasures of sex and booze or you can aimlessly prowl through the dark back streets of real or virtual world, where all you meet as a rule are other loners on an equally aimless prowl. You can ask each other ‘what you want?’ only to be told that they don’t know.. perhaps cruise around for a while.. and so you cruise around, likewise though you knew from the onset that so and so was a horrible mistake to begin with and will only pile on your life of searing regret. You endure this as you clearly know the alternative – a solitary exstence. Soon, the customary small talk of cordiality and endearment seems inadequate, unsuited to the strange well-being you had become accustomed to in discordance. It concludes one day, as expected, leaving you naked, both literally and metaphorically, vulnerable… right there, where your thin veneer of self-confidence was stripped away, revealing you stark.. panic-stricken .. more lonely than ever before. Usually you get drunk, get sick and be thankful that you’d be hitting back alone with the promise of a different ‘new day.’

Your emotional life becomes ingrown. The orderly rotation of many careful moods is your life, or rather what your life has become. You manage it well, and it is only rarely, looking very closely at your face, if anyone bothers that is, one can see how much the effort is costing you. You go through the daily chores mechanically, sit alone through the weekends and evenings with a drink, allowing your mind to slide into a heavy, gin-fuddled confusion. Only one persistent thought comes through, a piece of self-advice that is as clear and cold as the drink that rises again and again to your lips. Hold on. No matter, whats in store tonight or tomorrow, just hold on.

The shape of every following day is an articulate statement of impending defeat. You can blame it on luck. Aah .. life screwed you and its luck which made you a loser but its something you wanted to be without knowing it. Regardless of your inclination to believe in luck as the prime determiner of human destiny, both good and bad fortune are largely an illusion. Most of us are uniquely desinged to mistake good luck for bad and vice versa. So, you stand among the messy possibilities with the look of someone surveying new fields to conquer and an odd mix of rejuvenation and relief. You can never understand what’s happening to you, and also lack the ability to sort things out upon reflection afterwards ergo you make same mistakes all over again.

The worst terror still remains .. of ending up all alone in the world, and so you keep on trying to smile. Others smile back.. will their smile of rejection always drop you into despair and their smiles of welcome lead only into new, worse, more terrible ways of breaking your heart? Duh? Now its going to be fucking straight, no more big talks, no romantic claptrap and fictitious heroes. Peel away those layers of self-deception and discover that you can swap this dreamy world with something that is more ‘earthy’.. within your reach.. if dreams give purpose and direction to otherwise mundane existence, why are they doomed to fail? Even the modest dreams fail like the grand ones.. from now on you’ll carry a stately bearing, determined that for the rest of your life you’ll keep everything down and quiet inside you so that neither of these stangers can sense your anguish. Casting aside your pusillanimity, you are eager to embrace the next moving creature though you wont let them 'inside' you, deep inside where everything you say has another side to it .. (like you expect, hidden somewhere is a secret, a philosopher’s stone masquerading as a precious elixir disguised as a dimwit.)

All isn’t lost .. loneliness is no longer new and bitterness is the fashionable mood .. you don’t ‘feel’ young and the ones around you can acknowledge that the rest of you is rapidly aging too. You still hope to find someone someday.. you sit there waiting, watching the fog grow thicker. In the trees along the trail, a vision you’d both praying and dreading comes. Somewhere there’s a blank inside, a blotting out, an ablation, though of what I can’t commence to speculate .. can’t even know if I’m making sense with this qualm or whimsically compiling my ignorance. One night when worse pain will set in, you’ll pretend to ‘settle’ with someone your so-called well-wishers had arranged for .. sooner or later you accept its good for you.. and why not? You’ll be together a pair of blanks. If you want to know the truth, it sucks. Plunge in pour forth. Together you’ll formulate a grand hypothesis explaining each other how emotional stimulation between two people initiate a cascade of signals that collectively may result in the bond known as love. You’ll stick around ..and you’ll keep telling each other that you are in love for both know that neither of you had nowhere else to go. ..


Nascent Breaker ..

>> Thursday, January 3, 2008

That ruthless voice
which had never bothered
to cloak itself in humanitarian rhetoric
asked me again ..
"where are your scribbles
that had no rhyme nor rhythm
and seldom any ‘content’ ?"

"You were mistress of
extraordinary loquaciousness
so perspicacious
so fluent
so rich with contempt for
every last human problem
you’d ever faced.."

"A clamorous countess of
endless ostentatiously
overelaborate sentences
write something, will you?
squelching jokes,
tedious anecdotes
anything would do .."

The impulse was overwhelming
to grab the laptop, slam it through
instead drawing back, reining in,
strategically speaking
softly I replied ..

"Days are shorter, evenings longer,
gossamer webs float through air,
cool breezes waft around -
days could be radiant
the nighttime coolness
has reached out
and touched everything."

"I do have thoughts
I do not think them
I had once channeled them
now my words spill everywhere
and lay lightly
on everything like mist."

The ‘voice’ turned low
it had quality of muffled shriek …
"You are not fighting
a world anymore
where they are out to destroy you
you are battling in the world
where you are alone with me."

"You are something
which suffered
a premature burial;
something accounted for
not 'present' though
I am certain you are aware of
the morbid irony in this."

Being angry at the voice
had previously felt better
ignoring had liberated -
it is no longer possible
to isolate that voice and me
or separate ‘me’ from person
in charge I’d always been ..

"Woman in charge
and woman deferred to
have only added to the pain
and surprise of being
the alien that I am …"


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