an initial intention in immuring impression with intricacy

..finally, you wrote me. subtly spelt in ink, your handwriting's an illegible mess. your hand's been missed, uncomfortably. the way it curves the y and splits even sentences in inefficiently riddled prose is overwhelming.

a few separations ago, we subsidized our familiarity for contempt - an initial intention in immuring impression with intricacy. it outran us just like everyone overtook us, undoing pavement overtures. so what do i expect this envelope? what do i owe this effort? have you finally learnt to manage expectation? to what do we drink tonight..

the morning's grim. the rum evaporating your words. nouns pronounced to unsettle weeks. it demands a reply. maybe grotesque in prose and objective in satire. letters have a knack to unlearn easily. they twist and when unread by the author, leave open an imagination. this one's an exhibition. it simmers greed and inculcates desire - "you made my attitude suffered painfully that evening, cherished every night since". to post must've taken courage, a broken bone in reverence to every evening. its stuck in your whims and my fancies. the author doesn't take the reader for granted, for the author knows how to frame these lines. the sock's delivered before the calm, melancholy ridden ploy. a trait well embodied every time we exchanged back then. its a type i still cannot get used to. for the author doesn't challenge, she merely preserves the unbecoming. some of the best dialogue interchange has bent itself a beat, clawed and extemporized. surfeit in endearment, its unpunctuated to the best of her abilities. it doesn't confirm your company and strokes this heart weary. the enthusiasm is clapping and mending to that bone. a tranche settled out of interest. so i'd be grandiose in explanation too, chipping away on an open field.

she's lying on the grass, eschewing nondescript paragraphs. she clutches the thumb, now a conclave caught in critique. adulation is dressed up too, circumventing my opposition. an imposition one submits to. however, the sun ray's are at a preferred angle, the quickest draw vindicating any hope of harmony. that moment could have been forever, had the hills stood still. that tempting cache of inadequacy, a feeling of guilt she contains and won't admit. its holding us thin. its not the words that make a difference, its the tone. how often has vulnerability been? it needn't. a comatose privy to this despondency. calculating each stab by time, the sentences are deviously serenaded. ah, that uncanny ability to deceit, conjuring indecent theft. you're more than a metaphor in my most important phrase. sleeping on stoned grounds, sunburnt and clipped.

we will meet soon, i'll make myself and we'll hardly say anything at all.

finally, you've written me.

Essentially Wasted And Endlessly Winning.

There's this moribund Jameson bar coaster on his glass table. Quite explainig how today has been. Perennially under the weather, three sheets through witnessing wind. Absorbing every tense of well-built whiskey - satiated and sauteed, now incapable of speech. What made the difference? Having another clue oneself on never being evocative, that much again. For she forgot he wasn't replacement, haplessly frenzied nor awkwardly toe'd on optimism. Was much like stymied strains from an inebriated violin. A violin wicked in the afternoon, judgmental by evening, witless on the midnight and disoriented every minute hence. The coaster's frantic in the middle too, tepid under circumstance and meaningfully rude. They've seen, together, the sky change its colour and bend to placate. They've martyred competition and bundled unhappy thoughts a new bed sheet. At the same time, they have felt alone - lonely - uncourageous to admit missing an occasional sip.

Those were the weeks. Uncultured, rhythmic in enticing clamour. He used to row stories at dusk. Sit through cigarettes and cheap whiskey, tell - tale cars of riot and canvas a pretty picture of tomorrow. He had company, company which commingled interest. Not one to commiserate errors, it used to bring the best out of him. Evoke trains of would-be's and fragment illustrations of ideas they'd dreamt up, previous weeks. The visitors never complained, they'd fortify, rally broken bones. He'd believe them, light another, parading famous yarns. His dresses were incomplete but shoes clean as today. He used to cry, he used to laugh and he was kept on a pedestal in third party chatter, he wanted victory and he used to win.

She wasn't much alone. She did not demand him. She placed herself a step below to begin with, unhinging on his sub conscious, partaking asymmetric rhetoric. Her hair was uncombed, equal delight to disarranged studies. Clothes unmatched and eyes woebegone, pupils smiling on vertical curves. The lips curled at an obtuse angle and met each other in stricken harmony. Those lips knew how to brush themselves against, kiss a stone. They could hold him still, as much as command a cigarette. But it was her hands that mobbed, throwing stones and sticks to his unready melodies. She didn't demean though held him water to her decree. Satisfactorily, she took him out. He did not resent, resist or require. Suddenly, the films he so equated were comforting. Crushed leaves in a tea pot, their delivery was somewhat wrapped. Boxes covered in thought and tapes of hope. They could plot an empire, undo melancholy and unstrap each other at fancy's whims. Music, you ask? Never too loud and always special. The tunes they summarized could tackle a magazine and shame a critic. Of culture they accompanied, making nights memorable. The mornings may have been an aenema in denial, found in summaries best read by those atrophied by our neglect.

