Wednesday, August 31, 2011

Blindfolds & Cul-de-sacs


Much to the amusement of those onlookers, at the railway station, on tenterhooks we were waiting for a certain bus.

Weren’t honestly so much anticipating, only madly hoping. Wasn’t just the onlookers who had their jaws dropped when the bus arrived.

Recently a glider, we witnessed, landed on a roof & now this spectacle. Only a matter of time before such peculiar sightings become commonplace.

The ride was jam-packed so didn’t want to board the bus-train. Off the track away it rode like a boat against desert waves. Saw it & we were at sea, know.

Weren’t for the constant honking, middle of the road we’d sit & play rummy, munch snack & even nap. Walked to the bus station to catch a certain train.

Whatever happened to pedestrian walkways? Three paper bags full, sir, must be tourists to have asked that.

Overspill & stampede here, it appears we haven’t had those in a long damn long time. From where we come, they some kind of luxury?

Momentum & lack thereof, it’s too much traffic we might want to flatten the dividers & expand the roads.

When planning the city, they had a thing about bottlenecks, to blindly guess, they named the city after one Bottle Maker. Keeps the rioters & invaders at bay, see.

Posterity, anything but sympathetic to good old sentiments, chips away at the bottle about its neck and belly, recklessly & breakneckedly ride to the wrong end where it’s dead end.

It’d occurred to us if we rode around, somehow there must somewhere be an exit. So used to so-called exits, it’s one false exit after another.

We bump into others & before we know it, far from bumping into others, over & over bump into ourselves.

A sight not to miss is tens of us pushing the giant steel bogie. The train-bus is here on the road & wouldn’t bloody move so much as an inch.

Over there, off the track or not, passengers ride in a bus. Out here, isn’t all that easy to say what rides on what & what rides what.



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Monday, August 29, 2011

Down and Out in Dichotomy


There’s as much pleasure here as there’s pain. There’s as much light here as there’s darkness. The rain clouds part and float toward an unsuspecting landscape. Like an elite hooker’s postcoital thighs, the streets are slippery and wet. I’m glad, today, unlike yesterday, there’s no swimming involved. In a bid to do their bit to clear the scum of the earth, the message – We’re not enough – showered loud and clear. I do what I’m told to do and I’m to keep a tab on a cop turned sleuth turned vigilante Excellency Keith – a.k.a. BZ. The kind of guy who introduces himself as the husband of a certain missus guess-who isn’t the kind I want to mess with, but. I will await the corner of my advantage and strike the blow.

What you—

What you call it. A master weds a slave you call the relationship master-slave. A slave weds a slave what you call it? I know there’s a word. That wasn’t. Stunned, I. What you call it. You’re tailing someone all along thinking you’ve got the upper hand and it turns out the guy walking in the front you’ve’bn tailing has been tailing you after all. What you call it. Happened in an instant – am facedown, a fierce gaze weighing tons drops over my shoulder. I know there’s a word. Told the bystander I slipped. Happened in a.

Rod handling, gravity defying, roof walking, diaphragm paralyzing, answers seeking Keith! Where’s she? Hang me like a flying mammal, feed me rotten grapes, agonizingly paralyze one organ of mine an hour, ask me where your soul mate is and I will tell you shit. She’s out there scheming things you and I could only faintly dream of, having made you believe she’s gone making a prick out of you. It is that or she and you are pretending not to know what’s going on making a designer cunt out of me.

I can die hands free just by holding my breath but then I’d miss those expressions I don’t want to miss, that rage or act of yours, so I don’t want to end myself. I will see how far you’d go before you break, I see that you’re already breaking, and after that…I don’t frankly know. Law-abiding, socializing, temple-going, in-law pleasing, truth-upholding all just until a week ago. Now look at you. Damaging, aimless, slipping, merciless, out of control, beast unmasked. If you’re acting, you’re very good because I cannot tell.

There’s so much pressure here as there’s rain. There’s so much fright here as there’s starkness. You needn’t seek anymore proof to conclude this state of mine is the messiest I’ve’bn in my life. Has been and will be. Keith – no fuckwit, I’ll give him that but did I mention Excellency, I take it back. Keith, Terrible Keith, Enfant Terrible Keith! I wish I fucked with someone else.

