A Simple Confession

In another world, in another time, you will be mine.
Apart no more, angry no more, scared no more.
I shall come for you and you shall meet me midway.
Customs, families, promises, rights and wrongs will disappear.
I shall love you and you will love me back.
I do not know if we will be able to love each other in this age.
Silently, as always, without the need for unnecessary words.
Our love is still there, silences do not shake my faith.
In simplest of words, I wanted to say that I still care.
My words are simple today, I love you and you love me back.
In another world, in another time, you will be mine.

There is a strong urge to give up writing, but it seems I have nothing else in my life. I wish I wasn't this weak where I had to depend on something so hungrily to find reasons in my life.

Prologue: Destruction

They have written tales about madness, about men
Lost in love giving up numbered breaths for the one
That brings them peace. They composed music, and
Wrote poetry, stench of an old malt and recently
Consumed cigarettes. Some have even lost their souls
In seedy brothels with an overdose of chillum, while some
Thrive on memories and creatively crested histories. I have
Seen it all. read it through and felt it turn me black. But for
You, I shall write blood stained libretti, blood darker than
Yours, for it will be mine.

Thicker than blood, colored with violence, rage and fury
Enveloped like lovers; a diaspora of your destruction.

You have blood stained thighs, I imagine them, rubbing
Mine.

Sadness Sadism

Perhaps memory has betrayed our love, for you
No longer remember my words
And I have carefully begun to forget yours.
There is a quiet method to the pains I inflict upon you,
A steady progression of scars.
The first scars were of love between our bodies,
Nails drawing blood from my back, as
I loved you until dawn. The cries of morning
Birds mingled with yours. I still savor
Memories in the dark.
Yours legs still ache, for we
Were taught by the Sutras.
I buried myself in the thick of your hair
You whispered secrets and nibbled my ear.
More scars followed,
As I broke your heart; for you also broke mine.
While you sought comfort in tears and memories,
I decided, solemnly,
To burn me only to give you another scar, until
All that remains is a tale;
Of a woman who lived by
And a man who had decided to die.

They Called Him Devdas.

Only if you were clearer in your mind, my lord, my sire;
Perhaps I would not burn myself every now and then.
Ambiguity and ambivalence may have fetched you
Literary accolades, gold coins and maybe even a besotted
Young maid, ready to be your Parvati or Chandramukhi, a whim
To your fantasies. But you ruined lives of many, Sire, lives of many.
They call you names, all beautiful, I shall call you Sarat Chandra Chattopadhay.

Chattopadhay, Chatopadhay, Chattopadhay; folklore says that chanting
Your name thrice will bring your spirit at my doorstep, only to listen to
My plight of sorrow and sorrow. Familiar territory for a man skilled
At creating pathos in lives of men enslaved to his words. My doorstep,
Reminds me of Parvati and the poor old man who died at her doorstep,
Unable to fight the golden nectar that ate his innards. You do the same to me,
Sarat, shall I call you Sarat? Of course I shall, I am your baby hamster and
Your courtesan.

You must oil my hair gently, caress it like a lover, for I make love to
Your words as they make rage to me. Who did the feeble old man love?
The whore that went by the name Parvati or was it the true romantic called
Chandramukhi, the world scoffs yet we both know better, don't we? You taught
Us that whores may dwell in the most peaceful of homes, gentle and homely,
Conning with false smiles and meaningless words. You did poetic justice when
Parvati got married. Widower was he, and he slowly taught her to ride him.
Splendid Sarat!

Parvati the whore, slowly learned the art of being on top, and making love
To a man who thought of his dead wife when he pushed. How he pushed!
I have a confession to make, I read your words in the language of the Queen,
The language of poetic flirtations, Bengali, and the language of sweat and economy,
Hindi, are both beyond my reach. Translators be blessed or you would not have found
Me Sarat. If I have made you angry then I shall make you smile too. I made love to
Your words unimaginably so. I devoured your words, I devoured them with hunger,
I devoured them with thirst.

Who did the feeble old man love anyway, or did he just love himself. I do not know
About my love for Parvati the whore or Chandramukhi the romantic, perhaps I, too,
Only love my own self. Maybe I should start drinking notoriously to forget them both.
Sarat, Sarat, Sarat, give me my answers, go on write my destiny, make me live before
I fade away, darker than black, ashes in a dirty river. Write something new, write, write,
Write. Add another chapter, let the vultures devour the feeble old man, let the whore
Ride her husband again. Let there be screams, let there be blood on wrinkled bed sheets.
Let the whore suffer.

Take care of Chandramukhi, give her a palace, give her some more words, give her a
Voice, a beautiful melodious voice. Let the feeble old man be forgotten, let him be a
Name for the dead, let him be me.