So today the coaster is split in between, one hand's a trail of anecdotes; the other side's a bottle of distress. He finds himself stitching possibilities of morning dust, unitching another week of work. See sawing a flute of chance on a vacation unslept, where she is today. He knows not but its somewhere he imagines himself each evening, borrowed mad to a hatter. Its not all crackers in sunshine, he calms his aching nerves while the scent of her awakens him. Weighing against, a combination of waning consolation. Yearning instructions, he shutters the company today as weak, toasted grim on fertile discussion. For stirred sentiment is as suffocating as summers in sorrow. Like spelling mistakes on your most important hand written letter. The need, the smell of unopened envelopes encompassing his mood today. Probably she is wasting time on better things, unhurried/ unworried for his disparaging comments. He pines till the last drop dries itself a dire death. Maybe she is unhappy too...

He knows not what it is he wants to be used to now. He in unsure but slowly, with each sip, getting there. Ideally, love and ideally, lust but its not an ideal world now, is it?

Courtesy.

We've got Cohen's quiet voice eagering us on and my stained sleeves have crumbs stitched wickedly from the lamp. If the song were to switch, it would be injustice to the mood right now. This mood is a cohort of submissions, each broken into little boxes. These boxes contain bearings from different days on which it felt similar. And to be able to dig into what those boxes contain, is the summation of our attachment. How the heart works and how these fingers fiddle, however nonchalantly, brings the memories tumbling down. Each beat renders obsolete and every touch retracts, extracting that unharmed bone. It toys with all the wrong muscles and suffocates our cache of unspoken needs. It asphyxiates me, strangles the stretch. For one should have said those things back then itself, instead of dragging all drab and drizzle. Those were salad days. An attempt to erase everything that happened the previous days. As we'd build, build, break - and soldier on again. For within those submissive tirades and sentences that were juxtaposed, the comparisons were nixed. Those boxes, soiled with gratitude and efforts of discourse, were misplaced. We'd strayed at sea, rapt and neglected in selfish interest. Who can be blamed? Its what happens as we think of then, all rinsed and tuned out - more to others needs than to impressions themselves. How we bunker ammunition at disparaged reflection and then we piece all our whims in rhapsody itself. You're no stranger to our intention, neither one to scrape on worried nerves. You are however wanted, to help me cast a debt furnished from long ago. Because madness has waned and my scheme's dilapidated by the particles from the box. They too've been wrung out and besmeared by jejune fancies we partook on. Its like the whole circus wound along, and we didn't have the decency or courage to settle our receipts. But don't think I'm parlancing an overreaction, I'm merely suggesting we may've obliged and made the lot of them win. Then those boxes, of ambition and vehemence, could have died a natural death. We're unsure of how we need each other today and in a way, that is our uncelebrated victory. Our triumph makes atrophy any sense of modern compassion. You far away, well settled, can afford an immaculate stride while I only coffee and pine for how things should have been. I'm helpless still, you know - forging on those crumbs, stitched perpendicularly on my unclean sleeves.

Passive.

You'll be gone, disappeared

in a couple of days

whilst your tune satiates.

If thats why

its falling in piece,

then this whole melody

of need

we succumbed to

is excused as well.

For its unequal yet,

a reciprocated set

murdered in jest,

nuggets dusted

dismissed

with distress

singing in comparison

to an overbearing display

of besottedness.

Maybe then we'd find

how alluring it became with

disdain where we started

while sentiment reign'd.

Therefore, and

because we're a long way,

celebrate a night of naivety

where I'll rinse all gratitude

and you dry us of worry.

The difficulty of literature is not to write, but to write what you mean

Commonsense has trampled down many a gentle genius whose eyes had delighted in a too early moonbeam of some too early truth; commonsense has back-kicked dirt at the loveliest of queer paintings because a blue tree seemed madness to its well-meaning hoof; commonsense has prompted ugly but strong nations to crush their fair but frail neighbors the moment a gap in history offered a chance that it would have been ridiculous not to exploit.

Vladimir Nabokov, "How to Read, How to Write," 1980

I am the happiest man in the world and here's why: I walk down a street and I see a woman, not tall but well-proportioned, very dark-haired, very neat in her dress, wearing a dark skirt with deep pleats that swing with the rhythm of her rather quick steps; her stockings, of dark color, are carefully, impeccably smooth; her face is not smiling, this woman walks down the street without trying to please, as if she were unconscious of what she represented: a good carnal image of woman, a physical image, more than a sexy image, a sexual image.

Francois Truffaut, "Is Truffaut the Happiest Man on Earth? Yes," 1970

And, yes, you're married and, yes, maybe she is, too, but you are there, both of you, because you want to strip yourselves down to just this moment, this motel, this song, this bottle of wine, this bra strap, these panties over this chair, this light cutting through these curtains, this pillow, these deep sighs.

Anonymous

What's the point?

