Nightwalkers

There was nothing left to do but laugh. It was the final coughing up of life from within the body. We laughed uncontrollably. Yet we did not know why. We could not stop either. Tears streamed down our faces. A small interval to catch our breath led to another bout of giggles that built itself into eventual laughter. Our bodies felt helplessly paralyzed in laughter. We were coughing now. I always cough when I laugh too much. Your gummy laughter was irresistible. I laughed like a retard. As usual. Just the way you hated it. Hahahahaha…

I saw you there as a stereotype. I myself was one. We were lovers. Individually. Your woman had given up trying to decipher your hidden metaphors. My man did not even try. So at the sea shore, because we were not frightened of the huge, flamboyant sea and because her melodramatic heaving was expressionistically our inner turbulence, we had decided to seek refuge in her.

We wanted to do a final giving up. We wanted to try and give up. Giving up had been an impossibility for us. We wanted to give up in the arms of the sea because she convinced us enough. We knew the sea would not give up on us long after we were gone. We would probably be fish feed or human pickle marinated in brine. This disease called love kept bringing us back to the shore like a discarded slipper that came traveling back on a wave chariot.

We walked into the night. Nightwalkers. Our rapid feet repeatedly got caught in the chill, dry-as-a-bone, sand. At every step, we had wanted to surrender to the sand. Bury ourselves neck-deep in its cold indifference. I slipped my hand into my lover’s. You had my hand in yours… because we chose to fall in love for an hour. An hour before we died we chose to walk into the night that was our lives, together. I would shamelessly express. You too would. We would pour out all the things that they could not decipher or did not listen to. Yet we did not want to construct meaning. We did not seek to understand.

Why did you kill my love? Did I not show to you every castle I built – crimson, viridian, aquamarine, ochre and burnt sienna? I hated you for ignoring the colours in them or rather the colourlessness in them. Inside your hermit crab shell, you ate my love in fragments. While I presented you with a feast, you went for the crumbs, like a penurious ant. That is why I am here. To kill myself. Because my love went unheeded.

You hated me for killing your love. I had, with great determination, pushed your love under the earth, alive and afire. While I flaunted my albatross-winged love, your sparrow love, I had secretly mocked. I was a better lover than you. Haha.. I still am. Is n’t that why you’re here to kill yourself? Because your love is inferior.

We are still mistakes. Unaccepted by each other. In an hour, we are not going to become accepting of each other. We shall accept ourselves as mistakes incapable of understanding others. I shall accept that you’re a mistake but I shall not accept you. You shall, in your usual indifferent manner, sweep me under the carpet. We shall remain as misunderstood mistakes.

The lighthouse beam was unerringly upon us, time and again. I did not want the floodlights to reveal my final moments to a world of publicly copulating mongrels on the seashore. I hide inside your palm. As a word, a memory and a forgotten fragrance. Then we kiss. We kiss into the night. For a minute, timelessly, we wish. Yet we are aware. We are not timeless. We are ordinary. We hear the sea, the vehicle horns and the children. An awkward kiss. Yet the last kiss.

And we used to talk about endless, immortal love. The movies had spoilt us. Are you not happy that we made a transient, dying, love? That we are only real and stuck to the earth. Is this not acceptance? We never published our books, nor did we ever learn to play the guitar. We are about to die incomplete as halved ideals.

Your woman has left you for another man. Face it. My man never was mine. We are incomplete old fools. Amusing! I did not know you before an hour. Yet I am in love with you because you are me. I just asked for an ear and you have it. To listen. You just asked for lips and I have them. To kiss.

I am not afraid of the crablets that scuttle over my feet. I am not hysterical or in need of your masculinity. I am in need of that fragment of me in you, which is about to walk into the sea with me. And we walk into the sea. A fear of being rescued makes us break into a run. The salty water is in my mouth. Sand is inside my clothes. For some reason, I am worried about sand entering my undergarments. I am worried I am still alive and worrying. I cannot see you. I feel complete in the cold embrace of the sea. I need it. I need the waves to thrash the pain out of me. I need us to come together inside the mouth of the sea, wet and embracing. We drown and breathlessly wish we had just enough strength to fight the sea, back to earth. Live. And we drown, laughing at our helpless asphyxiation. Just like love.

The following morning, the tabloids wantonly proclaim us as young lovers.

The Dull Gray Poem

This is a dusky gray poem
Just like how you like it
It is weak and impotent
It is about colors that run
From freshly dyed bandhini
And sand
You shake out of your footwear
At the beach.

This is about many many desires
You buried for fear of judgment
It is about your own little tune
That was never sung to anyone.
A friend once came home
And there was nothing to offer
It is about that…
About serenades sung
To unrequited love.

