Wednesday, April 27, 2011

She Comes

at this juncture and age
born into a world of ennui
she rather comes of rage

Sunday, April 24, 2011



To Kill a Running Rat

The query whether or not rats are humankind's friends has been one of existential nature for too long than it deserved. All I can say in this dilemma of a subject is crooks can be receptive when comes to deathblows. I detect the intruder, I let go as long as my next morning's wrapped bread pack is unscathed. Once the given limit is transgressed I am game for a kill, and it is a given that I terminate the object of disgust with sheer skill. Who is to say one shouldn't be a guardian of his kitchen!

The nature of subject, however, rather demands grinding the holes of past. When looked back in time, animal kingdom had their sufficient share of territory to graze and procreate. Lately, humankind in its greed, when still retaining its ‘immaculate original shine,’ filled the earth and invaded what was rightly the other's. Deforestation, turning swamps to skyscrapers became its pastime. Consequently, the speechless have been left with little to occupy. Some even contemplated, acted upon counter invasion and to an extent succeeded.

A pigeon flies out perplexed as her perceived hanging plant starts whirling. She got knocked up and so wanted to seam a nest to lay eggs indoor on a leafless contrarily rooted steel plant - a fan. An army of ants wish they grow wings for they cannot in all their perseverance cross a thin white line. A hanging bat views an upside-down giant biped - a maiden, attempting to imitate a beastly howl - a scream, and flies window ward and out. Will not the poor bat suffer nightmares in his witness of humankind?

When I was a kid, a dog ate my kitten. Hence, I avoid clinging to what can be killed and that kills. My love for lower animals only goes so far. There is someone I admire though, I confess, having tasted with spices. Squirrel it is. He is not so much of an intruder. His intrusion is as far as the sweet garden. There is mystery to his detection of sweetness and skill to his tasting of it. After a ride to satiation, as he rides on the wall he studies a suspended piece of coconut. For need of a perfect dessert, he bites down its suspension and there is a bang. He is wooden trapped. As he wonders about his predictability of stupidity, trap moves to another location with him in it combating. He witnesses a pool of water, and he is soon in it. He chatters, "Fool, how can you swim encased in a trap." Indeed, he cannot. He is gagged, then skinned and made fries of meatballs.

Squirrels make better models. They are pacifists in that they do not invade their enemy's kitchen; they also nourish the enemy if chosen to. It is the rats who make bad models. They are warriors. They invade, and do not nourish – not in my world. It is not up to one to meditate as to why not hail to the crook! I shall rather instruct you along the lines of when in my is my home, my kitchen. They invade as and when they like and turn the food storage upside down. They have no courtesy, no saying no thank you nothing.

The killing machine is a wooden stick, half as long as the killer. Avoid iron rods by all means. It damages the floor for no advantage. A rat is expert at playing mind games, as if it is his cake-run, running through bottles and vessels. The colonist must gather his composure. Anger is a self-killer. It makes one damage one’s own foot with a misplaced blow. Not amid glass objects or steel bowls. Rat chooses the corners as if he wishes to disappear through another dimension. Wait for him on the open ground. You are a rathlete, swift and reckoning. Imagine an imaginary movable circle around the rebel. Strike your deathblow. There will be blood with initial exterminations, eyes popping out and bowels on the wrong side. Deter not. After the body is out of the scene, spraying a mix of a spoonful of Dettol with half a mug of water and wiping will do wonders.

Do not in your perversion fancy of drinking their blood. Remember, ‘you are of divine origin!’ I shall remind you from an Interview with the Vampire. There was a vampire once in whose heart fell a conviction that he must stop feeding on human blood and so he chose to drink rat's instead only to later confess he despised his choice and that it made him crave human blood more than ever. That is just a story stemmed from the shadow side of our split brain. ‘Humankind in reality never shed blood of its own kind,’ if I may humbly add. You do not agree? ‘You are living in a violent imaginary world!' The best I can tell you is 'this life is sweet and you stop living an unnatural one.’

