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.

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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.
Peace.

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