>> 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."


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