Wednesday, February 27, 2008


The sun sets across a straw field, an eagle soars to soak the remnants of the day
The camera refuses to shut shop, leaves under my feet rustle in a boisterous fray
The serene landscape stretches before me, my eyes sensitive to any vagary
None was to come though, for the placid setting rested in gratifying slavery

I was curious what the seagull could see, would it notice me in the shallows
I was curious what the ocean could hear, would it listen over its bellows
The misty air reeked of personality, a personality that secure and smug
I was curious if I was a part of it, or apart as an over zealous passing slug

I trade secrets with the rocks, while the sea punishes them for their resilience
The beach smiles, the dimples trap in the water; exciting the sea, instigating its belligerence
I walk, I can see the surfeit sand adjoining a ravaging ocean, and I am caught in between
Time wages this war, humbles me by its omnipresence; demolishes the hidden preen

Imperative it would be for every particle here to travel, claim its fate
As I have come from over the mountains to share my story and wait
But the charm holds all of them; the water renders them heavy with errand
And my sermons fall to deaf ears, for none moves to take my hand

A thousand suns shine on me; my imagination has never been so bright
A thousand friends await me, my travels have never been so fulfilling
Yet I fascinate the lonely beach, 'everyone' here seeks redemption
And I sit here on a thousand dreams, thinking it is only a presumption

Saturday, February 23, 2008

Gumption...the celebrity!

She waits; her lips await the arrival of desire
It’s those moments before a kiss, a sinking quagmire
A drop hangs from a leaf, searching for gravity
The eye yields a tear, for dearth of levity

The final lunge of the tiger, the deer weakens in the legs
The beggar smiles like everyday, adversity begs
Virgin waves escape their platitude, a surfer delights
The gaping valley stares as the jumping ego alights

Eleven fifty nine on a new years eve, each second a new bout
A poet collects the images; words wait for the final rout
The poise is perfect; the painter’s brush hesitates in the hand
The rumour spreads, truth waits for the discovery of the errand

The smile is imperative; the lady is set to win the heart
The memory strikes déjà vu, the shooter releases the dart
They say ‘statue’, the kissing couple freeze
Gumption is rude; it never learnt to say please

Friday, February 08, 2008

zilch of vacuum...

Find me when I am alone, find me in a crowd
Find me in love, sharing, caring, find me in war
Sing with me tonight, let’s whistle a tune aloud
Find me in your faith; find me when home is far

Begin the day with glycerin, rob yourself of the friction
End the night in a trance, appreciate the dream’s diction
Bury yourself under your imagination, relish the resurge
Find me over the universe, hold my hand on the verge

Don’t let the days go by, be in them, feel
Don’t wait for your turn, perform a steal
Orchestrate a romance, punish yourself…yield
Find me by the tree in the strawberry field

Walk on water, float on sand
Find yourself, walk hand in hand
Take a bullet if you have to, be a target for once
Challenge the church, fantasize about the nuns

Pluck a rose sometime, tumble down a slope
Strum a guitar; compose a rhythm for a tope
Clap for the children on the street, find me between your hands
When I impose on you, breathe to make amends

Saturday, February 02, 2008


Closed for inventory! That’s how a liberal mind reacts to insurgency of thoughts. The mind manufactures and orchestrates a vivid romance of thoughts, a thespian performance of loosely connected incidents. However the paradox is evident, a liberal mind isn’t exactly a minefield of disconnected gaffes, and it is a concerted reminder of rational. Blasé thoughts are the prerogative of a liberal mind, though you cannot rule out bohemian interference. However, the scrutiny of thought is the most important and consequential feature of a cultured and liberal mind.

What are butterflies to do in an iron maiden show, they flutter from the beat, aspire for fame. What are poster girls for; they adorn the walls of Moscow, never ever aspiring for a place in the heart. Vodka does better. Let’s say poster girls are for the desperate times. They say desperate times last till they stay on your walls. There are men who are all over, and then there are men who over all. Never do dreams matter until they are the dreamy ones, they sleep when you need them.

I am fascinated by abstract stories which converge in the end, as if the circle of life is evident, as if every fucking happenstance is a reminder of that, as if everyone knows the end, but then everyone does. I don’t know maybe sometimes the greatest insight can be drawn by refuting oneself. Is that the basis of hope, hope that I will change for the better maybe. Well they say go get a girlfriend, she’ll find enough mistakes in you to reduce you into an introspective mule, I say nothing better than her to compliment my sexual pursuits, to dress them as pursuit of love, you even get a flower, a kiss as absolves.

But we are talking about the mind here aren’t we, liberal minds, open mind, minds left open to be fed upon, minds which don’t mind. I have no idea, if you have an open mind, whether you have been able to retain your brains from falling out, there is a tendency to sympathize, I advise you to refrain for you would be the only person feeling bad. I like music for its detachment, the fact that once produced one doesn’t own it; it belongs to the whims of its admirers, who attach themselves to it. It is the same with life, you it begins and ends with detachment, while everything between those extremes is the exact opposite. So a liberal mind, does it attach or detach? I say the liberal mind aches, that’s all it does, instigates a rebel thought and nurtures the pain till it find more minds to share the pain.
I hate to philosophize. FUCK. PEACE.

Friday, February 01, 2008

swallowed by a whirlpool...

A white sheet of paper stares at a bare faced liar
Quenched is the evening, united stand the choir
The song rusted in blood penetrates a soul so hard
Inkling overlooks desire, he opens his last card

A visage glows by the candle; the soot darkens around the eyes
Desperation plays its beats; the dancers wait to vandalize
In his eyes is her reason; in her eyes is his shame
The iridescent butterflies flutter, as they seek fame

Sex, how much of it is in the anticipation
Love, how much of it is in the fornication
She says you can’t do much without a plane
He says you can’t do much without air

The sparks they fly, seek the gleam in the eye
The shadows accumulate in an orgy, for skin they vie
Her brother died, she knew she had lied, she’d better hide
She would fight, kill, play, fuck but never confide

The card is an ace; her smile has no trace
Visions of her seduce me, as she walks out of her lace
By the wall, tepid beer has made them a pool
They sink together tonight, swallowed by the whirlpool