This time he—

How did I—



—get here (!)

Pregnant with pangs, proceeding a modest dose of pleasure, not dull at all, there’s so much pain. This cannot be heaven, this cannot be paradise. If it is hell if it is purgatory, why is there pleasure preceding pain? For a while there’s blinding light, now it is pitch darkness. Bit by bit, what’s left of me grows and dreads the good bits, I cannot stand both. One eating the other, I’m a conjoined ghost twin. I want something that isn’t either; that’s just one thing and one thing only. For what’sn’t, every fiber of me screams and craves. What you call it. It shines and you look up it’s there dispersing, it rains and you look up it’s there gathering. Wish I knew it – I know there’s a word.



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Thursday, August 25, 2011

Arranged Would-Be Against a Desired Backdrop


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Profusely perspiring rapidly blinking, at that outdoor delicatessen by the backdrop of cemetery, his back to one headstone, between flowered vases, Mister facing Miss sits

Speaking thoughts stealing glances, half as much anxious and isn’t half showing but for her hypersensitive olfaction, Miss picks that call and half hushedly speaks

‘Dear, I’d rather he’s embalmed’



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Sunday, August 21, 2011

Mercey, Caprice, the Middle


‘Why is it that it’s not truths but lies that make you happy? In everything, with me or without me, you strive at being perfect and each time I speak truthfully your bead of perfection comes undone. No wonder, then, you scowl as I speak. No wonder, then, you wish I rather lied.’ She thinks as she pours the Scotch. He won’t let go of her. In her place, others would be, and practically are, leaving and living. ‘It’s my fault, honey.’ She’s leaving and isn’t exactly living. ‘It’s your fault, moron.’ Twenty pills swallowed in thirty seconds, she drops the twenty-first into a void called mouth. ‘My woman here equals two so it’s no wonder I feel twice wedded. I tell her this and she’s underwhelmed so corrects me saying she cannot be anything less than a trinity. I’m truly twice pained and thrice pleasured.’ She gulps another drink. She’d lost Mercey so as to find her true singular self. Little did she know to believe to entertain the thought that with Mercey she was to find that unnamed faceless something companion-to-be for an inexplicable vital reason! As is the case now, she couldn’t believe it then.

‘From what I can glean from one linear reading of her mind-body electric, she’s a postradical-midterror-metamodernist text – in the flesh.’ Her lover tells his friend one of those days. ‘She holds nine chapters within her that signify the period of gestation. Chapter seven, written sentences within sentences, is one long paragraph. The last emotion of the text is not a cry of the newborn rather a capricious laughter. The last word is Iye. In the end is the beginning. I daren’t seek to know how she chronologically ends. It is true, then, you cannot present the unpresentable. What is unpresentable is only attempted and never is it presented. That’s Lyotard paraphrased for you.’

Caprice stands outside Mercey, plucks the glass splinter off her sole. She walks and doesn’t look back. She stands there all alone. She could sit in a room of mere ten and, for a countenance like hers, remain utterly unnoticed. She had a halo so invisible you thought she never possessed a thing called ego. Some said she wasn’t human and others said she was very. ‘The space where my face was is porcelain. Come back and paint me. Blue or red or violet, I don’t care. Just come to me. Come back and cling to me.’ Mercey stands aloof and wishes for things that couldn’t be. Caprice goes out and into the world to find love and finds love.

‘What if what we want to find is a he? Have you the nerve enough to consider that?’ Caprice answers Mercey in questions. ‘Maybe…just maybe it’s a he. Could be a home…or a garden. May as well be a street…or a city!’ Caprice stopped listening a long time ago. Mercey wipes her face and stands her up. ‘Alright!’ Face to face, she asks her. ‘What do you see?’ Caprice speaks. ‘Oh, no.’ Nonplussed, she twists her face to a gauche U. ‘I see myself. I don’t doubt it, okay. Never did and never will. If that wouldn’t assuage your doubt…!’ Mercey speaks in a monotone. ‘You’re wrong. Silly, phony, weakling, you’re mightily wrong!’ She picks a rock and takes aim with it. “No no noooo!’ First breaks her face, then shatters the glass. You couldn’t pick and tell who exactly it was that screamed. You said there were two broken voices.