Post-Graduation

Them comes with charming post-graduate harlots,
Straight from mid-term exams concerning half-read
Theories of Saussure and Wittgenstein, mixed with
Choices of lingerie for the evening. Deftly taken off
In brief encounters within deserted corridors. Quoting
Cultural disambiguation while fellatio, causes slight discomfort,
As words are mixed with contractions. Post-graduate lovelies
Seem less worried about the results of examinations, rather
More so about bearing bastards at such youth ridden age. I
Grieve and comfort by suggesting eighteenth century abortions.
Them intention is not to ruin virgin wombs but to cause pain
Without making love. The results are out, my lovelies have made
Custard jam tarts, for no bastards are on their way. First class
Degrees have lost their meaning. I rest my case and my hands
Upon thee.

Moon

The moon changes its face everyday,
Standing on a planet known for its sins
You make calenders and anoint newborns.
Hindu wives pray for longevity of lives for
Shying cuckold husbands, their minds
Filled with images of lust from previous
Lovers.

Two romantics eroticize the moon together
Making promises never to be fulfilled, hormones
Fueling words and fantasies. The moon looks
Down quietly and sighs, its mind struggling
With decisions, cosmic ones, I assure you.
Poets come out too, tired after lengthy sessions
Of masturbation.

The moon becomes a backcloth for song filled
Rumors, also called films. It is humbled by the
orchestration of large scaled rioting. In lands far
From humanity; a sniper takes aim at unsuspecting,
buck-toothed villains. Watchdogs condemn such
Actions in the morning news while sipping hot tea
With biscuits.

The moon has has to father children, intermittently so.
Hermit crabs thrash around, sexing the night up;
Moonlight the only known stimulus for indifference.
Sailors are oft lost, ships sunk and dolphins amused
When the moon plays havoc with tides. Astronomers
Become linguists and crushes its eternal desire to be called
Planet.

The moon takes solace in the sun, lighting up the sky for
Those who are out of candles. The moon changes its face
Everyday, only for those on the planet of sins. For the
Universe at large, it is a silvery orb of absolute delight,
Gyrating maddeningly around the ample bosom of the planet
Ruined by us. Like black moths, dancing around slipppery
Flames.

Snippet v1.2

There is no silence between us,
Just a passing absence of words.
Like snow flakes melting midair,
We too shall find death together.

The Tale Of A Lotus: Four Petals, Four Loves, Four Lives

The praying mantis, insofar known, never prays when awake;
It does, however, prey beautifully when in doubt. Like God in
Little details, forgotten by all of us. I have loved a lotus and I
Regret it not. The lotus, in question, an architectural marvel of intertwining flattering leaves,
Reminds me of you. Nelumbo nucifera, an obsession since botany devouring adolescent days,
Much like hidden erotica, crawls up my leg. The mantis and the lotus, have never been closer,
As they now vie for space in a tortured man's book. The mantis gives up its life mid coitus, the seed reaching
The Intended. The lotus lives on to be celebrated among chants of scantily clothed holy men, paying obeisance
To unconcerned gods. Each petal of my lotus, struts in defiance, refusing to share my love with another. Such
Was not expected from women in my service. Singularity demands to be fed  by passion greater
Than the self. Concubine relationships are encouraged, for Kings demand harems, privileges, and
Lust filled palaces. I am no king, hence I am destined for four loves, the mantis forgives if the lotus
Embraces. The four petals of desire, can together form a half
Desired lotus. Such is my nobility when it comes to you, for
The praying mantis, insofar known, never prays when awake.

Snipet v.1.1.

I have become rather fond of Death,
As they call her. Rather fond of good
Sentences too. But both are mutually
Exclusive events. And I am rollicking
Between the two!

Clandestine Affairs

The slit-to-be on my wrist is not too far a reckoning,
Dramatic pundits might cherish the tone and wordplay,
But some of us have destinies to fulfill, darker shades
Of maroon. Have taken a toil on a decommissioned mind.

Where did I go right anyways? Often the urge to turn
Myself up rises, but fades like a note of a Harmonica.
You should have stopped me from this rise, from this
Exquisite phenomenon of my undiluted passions, perhaps
You wanted a spectacle.

Shed not a smile when all this is over, in essence never
But linearly so. Quite the titular emotional joyride this is.
I am not embarrassed enough to proclaim that my passion
Is divided between minstrel harlots. They know the price for
Having me.

Like Wagner's operatic affairs, I too believe in the grandeur
Of a tragic affair. Fall we must, to the basest of my temptations.
Could you pass the syringe now, this is too much revelation for today.
I must continue feeding the blackened veins.

