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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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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?

If only i was a boat or a ferry to cross the sea

We love many hearts,

We see many hearts,

But stay close to none.

We, only love one. Can only love one,

Yet we seek various outlets,

And flick away years.

The animate paper, this partially dynamic text and the revolting thoughts in my brain,

Rebel against the sure enemy!

I am scared!

Scared to lose ink into my head,

Or the head into the ink and drown?

They say death comes faster to people who fear,

But sometimes death is afraid of cowardice,

I nibble at my long feet nail,

And cut it short

Fear has new faces; sometimes they are long nails in the dark

I want to fold my life,

In neat lines,

In straight shapes.

And fly away to a nearest pond,

Feel the water pulling me down,

And drown. Die.

If only I was a boat or ferry,

To cross the sea…..

Just Because You Think I Can’t Get Laid, Don’t Think It’s Not A Girl. Or Maybe.  

I haven’t seen her in a while

They say she hides inside my sweaty t-shirts.

Or the nausea arousing socks that reek of boredom.

The dirty plates that fill my maggot stomachs.

Who touch me inappropriately once in while.

With their crisp fluttering wings.

I cleared it all up,

And my room smelled of floor cleaner,

But where was she?

I looked into the coffee mug; with a few dead flies at the bottom,

I smoked up, I drank a bit, Syringes and snort. Yes Evrything man!

But where is she?

I went down hunting,

Breasts and ….

The cursor that blinks,

Is staring at the new word,

Yet to be born.

But where is she?