No rain no money no love no shit

Another unabashed week passes by

Blank, dull, blatant

with long sweaty nights and drowsy days of staring at the screen

Thoughts seem to get jumbled up and make obnoxious patterns these days

And whenever i try to arrange them in order they say “fuck you!” and poof!

The streets here are crowded with hookers in cheap shiny things and drunkards like me.

No rain yet. Sultry  nights without electricity remind me of my freedom within the four walls here.

Bells of doom toll. Lions roar in the heart’s garden and cannon-shots fly in perfect harmony and accord. Inside, there’s a riot in violet, and a strange submission to loss of hope.

It’s as if the balloon’s of life are bursting, one after the other

As the kid holding the airgun smiles. He’s no angel. And neither am i.

So, this is it. I’ve spotted three cockroaches in the room and I’ve named them Slaughter Death and Decimation respectively, before flattening them with blue slippers and flushing them down.

Pink walls point and laugh at me as i listen to the dark heavy voices of love.

I would like to read a book of pure wisdom now. Pure wisdom, like everything that is yet to be tainted by this numbing game of life and death, doesn’t have colour, taste or odour.

I would like to see a woman, a real one, approaching me, with red stockings pulled up to the outer rims of groin. She’ll tell me of a taste of honey and whiskey, a taste of knife, tigerpaws, minstrels of sacred death and pious fortitude.

I would like to stand tall and win the world now.

But none these happen. So i pour some more of the dark hot stuff and shoot it down.  No water, no ice.

............................................................

This, then, is the game of Tigers.

You can either play or get fucked in the bad way

And once you’re in, there’s no way out.

When you kill one tiger, fifteen more appears

And fifteen more for each you kill. And then some rain and relief

And then the game begins anew. And this goes on till you are way too tired to fight and then you sit and you look at the Tigers, fangs bared, ready to pounce on you and bite into your soft flesh, and you say. “go ahead, fuckers. Eat me. It doesn’t matter anymore.”. And then it won’t matter anymore.

You had come to play because you were seduced by the big fat whores of life. You followed them and then their shadows till you ended up before the tigers.

So play for as long as you care. It won’t matter in the end. 

.....................................................................................

Living and dying in the shadow of this combat zone makes me yearn for placid midnoons.  

Midnoons like those were good. I could read of ghosts sleuths and gamblers then without worrying about much of anything else.

I always knew that i was trapped and i never cared much.

So drown in darkness, kid. You’re all alone now. The shadow gets bigger through every passing hour of tumult.

..........................................................................

Dear assholes and worshippers of survival,

Give me a woman who will love me for anything other than money fame talent aplomb security tongue cock fingers wit nonchalance or guts,

And i’ll sell all my poems to you for half their worth.

...................................................................................

This was not supposed to be

Things were supposed to fall in place

Assurances were supposed to have been exchanged

Or maybe this is just the first thought

On seeing them dance with quaint aliens, contraband and quality-tested,

In front of green and blue jukeboxes

As the music plays on loud and clear

And the carriers of the weapons that kill

Approach the shores.

But, was this really supposed to be like this?

The snipers are still there, i can feel them

Staring at me, without batting an eyelid even fucking once motherfucking once.

I thought they would get bored and go away.

I was wrong and i hate to be wrong or be wronged.

I have drowned the last girl who wronged me within my whiskey-flavoured darkness and i have flushed her down the shitpot of heart.

I have raged and raved all along, like a beast in heat, caged inside this doom

And now i know, we go no further

We end. Here.

.................................................................................

  

Nothing would have changed had i not written the last poem or the ones before it.

I don’t write to change stuff. I write because had i not written i would have bummed around weird cities and would have stared at blank walls and would have drunk without writing. But because i write i get to bum around weird cities and stare at blank walls and drink and write. That’s the only difference it makes. I don’t write to puke out my heart or guts or soul. I write because i like to. And the rest just happens. The masters of this art bore me with their depth and skill. I care for neither.

It wouldn’t have mattered anyways.

This is where i am right and this is where i stay. Try and push me if you dare to.