Now to the expertise on how to avoid blood-shedding. Enough said on imaginary circle and open ground. The first gentle blow shall be aimed at the back of the intruder. This will paralyze the poor thing. As he struggles to drag himself to nowhere, again gently as if patting his head leave your mark with two strikes. There you have a spotless kill.

'Quotes' from A Rathlete’s Guide to Defense

Authored by an Anonymous Veteran Colonialist

To promote at IndiVine

Wednesday, April 20, 2011


In a chamber of heart cells collate She unmakes the alleyways of Suecity A Stroke poetess making up nonwords to undo a spell of alphabet cast on her mentation by her dada Streets hide the ways out Sewers mark them She dines at the monochrome eat-out Red white…lives march forth She brings the map to life A clutter of lines Means you're lost A distant memory of The Shining springs to her mind No one knows they’re in it except her Didi a voice calls She Kubrick Stares at a beggar girl Gives the map to her Keep it Don’t you be like me Here’s a road to Hierarchy There’s a road to Somewhere Vessel forks A piper with an LCD for head marches past A flock of girls and boys tag along Oh I’m fourteen Tell me what I want I’m sixteen You want a beauty kit You want a girl to quit Follow me I’ll tell you more A wooden top buzzes as it spins It is her head Vessels fork Why have someone to tell you what you want The boy is drinking pizza I want one of those kits No You tell me then I can’t No How can I The top meets its inertia The boy spins it before he rushes to the crowd It buzzes once again A man doffs his hat Could you have seen a mendicant pass this way They conspire to overthrow hierarchy She is the key Open a labyrinth If you want my ID He hangs his tongue out and lets it curl Undercover a tattoo reads She blended in with the  map...with the crowd The man dons his hat Closes his eyes Presses his temple with a finger Where he was is a void A Peekapoo smells pussycat There will be hurdle for anarchy The boy with a piece of rag in his back pocket runs for his life From behind the counter the girl emerges a leaf bathed in dew The Peekapoo hits its head against a pole She takes the map back tears it in two chews a half swallows Digestion begins She is vessels elastic The boy now is chased by a damsel in heat What remains of the girl’s rag is burning at the back of the eatery That girl…That girl I was her She’s stared at quizzically I was you Like you were I'd lost it Time for me to go Your time will come Be here now They dilate Curtain lifts smoke clears A certain somebody to a nobody He makes love to a pariah BREATHE she says...EASY Ink from the map seeps Words disperse gray letters transpose into bloodstream ooze

Hierarchy                                chary archer heir                                   Anarchy was here

Nowhere                                                  no here how nere now here      

Somewhere                            more me womeh                                    She wore anarchy

In a chamber of heart cells collate Red white…lives march forth Vessel forks »to« vessels fork »to« a labyrinth She is vessels elastic…blood pristine she is Silently within and to herself they constrict Suecity  doesn't know it or feel as it has one of those little quiet strokes

Saturday, April 16, 2011

At Once

I am yours because you bought me. Hmm—
Huh—. Yeah, you bought me and I am yours, only you cost me twice as much as I cost you. Why was that?
To dad, a woman is twice a man if she can raise a kid and be independent. He thinks I am…rightly so…and perhaps I am.
I am not like I cannot rise above what is man. Did I tell you seventy percent of my dowry was the wife loan I owe the bank? Now I am to work the next half decade just so that I could pay it.
I’m not saying I won’t share that load of yours.
Burden you on my account? That wouldn’t be like me.
That’d be no reason for you to sit back and watch me raise the kid.
Kids! I want twins. Let’s make babies once and let it be twice.
You’re mine because I bought you.
I bought you and you’re mine. Yeah, this is different. You make it sound like I’m your slave.
You sound the same to me. We severed our joints to our families, for what, to be free and just with each other, only to form another joint. Ironic!
At once master and slave. Ironic!
Do you feel relieved?
I do. Do you feel burdened?
I do feel both. Ironic!
I wish I had two hearts to beat and a man’s shadow to cast.
Ahhh…hmmm…ahhh…ahhh…I don’t think I could go any…ahhh…more tonight.
Huhhh…I came twice. On a hectic day, thrice would be upping the ante.
(Yawns) I like it you don’t fake it.
Hold me…some more. Yahhmm…
You cheeky bastard. (Yawns)