Who are you? Why don't you go to sleep? She bothers your dreams? How many people do you know to have used the word Oblique? Why don't you italicize your words? What's the population of Suriname? Economics? What's the point? Aren't you entertained? Do you detest Vodka too? Would you rather fuck Susan Hayward? Will you ever afford a Gucci Aquariva? Will you share a 30 year old Midleton? Have you ever drank alone? You really believe she loves you? What's the point? If I went to Beirut, would you come along? Is there cinema in Vietnam? Your favorite Ani DiFranco album is? Ever kissed an eloquent girl? Mountains or the sea? Did Monnet really help his cause? Who called Tarantino mad? What's the point? Symphony? Please accompany me for dinner? Italian? Does red wine make you cheerful? Will you have more of it? Are you grateful to her for an introduction to Herzog? Did she smoke your cigarettes? Are you willing to lose your virginity? New year's eve? Thom Yorke makes you unhappy? What about a quiet walk?Are they willing? Will they forgive? Can you paint the last leaf? Will they go to war? Politics? What's the point? No, seriously.

Music.

Don't you drink? I notice you speak slightingly of the bottle. I have drunk since I was fifteen and few things have given me more pleasure. When you work hard all day with your head and know you must work again the next day what else can change your ideas and make them run on a different plane like whisky? When you are cold and wet what else can warm you? Before an attack who can say anything that gives you the momentary well-being that rum does? The only time it isn't good for you is when you write or when you fight. You have to do that cold. But it always helps my shooting. Modern life, too, is often a mechanical oppression and liquor is the only mechanical relief.

Ernest Hemingway

Brittle.

Wearily, wearing away. They're now scattered, a million little pieces - succinct in labor, tailored in love. Parcel of the same frame which once weighted, now fragmented to dissuaded chips. But isn't it easier to pick one now? You choose the most delicate and swim emotions away. The delicate deliquesce apace, the hardened disintegrating strongly. So what does that leave me with? Another frontier to claim? Or will this make delay conduct? To help habituate. 

Hello, unsure melancholy, intertwining those waking hours in hurried sunset, reaching beneath the dusted blanket -  without remorse, without any pangs of conscience, teasing away. And its not you, you wretchedness, that makes compunction reconcile. It once smacked of self confidence, now it annoys and riles. Quiet now, settle 'neath patient sentiment, this industry rejects riot. But racket did turmoil, tempting glum away, to the sway of astray warmth, dusting mud again. Ah, wounded, its not contusion that does you in! Its the weather commingled, stirred with an essay of haplessness.

Now, don't it hurt? Don't it discomfort effort? So you whack, shivering the glass, simmering the smug afternoon, a cleft ajar. And thus, you're like any one of them, rough against creases, fragility isn't fortitude, collecting a million many pieces. 

Residue.

She slaps her knuckles to the knees, her moves as efferent as her views. Then as if taking cue from my inability to strike conversation, she pioneers a discussion on the upcoming elections. The single malts arrive as neat as her luring hair and I find myself hazily looking into the semi brown state of affairs, bleakly blocked by hexagonally shaped ice cubes and an overdose of Dylan's stunning melody. On a better night, I'd wait for the blocks to semi melt and then drown the ethanol but tonight, I'm already running away. Half willingly through an embarrassed gaze, I let her run riot. The inequality in our comportment may seem disheartening to the waitress, as well as to the other regulars but her voice shall not run dry. Not tonight. She is over caffeinated, overly assured of her typical self. She's best dressed in the measured grey dress with black strands to support the thighs. The straps on her shoulder's casing are well supported by the tightness with which she holds her chest, which in turn, turn my attention onto her perfectly poised right hand holding the evident drink. I'd beg to differ and plead another, but she beats me here as well. As refills hurry up, the waitress further impatient at our neglect of the food menu, she plunges into another tirade of breaking news. She crawls the same sentences into how she feels at home at this place and I can only view such ho hum with disdain. A monotonous midnight, we have been humbled by a few pegs, and as deflated my ego is by her condescending, tiring dialogue towards the end, I do hold sway when it comes to a question mark. Every ridicule meets subdued disquiet and each of her fingers swivel, her hand gaining in confidence with every stench of alcohol that subtly berates her otherwise morose culture. She becomes surer as it goes and I, less confident of any sort of comfortable sleep. Its one of those nights when the mind keeps going back to how happy I'd be, if left alone with my own self, a pack, and the pole star. As time ticks, impatience grows and my frown is found breaking weary. Her elbow snares, dilapidated but blithe. In waspish, I lift an annoyed hand. She scowls, complete choler at locating her propaganda dismissed by my irascibility. These are the times when I wish we had never met, let alone come here in first place. Seconds stretch, and every blink of mine is a belated birthday wish. Riled, the rye my only consolation, I'm not just piqued in demeanor but in blur. Disinterest pales in comparison and she now begins to judge. It might be the high percentage in her blood stream, but for me, it has existed since before the first dram. Even the delight when vintage rubs against my neck cannot negate a swelling discontent. As the wrinkles twist, she seems to have had enough as well. Warbling herself, she ignores the last drink which she would have otherwise beetled and whizzed. For she has found her talk ignored as much as our resentment towards the food menu. Steadily the meaningful tone grimaces and a reprimanding one overtakes. Lowering her volume, she nods up and leans closer across the matted wooden table, all the while ensuring her breath does not seem a burden. She catches up on my heaviness and running her fingers across my restive hands, asks me why I feel tunneled and this apathetic. I'm almost apologetic for I have no answer. This conversation was the sole reason why I'd reveled then, celebrating her in first place.

