To Vomit the Undigestible

Wednesday, February 21, 2007

Weakdays and Weekspots.

Because sometimes music is colour. And there's ruby in headlights, and sometimes peppermint is more than a flavour when the sun's coming down. I've been addicted to those Splenda mints that Lara bought me. They dont let me breathe easy and they sting the tip of your tongue like a last kiss.

I decided to take a walk with pink skies yesterday, my Nike's grey from trampling the pavement with rubber soled 'health' slogans of the past. Hands jammed in my pockets, hair tangled and dancng with tender breeze of February. I usually walk after dark where it's easy to be alone but yesterday, I was happier being human with the rest of the world than a slave to the old '01' early-evening interface. Plus, I wanted to defy routine on a day that Determination had earned itself a capital letter.

Too many of 'them'. I wanted to I slip-slide my way through the icy footpath drones while ducking my head and batting my lashes to shake them off. Microscopic snowflakes. Germs even. Undfortunately it was impossible. We are the fleas of a thousand camels that have infested the armpit of India. Theres no such thing as 'myspace' unless youre referring to a dot com.

I passed by Barista, the official 'expresso bar'. I would usually be seduced by the smell of caffine but it seemed bitter without the night to compliment it. Mock me. I'm the voice of empty coffee cups and silent conversations but yesterday, I didnt get my foamed Mocha or jump at the chance to cup my hands around the warmth, feel comfortable and protected amidst societal chaos. No, that was too safe, and safety is almost as frightening as danger. I was in the mood to be a little uneasy. I wanted Mosambi Juice. Or maybe a GangaJamuna. The blood of a ripe fruit to excite me. Turn me on. Besides, everything is cyclic. I need constant revolutions and mindfucks over which liquid to injest on any given evening and overstimulation in order to witness the polarity, the opposite, searching for some level of insanity (however miniscule) to fill in the rest, to connect the dots, to cleanse the bloodpipes and lace the brain with soul. A Ganga-Jamuna would have been great but the goddess of Digestion had predetermined my fate. All I found was a sole fly infested 'Ganna' juice stall on the entire length of my undiscovered 'athletes track'. It wasnt enough, and if I couldnt get just what I wanted, I wouldnt have any at all.

Mission accomplished. I succumbed to my uneasiness one way or another and walked on with large strides and my I pod. (I think I'm married to it sans official documents.)

Those who can't understand or are unwilling to try, ask me again how I lived through the War of the Unsatisfied Palate during the supposed winter of Boringbay. I sigh and shake and inform that I'm alive because sometimes when there isnt a shot of caffine or an organic combination Potassium and Vitamin C, music is colour. And there's ruby in headlights and peppermint is more than a flavour when the sun's coming down...

Poetry falls vertically...

Did you know that
I don't know what
makes a poem a poem?
Did you read that
in between the lines
the words all melt
into a single form?
I can't write in
broken lines with
simple words and
triple words and
thoughts that break
into the next and
next and next. It's
all too simple all too
empty, thirteen pages
filled with four
word fragments
hardly seems a
work of art...

What if I believe in horizontals, what if I want to splice a thought and run it through the city's streets, what if I think that I could wrap the world in stream of consciousness rife with inner life waiting for a linebreak that it will never find? And isn't that a little egotistical, what i mean to say is, someone's bound to find a greater means than structured rhyme, a pseudo-free verse begging to be tamed a universal. We'll have somebody speaking prophecies mind wide open looking for a little bit of silence...


*poetry, it simply falls, and falls and falls and colours the skies a lighter shade of real..*

Nonrefundable

The door slowly closes and the sound is sucked out of the room
As you stand over where I'm crumpled
Between the door and the wall.
You mumble something and I feel a sudden weight in my outstretched hands
But I don't even have to look to know what's there -
A lump of charcoal that bleeds black ink onto my blue jeans…
You know, it looked like a human heart
When I gave it to you.

Monday, February 19, 2007

Randomness

I'm now jaded about the things that would earlier overwhelm me.
Its too early to be tired...
like its too early to wake up at 12pm...too early to let go of extended rem...
*
Lara gave me littlei minimints on a pink box that says 'spoiled rotten'. Those words arent nearly enough for I could do with much more before being labeled such. *nod* Perspective perspective. The mints are yummy though...
*
Being 23 doesnt allow the freedom 19 did and thats a given, even so it'll never cease to sadden me in multiples as the years move on. A gold drop in steel, Bots gift..It's always around my neck, the mark of a secret warrior whose unsure of what the war is about.. A mark of the ripe age of 23 packed in sweade.
*
I dont think I'm going to mention this ever again so pay attention: I'm begining to like "ambient electro trance" ( *cough* I dont know what else I can call it) Only when intoxicated though. Where have I reached? What worlds? From Theatre of Tragedy 5 years ago to Amon Tobin now? Fuck!
*
My daddy gives me a packet of the original Silk Cuts every four days.. *gloat* : D (We can subtract this bit from my 'spoiled rotten' parahgraph earlier)
*
Thats all for now but ps : everyone must visit www.asofterworld.com atleast once if not religiously...

Sunday, February 04, 2007

Old Memories

I had forgotten what mornings look like...
I had forgotten the silence.

(Seaside at AB Towers, Cuffeparade, Bombay)