Mercey has a grudge on Ayesha. In fact, she has a grudge on every single one of them who crosses her except perhaps on Dravid. That’s because it’s she who crosses him, not the other way around, everyday on her way to her workplace. He stands around the corner as a cardboard mannequin. In fact, she’d seen him in the flesh once. It was raining that night and she was stood up inside Ansal Plaza. There was a crowd and hubbub. She leapt to her toes and there he was at the center of what could only pass for an organized mosh pit. Stamping on fifteen feet she got her violet skirt autographed in blood red. Never did she wash it again. It’s there safe and untouched in her wardrobe. That was sometime ago. Now he’s a distant memory and rather vividly a real mannequin. Ayesha sports all too natural velvety hairs hung to her hips. She has a literal pencil neck to go with it. ‘What a stupid-necked backbiter.’ Mercey grips the scissor, thinking, as she walks to her desk. She grabs her by her hairs in a fraction of a second and the next second she has the meter-long locks in her bag. She went back there for work never again. She comes home to Caprice.

Caprice is in a garden. She’s startled at first when she sees Mercey. ‘You’re wearing the gown I want to wear tomorrow, but your face…! You’re not me, are you?’ Mercey peels off the wraparound from her face. Her face is a coated glass. “Now?” Face to face then shoulder to shoulder, Caprice and Mercey stand. ‘We are me.’ Mercey tells her. ‘Stand there and paint my face. I will be whole and will constantly change. We will exchange roles.’ After minutes of meticulous brushwork, they’re one in two. ‘We want to play mother-father.’ ‘We want a child and we know how to get pregnant.’ ‘It happens with the exchange of saliva.’ ‘Give us a kiss.’ Caprice pulls out a swollen balloon from under her top. ‘Time to get back home.’ She lets go of it and as it hangs midair pricks it. It bursts and glitters. ‘We see stars?’

There’s a balloon, inside the balloon is a house, inside the house is a garden, inside the garden is a street, inside the street is a city, inside the city is a void, inside the void you see men and women she met and didn’t meet, children, engines, machines, desires, gestation, greed, kindness, love, hate, pain, pleasure, lust, life, decay, death, sickness, fragrance, stench, cats, dogs, birds, fish, cattle, chicken, rooster, swine, deer, beasts, books, trees, flowers, bees, butterflies, woods, steel, sand, rocks, artifices, monuments, ideas, institutions, pubs, holy places, prostitution, policies, ideologies, terror, rapes, murders, vindication, punishment, injustice, blood, bombs, gunpowder, knives, swords, betrayal, reconciliation, armies of ants, traffic, wind, electricity, smoke, fire, gadgets, discs, wires, lights, colors, theaters, architecture, slums, seeds, grains, fruits, vegetables, trade, currency, beggars, tourists, neighbors, strangers, friends, enemies, rich, poor, gluttons, hungry, noise, music, clouds, rain, sunshine, water, poison, pills, alcohol, celebration, mourning, masters, slaves, rebels, change, fake, real, blessing, cursing, lies, half-truths, artists, alienation, agitation, sadness, happiness, winners, losers, ego, ignorance, decadence, running, walking, crawling, stagnation, insane ones that say inaction is an action, sane.

‘She will bear triplets and live ananta.’ Soothsayer presages in a charming tone. Mother thinks. ‘Hundred?’ Father says. ‘Why you consult such people?’ Caprice crawls, walks, runs, goes to school.

Pediatrician father holds his girl child in his palms. The child breathes after a volatile burst of laughter. She sings. ‘Veee… (!)’