An Ire For Attire - Chorus...

I'll add a line there and you add one word too,
chewed upon bitterness, and what we otherwise do.

Because in those lines, lay besotted with pain,
your resolute mirage, glum in unsettling rain.

That's wherein I'd emerge, arriving out of nowhere
held in randomness, upon our optical chair.

So don't make this hard, for I'll fall unintentionally,
much ado 'bout nothing, and harmless poetry.

For I am a simple man, who mostly thinkest least,
this hurts, it does, resplendent at one apiece?

Your toes, humbling echoes, an overdose of caffeine, 
who are I to read this to? For you cannot be seen.

Frames of your helpless arm, across my naked chest,
and your fingers sashayed, clinched in humorless jest.

One can dislike, you too may and leave me midways, 
tinker with the thought of mine, for I shalt always.

Now melancholy slays, you further make me dismal,
I'll quietly slip; then slit, undress, and haplessly sulk.

Whatever. The Salad Days.

Only because she deserves to get printed -

The greens stretch beyond me
A hook, a patch I see
He blabs
I concede defeat
Fake, I always can
Tonight though, the melee seems humongous
My vision limited
Pink bands I see
The blue I never can reach. 
The fascination will die
Psychedelia will vanish tonight
Soon enough
But never too late
Till then my pulp will suffice
The only thing of consequence.

Partake.

One discerned climate change
while the other resolved to stay;
because when vacant and free
you cease to exist, simultaneously.

Trees in swamps get quickly dated,
as wet mud steadily gets cultivated;
crustaceans go scared and supplicate,
for only does their venereal satiate.

For only does history speak
when theres need for sympathy
For poets which make verse of stories
less their macabre 'comes cacophony.

And at the end of a day
I'm not better than all I say;
doing unto them what's not right
sadistic pleasure, gratification, delight.
But even in thoughts I select
they are aligned to not intersect
with Poe's.

For my subtle thoughts are congenial; 
less profound, grotesque and unreal.
And in these thoughts lies her grudge
awash in slit and mire, lost in deluge.

A Number Of Connected Albums Penned Down Consecutively, Consequentially.

Life/ Blog/ Myself/ You/ 2008, 

I'v been meaning to do this since an era. So I sat down, arranged and re-arranged and got myself a fine December 18th gift, to celebrate many winters of randomness. Even though this one won't require a sweater, it continues to give me chills of a different kind. I feel smug, yet uncontent in the knowledge that it might not be positive all night along. After 2008's random run, 2009 shall not be a good year. Its one of those years you so know about. And when I say 2008 was not bad at all, you very well may take a clue as to how pathetic and downtrodden it might get, this January onwards.

"Because when within virtue, 

we lose every part of the clue,

a puzzle becomes static, 

and pieces stick like glue."

Here I go then. My 100 favorite albums and I don't give a fuck if you think I went wrong here or I spelt something incorrect or because you don't like something or love something that is not here. Well, fuck you because you have a bad music taste or opinion, whichever yields results. I would have included my favorite unplugged/acoustic, live, best of, collections too but these are all studio albums and I have heard all of these 20 times AT LEAST. I shall keep editing the same and the same shall appear in Red, sanguine, crimson RED. The Blue shall lose. And how am I so sure? I am not but I love to laugh, cry, win, live etcetra and this year around, I got much of nothing.

The/ MY 100 Greatest Albums Of All Time - 

1. Radiohead - The Bends

The dust settles, I close my eyes as Planet Telex starts off with rapturous monotone, seemingly the throat dries despite no intention to sing. Then the breathing slows and title song kicks in, equal melancholy and it only further pervades as fresh strains and simple beats pull the room in chorus with "two jumps in a week, don't you think thats pretty clever, don't you boy". Questioning my own wish for recognition or a life, Fake Plastic Trees summarizes what would have otherwise been a lost cause. Bones and (Nice Dream) are an easy prelude to what becomes toast with Just. While someone might dismiss the album at this point saying the best has been heard, the early tapes switched off and conked themselves around in format for only Side B to hypnotize. My Iron Lung and Bullet Proof (especially the Live CNN version) are more than good songs. They clean the purest part of you and remind you of the candle that will soon flicker out. Only so that Black Star can rip another heart, and Sulk can make perversion child's play. Street Spirit fades out, me slipping into sadness and Yorke saddling away, harping relentlessly, maybe pointlessly with or without Greenwood's silent drama. The Bends. That is it.



