tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77206905321749630642024-03-13T22:44:24.210+05:30The Eye Of ReasonMy other blog:
http://cyclothymus.blogspot.in/Adityahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08119206533954783161noreply@blogger.comBlogger185125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7720690532174963064.post-78182122662289096892014-08-24T20:23:00.001+05:302014-08-24T20:23:25.019+05:30In <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I lie awake for seven nights<br />
Running a knife over myself<br />
<br /></div>
Adityahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08119206533954783161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7720690532174963064.post-49717155661000058202014-08-17T06:56:00.003+05:302014-08-17T06:56:50.440+05:30Birth of Child<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
A bit of the savage stayed with me<div>
And I gave myself to you</div>
<div>
This circularity led to love</div>
<div>
Which lasted as long it could be.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The savagery now birthed</div>
<div>
Twice in three years</div>
<div>
A set of sons who ravage</div>
<div>
Your breast to be.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My love shall know blood</div>
<div>
When all will be new again</div>
<div>
This circle of a circle</div>
<div>
Will know no end</div>
<div>
With time as witness</div>
<div>
The savage will live.</div>
</div>
Adityahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08119206533954783161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7720690532174963064.post-29458325713398763682014-02-18T06:26:00.000+05:302014-02-18T06:26:53.558+05:30Desert Love<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Our love is bound by chasms<div>
Silted with shadows</div>
<div>
In parts horological</div>
<div>
And parts foibles.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
You will be my ruin</div>
<div>
And yours, I.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
In this circle of time</div>
<div>
Wilting flowers </div>
<div>
And desert rhymes</div>
<div>
Will descend lovingly</div>
<div>
On our entangled flesh.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Only in death</div>
<div>
Can lovers unite</div>
<div>
When flesh corrodes flesh</div>
<div>
Can lovers smile.</div>
</div>
Adityahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08119206533954783161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7720690532174963064.post-38486555544437419672013-02-18T07:30:00.001+05:302013-02-18T07:30:49.231+05:30Sunny Days in HellThem little girls with little black eyes<br />
Gazing mutely at thin scarred thighs<br />
Walking past old church gates<br />
Burnt passed tumbling rickety fates.<br />
<br />
To try and smile is failing endeavor<br />
Small legs open in prised surrender<br />
I am their Daddy, I am the Lover<br />
With our history, I may be the Brother.<br />
<br />
Rage and rape go well together<br />
Not bleeding menstrual little ones <br />
Poke in some rump and feather<br />
Chew those bony sugary buns.<br />
<br />
Echoes of muffled cries finally stop<br />
Bodies limp bloodied and bruised<br />
Sooty tears and I push over the top<br />
Must live some more my destiny mused.Adityahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08119206533954783161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7720690532174963064.post-49087138458937802042013-01-22T00:56:00.002+05:302017-04-15T19:35:12.479+05:30Perspective<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span class="userContent">To be accused of destruction<br />Of the topmost layer of soil<br />while sowing a seed,<br />is to be truly misunderstood.</span></div>
Adityahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08119206533954783161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7720690532174963064.post-28046231279084502462012-12-05T08:16:00.001+05:302012-12-05T10:29:00.727+05:30SheYou must read more before you choose to strike me down. Otherwise, I will exist, in corners of your mind, and in rooms of mine. It is the only weapon you have against me, to absorb whole length sentences like walls of the ocean bed, indescribably muted. The floor of the ocean is where I learnt to walk, a place where many seas met, merging amniotic fluids with memory, gene upon gene. That is the violence that bought me to you. The violence of birth and the greater violence of living it. I never wanted to live, to breathe, as insignificance does but I was born and hence, I must endure it.<br />
<br />
Endurance is a complex word, it does not betray emotion, the only thing the word tells us that it exists to bring strength and despair together, I can endure life, perhaps even death, though I know not much of it; but you must remember me. Always, unfailingly, you must remember me and believe with all that you are, mind, body and soul, that I am there.<br />
<br />
He looked up in the sky and saw her face in the white clouds above. She smiled and disappeared behind nothingness.And then it rained.<br />
<br />
I look at the red lilacs strewn across the garden. They look oddly familiar. I pick one up and open its petals, revealing dark blue pollen stalks that taste like long lost honey bees. I toss it back and pick up a stalk of grass, crushing it with my forefinger. It allows me crush itself, giving up its sovereignty in the face of brute strength. We are all stalks of grass, our destinies limped by hands of time. I crush some more of them.<br />
<br />
