n' now the nerves don't end where it used to be...

the air keeps on changin'. it's thick. it's thin. n' sometimes so clean... you hear everythin' everyone says. n' then you move ahead. it's not rainin' though so i can't blame it on the clouds. n' another year endin'. but the years don't. n' just flashes everythin'.. as if it were not your own life but someone else's. findin' more than you look for till february... n' losin' it all in may. movin' with parallel thoughts... life showin' you more than you want to see. tongues tellin' more truths than your ears ask for. maybe i just want to be statues in the rain.

in the deadin' hours of the night... or in the new born mornin'

it's basically nothin' at all. like writin' a line after a lot of thinkin' n' then strikin' it out immediately. specially if it's a first line. like writin' somethin' like this in the deadenin' hours of the night or... in the new born mornin'. maybe together. when you've a letter to end but you start with this. your thoughts wrappin' each of your thoughts. maybe you too. your greatest fear n' desire is someone strippin' all your thoughts. but know you do... nakedness is not always beautiful.

a sight you love... you never see it n' that's different. two hands filled with bags mostly bring smiles. openin' them n' layin' them out is perhaps a greater joy. changin' your shirt to match your sweater is not sanity at all. doin' it in the deadenin' hours of the night... or in the new born mornin' is totally out of the senses. writin' it down is oh-so-crazy.

there's so much of me in myself... but still amazed by this resembled unrecognition or recognized disemblance. it's just like watchin' me lyin' down... seein' me. n' seein' nothin' like me. n' then slowly turnin' like me. but the pause is just for a while. n' then i turn away.

it's like the pencil song in perfect silence... in the deadenin' hours of the night... or in the new born mornin'. because when the world wakes... the pencil refuses to sing. it's like people comin' n' starin' at you... n' then slowly turnin' away. it's like the endings startin' again. it's like the forgetfulness of life... but rememberin' it all over again when someone asks you the way. it's like confusion holdin' your last breath.. when your senses have already volunteered indifference. it's like statues in the rain. because statues in the rain are just like the stones in your pockets. no one else is like them... n' they're like no one else. they're always there. n' they're not.

rigmarole

have you seen her color? it's like... [...not so good...]. n' her feet. you can use it as an axe to cut down the giant oak tree if you want to.

the day had started with the declaration of how big a loser i'm... n' i said "Thank You". the day had ended with the declaration that it must be a rarity to find someone so borin' as me... n' i said "Thank You". Thank You's in pairs like that markin' the beginnin' and the endin' are never in your favor perhaps.

it was autumn n' i was young. the book was on "General Theory of Relativity" n' i read "Gravity can bend space"... n' i felt Blake. couldn't have stopped from fallin' in love with Einstein. neither with gravity. both the love affairs are fairly intact.

the landscape of nudity is like sunshine. mostly radiant. you can smell the scentless heat. the anonymity is totally identifiable. nudity not acclaimed but only proclaimed. partiality had only managed to add profundity. a close up could have easily added fecundity as well. but somehow that dress was makin' her dignity lesser than usual... although i was seein' her for the first n' last time. i was partially ashamed. could have been substantially if i wasn't partially aroused. my shame was feedin' upon my arousal... n' the latter was feedin' upon her recedin' dignity. when n' how did i become oh so beastly?

feedin' upon smoulderin' coal is adequately painful. but you can rarely challenge your survival when it is your only diet. livin' amongst these walls is difficult as well... when the bricks are just like mirrors which shows what you were all the time.

n' "fe fi fo fum" doesn't look so scary if you managed to miss the second line... which incidentally i did. n' then i was very frightened when i heard it later. scary things can be really fun if you don't get them.

dear all - the - butterflies - which - have - died

n' then just one day which seems no different from any other day... people walk away from your life. n' then... you can only hear the sound of the record player when all the songs have already ended. n' then there's no one to tell you when this darkness will break. there's no one to tell you about the next sunrise. n' then there are a couple of infinite december nights throughout the year n' you've got so much of time to talk to yourself.