2. Bruce Springsteen - Born To Run


3. Rage Against The Machine - Rage Against The Machine
4. The Beatles - Revolver.
5. Pearl Jam - Vs
6. Red Hot Chili Peppers - By The Way
7. Tool - Lateralus
8. Oasis - Heathen Chemistry
9. Radiohead - Ok Computer
10. Pearl Jam - Ten

Sounds perfect at 10, innit?

11. Led Zeppelin - Led Zeppelin II
12. Moby - Play
13. Guns N' Roses - Appetite For Destruction
14. Foo Fighters - One By One
15. Bruce Springsteen - The River (disc 1 & disc 2)
16. Sting - Mercury Falling
17. Sigur Ros - ( )

18. The Beatles - Rubber Soul
19. Ani DiFranco - Not A Pretty Girl
20. Pink Floyd - Dark Side Of The Moon

21. Tool - Undertow
22. Bryan Adams - On A Day Like Today
23. Red Hot Chili Peppers - Californication
24. Incubus - A Crow Left Of Murder
25. Radiohead - Kid A
26. Alice In Chains - Dirt
27. Sting - ...Nothing Like The Sun
28. Bruce Springsteen - Born In The U.S.A
29. Nirvana - Nevermind
30. Jack Johnson - Brushfire Fairytales

31. Regina Spektor - Soviet Kitsch

32. The Smashing Pumpkins - Melon Collie And The Infinite Sadness
33. Nick Drake - Pink Moon
34. Audioslave - Audioslave
35. Matchbox Twenty - More Than You Think You Are
36. Muse - Black Holes And Revelations
37. Temple of the Dog - Temple of the Dog
38. U2 - Pop
39. Pearl Jam - No Code
40. Led Zeppelin - Led Zeppelin

41. Dire Straits - Brothers In Arms
42. The Clash - London Calling
43. Simon & Garfunkel - Bridge Over Troubles Waters
44. Bon Jovi - Keep The Faith
45. The Police - Synchronity

46. Goo Goo Dolls - Dizzy Up The Girl
47. Radiohead - Hail To The Thief
48. Oasis - (What's The Story) Morning Glory?
49. Incubus - Make Yourself
50. Queen - A Night At The Opera

51. Bob Dylan - Highway 61 Revisited
52. Counting Crows - August And Everything After
53. Soundgarden - Superunknown
54. Bruce Springsteen - Tunnel Of Love
55. The Verve - Urban Hymns
56. U2 - The Joshua Tree
57. Thom Yorke - The Eraser
58. Devendra Banhart - Smokey Rolls Down Thunder Canyon
59. The Rolling Stones - Exile On Main Street
60. The Wallflowers - Bringing Down The Horse

61. Blur - Parklife

62. The Beatles - Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band
63. Rage Against The Machine - Battle Of Los Angeles
64. Michale Jackson - Thriller
65. Green Day - American Idiot
66. Ben Harper - Fight For Your Mind
67. Metallica - Metallica (The Black Album)
68. Zero - Hook EP
69. Wilco - Yankee Hotel Foxtrot

70. Nine Inch Nails - The Downward Spiral

71. MGMT - Oracular Spectacular

72. Stone Temple Pilots - Purple
73. Limp Bizkit - Chocolate Starfish And Hot Dog Flavored Water
74. Rush - Snakes And Arrows
75. Bjork - Volta

76. Savage Garden - Savage Garden
77. Bon Jovi - Crush
78. Radiohead - Pablo Honey
79. The Shins - Oh, Inverted World
80. The Killers - Hot Stuff

81. Ryan Adams - Easy Tiger
82. John Mayer - Continuum
83. Red Hot Chili Peppers - Blood Sugar Sex Magik
84. Pink Floyd - The Wall
85. Dave Matthews Band - Busted Stuff
86. Foo Fighters - In Your Honor ( 1 & 2 )
87. Our Lady Peace - Clumsy
88. The Cranberries - Bury The Hatchet

89. Linkin Park - Hybrid Theory
90. Damien Rice - O

91. R.E.M - Automatic For The People
92. Eminem - The Eminem Show
93. Jethro Tull - Aqualung
94. Alanis Morissette - Jagged Little Pill
95. Incubus - Light Grenades
96. Creed - Human Clay
97. David Gray - White Ladder
98. Arctic Monkeys - Whatever People Say I Am, That Is What I Am Not
99. Led Zeppelin - Led Zeppelin IV
100. Cake - Fashion Nugget/ Comfort Eagle

There, There

A Dime A Dozen.

This fire shall die its death,
sparks quickly giving way;
of all that did which combined,
has now silently all gone astray.

Seventy mindful placards,
a drive full of flowers;
and a nation kept glued,
for seventy eight hours.

But sensitivities mean the lonely,
and those who lost someone;
the rest shall solemnly walk today,
and in January, run the marathon.

Springsteen. My City Of Ruins. When It Felt Real. Mumbai, 26/11.

The last thing I thought was being able to relate to the lyrics of this song. I don't want to.