It is a dull gray poem
Just the way you like it
Underplayed, suppressed
Even dry and empty
Unimpressive
Plain and average
In fact with a little acne
And cellulites.

This is about a poem
That nobody reads
It is about unused skin creams
Unwashed hair
And “other” beautiful people.

You and I were chosen
For a special purpose
We are in every rejection experiment
We are chosen to be rejected
Your loneliness
Grows as sideburns
Wisps of curly, dry hair
Mine as frizzy, wild hair.

Your rejection grows
As incorrigible psychosis and lies
Mine as intriguing poetry.
Your purpose-constancy is another man’s woman
Mine is another man.

We are siblings
And lovers
And parents to each other
And our children.

We come together
As two arms of a scissor
To snip pain, painfully
We write long-winding narcissism
That nobody has the patience to read.
And those who read belong with us
And are of equally no use.

This is a poem that your wordprocessor ate
The powercut disturbed
The dictionary disabled
Or the spellcheck denied
The poem the paperwalah took away
When you shifted houses.

We are trapped as a clan of unwanted horrors
Under the stairs
In cobwebs and yesterdays.
Nobody reads us, nobody cares
We are trapped in ourselves
By being us.

Technorati Tags: dull

Void

8:55 PM she: how do you define a void?
8:56 PM: as in void of the heart etc…
8:57 PM me: the realization of a lack of something that once filled you to the brim
she: hmm…can it not be a yearning for something you never knew?

——————————————————————————–
 14 minutes

9:12 PM me: it cannot be
  it can only be something u knew and u want again
9:13 PM or something u are capable of imagining.. or u see someone else having

——————————————————————————–
 5 minutes

9:18 PM she: hmm…

This was a conversation between me and a friend. Now I take back what I said. A void can be a yearning for something you never knew but want to possess. It may be a need to eliminate what you possess and replace it with something else which is less harrassing. It may be some unidentifiable feeling which seems to exist in intuition but you may not know for sure.

I wish I could meet that someone who is unlike anyone else I have known. Wish that someone would not trample over me and wish that someone would understand my dreams without explanation.

That someone does not exist.

Technorati Tags: void

Rain Gleaning

Note: I thought I will not write for a month but I could not contain this one when it came.

Rain gleaning in summer
Involves dreaming and memories
Nights without your flavour
Your fragrances stolen.
It involves waiting for poems
Recurring imagery
Lies and plagiarism.
Rain gleaning involves watching,
Cautiously approaching a dragonfly dream,
And bewitching spilling droplets in candle light,
Holding them in midair
With a twisted twig of imagination
In the guise of a spellweaver’s wand.
Rain gleaning means
Stroking perspiring walls
And collecting trickling moments
With concentration and love.
Spreading an ethereal cloth
Tainted with virgin blood
Waiting for feathers to descend on it
Accompanied by invisible dew.
Butterfly legs soaked in nectar
Rain gleaning in puddles
Of many-colored glass
Distilling milk from water
Like the mythical swan.
Still and inanimate on arid land
Rain gleaning gyrates
Like the diviner’s rod
Above inspiration’s fountains.
Dipping and drowning into
Ponds full of
Molecules swimming rapidly
Rain gleaning means
Sleeping in water
Amid unpicked flowers
And freefalling from the clouds
Arms outstretched and trusting.

Dalied

You Are Surrealism

Dreamy and idealistic, you’ve created a world that is all your own. It’s very likely that you’ve either dabbled in drugs or are naturally trippy. You are always trying to push beyond the boundaries of your culture and society. You believe that art, love, and freedom can change the world.

What Art Movement Are You?

Technorati Tags: Art+movement , self-test

plagiarized

i saw us near the bleached white boulders of a river.. a live river… and we sat there looking at the woods on the other bank… it was cloudy.. and we sat near the gurgling river and the fishes that nibbled at our ankles… i saw us stand in the water when rain fell in drops around us.. rippling the river up.. the fish swimming helter skelter …i felt the pebbles underwater nudge painfully at our soles.. and i dreamed… of a kiss… we did not kiss.. we stood there dreaming of a kiss..
in another place of your childhood when you went behind the door to hide under the dungeons of dark dreamless sleep… i saw us together… mirrors of each other… and i saw us kiss… nay.. dream of a kiss
come into my writing dont stand outside
i want pages filled with your scent… interspersed only by the scents of fresh paper
welcome to my world
walk into my poems bare-feeted and trusting
so when you walk in…
mend the broken bangles with your touch..
and blow unbreakable unicorns from melted glass
in your kisses
with u poems are a way of life
remember?
with you dreams are a lifestyle
avaricious for words are you
u are being constructed in my world….
nascent.. young.. embryonic
warm with the fire of love
……
listen will you
are you hiding in codes
why do you smell of a childhood joy i forgot on the swing
why do you feel like that doll i cried for but could not afford
why do you take me into your games… why do you call me your own
am i not this bleary-eyed little girl who never gets a second chance? why are you my first playmate angel?
why am i your first kiss
remember the poems we wrote.. the same poem.. at different windows… near different dry leaves.. and the same autumn

i kissed you when you were an embryo
and i made butterfly effects to meet you
many million butterfly effects later you were a physical kiss
u r the source
i am just a plagiarist..