................................................................

I must, I must, I must. Like the rhythms of a spider's legs, I must.
Soon I will be consumed, my innards drained of what made me so.
Lines will follow, grammatically correct, their punctuation intact.
The exclamation being the one among many coarse enough to jest.
Standing at the end of a particularly long sentence, like a purple veined
Erection among an orgy of man and women.

In the quiet arrogance of my heart I am delighted with the outcome, the
Sentences and lines taking up dreams to a place riddled with reality. Perhaps
You mustn't compete with me, I will obliterate you with passion hitherto unknown.
Ergo I shall love you.

You will assume I am heartbroken, post hoc, ergo propter hoc. Quite the 
Deconstructionist you are now. The fall shall come, brilliantly cloaked
In a sharpened razor resting upon my wrist, or maybe my addictions shall
Do me in. Either way, I shall hold you responsible. You will be delighted with
The adulation that shall follow.

Did you notice the change in the tone as the words progressed? Such is my
Life, a broken paradigm of what could have beens and what should have beens.
The slit-to-be on my wrist is not too far a reckoning.
I must, I must, I must. Like the rhythms of a spider's legs, I must.

Remembering A Fallen Teardrop

"There are many types of monsters that scare me: Monsters who cause trouble without showing themselves, monsters who abduct children, monsters who devour dreams, monsters who suck blood... and then, monsters who tell nothing but lies. Lying monsters are a real nuisance: They are much more cunning than others. They pose as humans even though they have no understanding of the human heart; they eat even though they've never experienced hunger; they study even though they have no interest in academics; they seek friendship even though they do not know how to love. If I were to encounter such monsters, I would likely be eaten by them... because in truth, I am that monster."-  L, Death Note Rewrite.

Thus says 'L' in Death Note, a Japanese anime manga I've been addicted to since quite some time. Though the series is about a supernatural notebook that allows the beholder to kill anyone by writing their name in it, it essentially deals with the moral decline of its main protagonist, 'Light Yagami'. Furthermore, the cat and mouse chase between the brilliant yet aloof, L and the equally brilliant yet cold, Light Yagami, is the most interesting interaction I've seen among two characters in some time. During the course of the series, we see an inevitable moral decline in both the characters, more so in Light as he holds the ideals of justice close to his heart and the pen to vanquish evil close to his hands. Deduction and an amoral commitment to the task at hand makes both the characters almost indifferent to people around them, their purpose being a purpose, nothing more. Watching this reminded me of the social experiments I indulge in and how they alienate me from reason and emotion. The last one shattered me completely, in fact, I'm still reeling from the effervescence of its birth, love and now untamed melancholy.

I, perhaps, for one, loved too soon and too much. Perhaps I did not even love a woman, it may have been an ideal for my long repressed intimacy issues. But retrospection is useless, to have loved and lost is better than to have never loved at all. Again, I emphasize. I did not love a woman, I loved an ideal, a fixation which arose from the perverse and the divine. It's over now. Shamefully, for me; depressingly for her. I could get her back, of course I could, I am a man after all. I possess what is needed to drag her back in my world. But I choose not to. Like Light of Death Note, I choose to suffer and burn for some great idea; but unlike him I am not aware of what it is. What is amusing for me right now is how I manage to see 'her' even in animated cartoons. It seems as if she is everywhere.

I will burn for her, immolate my soul for her and perhaps find peace in the recesses of the aftermath. Perhaps. I use the word perhaps quite often, it is because I know nothing definite. I do not even know if my raison d'etre is definite, fixed. I have aged by more than ten years in the last one year, you can see it in my face, the lines etched from grief and perhaps, some wisdom. I am no longer the master of my own choices, the only choice I have made is that of destruction. The trajectory of a great fall is always proportional to its rise. The rot and fire, the burning flames within, the putrid mix of acid and alcohol in my belly, the drugs in my bloodstream, and the mighty fall. All celebrating an idyllic winter, a dying lover's last breath.

In a land far from yours,
Far from the rights and wrongs,
Away from the mighty and the weak,
Forgetting promises, smiles and sorrows;
Let us meet, forever and for once, now and then.

I will love again, but not the way I have loved you. I refuse to forget or even, forgive you. I vehemently refuse the solace of your waiting arms. I can afford to do that, for some nights you come to me, in the gentlest of my dreams, in the stormiest of nights and in the burning tears reaching out for my lips. You make love to me, forgiving everything, your body rhythmic against mine. We become one, the heat of your legs my solemn refuge. Love me even if I do not love you back, make me cruel and unworthy of your fuck.Then there are days you don't come and I rage against myself.