I am awake for no particular reason. Our lives are fragile, we must end them in the arms of the one we love, before cracks invade everything we touch, including each other. Time takes away what never was overs, but was promised to us by genes and fables. <br />
<br />
I think of her with my eyes closed. She comes to me instantly. I think of her smile and take in the silence that surrounds me. A brief painful terror holds me close. I open my eyes and the world is new again.Adityahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08119206533954783161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7720690532174963064.post-73601871371855475932012-12-02T06:22:00.000+05:302012-12-02T06:22:05.845+05:30Last DaysIt would take me several days to write<br />
A tangible account of my deadened life.<br />
<br />
But it would be too late by then<br />
Some days would bring a change of heart.<br />
<br />
Is it provocative to write about death<br />
More than to write about life?<br />
<br />
What do you gain by reading this<br />
In the anonymity of your room?<br />
<br />
Are you closer to me now or<br />
Do you now know nothing?<br />
<br />
I will tell you a secret, regrettably so <br />
Our lives are a mess.<br />
<br />
End them in the arms of the one you love.Adityahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08119206533954783161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7720690532174963064.post-43078519332851616082012-11-13T03:43:00.002+05:302012-11-13T03:43:52.902+05:30Hill Do not ask me for the past<br />
I am Theseus' ship<br />
Rebuild and replaced everyday<br />
Cells with their own private battles<br />
Lilacs bursting with red drops. <br />
Adityahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08119206533954783161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7720690532174963064.post-41907477225536847352012-09-08T23:53:00.001+05:302012-09-08T23:53:46.593+05:30Old Stories<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I'm unnecessary now<br />
Old greying temples<br />
Wrinkles here sores there<br />
Lips you loved<br />
Nails you dug<br />
Gone now with time<br />
Pages yellowed<br />
Nicotine swallowed.</div>
Adityahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08119206533954783161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7720690532174963064.post-88890665219457429592012-09-03T00:35:00.002+05:302012-09-03T00:35:56.443+05:30Un-aware<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Let me love haltingly painfully<br />
Like surgical instruments caught<br />
Unaware by flowing blood.</div>
Adityahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08119206533954783161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7720690532174963064.post-60353383895151013852012-09-02T03:31:00.002+05:302012-09-02T03:31:56.555+05:30Armpits<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Let our love not be mediocre<br />
Like our lives lived boringly<br />
In caged rooms stifling sunlight<br />
Sniffing licking armpits damped<br />
Discolored by too much fairness<br />
In life and love. </div>
Adityahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08119206533954783161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7720690532174963064.post-85316521045604961092012-08-26T02:30:00.001+05:302012-08-26T02:40:17.711+05:30Moonlie<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It is not the charcoal of your eyes,<br />
The spin of electrons is enough.<br />
It is not Earth and your love I crave<br />
The place between Moon and lies<br />
Is enough. </div>
Adityahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08119206533954783161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7720690532174963064.post-25179740551688160622012-08-06T01:31:00.003+05:302012-08-06T01:31:37.466+05:30Quick<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Let my tongue be intimate<br />
With the idea of your body<br />
Before time runs out<br />
For us to know each other.</div>Adityahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08119206533954783161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7720690532174963064.post-47225965278472047162012-07-30T02:46:00.003+05:302012-07-30T02:46:57.402+05:30Pinned<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
As I come closer to you<br />
In sporadic short bursts<br />
I think of penetrating you<br />
With a pin in your ear.<br />
Just below the helix<br />
Where I first kissed you<br />
An abandoned ear lobe<br />
Found its lover parched<br />
For more.<br />
The curve of that night<br />
Resembled your ear<br />
And my tongue gnawing<br />
For flesh and bone.</div>Adityahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08119206533954783161noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7720690532174963064.post-75920895834028130742012-07-21T14:10:00.000+05:302012-07-21T14:10:20.002+05:30Musings of a Psuedo Intellectual who Professes to be Romantic<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
A halter comes off easily<br />
A tube takes a while<br />
If you wear pink brassiere<br />
I will walk for miles.</div>Adityahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08119206533954783161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7720690532174963064.post-83503874493819015242012-07-18T17:56:00.001+05:302012-07-18T20:23:53.880+05:30Acid Pops<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
You smell of acid found in mangoes<br />
Left too long in a slightly warm basin<br />
Sides which are still streaked with<br />
Blood that slipped prancingly from<br />