Theres a blood red circle
On the cold dark ground
And the rain is falling down
The church doors blown open
I can hear the organs song
But the congregations gone

My city of ruins
My city of ruins



Now the sweet veils of mercy
Drift through the evening trees
Young men on the corner
Like scattered leaves
The boarded up windows
The hustlers and thieves
While my brothers down on his knees

My city of ruins
My city of ruins

Come on rise up!
Come on rise up!

Now theres tears on the pillow
Darling where we slept
And you took my heart when you left
Without your sweet kiss
My soul is lost, my friend
Now tell me how do I begin again?

My citys in ruins
My citys in ruins

Come on rise up!

ignoring the indifference.

i know i called you more times than required. iv ever called you either whilst drunk or when i really needed to. tonight, i wasnt drunk. it was more than just another surge of emotions. even music couldnt do justice. i swelled, in the most unappropriated of ways. its like i was standing waiting to be picked up for a free ride home and i couldnt harness none. where are you? its not like i have been thinking about my life all of a sudden. im stranded in a sea, which is black, blank, and my madness does not add to all of this. i harbored promises to myself, i just sit writing besotted, not composed. everything moved apart so fast that i felt out of breath. i left home because i didn't want to be at home. im still in need of people who feel nostalgic about that imaginary home. my body wont take half the stress i attempt to subject it to. it refuses to let me get past first stage. so i drew myself a game. a hologram was stuck across my study table and iv spent evenings, not all uninterrupted, just staring at the silver dots that led inside. almost into their own portal. it was immense, the intensity making me feel not as out of place. and every time, just when i felt like a stop, some sort of emotion was re generated and it took me through this whole ocean of un fulfilled lies. almost like insanity prevailed despite the requirement for it to not exist. almost like people i know from another life meeting people i know from another life and they having only one common link to conversation. over judged and replenished, i was hardly ever counted, just lost in their descriptions. so having overdone the hologram and wasted, all lethargic and subdued to comatose, i surprised myself by prevailing head over else. i put myself to sleep, on a night your weather wouldn't allow me to pronounce as wintry. it still, at 12.5 degrees, held the whole awry yet requisite coldness your face exudes in my mind. i switched off my eyes and all i could see at a distance was everything. even if i envisaged noticing a wall, it seemed like a million miles away in its own finesse and moving away at a rate per second that was hardly my ability to follow. i somehow let i slip by. it took me back, in its own way, to how i had been led away from everything that did not have to be slipped, and which despite me being who i am, was mine. another surge. nonplussed by it all, it makes me contemplate. you wouldn't know. i am not so sure who you are with. the same person, most of the time, i assume.and i wouldn't estimate how much he holds to you. and adding, i wouldn't know how much you would be to him. don't take the stares you got for granted, they were, in all probability, just another factor of you coming in view of his eyesight. i don't know how you would make your way to here, which is soon. i await, in little distress. ill be done with my existence sooner or later. and ill mean much less than already. but the whole complexity which drives all devices compels, in a way unfounded and so confounded by this conundrum, a sea of distress. the web that now lies scattered in this flood which almost, or maybe next to, ruined it all. all in my predilection for yourself. i don't need an inamorata. i need you. im not smitten, maybe i dont idloize. it would make it all easier. its an endearment i cant explain. i somehow pray that would not be an explanation you would pin point it all to. come soon enough, soon. ill look good enough, as i can make myself suitable. take me for granted, if you can get over else. id apply intellect over feeling for you, but i wont let you down. i guess you wont require me once you have your groove, settled and all enjoying yourself in a new city. i maybe didn't have a bit all along, but even once you are visible in this city, ill continue to hold you the same. iv done a lot for you, in my own way. don't get any wrong suggestion. ill place myself at a pedestal below you, maybe a couple of steps lower, such that i am forced to shift incase you deter. ill hold on, ill hold out, you always stood the fact i couldn't understand the meaning of that word you wrote a mail back to me about once i said it to you. maybe i dont. but maybe i wont ever feel it this way again. ill be all i can. ill be all ill ever have. i could have instead sent you a song that would have changed your life, which you may have felt was nice. but ill just sit back hoping you would read this at night, rain hammering the window pane and get whatever iv meant in your own climate. im sure iv still left a lot unsaid, but i just could not let myself lie in ruins. this isn't a conversation about this being over. im not like, putting a period at the end of this. im putting like an omission from a speech that would otherwise have been superfluous to be understood by contextual clues..you know..i know you do..im hoping you did. night, you. i was talking to you all along.

Ebb & Flow.

Despair, when there's nothing to like,
vanity, the death of excessive pride.
And then you put yourself in my shoes,
trifling a matter, vulnerable an excuse.
Pique'd, I submitted to the uncombed tress,
it sounds naive but it was comfortable distress;
and the look matched more than your dress,
infirm with stress, inadequate in caress.
Lest we broke out of those confines
and made ourselves susceptible;
to the withering shadows of doubt that
only stretched to become as loud.
For nonplussed, excitement is as
demeaning, as you not responding.