............................................................................................................................

This happened when i was six or seven

They had caught a pickpocket and they were beating the shit out of him. There was blood on the sidewalks.

Dad took me away from there saying that the world’s like this and it’s not right

The next morning i was not concentrating on my maths and he beat the shit out of me

And i told myself : “the world’s like this and this is not right”.

I grew up in form and intellect and i found myself in a law school studying about that Saint of Aquinas the Constitution and about the Declaration of Rights of Man and the 1688 Bill and Madison’s Virginia Declaration and those Ten Amendments and the UN Declaration and shitloads of junk. And now i know that none of these actually matters. What matters is what we feel at any given moment.

And the world might fucking fall apart any given moment.    

........................................................................................

Sometimes it gets so lonely that you can feel the world breaking into pieces.

And then this constant browbeating by solitude gets tiring and recourse to bitter stoicism seems to be one of the better ideas.

There’s a beer shack right outside my window and there’re people who have the fortune of not having to drink alone meet people who lack the guts to drink alone.

And then there’s this nice food-joint and alluring aroma of well cooked well greased and fattened meat filters in.

These sounds are not my sounds and these smells are not my smells. So i shut the windows tight and i keep pounding the keyboard.

The moon in down tonight and the pixies are busy attending their customary Carnival.

The music plays soft and serene and the arrows aimed at my heart had their tips dipped in bitter honey and sweet poison.

And once the sun sets,

Pilgrims get busy making love and birds tend to their fragile eggs.

I have much love and much hatred to give and all these eat me up when i am lonely

And i am lonely all the time

So i drown them in whiskey and rum and beer

And i pretend cynical indifference of the guppies and goldfishes.

All gutted and starfucked, i drag my frame down the narrow alleys of the cosmos in rain.

The idea of something big happening or not happening gets to me and before long

 i find myself at counters, with discount coupons for everything, including my self.

 Mighty wrath is better than squalid and petrified compromises.

Somehow, i can’t fix my aim at it. Maybe i still have some love left in me.

Or maybe i yearn for further success and so i keep pushing forth.

I was born for these I don’t care. Or, do i?

............................................................................

Each time a webpage says return i feel motherly warmth all around.

It’s all about those tiny holes you’re not supposed to succumb to or get sucked in

I’ve been into fights and i have felt the embrace of love tightening at times

So much of entanglement scares the shit out of me.

So much of saintly pallor throughout this gunfight and the eternal strife of arses that asinine madscrew enriches the stubborn sturdy sense of being here. The fat around my belly folds up in ripples. Inside, the guts scream of sweet vengeance against the whole damn world.

I was wronged and i will punish them before the Judges sit.

The Judges are cold, silent and frightening.

........................................................................................

To Camus.

 Your mom died yesterday. Or maybe you fucked her yesterday. What do i care?

And rebels know when and how to say “no”

And will i say no when the most splendid of all bitches spreads out her wonderland before me, legs spread, wanting to get fucked and not asking for anything in return?

Haha, up my ass and up yours!

Love you, egghead.

You make me Sisyphus

You make me absurdly and splendidly happy.

You are one goddamned fucksy bright soul

And reading between you is like squeezing the muzzle (or is it nuzzle?)

Of an empty bottle of liquid-soap after shitting and wiping the great hairy ass of mine.

That’s good and honest, despite everything.

...............................................................................

.............................................................................................

That bright red heart

With locomotive steam fuming

And begging askance and questioning the locus standi to speak of this

From the dastardly third stem of double repetition

Of being and the rape on being

Perpetrated by the multitude

Creates this plurality of the senses of many

Which trump the senses of one and

this obese obsequious, curious of how thoughts stem out

despite the purging of senses. Your thoughts swell mind up

And this i say to the only one who ever dared patience with me

in this crooked game.

Sounds choke out. Skies decay and smell of stale fuck

It’s like trying to screw the most splendid of all women

and throwing up all over her perfect body.

If she doesn’t mind,

Her pure bright love

Will get me moving

without having to try. Now that, my friends, is something.

 ...............................................