Swollen lips that gave in too soon<br />
To my testosterone charred habits.<br />
<br />
Your acid is elsewhere too, hidden<br />
Beneath that flowing long skirt you<br />
Fashion only to protect your chastity<br />
Long gone, if I remember correctly<br />
Behind closed doors and closed hearts.<br />
<br />
Froth lime and brine, enshrine and rhyme<br />
Sit in a corner and dream about crimes<br />
Spin of atoms, spin of lies<br />
In recesses of our blackened hearts<br />
We see what we are, you and I.<br />
<br />
Smell of acid, smell of pain, of half baked<br />
Cakes. Close those legs of yours, close<br />
Them to preserve the smell of rain.</div>Adityahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08119206533954783161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7720690532174963064.post-21835495980804062792012-07-13T03:10:00.000+05:302012-07-18T18:00:39.595+05:30The Everyday Club<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
You bleed what is palpable<br />
Between those ruinous legs<br />
That once enshrined mine.<br />
You spin of atoms<br />
Undiscovered elsewhere<br />
Seduced fused, finally used<br />
In a dying snake's lair.<br />
Then you wonder, cry even<br />
About changes, infinitesimal <br />
As your universe collapses<br />
Whimper and whisper<br />
Whisper and whimper<br />
But let me enjoy<br />
A fine cup of soot filled tea. </div>Adityahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08119206533954783161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7720690532174963064.post-24393151485609724232012-07-08T07:21:00.001+05:302012-07-08T08:00:52.198+05:30Silver Deers And Ruined Memories<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Sweeping across two fields one placid lake<br />
Rage comes fearlessly<br />
Forgetting places times<br />
Settling in nooks lost<br />
My memory reaches out for her<br />
<br />
Painfully chews unnecessary vowels<br />
Making her whole again and me.<br />
Rages uncouthly, drooling musically<br />
She returns again again again and<br />
Returns us to the same glistening<br />
Ball of swirling hot glass<br />
Suffocated by longing.</div>Adityahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08119206533954783161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7720690532174963064.post-36972905456977774782012-06-18T07:54:00.001+05:302012-06-18T07:54:04.854+05:30Replaced<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Merrily and steadily the scorpion twists<br />
On your flat belly and oh-so milky breasts. <br />
The scorpion means no harm to you<br />
His love is gentle, his wants are few.<br />
His time was now, his time was near<br />
Why did you whack him out of fear?<br />
He was the one but you wanted another too<br />
Now you parade around with a scorpion new.</div>Adityahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08119206533954783161noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7720690532174963064.post-82256097344235329322012-06-16T02:07:00.000+05:302012-06-16T02:24:01.040+05:30A Child's Poem<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind<br />
An eye for your eye will make you forever blind<br />
Remember the sermon the next time<br />
You dare look into my eye with your eye.<br />
<br />
Dedicated to the female protagonist of the short stories 'Fallen Roses' and 'Bed Of Sorrows', click <a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=7720690532174963064#editor/target=post;postID=3511396847844096654" target="_blank">here</a> and <a href="http://adityakakkar.blogspot.in/2010/11/bed-of-sorrows.html#comment-form" target="_blank">here</a> to refresh your memory.<br />
<br />
Remember, I can write much more. Don't force my hand.</div>Adityahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08119206533954783161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7720690532174963064.post-39222585583863537322012-05-23T13:25:00.001+05:302012-05-23T20:16:45.241+05:30Afterburn<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
To love you is to burn myself<br />
Not just in words<br />
But with fire from a dying stove<br />
Trace a line of aftershave<br />
On my wrist<br />
Hoping to scar the places where<br />
You love me the most. </div>Adityahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08119206533954783161noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7720690532174963064.post-41101390607638852262012-05-23T11:27:00.001+05:302012-05-23T19:20:37.228+05:30Ovule<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I have often wondered how your moans would sound<br />
Neglected after many years of my heart breaking indifference<br />
A quick shove of despair between your swollen thighs<br />
Or nights spent in vain confessing my adolescent lies.<br />
<br />
I wonder, would the moans of love and despair be different?<br />
Or would they also, like our bodies, face different sides?<br />
<br />
Your moans at night are heard across the deep black skies,<br />
They reach my ears, they question my lies<br />
You lie in your bed covered in blood<br />
Ovulating, pulsating;<br />
And all I do is write dark stained free verse lines. </div>Adityahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08119206533954783161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7720690532174963064.post-87504065309418110522012-05-16T07:10:00.000+05:302012-05-16T07:10:19.918+05:30Promises Foretold<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I want to find the scars you hide<br />
The ones on your body,<br />
The ones inside.<br />