n' the mental illiterates orbit around your life... contributin' just to multiply the astronomical waste. they don't know how to read your mind... n' your thoughts do not say a single word. n' all the words you speak now just manages to remind you of all the words which you've already spoken... as if you've moved into some new house where someone stayed for so long... every smell confirmin' the absence of the previous lives which stayed there once.

people do not write obituaries for the dead butterflies... n' you must understand why. they're all so short lived... this world would have been just about stories of the dead. it's not just me but the whole world which lives in the past... as they only talk about your beautiful wings but where do the dead bodies go?

n' i want to burn down all my years... so that i forget everythin' one by one... the past becomin' the present with recedin' traces of the future... n' i perish as an infant. i want to curse all the people of partial amnesia.... forgettin' about my death.. n' talkin' about my butterfly-life with colorful wings.

condolence-fully yours,
.....

p.s. you must understand... this is not quite a time of meetin' someone n' fallin' in love. this is a time of fallin' in love n' meetin' someone.

scribblin'

am i dead? yeah may be i'm not. because the things i feel..... i don't think the dead can ever do so. n' do i have the right to say so.. when i claim i'm not? n' no i shall not write remember in a postcard... but i shall write refrain. just a word. a lot of people do not use it. some of them do. still not a lot of them do not know how to mean it. i guess it's worth writin' it down.

death...

speed of light
in stationary eyes.
write a wrong
please unsing the song.
a dream to break
and a sleep that will wake.
starve the appetite
with hyper consumption
pay the whore
to attempt molestation.
the fire is burnt
to extinguish my thirst.
dry the ice
and wet my veins.
run the walk
sodium vomit.
swim offshore
away from the promised land.

n' life always changes. the livin' becomes the dead. the dead becomes the livin'. n' even though i firmly believe in ghosts i wasn't talkin' about 'em

i agree with you. if only death could have been as easy as just walkin' out of a room n' closin' it down. but rather it isn't. the burden of life is mostly heavy. n' indeed it's a lot of hard work which has mostly kept me alive. the hardest part... to remain alive all the while. i can't walk through the doors... i can't.

n' life mostly reminds me of the people i had met. all of them were real. n' real people must hurt. a tears-your-soul-apart kind of hurt. n' i remember all the times when i wasn't ignored was actually used up to hurt me. not a moment wasted.. not a moment lost.

my last exposure to life was somethin' like a fountain pen write up.... with not a lot of ink left in it. the pen which was refusin' to write... was actually forced upon. the pen was jerked till it puked blue blood. n' the waste was fed back to it. the torture was documented in the form of lumps of circular paths which somewhat took the form of a perfect solid circle.. but actually it wasn't. the pen was made to write. the page was turned after everythin' was written.

i like fiction more than reality. n' maybe that's why i try bein' fictional. someone whom people have heard of... most of them still haven't met. n' the rare few who had don't quite believe in it. i like fiction more than reality because unlike the latter... fiction doesn't have to need an endin' so that people can remember it.

n' mine was a ghost-life long gone.. insubstantially but yet unfailingly. an ordinary life out of so many. with regrets, dreams n' hopes. both joyful n' tearful nights... filled with darkness yet some of it was full of light.

i take most of the correct decisions from my mind.. even though it is entirely grey. most of them get over ruled by my porcelain heart n' this mostly makes me a man full of contradictions. but they're not with a purpose of deceit. i stand by all my contradictions n' go with all of them.

i don't like to talk about any of my achievements. mostly because i feel the ones who know them are also entitled to know about all my under achievements.. n' the latter list is definitely a longer one. it's the same reason i don't want to reveal the day i was born. because then you must know the day i shall die. n' death is always more personal than life.

n' you may come along if you want to. but i must inform you.. you are NOT invited. i've been talkin' to all of you for a real long time. n' not in any one of those occasions i was actually talkin' what i really wanted to but tried givin' you what you wanted to hear. maybe at times i might have assumed wrong... but that can't take away the glory of my efforts. n' now i want to cut down my conversations.. because yesterday i heard myself n' i sounded like a poor old sod.

embers of frost

canyon walls
broken thoughts
soul walks
with no trace

embers of frost
dirty secrets
life in front of the eyes
feelings ignored.

truly yours
without being mine
disguised minds
ancient conscience