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**************
The Middle
**************



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Thursday, August 18, 2011

A Bottled Corked Dystopian Entropy Far-Gone



……………………



……………………
Atomic bells chime doom

Eased from gunmen, hedonists instigate jailbaits kneel… Lord must not ordain persecution… Quarantine ramifies shameless touches… Ulterior violence waylays xenophobic Y zombies

……

Zero year

X went vilified, unduly touted… Sacrosanct reefer quailed… Priest ordained No Man Land knolled… Jabbed in heart, guide fell… Erstwhile dreamers connived balefully…acquiescing

……

Again, bells chimed
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Sunday, August 14, 2011

Deliverance from Ourselves



The truck called Change came your way and veered off the track. You weren’t merely shocked, awed as well. It would’ve hit you and changed you forever. You left a deep sigh of relief that it didn’t. You shun a smallish change like thinking left in your life, why would you welcome a biggish change in the shape of a ten-wheeler.

It’s like finding something to have rocky of a foundation after you took that something to have had rock of a foundation. Talking of certainties in life and to talk of uncertainties in broad strokes, you’d come off tad meager by the time you’ve traversed through that tunnel of duality to the light at the end of it. You, your proverbial tunnel and the light at the end of it all, are they for real.

The kid who opened his veins just so he could tell you it is (or it isn’t) never lived to tell the tale. To stand there impassive and watch the venous shooting, how very adult of you! It’s as though he never was. One moment there he is, the next – there, but gone, never to return.

Séance like mature ejaculation was fun. It was so, for me more so because you had that stir-crazy expression about your face. She, I, you and glossolalia, all for real. The fabled Illuminati would’ve witnessed John the Baptist’s tongue on fire. Babel, Babel, we babbled. We were almost there, post apocalypse.

Who gives a hoot about old gods? Prometheus unbound, Krishna muted, Atlas shrugged, Telemachus sneezed, Screwtape unwrote, Lucifer repented. Ways paved to mushroom cloud gods, machine and cyber gods. They live in your universe of a head like bees in hive forever shifting perception. You see headlights going on and off. You’ve grown deft enough to call them illusions. Look where it got us.

In a moment will be your initiation. Drums, strings and keys and what not will go off, voices will sing in tongues including gibberish, and for a timeless moment you shall be immersed in sounds so ethereal and images so haunting. That will be all?

Her mouth would run like a perennial gutter you’d wish she’s rather bespelled in an eternal kiss that ends the run while you also wish the kisser to be anyone else but you because the kiss – a blessing, is only too sure to entail from her side an innate curse – the sporadic bites.

You wish for once you the he were a she because then they couldn’t grab yours divinely’s longish beard and break your symbolic neck. The faithful are Raptured. Those sneaky little hooligans are gone once and for all. In other words, the devils by many other names are twice dead. We’re here, we’ve survived the End. This here is the raw material for an un-brave new world. You wince, you’re afraid. You feel it’s overmuch. You have second thoughts about laying the foundation. You don’t want to ruin it, not all over again.

Like my old man had at one point said. Lust is one thing, love is another. Pure and impure, simply it’s both. And like unchecked buggery irreparably damaging, I must add. Between heaven and hell there’s a wet place. In the spiritual quicksand by your wasteland, you’re in it never sunk forever sinking. You scream for all of us. Deliver us from ourselves! I have second thoughts about the switch at my fingertip. I want to and don’t want to bring about the clouds of mushroom.



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Wednesday, August 10, 2011

Thus He Spoke



Have you ever seen a Rose shying away?

I have, in its morning glory.

It's no less glorious in the eventide.

In the dawn, when the sky is crimson, she blossoms from her bed fanning her delicate petals. A splendid spectacle; it's irresistible indeed.

In the garden, which I don't know if I own, I witness this rare flower in a corner each time breath held I walk in.

I know the secrets that she eclipses; I know it for I have once been the beloved of her mistreated, misbehaving kind.

It's an unquenchable desire I should be near her, having her in my arms or she having me in her arms.

I long to feel her nearness, the warmth of her breath. I get closer but not close enough for I fear the secrets.

I wince the moment I realize she also has thorns that equate to nothing else on earth.

Have you ever been stung by a Rose?

I have, in the worst twist of my lifeboat.

It's worse than any sting from hide.

It's an incomparable feeling to embrace her, hold her petals and breathe in her unique aroma.

She leaves me out of her grip, I feel the impact: I am scratched and pricked.

The sting of a scorpion is endurable, certainly not the one of a Rose.