Maybe the size did alter and you grew,
out of my shoes. Terrific, in effect. but,
it is this tranquil which ceases to exist.
Establishing calmer demeanor, dispirit;
one found slow nonchalance on self merit.
and that is what you came across,
cleaning all of the unbridled moss,
as what gathered by stones can be dusted;
unlike metal, they don't get rusted.
And the rust is what we pine for most,
when opposed, we slowly corrode and
become equal partners in dying minutes.

You realized then and struck a discordant tune,
slipped out of this desert, a steady sand dune.
I now know that we win little, overall we lose,
you could've stuck but for a fresh pair of shoes.

Anguish, In Talk.

6:37 AM
me: Its not that I want you back on gmail. I just need someone in this conversation.

6:38 AM
Its not really as simple as it seems. Life as we know it or atleast I did, does not exist anymore.

6:39 AM
you can have a cigarette after cigarette after cigarette, but it would not come to much. Its not again, like I dont know how you feel but it is the anonymity of it all that makes this want so complex.

6:40 AM
try not sleeping. i dont even self enforce it. it just becomes.

6:41 AM
moment after moment becomes engulfed in this..
i cant find those perfect words to finish sentences
dont even try wondering why i have been writing all this. as i said, and in the mail too, you just know there is eventually human existence on the other side

6:42 AM
but you dont desire response. the situation is such
i didnt wish to call you last to last night but somehow, i just did
and then what became might sound like you might think i was being foolish but i have to get out
its not the change in life. people dont get it.

6:43 AM
i cant even use the excuse that i am better off than most people. i cant. iv been living with below parity through the past 6 years atleast, i wont even say "i want to kill myself"

6:44 AM
however stupid it might sound, i just dont say it just because death sounds romantic to me. it doesnt. it most certainly is immaculately frightful, but when someone is mid way on the bridge, and knows it might crumble, he mostly turns back

6:45 AM
i am getting over most
i wont walk straight for sure
i will stand ground as neither way is enterprising anymore, neither way will wipe off none of the dissatisfaction that is being absorbed by me, from the environment

6:46 AM
reverse imges
*images. I had a lovely few minutes and that does not mean i feel good now

6:47 AM
superficial and technical lies are all around. all to see. glue. i know someone was talking to me. i am not retarded. i can sense
i feel like a reply when i do

6:48 AM
i tell you whats wrong with me. in a nutshell, everything. between the windows of this hall, where the winds are debarred from entrance

this whole fucking protection deal is a fucking gimmick. i am not even close to sensationalization

6:49 AM
i am not too close to home.
its been near to 15 minutes
but i dont mind it
its equal to 5

6:50 AM
think about sitting all alone, day after day, not wanting to communicate
i cant explain. there are so many yet no one. i will wait. im used to it. iv written enough and im happy you were not here.

please reply.

6:52 AM
ok, don't. I am never talking to you again.

6:58 AM
there?

Written.

What cannot be put to words, a tide of meandering times?
Resigned and happening, this funny pain of mine.
Raptures of cold wind flow sympathy breeze aghast,
a forth into the future, sliding anti ze past.

This zoic undertow of sadness, misery compounded to interest.
The speed at which it proceeds, described in incremental earnest,
Easily explained fallacies, these rapid rhymes of mine,
Slowing down in chorus and syntax of semantic designs.

Shrouded and subdued for sure, pondering in self-apathy,
Meaningless notions captured this disdain for mutual agony.
Silent questions that cease, impact on my heavy knees,
rapid stir in emancipation, a touch of unsettling ease.

Not warm in love, my pensive thoughts inclined,
she flatters for a moment, and then disappears in the light.
Holding off my charm, a sudden guilt to find,
Can't evict at most a yes, this want so turbine.

I lay in fate, ordained to fact, minimum reach,
miniscule doubt o'er self, inculcating these.
This matin lamp I make use of, say for you,
at night, blistering through the sodden tube,
extracting me, these dreams in portions,
these lucid tales and the certain stories all anew.

Prompt talk, she moves hispidity through sand,
she isn't who she thinks I am, a accompanying hand.
I confuse her to believe, via mutual diasyrm,
patronizing as slight dark becomes honorably dim.

My deluded eyes and falling lies, deaf on her ears,
she takes the most out of me, resolution for future fear.
Changing, as the dusk reives off my property,
this intrepid failure so potrayed and free,
Pungent on improvising dreams and sled,
Cancer rummaging through the off beat needs.

The northwestern earth, torrential rain,
anti season, an attempt to ridicule again.
Cynical touch to words, I write so juxtaposed,
Make my literature, uninspired and unopposed.

The sky could have a gay daughter he said,
agonizingly close to purulent watershed.
Haplessly arranged, so in arbit diagrams,
pursued choices, and abolished transient exams.
This thaw to break the mud, simple brush of arrogant paint,
nostalgic passage of beautiful days, this pain that I feign.
Dust off the needle, that sweeps through me hence,
rubbishing every claim, made for reference.

