And there i was
In a train
Seated beside a stained window
With broken panes
While another one was crossing through
In the opposite direction.
Till i saw it, and felt the first kick of air against my face
i had laundry bills to pay and dirty linen to wash in private
i needed food, some money to see me through, a kiss,
God, and i badly needed a shave -
until the other train passed by,
And i looked at it. I could see through.
Soiled and rusted with care and servitude
Drunk and dry, with arteries and veins throbbing with
all sorts of stuff required to maintain the motion
faces seeking tender touches, eyes needing pure sights
and fingers dying to touch petals, velvets, thighs, and whatnot
and soon it was all smoke and skulls gaping at the madness
and the other world. Not death, mind you
just the place which is not this. The that we know but we can’t speak of,
because our vocab stretches till the furthest end of similarity
and likelihood, and nowhere beyond.
The beyond was there, hurtling through with severe vengeance, striking me off the this
And off the that. And it lasted for the eerie 5 seconds in which i had no laundry or hunger or unemployment to worry about. It was there, and i was there too.
But it passed, and before long, i found myself trapped once again.
At the end of the day,
It all boils down to
Blinking idols close to the hummingbird
Who know that you can’t feel beyond yourself
And everything else you do is just a part of the curtain
To hide your void.
His Majesty the Ego – well preserved, well nourished
And now that i’m all alone and mostly naked inside this tiny room
It’s stronger than ever. And It’s getting stronger and rock solid every passing day
It preserves Itself well and It lashes like a wild cobra when hurt
It finds Its way out through my words, mostly
And It glistens like a knifeblade in moonlight
And soon enough, It shall break through these sickly sweet walls and the roof
And It shall find Its way out to the mad world – all ready to take on other
Formidable rivals – other Egos, other Narcissuses other Dreams.
I’m struggling hard to prove
To those sons of bitches
That i’m just better than them
And i don’t care what they think of me.
I talk to them and i be with them
And i pretend to empathise
And i pretend to agree when they say how unlucky they are
And how lame the guy who could have given them the job but didn’t
Or how arrogant the chick who could have given them the fuck but didn’t
Were. They think that i understand. Or maybe they think that i don’t –
But honestly, you morons – it’s neither theirs nor luck’s fault.
And the worst part is that they think that they’re right
That they are the smartest kids in the block
And that they will get their food stuck in their mouth
And their dicks will get stuck in some tight wet soft pussy
I wish i could have the guts to let them know
That they are the sore scum who think that they are
The ones who will rule one day. They care about ruling this shithole
Unlike me. And they overestimate themselves too.
I am trying my best to prove them wrong.
But maybe if i stop trying, i’ll succeed.
Or maybe i’ll never succeed, because the two worst features of sore farts are that
They are sore farts
And they don’t know that they are sore farts
A sick rose
Made its way
To the machine’s heart
And the machine got to know
That it was just as empty
As the one next to it.
The dawn was pink
The rose was sick
The shadow was a reptile
The day was a disease
The sick rose
made its way
Out of the machine
And into to the saddest street
The street picked it up
And gifted it
To the pink dawn.
and the diseased day.
The rose told them
of the machine
and of the invisible worm
They told the rose
not to bother –
It’s just Blake toying
with eternity and damnation,
With the paleness of being,
With strange lights that burn the mind at times
And chains of flesh that are here to stay.
And Charlie Chaplin sitting
At the twilit haze
Between the dark and the light
and smiling –
both with his sad eyes.
It’s just that
And nothing else.
And now the rose knows
But the machine needn’t know
So the machine didn’t know.
This is where
Leads to the snow
Gets a nightmare
Of bright love
Breaches the pact
Between bodies and forms
This is where
That we imagine
This is where
My mother and i
Perished in the dark.
I hear the guy in the next room snoring
I don’t know him, and our paths shall never cross
I think he too makes boxer-fists while climbing up
The crowded stairways of railway stations
And thinks that rain is thicker than life
And he has fought the demons as well
Before kneeling before eyes that glow in the dark
And all the reconciliation you need
Before you forget how to smile except for courtesy and plastic
Is closer to his being here than mine
And just like me, his closest companion rests in his brain for a while
Before the trumpets blow
And before the moths get fire in their wings.
His sweat is not for soft hands, it’ not meant to be jewels for the
Nightingale through his restless nine to five
And he knows that deep inside it doesn’t mean anything or to his own self – this
Self, the teachings of the guru. Balzac leaning out against the sky – he doesn’t know of Balzac or of the magic of the senses or of wet wings that prevent the flight. He wades through muck, his muscles get ready for the next hammer, he dreams of angels descending from paradise and his eyeballs roll inside his eyelids. He knows of the treasure much more than i do. He leans against the dark, his pillars speak of all the splendid jewellery
yet to be stolen.
She smiled. It could’ve been a section from hell or voices and eyes that mean kindness through flight. Loud voices in the corridor. He shall don the robe of dawn’s emperor and order the death of the saint and pillows while signing the book of questions & validating the pacts.
He’s there snoring his way to glory
And i’m here dousing the week’s lifelessness with the last drop of beer
And the damp wall between us – it observes us with cold precision
I think the wall knows it all.
