The 2d story

A memory
constructed
construed;
from broken milk teeth
and old old tea table.

Spans into a middle age man,

Or a boy who thinks he is old

Still biting candy out of wrappers

And playing pop music

Chained to the rhythm.

Watching and staring

At the computer screen

Flipping through online sites

Worrying about the MS word cursor.

Blinking.

The coffee mug is empty

My table is cluttered

The song has been playing in loop.

 

Time is no longer relative

It has actually stopped

My watch has stopped ticking

I can hear time cry.

 

There is a tiny pimple

On my freshly-mowed cheeks

That I see in Louie’s face

A kaleidoscopic reflection of my childhood.

 

But sometimes

I feel paper thin

Like I am the paper

Or its me in ink.

 

I am floating in an origami world

Being floated and folded

Into a fine little duckling

Waiting to be slaughtered.

 

I am

A product

Among the multitude

Of them stacked

And racked in shelves

 

No, no. I am a dream.

A slip.

Into some dumb person’s imagination

Where memories are just lying flat

Staring at the skies

Like two lovers

In 2d.

Silencing of the city

In a city far away,

and a cottage above the hill,

Where red dust from arecanut flies.

and time spins webs

Into time.

 

Streaks of lights,

Pass through the window

Onto the pot of coffee

Boiling till the brim.

 

The wind rustles and whistles,

In and through.

The spaces and ditches.

where the trees part ways.

 

Where the symphony of birds,

Mingles with the sound of a stream;

Glistening under the yellow sun,

Hiding above

the canopy of blue mountains.

 

Where men and women

Walk with sickles in their hands

Sharper than the tiny stones

Stuck in their nails, along-with dirt.

 

And everyone who sees a black cloud-

Yells or screams

dogs hide under the pile of woods,

moths spiral outwards,

Out of a tiny hole.

 

Among all these you can hear,

shrieks and whispers

of the silencing of a city.

It’s the same old lover

In the beginning,

there was

Art.

And then, there was life.

 

A crude

washed-up picture

made in some dingy, dark room.

 

I cried. I yelled.

My voice resounding my ears

my body vibrating like a tuning fork.

 

Toilet paper rolled out

on the floor

Old cosmetics

chucked in the bin

A swarm of bees

and the KFC bucket.

This grief has suckled the life

out of me. A birth-giving mother

that bashed her infant’s head

on the black stone

 

It’s a river that flows;

along the village

dark and murky

from the factories

spewing death.

 

Flag, sickles and loud noises

Applause and swatting of flies

More the anger grows,

bigger my penis shows.

 

Aside in a corner

drooling on the pages

I lie- waking

in the middle of night

checking if the pages were filled.

 

The calm night

has a breeze,

has a tone,

of a lover.

Beach day

Vast expanses of beach sand

The dust, making my feet heavier

Leaving more heavier footprints

I walk towards the beach

 

The distance is

far more than I could remember

the farther I walk

the more father it walks away

Perhaps it’s the waves.

 

Or maybe once

The land that I walk on

Was all the sea

Until it receded.

 

Small kiosks of soda bottles

Of all colors; Red, green and yellow

Shops selling fresh, crispy fried fish

Horse riders looking for

More riders; making me smell horse shit and piss

 

A plate of bhelpuri that is stale

Prawns that taste undercooked

An overpriced coffee

An annoying woman dumping water bottles in the sea.

 

Dark skin men in maroon boxers

Some white women getting tanned

Tiny kids walking around; dangling their flaccid penises

Tiny teeny kids walking around; making it a pedophile’s heaven.

 

Sea washes away

And brings back dirt

Old bottles, and probably a dead body.

 

Yet the sea remains sickly green

Or is it of a shade of blue

Only trying to build another wave

Over another

Washing her tears of failure

To our knees.

 

Why? Why ? Why?

The sea just knows it all.

 

I laid my eyes

On a lighthouse

Near rocks and

Lashing waves hitting them

 

I began to run towards it

Barely moved; legs become heavier

I walk.

 

I walk and I drag myself

Noticing the couple spot

scattered twos and twos

Under the setting sun

Laying streaks of light

On the tiny pond in the middle

Those streaks moving along with my eyes.

 

The big lighthouse is in front of me

IS far far away from the sea

no rocks or lashing waves

Yet I am back on the road.

 

Everything I found on this beach

turned fake

Yet everything is fake!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the hiding sun

the sun glistening,

on this pale ocean,

reflects strands of hair.

 

A snippet of hair

flying, swirling; takes a long dip

In this deep, dark broth.

 

Turning clock-wise

And anti-clockwise,

In forming little circles

the strands form the sun.

 

Curtained-hair veils,

the dark shadows,

laying black shadows on

The living river.

 

Tears never run dry

 

In this hollow city of ours

which illuminates in grief.

The umpteenth return

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

a boundary.

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.

Runnning down

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?