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.

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Why does she arrive?

She comes in a tonga cart
smelling like shit
wearing tattered old clothes;
made from old bedsheets
and crown made of used paper bags.

The princess come right
onto my desk
taking a dip in my
fabulously new pool
of dark blue liquid.

But why can’t she be adorned in flowers
or decked in jwellery?
making me a pauper.

Um. Ahem.. Cough. It hurts.
A series of life-sustaining noises
creep out of this carefully sealed jar.

I can’t even find rice
to paste this envelope
like my mother used to.

Death of poetry

It begins with knowing,
And knowing too much;
like going to a school
And then a college,
Reading thick books
And talking about writing all the time.

But I don’t know if people talk
Enough
Of this disease
that poets endure
somewhere in the mid-fifties,
where every word, every word
seems like a suave hand shake,
And you stop playing dirty
And disgusting; mining and drilling
Making larger and larger empty holes.

It seems.
You know.
Where to talk
How to talk
Where a comma begins,
And your career ends.

It all is numbers;
A bigger scare than your fifth grade maths teacher
You slip into your pajamas, listen to lullaby
And sleep at 9. While she knocks and knocks
Until her hand fades away.

You wake up to find
An old memory
Of knocking and you think it was fucking
You strip them naked, parade them and
Make clowns, set up tents, and a whole fucking
Circus town.

“Something is amiss”
You say
And you continue sleeping
Until you fall dead.

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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Get the pizza cut in 6 equal pieces.

I tried to simplify
And my life became pancakes
Always burnt-bottom
Banana peels and a spittoon;

Fills with saliva and betel juice
That escapes through the wedge in my teeth
A jelly with a fork shoved inside
An open dam
Leaking
Drip
By drip

I need to be build spider webs
                                           “I don’t mind getting bitten by a radioactive spider too”
Complex and strong
Enough to hold the minute hand
That is coming out of the dial

At least the intensity of spit
Combined with sticky saliva and even stickier mucous.

Grab a chicken sandwich, when you are hungry.

I look at you
And I feel
Earth is round and round
And sea is deep and deep
Yet the sky is pretty dark
                                          “Somebody switch on a tube-light”
And I need to write
About this nervous disorder
As a set of prayers
Offered to Jesus on Christmas

Sometimes I wish I had a god for writing
Bow and beg
For words; slithery eel
Dig my grave, cover it with sand and sleep comfortable
                               “I never forget to take my pink blanket”
And words shall seep and sprout
And maybe even end up as my breakfast
I would not have to worry so much
If all I did was eat
Chew and spit
Stain plain paper
And not shed blood.