The lady in the counter
Knows of your hapless sorrow
She nods her head as you pass by the counter
She is not pretty but she’s plump
Her lipstick is too loud for her mundane face
which has the candour of a hermit
But she knows of the falseness of the loud lipsticks
And the truth of rents and electricity bills
And so, if in names uttered through trusty lips
And in faith through strange violins of sad jesters
You find yourself chained to the rocks
If you think of Hydra or of the goats
If you think that truth will come to you through sadness and failure
Look out for plump ladies in counters with mundane faces and loud lipsticks
They know about the pain
And when they nod at you,
Though it’s not the Sybil revealing to you the contours of history
On a much lower scale – it’s the truth of grocery and electricity bills
Of trudging through the sidewalks which are wearier than you
Of employment exchanges
Of being shot down by the sun the moon the stars and the world
Of broke players by broken pianos
Of hopeless climbers of broken ladders
Of this intelligent design of gut-belly-dick/pussy-heart-and-brain
Of urges desires and pangs bookmarking your loneliness
Of smiles slithering like plastic snakes
Of the sudden warm alcoholic rush of happy amnesia and greatness
Of trains stopping on empty stations
And of a million other cheap brittle bricks that make you up
And of the rusted old beams that support your pillars though you don’t know for how long
That she nods at. Try and nod back when you can –
For you too know of her falsity and truth the same way she knows of yours
It’s five past eleven in the morning and i have just woken up
It’s a Saturday today, and i was drunk in my room last night
My room has no window and so i can’t say if there’s bright sunshine in the world beyond
I have a massive hangover and i can feel the blood rushing through my temples
And there’s not a drop of water to drink. This pain, like many others, is real
I had a hectic week. I am trying hard to impress the ones behind the desk
So that i get a job through this internship. And so i drank a lot last night
Alcohol takes me away from the plasticity and brings me closer to the elusive crazyass blackbirds
Close enough to try and touch their beaks and wings before they fly away to the next branch
I called up the one i truly love and we were having a nice conversation before my phone ran out of balance. That’s the trick of the world. You can communicate only if you have enough money, and there’s no exception even when it comes to the one you truly love.
The place I am staying in has a washroom which you need to share with fifty other boarders
It reeks of their sweat and excreta, its floors are black with all the dirt of the holy world
I’m cool with all that, but when i’m drunk at midnight, it seems miles away
So i decided to pee in an empty bottle, but i got the laws of physics all mixed up and sprayed all over the 7 by 5 by 10 feet room.
And so the floor, the luggage, the unwashed pile of laundries and even the bedsheet is wet.
Even the plate i ate my kebabs from got its fill. And somehow during my complex manoeuvre
I have managed to turn the dustbin upside down and now there are cigarette butts and bits of rotten onion from last week’s salad and random pieces of paper and ash all over the place.
The bottle i tried to pee in is rolling over the unwashed laundry like a sombre proof of crime – infallible and always there – observing my every little movement, judging me in silence
i guess Pandora’s box might just look like this when it runs out of shit. I’m running out of shit too and i’m running out of it pretty fast.
I just wish i would have sprayed my piss all over the world instead of just my petty confine.
And now i’m sitting on my bed which seems like an island cut off from the rest of the world by a vast ocean of lonely filth. I’m lonelier than ever now.
I had to give my clothes to the local drycleaner
i had some urgent work at the local bank which will close in two hours because it’s Saturday today
and i had to go to the local cybercafé to shoot a few necessary mails and catch up with the virtual society i inhabit at times.
But the drycleaner the bank and the empire of photons seem far far away from me know. My head is aching like hell and i can’t do anything about it. It’s as lonely as it can get.
I am pounding on my laptop keyboard with mad vengeance now, and i don’t know who or what i am warring against. Or maybe it’s just the intoxication of words and of spaces between words that keeps me going in times like these. This madness doesn’t help me to escape from or to forget the pain. On the contrary, it brings me closer to the pain, it helps me to accept and reconcile.
And this shit, i tell you, is bloody real shit. I know.
And there’s nothing much you can do against reality once you know. You can fight with the wolves, the moon, the world, and even with the gods. But this stuff – it’s just there and that’s about it. And you can’t escape because it comes chasing after you everywhere.
Victory and defeat are for fools and philosophers.
I have decided that i’ll spend the rest of the day
Inside this room.
They’re renovating the place. Drill-machines are roaring out loud and clear
For Hemmingway to wake up where mountains roll out against the sky
And thunder his canons out to the breast of eternity.
I don’t know of all these. Breasts to me are things to
Suck when you have a couple in front of you and to think of and masturbate
When you don’t have.
But i’m not in the mood for fleshy thoughts. My body is wearing me out
And i feel like i am thirty years older then what i really am.
An i am not in the mood of the tiger or the horse –
Or, for that matter, of the swan or the dove.
Cats and moles and mice are closer to me now.
And outside, there’s a world
And there’s anarchy.
Automobile engines bursting out,
Rifles and machine guns blazing through the noonfire
Waves and ripples in the ocean of people – talking, walking
I can’t make the fake out from the real
And i’ll feel worse if i throw myself out into the middle of all these
with the sickening headache i have now. I don’t know whether it’s the cold or the hangover
But it’s getting worse every moment. And i can’t do much about it i guess.
I lack the wrath of God or the placidity of monks. I fear the Furies and i tend my blackbile
I live and i survive and i exist and that’s pretty much the dead-end of me. Nothing beyond. There’s no phantom, phantasm or phantasmagoria involved.
It’s all too blank to be untrue now and at this hour
And so be it, then.
I won’t move an inch outside the room for the rest of today
And if solitude chokes me or if the angels of angst find me writhing in this shit
I’ll tell them to fuck off. I’m just not in the mood for them today.
I’ll just ‘be’.