Weeping love. Of love for love

Till you love love so much that there’s nothing left but a dry stick in a basket

I’m having rum and kebab and thinking of vigorous love to love

moon falls on moon

And stars hold threads of breath

And monsoon arrives in beguiled and bottled up cacophony

For brethren of tomorrow, righteous and always fucking, flummoxed

Given the axiom of life that there’s nothing better to do.

So i charge against life

With batons and festoons and Molotov cocktails too

Along with those sweet brothers and sweet sisters

who talk of morality

and fuck the hell out of one another.

........................................

Inside paper bags we hide what we carry

For rising tall and strong is beyond our forbearance

As much as acknowledging where we stand is

Half the people i’ve talked to are afraid of insanity

And the rest half thinks of the noose or of sleeping pills or of the blade

As if any of that will help.

Electrocuted, our cells move eternal

And our bells toll loud. Till balls and ovaries cave in.

Uproot the dawn. Uproot love. Uproot fingernails.

As if challenging us to forsake the might of the grasp will help. Hah!

................................

She’s in Kashmir. She’s in Texas. She’s in New Zealand and she that mattered most will be in Pittsburgh soon.

And I shall be in Calcutta, the city of motherly hearts. Does that matter amidst all this mayhem,’

The lot in life has worn off like Dahlia’s post spring.

I dig into sweet pastry

as i wipe the ash off her tits.

The asses had loved me, and i had fed them bananas

But as for the women i loved

They’re scattered

in a globalised and assholed world, scattered

impermeable

and way too silent to paste flowers on postcards.

................................................

Move your fingers a bit and all shit will be soldiers beside you

Folks with whom you can be free and you can cry

Spiders with their webs are ready

So, bite off your fingernails

Santa will reach out to you

At least once

So that all concepts and constructs can be ready

Knife in hand, smiling throo your defeats.

.............................

It’s an awful world

where people can’t see beyond their shades

one fine morning

i’ll be angrier than this

and i’ll burn it down

to bits.

I promise.

So cry not coz our battle we fight it out altogether

And invincible amidst this shatter we are.

..................

So much grit that i’ll blow my entrails off my anus soon

Grit has got little to do with talent

And virgins bleed when fucked and they cry and they want more

I thrash my keyboard and i want more when i drink

I observed ants, all of them

look similar.

this cave will suffocate me someday. I know.

...............................

       

I think of those thousand literature grads

Who’ll edit books and write papers and

 correct the answer scripts

and sit at nine to five desks

and will have to please and pacify their sups

to earn their bread.

It’s rather shitty.

Shakespeare was not born for this

And neither was Ezra Pound despite being a fascist

These people were born for things

Better than this. Goddamn’ reading of the Saussures and the Joyces

and the Mallarmes and the Eliots

out of compulsion would’ve got my nerves all screwed up

I’m lucky that i decided against studying literature

despite much temptation from inside and little from outside.

I think that

there’s nothing as much painful as having

to read and analyze literature

out of compulsion.

And then trying to make a living out of that.

......................................................

 Pretty poetry and weeping women somehow make me forget all about the shit i’m wading through

It’s like getting a place where you can reveal all your emotions and not feel m-barassed later.

Life calls for all these punching bags.

It’s boredom that changes us.

And we are bored all the time

So we keep changing all the time.

.......................................................

Sunday, 01 July 2012

Caesar’s month. It’s not raining yet.

Had dunked down a pint of the nice black stuff last night

Things are pretty hazy still and head’s throbbing to bits.

Hungry but too sloshed to reach out for this fatal carnage.

And i am here, lying down flat on my back

Naked, durable, eternal

And thinking of all the sad people of the world

They’ve all wronged themselves. And now it’s the mirror’s turn to speak

And it speaks with such graceful intensity that before long my eyes start watering and this heart of bitter fondness, of wastefulness and chimera, of wholesome adequacy – turns purple.

Thankfully, it never gives up or gives in to this constant demand for pacific sanity.  

It needs food.

Fuck the world. It’s not a battlefield and even if it is one,

I’m not fighting.

..................................................................