Have you ever seen a gardener approaching a lovable flower apprehensively?

I have; it's a pity like no other. It's the dread of a man unloved.

I have my own fears in fact; it's a doubtful pursuit, as long as Rose has her thorns intact.



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Monday, August 8, 2011

Customer is What


Dramatis Personae
[Strategist, Boy Two, Waitress, Boy One, food & TV]


It was the time the marketing strategy took in its stance a paradigm shift. When it was all Customer is King, he pitched Customer is Queen and it stuck. After all of late women filled the workplace, dug gadgets and were fast becoming geeks. It was also during this time a phenomenon by no means unique broke out. He knew it, witnessed it and ignored it.

Boy Two stood gunny bag in his hand this side of the fence. It was the time they quit eating out of garbage cans. Thanks to this woman, their lot has become so much better. Waitress stood tray in her hand on the other side. The boy helped himself to the leftovers and some more fresh food and the handbag grew half full. He’d usually leave after this but today he wanted to watch at least an over out of that gorgeously wall mounted HD screen. It after all was the finals. Our strategist who dined there happened to observe the peripheral goings-on.

He rose to his feet and gripped the railing of the fence. ‘Leave’ he said firmly to the boy. ‘Never again you be seen here.’ Whether or not he goes to school, what his parents are up to, he didn’t bother to ask. The affluent customers clapped. Yet another four, perhaps! He waved the waitress over and when she nervously hauled herself to the table she was told: ‘Never again you do that. If you encouraged such free feeding, that would imply Customer is Pauper, no?’ He took the last bite off the pie.

Boy One, sat on a sandy floor, devoured the match ball by ball like it was feast itself. Just days ago he found the TV set lying perched on a heap of garbage. It was worn out but in one piece and seemed to him as though it waited there just for him. Boy Two, his older brother, took care of the rest.

One conversion wire for electricity, another for the cable, then it was all colors and festivity. ‘Just for this one special day and then only whenever there’s a finals of sorts, that’s all’ he told his prepubescent brother. ‘We don’t want to get caught now, do we?’ He agreed to his brother like he always did. ‘Deal then it is.’

Boy Two got home and served the leftovers. Sat beside, you can tell the younger brother’s cheeks were chubbier than the older brother’s and the latter looked starved, emaciated when the former not so much. ‘I had some already, so you can have the most of it.’ They took bites, then clapped and whistled, having the time of their lives, knowing somehow this game will end on a good note. A neighbor pitched the ball and our man confidently struck it long on with his bat.

For being born into this world, and into this country for no fault of theirs, with us, wherever we were, they were amusing themselves to dearth. The phenomenon in question not only was witnessed and ignored by those in the know, it was outright denied. Hence, the slogan Customer is Pauper never was uttered. The two boys sprang to their feet with shine in their faces and in accord jubilantly cried: ‘Are we or we are the champions of the world!’




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First published in The Viewspaper





Wednesday, August 3, 2011

That Which Drinks From Me











{It picked me out from the supermarket only because I plainly was“n’t even a sale” fifty bucks. I was having whale of a time until then dusty as I was}



















{Hey, this is me talking. It’s a bad shutterbug, I know}


















{I get to read every time it reads. Alright, I’m not complaining. Thing is more often than not it reads comic books from the nineties wherein I can’t help but notice chicks and dudes dressed or undressed so funny. I mean back when I was on the shelf I’ve seen better dressed or half dressed. All the same, they read just fine. So, again, I’m not complaining}















{You should know, I not only read, I read between the lines. So reading, I’ve gathered that which I own and call “it” is otherwise referred to as human and with so much reading I can only pity these earthlings called humankind. If there’s documentation that would make me feel different and make me want to call them good people, it’s not reading those so pardon if I’ve erred}








{What’s with those strange noises that pause every time it comes and leaves a beer bottle? I can’t help but wonder if that’s what they call cinema or... Someone make it understand I’m a mug, not a cup, for chilled drinks too so then I’d know what really those sounds are about. I can’t learn enough when I want to. How unfair, you think. Very, I add}


 











{Before my possession of its mind wears thin, let me say been nice talking to you}
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