Graphic tabluex of living culture, discovered,
her writings in these sculptures I uncovered.
Ridden of this town for yore, sodden so in titillation,
tarnished, these words i use to exact sensation.

She must be sleeping, at this time of the hour,
My thoughts revolve, grasping as I tear me apart.
Words so golden, perched on enchanting cries,
mellow scripts, and liquidized highs.

The static determined, unmoved and grown,
riddled in coma, a sober state of stone.
Utmost literati ties, stale shrills in the vigil,
recall the savant's thoughts, what lives has to kill.

Truculent a taste, her imagination ever vivid,
grammar in error, ineffective and insipid.
I tremble too, because the misfortune is mine,
bellicose and immaterial, my celestial nine.

Stranded at place, those awful tar ridden streets,
a recluse in slow motion, to our handmade greed.

Many a person that never could a come,
these echoes of screams, paling and numb.
Said cessation of sensation, normal I perceive
banished ovation, what is not our to keep.

Is she that shall walk away, into the funny skies,
rounds of smiles sail, it's its gay daughter's delight.
Caused phobia through dyspeptics, my shalimar of choice,
gloom lifts over movement, as fickle minds rejoice.
Hardly could they make, acute tales so obtuse,
death in the darkness, when life becomes an excuse.
Blue concussion of dreams, narrow nerves intertwine,
a palpable amount of color, red to determine.

Her love cannot be seen, cachinnating through fake gloss,
lips numb in gratitude, conveyors fell the loss.
Rich Fur's delight, audible melodies of overture,
blood cell by blood cell, nutshell in a corpture.

Carrying this heart in cachet, limping to succeed,
her desire is but a want, requisition incase I need.
In sun soaked noon, temperamental vignette we share,
furnished forms of life, due diligence to care.
Minor reams of sanity, pursuing in these rivers,
streams with unfound solitude, autumn in this shiver.

Sad keeps similitude, an eternal repulsive life,
mere mortality bears forgiveness, a chance so denied,
Persisting juvenilia, probability to make knowledge,
her visage lifts gloom's veil, efferent and hedged.

Visual glossaries of time, pending crafted chimes,
Sadistic tilted jaunts, an end to these rhymes.
What's brought down in seconds, ogives burst at sight,
scared on narceine, arbitrary drug induced so tight.

Stiff and laden, with a shadow's glimpse of form,
subtle pursuit ex-gratis, acronym to the norm.
Cabinets of letters, niellist and decorated beneath,
Zenith in this emotion, this poetry I bequeath,

Not for longer, shall I write, these words don't make sense,
Naive glitterati so tepid, hallucination in essence.
Sunshine so bleak in the early morning clouds to feed,
I lie all ravished, prosaic and seemingly in need,
Collecting droplets of rain, harnessed to seem profound,
ever enamored by lexicons, and drowning in abstract sound.

Nicotine parade, old predicaments lost in choice,
An iota of truth, vulnerable and stuck in my voice.
Whispering to be heard, authentic depravity in lieu,
depiction of practicality, lost in the jilted queue.

Chronic facade that lifts me away, this unsettled chaos,
rifting through an exodus; of nonvascular, green moss.
Lunatic on the fringe, contemplating all from behind,
an overdone negativity, my pessimistic frame of mind.

Description anonymous, trying to get out of it,
residue of negligence, arranging pieces that never did fit.
Termined and ruled, laconically arranged in thy head,
Speculating sans options, growth so widespread.

Words become hard to come, losing out in scope,
my gripe is never ending, slipping in verbose hope.
Vernacular mention of the hilt, moral consolation,
her vitative thought of all, me running out of patience.

Steps about in askance, ze squint so timid and weary,
blindness in this study light, insight begs me merry.
Infected to vociferate, pleading with aware eyes,
color coded and caustic, nonchalant thaw in ice.

Spoken, laded with drama and compatible reservation,
reason my rhetoric style, stigmata from conversation.
Her obstinate resolve, an intricate need to be near,
seduced in alphabets, semi content in behaviour.
No subtance in talk, dispersed in the same abstract sound,
happiness appears only to get lost, life's merry-go-around.
Effective expression in words, horrid facets of sleep,
nimiety of particulars, a stoic appearance she keeps.

Rumination in delight, impassiveness in atheistic doctrine,
dilapidated concerns, in tandem to existing needs.
Listen as I submerge, this inconsistent elliptical hypocrisy,
ridiculed in a fist to calumniate, what is this, isn't explained easily.

Opaque.

Some homes do not have a window and if they do, it won't look into the street. And then there are people who like to cling on to other people for everything. The extent is such that they need a shoulder in solitude. They become contingent, and hinge upon certain talk; come weather, color television, Pepsi, plants, a bright room, or in stark contrast, mangoes. For them, a opening overlooking a street becomes everything for when they need out of life, they simply stare outside. For slowly the crackle of cars, shimmering rain, ventilation, a train of shops, thin air, and most importantly, overheard conversation provides what was otherwise lacking - Human harmony.