Sunday, April 10, 2011

Fahrenheit Four Five…One

[The library of Nalanda burned for months.]

I once stood and watched the rough copies of my love poem/letter burn when I was very naïve. It only burned for a minute or two but I sensed knots in my stomach seeing the ferocity with which it burned.

[Battle of Avarayr occurred AD 451. The date it is etched, 26th, and month, May, is a holyday for Armenians – a celebration of religious freedom.]

Years later, when not very but still naïve, I was in a situation I had the notion to burn my personal love effects. I collected them all to a rather inviting dustbin. It sure would have burned someplace else or turned to pulp. I just couldn’t care less.

[A year in the near later, I told to a once friend I burned my holy book. I, in fact, had lied in my frenzy to set adrift a flame of disgust.]

There are people who are hell-bent on setting universality as a goal to be achieved. They burn the holy scriptures of others, not theirs—out in the open and to the satellite, to express their sentimentality. They may be good people personally, that is if you socially know them. They may be living in a first world or a third world, belong to this ethnicity or that ethnicity, this religiosity or that religiosity, like it doesn’t matter. What they don’t, or couldn’t, acknowledge is we live in a world of multiplicities and this world of multiplicities has a greater beauty that far surpasses the lesser beauty of singularity they envision their tribal god desires. And you needn’t necessarily be told to know a tribal god is drunk on greed. They want to burn the holy book of the other never mind for what absurd reason. And they mock the idiocy of other’s book which theirs has in plenty.

[Toni Morrison edited Burn This Book, a book of essays by the likes of Pico Iyer and Orhan Pamuk.]

If you ought to do it you should, but burn your holy book in a secure corner of your domicile and rest assured I am with you in my secure corner to burn mine. And mine, if you didn’t know, is a five-page personal scripture. Just let us not burn the other’s, neither in public nor in private.

[SOAD, a.k.a. System of a Down, have a record called Steal This Album! which resembles a burnable CD.]

Fahrenheit 451 is the temperature at which a book burns and is also the name of a Ray Bradbury book.

If you are perspicacious you would know that setting fire to monkeys’ tails will in turn set your residence on fire. They don’t run back and into the forest. Not anymore.

[For giving, not taking, was Nalanda built.]

Sunday, April 3, 2011


She has her mood swing. You have your ax.

By my window is a bed. She has a head. There’s someone in her head that’s not you.

She and you are one. I’m that random no one. We have history. I have a tale to tell.

I bring tidings. She brings cookies. You make a wish.

She holds the tiffin. You're the honey-hunting bear. I hold the fork. We play possum.

She releases a baby bat—she found and grew fond of on her porch—thinking it could fly. It is pecked by a crow.

She's a boy. You're a girl. I too. We play hard to get.

A garden lizard pokes its head and before it's withdrawn it comes tumbling down. Your marble found its mark.

We play building castle in an open field. I keep shooing the crows. She spreads the tiles. You keep shooting your marbles losing them all. It’s time to learn crows are of different kind.

In the schoolyard you chase a stray dog tennis ball in your hand. In the same yard you freeze when you spot a fox. You knew before you made a move it ran like hell—unlike a dog—swift like wind.

You wear the linen. She wears the match. We play arson.

In her kitchen is a fridge. You haven't a head. There’s something in the fridge that’s not her.

At twelve there’s a bus. You aren’t coming like she is.


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