Wednesday, April 30, 2014

Notes from the last two months

April blooms and fevers

Sip stale tea, keep pacing, room to room to half room. Watching the fascinating effects of capillary action as the cloths become wetter and wetter in the bucket. Chaos and Chronos in the eternal battle. Bed takes up too much space, I could dance there, build a model papier-mâché volcano, play volleyball with the wall. I talk to the doors and they creak. I drank lime all day. My face smells citrusy. I have come to loath arguments because I am bored easily and I empathize too much to get through with it. My fingers are stinging. I want to eat this nimbus cloud gathering overhead bit by bit. I want to read and read and read and read. My phone is dead, this summer I dread. There is something so enticingly brittle about the air, it hangs like a fresh cream-biscuit dipped in tea, allowed to soak so thoroughly until it is butter-soft and shaking slightly between ones fingers. Taste buds are so limiting, I want to see what lies beyond this spectrum of senses. The hot black cloak of fever has been lifted from my back, I killed the frogs prancing in my throat. I am well.

Random cat by the pork shop

Every day should a piece of poetry, every second should exude poetry. Your body should weep conifers and ferns with every exhale, take in the intricate verses of the air with every inhale. There is poetry in each rustle of these blooming trees, in the thickening dregs of my tea, in my headache, in the horrifying news I read each day. There is poetry when my blood boils with helpless anger, in the quiet, cowardly way I try to fight the system, in the nonchalance with which we approach every day wear and tears, the broken flush, the torn clothes, the dead phone. Poetry is not just a noun, it is a verb...when the sublime beauty of the most ordinary thing, gesture or sight makes you pause for one breathtaking moment, your soul poems....

Last year, before the rains
I want to paint my walls with instant coffee; sleep in the fragrance. Peel off a bit of the landscape, sniff, eat. Examine the contents in your face. Don't erase anything with antiwrinke-fairness-anti-spot-darkcircle removing-anti-tan-anti-expression-anti-simplicity creams (its an international conspiracy to keep you suspended in this corroding emulsion called everydayness) instead, decipher those marks, read between the lines, connect the dots, translate the dark circles, don't forget your story, interpret the voice of your skin, its sighs and screams. If I didn't have such a massive consciousness I'd like to swing a dead fish (a rohu maybe) and slap somebody with it; a dead snake would be better. I'll eat the rohu instead, crisp, greasy, peppery, juicy. Dissect sanity, question instinct, unfold chaos, roll out discontent, remember the in-betweens, turn back toes, talk to the shadows, stop walking.

Immeasurable love.  
In the End: 

Death is either the instantaneous gaining of perfect knowledge (similar say to the instantaneous disintegration of stone and ivy composing the circular dungeon where formerly the prisoner had to content himself with only two small apertures optically fusing into one; whilst now, with the disappearance of all walls, he can survey the entire circular landscape), or absolute nothingness, nichto. - Nabokov

Friday, April 25, 2014

My Obscure Visitors

While coming and going,
my silent summer breezes
do rustle a few leaves;
obscure visitors, tantalizers, 
sway the curtains-
drop a twig, stir the dust,
let the dew-drenched cobwebs dazzle 
and dance.

Before you leave-
 speak to me, I am lonely.

Image: Screen cap from Picnic at Hanging Rocks (Source: Google Images)

Tuesday, April 15, 2014

Keyboard floats away, another word appears without a foetal cry, a cityscape of lies luminesce, slow evaporation of the gurgling drain, dog pee, despair.

In the midst of moving from one chaos to another, I discovered a slumberous, tiny, cramped second-hand book shop in Church Street. There I found rare old cloth bound editions with cracked spines and yellowing pages all sold at ridiculously cheap rates. Many were easily between 50-150 years old. When I asked the shop attendant where all these books came from, he said apparently all the "oldies" are dying out leaving behind all this "junk" and their kids have no time to read or preserve them so they sell them off in bulks.

Some days I crave to become a guerrilla poet, walk the streets in the neon night wearing a bird mask, spray-painting free-verses on the sullen walls.

Skill, intelligence and sentience transcend gender, region, religion and language; I hate, hate this patriarchal, heteronormative society which judges my principles, opinions and choices based on all this human-made crap. Desperately wish I were an androgynous or asexual mollusk, a piece of time (the 60s), a patch of lavender sky, a laughing stream or April shower, a snowy peak or an old, old layer of earth full of well-preserved fossils, caves and mineral deposits whispering their stories to me.

Image: Painting by Edvard Munch


Mayonnaise in a plaster cast
eaten with hand,
a house made of straw carpets and glue, a neighbourhood
of bizarre, evocative old building,
a sneaky photographer, a pervy man
in shiny violet coat, a glass shop,
a preparation for a marathon,
an over-decorated living room,
falling down as the roof tears off, a wall peels away,
a child gurgling, a staring family dangling from rope ladders,
rain filling the gaps of the fractured pavement
reflecting the iridescent desolation spreading the sky.
Wake up finding a dead moth on your elbow.

Image: Painting by Sam Szafran

Sunday, April 13, 2014


Despair comes when you realize that the ocean you painstakingly tried to comprehend was merely the pattern on a piece of imagined mollusk shell washed up on the edge of dream sand. The vastness will never be yours. My eyes water, I sieve the footnotes and peripheries. My time runs out.

Image: from Google Images