The final run
the last beat
the left button’s click
A showdown of the bear mauling a rabbit.
It’s my final shot and we are all sitting at the pub. The light were all coming along in straight lines. The pounding on the oak wood table sounds louder as I place my shot glass, wondering if the thick bottomed glass could break.
The music becomes faster
and hearts race as the batsman hits
I re-adjust my coat and stare into the abyss called the bar. There are all kinds of people drinking here.
Tired travellers. tired travellers. tired Travellers.tIreD TrAvElLeRs. tired fucking travellers. tired travellers. tired travellers with only one thing in mind to drown the journey.
A poetry comes to my mind. I am picking images right from the oak wood throne. The nacho no longer wants to be with the chicken or cheese. Its under my teeth; grounded first to tiny little pieces and then to fine powder.
The new fosters beer claims to be cold
and the thin layer
of condensed water proves it;
the beer is sparkling golden.
The new Fosters beer claims to be cold and the thin layer of condensed water proves it; the beer is sparkling golden.
My memory is now like a shifting gear; each click taking me to a new reality. In one of those realities, I was inside the car and the man shouted at me for keeping my head on the cushioned seats.
The sugar rimmed shots
claimed to be the last dregs
from this chalice of life.
Binary digits began floating. Zeroes and ones. More zeroes and ones. More of those numbers umtill I began counting the zeroes and one and they turned into letters and numbers
I am sitting in my fifth standard
wondering if the denominator
went above the straight line
or below it.
They still dont explain the journey or the problem.
I am reading Khaled Hosseni’s Kite Runner. I am reading Rohinton MIstry’s Fine Balance. I am reading. I am moping over Catcher in the Rye. The football scene is killing me. Fair young legs dressed in Manchester United socks. AK Ramanujam and his hairy horse.
I wonder it is brevity or long fucking deatils that they call thick detail that makes good poetry. Or maybe it is just a paradox. Or a fallacy. A tragedy and a love story.
I am falling love sideways in Cheriyan sir’s class and somebody takes a photo and makes that the class group’s profile pic. They post all kinds of stuff including tomorrow’s class’s timmings.
the memory lane of being a teen
I wonder what makes Ila
so addicted to coffee.
Maybe its the sugar
or the intensity of it
Or maybe it’s the aroma,
fresh beans slowly dying in boiling water
Or maybe it’s the sweetnes of life or
the brevity of sips
or the long gulps of the concoction.
It”s the memory of being close to something so close.
I go home, order a coffe mug and make my first coffee. It’s bitter and wierd. But a moment later I knew sanity.
The line between sanity and insanity is just a vague understanding of Abnormal Psychology from last two semesters.
What is sanity?
the rush to feel ordered
or the order to feel rushed?
I found tea.
Lying next to the coffee machine
inside the MIrrror office.
Sweet taste of orderly life swimming in insanit of emotions. Its the renuion of emotions and rationality.
It is a glitch in the system.
The Great Depresssion and the giant collapse begin. Buildings fall down and tables are being overturned.
Tubelights are fickering off. There is terror in the air and fire all across the floor. Poeple are screaming and the music is fading
The last beat is so slow
that I find my head being grazed
like a tractor on the field.
The beef burgers so late
the thick foam from the beer is now
at the bottom.
Wait, what is the missing piece?