Hiss..

You Were a Snake

You have a primal energy that drives you to explore the mysteries of life. A nearly immortal soul, you’ll live a very long life.

What Animal Were You In a Past Life?

Funny but true.. mostly!

What You Really Think Of Your Friends

M is your soulmate.

You truly love R.

You consider Sheela your true friend.

You know that J is always thinking of you.

You’ll remember Arun for the rest of your life.

You secretly think Shashi is creative, charming, and a bit too dramatic at times.

You secretly think that Pingu is colorful, impulsive, and a total risk taker.

You secretly think that Venkat is loyal and trustworthy to you. And that Venkat changes lovers faster than underwear.

You secretly think Ram is shy and nonconfrontational. And that Ram has a hidden internet romance.

What Do You Think of Your Friends?

And no hard feelings anyone.. lol!

Let me be.

I am alone. Just leave me be. Don’t come and color my drab world and leave it half-painted. It looks ugly.

I like my world colorful. I have my dreams for that. Keep your brushes away from me. I have my own.

I tend to daub paint on your world. I am messy. Forgive me.

I have these old brushes made of squirrel tail. Most sables have fallen off it. Yet I remember how it used to paint. I dislike other brushes.

You claimed you were selling me a peacock tail brush. Here you are! Placing fingerprints all over my canvas, clumsy and smelling of reality.

My old brush was the closest to my best  brush. It made so many paintings which never sold. Then a fire swallowed all the paintings up. Now the ashes are smothered under deceptive happiness and false smiles.

You could be my best brush too. Yet stop smelling of reality. Things are bigger here. Come and I will show you.

I live in elysium. Don’t trade your stuffed bird for my bird of paradise. Don’t talk to me about the real world coins, paper money, dust, tiredness, sallow skin, shallow eyes, books and decay.

Here coins melt into laughter. Paper money wipes shoes. Dust is only a curtain-raiser for twilight. Tiredness is companion to passionate glinting eyes that do not sleep. Skin is a facade. Eyes are crevices in the skull filled with dreamcatchers. Books are stale eliminations from another man. Decay is evergreen moss that thrives with maggots and life.

Talk to me of breathing. Of whispers and shameless rain that wets your secrets . Talk to me of proud horses and the vanity of men. Talk to me of death. Of sleeplessness. Talk to me of restless creativity that steals every moment of peace. Of anger and love.

Write pages of meaninglessness. I don’t need your books written like experiments in a hermitage. Come out into the battlefield and write with blood on skin. Write with eyes, with fingers and with voice. Throw away your premeditated copulations with language and family planning with poetry. Give me raw poems – babies bloody and soaking in tears, plucked like fresh flowers from the amnion.

I don’t need your tools of editing, cutting and pasting. I destroy your scissors that trim and train. I present to you naked poems that trouble you for days. That turn you off with their primordial nudity exposed. Don’t clothe them with your lies. I shall shred them to pieces.

Bind me not with moving needles on a contraption. I am timeless. I fleet, starve, arbitrate and breathe. You cannot contain me in a box of linearity.

I prefer ignorance to stale knowledge. Freedom to rational binding of the self. I prefer immortality to death and meaninglessness to purpose. I prefer anger to submission.

Let me be.. let me be!

Ideal Vs. Real

Jung Ideal vs. Real Test Introversion |||||||||||||| 56% |||||||||||||||||| 73% Extroversion |||||||||||||| 60% |||||||||| 36% Intuitive |||||||||||||||| 63% |||||||||||||||| 70% Sensing |||||||||||| 50% |||||||||||||| 53% Feeling |||||||||| 33% |||||||||||||||| 66% Thinking |||||||||||||||||||| 83% |||||||||||||| 53% Judging |||||||||||||||||||| 83% |||||||||||| 50% Perceiving |||||||||| 40% |||||||||||||||||| 73% ideal you |||||| real you |||||| ideal type – ENTJ, real type – INFP

Take Free Jung Ideal vs. Real Test
personality tests by similarminds.com

type	ideal	real	type behavior
I	2	7	quiet, private, few friends
E	3	-4	outgoing, expressive, many friends
N	4	6	random, mysterious, non linear
S	0	1	sequential, factual, practical
F	-5	5	emotional, passionate, selfless
T	10	1	willful, stoic, self reliant
J	10	0	planned, regimented, orderly
P	-3	7	spontaneous, playful, fun