and she's the one with the curls...

i have always been absolutely terrible at sketching. and i know this isn't a great exception but i really like it. i do. any comments, suggestions, anything would be much appreciated! :)

They met
like strangers on a bus
traveling to a town
of no names
and
sunflower dreams.
They met
like they parted,
alone and looking
for each other
in the corner
of their
eyes
where a tear hid from the world.
A tear only the other
could taste.

Hmmph

'I look at the world through a microscope and that is my sense of humour. You use a telescope and that is yours.'
'Hmmph.'

RuKsaK

the beethoven of donna

fill me with that face

dark and beautiful as

intimate words

promise me

you will linger on my lips

lost for a moment

and that

open or closed

my eyes will see

that secret world

only we know of

surround my ears

with the silky ocean

of your whisper

in the pendulous light of

a moonlight sonata

for a man

gone deaf on the world

longing

i dont believe it is the effort of walking

that makes me want to fly

sweating on some

hot dusty road

nothing comes free

and sometimes walking

is my effort of choice

sometimes legs just need stretching

its a cold cruel world

when you cant make choices

im not talking about that

about dodging a reckless car

or hanging onto the mast

after a shipwreck

im talking about who will you find

where you are looking

cause where is surprisingly specific

where determines wholl be there

i mean those of the earth

are found in the city of the road

they roll beside me

trapped in traffic

creatures of the sidewalk

they read books

trying to set their minds loose

upstairs in the library

are anchored to their chairs

littering classrooms with questions

until bells set them free

still to linger outside doorways

grouped by gravity

and on to other questions

but its you who live in the city of the sky

and i want to see you

that makes me want to fly

it is my longing that needs to soar

DISCHARGE

we are discharge.

we are deviant.

we are dark angels with bright wings.

we are dysfunctional.

we are blog art.

discharge2

DISCHARGE - the best art collective in the blog world

and on

footprints in sand.
surf kisses beach.
stars chase sun.
night fades day.

bereft

she stumbles across the dance floor of the moon
having failed to hear the music
she cannot soar and sway
in the sparkle of starlight
she looks for pieces of broken glass
her beast is blind and cannot find them
even though they pain her ancient shuffle
her mind cannot paint a picture
nor her ear transcend
the clank of fork and spoon
nor the hungry growl of her beast
for whom she so urgently
cuts her bread
blindly leaving huge gashes
glaring open
in the tablecloth of the night

she carries cold discomfort
which no blanket can warm
and no pillow can make rest easy

sated – her sleep is profound
as the death she fears
but not easy
there is no waltz
over smooth marble
to glide the night away

traveling

some another monday
perhaps in the middle
of a week that was lost
in a wine mist
in new orleans
perhaps that was washed away
in a shower
in a soap smelling pas de deux
that segues into a cool
walk during a sprinkle
on a dutch summer day
by the lake
with the windmills
and the bridges between
the places you didn’t mean to go

afternoons trying to make
the keyboard of your laptop
roar like a grand piano
watching the planes
leap in and out of schipol

ah the fruit and the cheese
on the train going through antwerp
on the way to paris
with vin ordinaire rouge

by hamburg the ennui
has a hint of lust
holding hands in our sleep
turning to smokey smelling whiskey
an hour away from frankfurt au main
playing with the letters of confusion
so as to spell a better word
so as to spell a happier moment
so as to write that really good poem
on some another monday

fireflies

(Van Gogh, "Starry Night")


in the stories she tells
i lie hidden from his glances,
in the light of a million candles
is the darkest hour carefully split.
we're all chasing dreams
that, like fireflies,
flutter
and refuse to touch reality.
i, on starry nights,
like to see the glow
of fireflies die out.
i, on starry nights,
chase her

in my shadow.

the don quixote bar

sitting there alone with all the pretty words

rotating a golden rumitchka

with silky cold of tarnished vodka

all the pretty birds have flown

darkness becomes frighteningly large

another siege of solitary pillow

discovering how huge small noises can sound

trying to narrow down empty space

to what can no longer be called alone

trying to hone down too numerous words

arrow prayers into expanding distance

hope like waiting for an echo

from a night soft as black silk

with tomorrow like a cliff too far

rock-hard and real but tough to see

under rule of empty stool

closing time is here

movement in

a faint breeze blows
the cool sun fades
autumn beckons

vodka chicken lips

i roll like a sloth over land and sea

i am not lazy only compromised

rung tumble slumble

foolish word mumble

i am an advanced agent of a dizzy government

overlooking that laughing land

i have just stumbled out of

i want to laugh and

i am so loose

i know that all things are loveable

especially that all too nervous dinner

that not so long ago was worth having

but now presides over the future

precarious as a long drop

Spilled to Bloodlessness

(dunno where else to write, but i needed to do this)

Do you know of any guy who has been raped so much by skewed Indian penal codes and his lawyer that he contemplates suicide every night? And spilled to bloodlessness seemed such an apt term to describe his condition.

This is a story of my senior from Banaras. He is a nice guy and was like an elder brother to all of us there. He had a job and we, as students, just piled on to him like leeches . . . spending time away from our hostels, listening to good music, eating good food at his expense. He would cook for us without a frown . . . why aren't you getting married, we would ask him, but he smiled to that as well, without giving us a clear answer.

We later figured that he had a couple of sisters to marry off, which needed a lot of money, and he being the sole breadwinner, just couldn't afford his own marriage.