<br />
Embrace me for a day or two<br />
Whisper love in your ears<br />
Hold my hand tightly<br />
And I'll fight your fears.<br />
<br />
I am mistaken for a man of words<br />
My actions are mostly mum<br />
Patience my loveliest<br />
Your lover shall come. </div>Adityahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08119206533954783161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7720690532174963064.post-1841064127312449602012-05-15T21:05:00.000+05:302012-05-16T07:11:13.269+05:30White Floor<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
My house is tired of my being<br />
My everyday rants, broken lines of ants<br />
And I lie on the white of the marble<br />
Scattered everywhere, everyday<br />
Licking it bereft of dust, of color<br />
Thinking of it as your white bare body.<br />
My tongue drags on and on<br />
Splintered with lies, both black and white<br />
Leaving behind the trail of red<br />
On a passage of pure white,<br />
And like an artist possessed by love<br />
I paint the floor pure red, the red of my<br />
Heart, the red from your body, into<br />
The white sands of my house. </div>Adityahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08119206533954783161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7720690532174963064.post-84613822779976517062012-05-14T20:33:00.000+05:302012-05-15T01:28:25.400+05:30A Study In The Life Of An Artist: Critical Perspectives From Marginalized Voices<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
There exists almost no distinction between critical postmodern art and the emergence of the neo-proletariat ideals that have begun to (re)populate the world in small measures. Both work on the singular premise of dismantling existing structures of form and power by subtle rearrangements in societal plateaus. For instance, we can observe non-linear ideological shifts in the way the West is engaging itself with the rest of the global community compared to the half a century back when capitalism as a tool of coercion had gained incredible universal momentum. Art and resistance evolve in similar ways, and share a common ground when to comes to (de) idealogizing the present. That is what art truly represents, resistance/persistence, and the Artist becomes the first and final martyr in the entire process. The Artist which indulges in postmodern art also willingly/unwillingly engages with the war of the neo-proletariat. Power is what the Artist despises and what he ironically comes to use when the dismantling of structures begins. Unlike a mythical context of literature or art, the Artist employs present day tools to create an alternate universe of possibilities, which in turn aims to depopulate the present world of stagnant ideas. This circle of reluctant but inevitable martyrdom repeats itself universally in both time and space. What is interesting to note is the demystifying effect of critical postmodern art on present day power mongers. I do not argue about the absolute possibility of artistic utopia but rather the changing nature of the Artist in today's time and age. An artist whose work I'm intimately familiar with argues that it is not possible to reconcile the difference between a falsified grandiose history and present day post critical nuances of art. A painting cannot be traditional when it comes to form and progressive when it comes to the object simultaneously, it must choose either of the two. Cubism and Dadaism were two such defined centers of artistic gravity, both existed only to inspire and recreate the circular representation of artistic utopia. But neither one of them 'began' with such specific goals, like most movements captured in homogenized nomenclature, these two were also results of pedantic and pedagogic classifications. <br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://lkart.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/07/talkshowaddicts.jpg"><img alt="" class="alignnone size-medium wp-image-143" src="http://lkart.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/07/talkshowaddicts.jpg" title="talkshowaddicts" /></a><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">fig. 1. Roger Brown. <i>Talk Show Addicts</i>, 1993. Etching and aquatint, 22 1/4 x 29 ¾ in.</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
(Courtesy of the School of the Art Institute of Chicago)</div>
<br />
In the above picture, 'Talk Show Addicts' by Roger Brown, there is a frightening yet prophetic view of urban degeneration via the medium of television. Proximity among neighbors is only possible through a medium controlled by a select few. The dystopia of the Artist is the utopia of the Capitalist. The Artist of today's age has been entrusted with the humongous task of (re) creating 'Art' in a controlled environment of 'mass media', herein lies the ultimate contradiction, for the medium is both the 'enemy' and the 'tool'. This negotiation of being mesmerized and being disillusioned comes at a mental toll for the Artist whose purpose is validated by the very presence of what it seeks to 'destroy'. The products of coercive ideologies such as capitalism are puppets in response to an artistic vision that seeks universal fulfillment. The Marxist philosophy of socialist possibilities is mere lip service to any individual who seeks institutionalized anarchy, another contradiction that the Artist must deal with in order to create parallel self flagellating universes. </div>Adityahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08119206533954783161noreply@blogger.com0