Ten years passed and we got to know that he eventually got his sisters married off and then got married to a "tall" girl as he always said he would. "why don't you marry X?" we would ask, and he would come up with something weird like "oh, she is not tall enough for me"

Tall girl... arranged marriage... has a kid... and is coming to Bangalore. I was thrilled at the prospect of meeting him after so long. We met... he hadn't changed one bit except for his mous gone. Looked younger than ever and still had that smile on his face. My wife (who was a fellow student in Banaras) being his fan as well, it was like the old times revisited. Chick Correa, Trilok Gurtu, L. Subramanium, and Miles Davis were remembered with reverence again and raised toasts to. That is, till his wife came over to Bangalore.

We had heard a lot about her and the day she came, we cooked some food for them and went to visit them. She didn't come out and say hello. I think she just sauntered into the living room once in shabby clothes and walked to the kitchen. When she saw us, she said "oh" and carried on.

My wife was mighty pissed with her behavior, but we attributed it to fatigue after the long flight from Calcutta.

We met her a couple of times after that, but because she wasn't very welcoming, we gradually lost touch with this guy as well .. . let him live his own life in peace . . . I met him later when he wanted to buy a car and couldn't decide which one to buy. Why do you need a car at all? Your wife and kid visit you only once in a quarter, so why a car? I realized he was being forced to buy one but he was doing it happily enough. Anything to keep his visiting wife happy.

One day, he went out to buy mangoes for her. Came back to find the bedroom door locked from within. She had waited for him to come into the house before committing suicide. "I will teach you a lesson" were her last words. He couldn't break open the door in time. This lady obviously expected him to save her before she got asphyxiated. He had to call his neighbors and together they broke open the door to find her hanging from the cieling fan.

The 18 month old kid, Khushi, was in the other room, playing with her toys. She had just had milk, so she was happy. Khushi means "happy" in Bengali, by the way.

Later we learned that she had attempted suicide twice before, knowing fully well she will be saved. This was her only way to put pressure on her husband and make him come home on time. She being a government employee in Calcutta (where people work from 12 to 2 in a day and still complain about workload) could not fathom why he had to stay back till late in the night at work. He worked for an American firm where most of the conference calls had to be taken at the middle of the night.

But this attempt, or the game she tried to play, went horribly awry.

He was put behind bars and the wife's family came and took the child away. They also filed a case against him under Section 489 A of IPC, accusing him of mental torture and dowry harassment. Funnily, I was in the room when the public prosecutor was teaching them how to frame a case of dowry harassment, thinking I am one of them. The girl's brother interrupted the lawyer and asked me to stand outside.

So, as you can see, my friend is a classic example of being spilled to bloodlessness. To get bail he had to borrow money to the tune of 8 lakhs and his lawyer is trying to squeeze him even further. Potential employers want to know where he was the last couple of years. And he is contemplating suicide. I could sense it. He somehow seems ready to jump out of a building any moment.

I feel rather clueless right now. I wish I could find him a potential employer who could give him an ERP job (he worked as an ERP project manager earlier) so that he can sustain the case and keep his lawyer. I also wish there were some good souls (and not sharks as they usually are) who would fight his case pro bono.

I don't know how to save a person who doesn't have any blood left in him any more.

different

1

a day with the sun like a large room

a big bright place where leaves rustle

work is an hour of intense conversation

at the end of which i step out the door

and the next room is dark

2

puzzling views of letters glowing in the air

words spelled backwards hung there in confusion

when the breeze blows there is the dank hint of mildew

traffic lights changing mold in unseen corners

with the metallic-electric sound of switches

echoing hollowly

things scurry close but behind shutters of shade

my pockets are full of shadows and pain

which can be spent to buy dreams i can’t remember

the change comes back always more than i spent

and time has no visible motion

the night is an endless conversation

held alone and in silence and i

shaking my head

find the day has left

taking the door with it

inside me

i have a flower in my pocket

i have a question in my mind

i have a splinter in my awareness

i have an alter ego

who has left me

a message

in a bottle

floating hopefully

in the pool

on whose surface i gaze

hoping her reflection

will have lingered there

lazy as a smile

cute as a wink

one day

one day I might live

within a day

and breathe the colours

of a tangerine ray

sing a song, a happy song
and walk hand-in-hand
with the purple tree
around the bend

one day I might see

the seas refill

through my window

on the crimson hill

I might even kiss the sunlight
resting on the sidewalk
in shades of green
and yellow dreams

all I need is one day
that would fall in love with me
like I have fallen
in love with him

one day I might live

within a day

and breathe the colours

of a tangerine ray

sing a song, a happy song
and walk hand-in-hand
with the purple tree
around the bend

one day I might see

the seas refill

through my window

on the crimson hill

I might even kiss the sunlight
resting on the sidewalk
in shades of green
and yellow dreams

all I need is one day
that would fall in love with me
like I have fallen
in love with him

Thoughts across the coffee table.

Would you be gentle, if we fuck? And carry me tender, slow, to a white room with blue, satin sheets?

Or would you throw me down the backseat of your car, and take me, and all I offer below the yellow streetlights and the gray moon in this black night?

Would you remember my name come daylight?

Or would I leave, and fade in silence, nameless, faceless, and ashamed, only to wither along the street wet with rain from the night gone by?