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.

October, and possibily November

There is chaos and anarchy in my eyes, mutually inclusive exclusions forming divisive methodologies to create personalized accounts of mythical tales, illusions within seclusion. A very painful sort of rage with an innate desire to alienate myself from one and all rises within me. Simple words cannot do justice to my state as my emotions swirl with complex intentions, only to create fissures in my mind. Curiously, a denial of life is so strong within me that I long to welcome ruin with open arms. Reach the very abyss of existence to find a lowly corner of sordid happiness. The paradox is that isolation is the right of the mighty, the weak cannot have it. Society engulfs the weak completely, it insidiously creeps inside the weak man's life, his thoughts and even his emotions. My thoughts and emotions are so overwhelming that I feel crushed under their weight. By my own logic, I am weak.

It is a sad confession.

Groomed For Silence

I have lost my memory for now, lost the names
And images of the ones that were once loved.
Curiously or rather not, I remember you; everything
But your name.

I know your name is unimportant, for we never said
Much to each other. We were lovers, my dear, and
Often words used to fail us. I remember the taste of
Your tongue and flesh. Often, maybe always, I was
Insatiable for you.

The days pass in attempts to recall, perhaps even
Create an identity; and the nights in love and
Longing. I only sleep to dream about you and to
Think of my hand as yours, as it violently caresses
My starved body.

I remember the tender of your thigh, the mole on
Your hip. But i digress, evocations to your unusually
Slender form will not serve my purpose. What is my
Purpose then? To make a mistress out of a lover;
Pshaw! It's time to regain the universe.

I remember, i remember the look in your eyes
When you held me close to love me. Infidelity
Has its scars. I, unfortunately, remember the astute
Barrel of a gun against my beating heart. Shame
You missed. My dearest, I forgive you all. I forgive
The look in your eyes.

The broken pieces of language that I strew around
Are not by chance; they allude to the fascism of my
My spineless heart. I think the word 'fuck' would
Do some justice to the tragedy at hand here.
Perhaps.

Let me die in this lie, let me bury you alive. Do Gods exist?
They do, in my heart, in the pit of my belly; they do. Would
They be generous enough to give me a chance, a lifetime
Of lucidity, in Lucy's arms. I feel bellows of silent laughter
Raging against my womb.

I don't think I am reliable anymore. Delirious, delusional,
devastated, devoid, demented, and finally, desecrated.
I am out of D's now, perhaps I will die now. You shouldn't
Have shot me in the heart. I must confess, I don't remember
Much. Apologies.




For the illusion of clarity, click here. I am at a loss to explain this deviance, ah! another adjective close to my heart, and since i am at a loss; I'll leave it.

Scholars' Altar

I am a research scholar now; your idiosyncrasies
Craving my universe of thoughts; ebbing away
Reality and its sensory distractions: yours truly
Is a crazed lover, espoused to you mere being.
I am tempted to oust romantic inklings from
Our cerebral, oft-clumsy rendezvous; but what
Shall be the state of your flowing femininity then?
I confess that you are not the only subject of my
Prying heart; for love exists only to satiate art,
Perhaps only to inspire and inflict painful rouses of
Affection and tenderness; seemingly curious in the
Beginning. Other forms have come and gone; and
Perhaps newer shall arrive; but none shall rival
The passages of our history, cocooned in silver
Yarns of memory. I must finish my thesis through
Our entangled arms; love's gaunt victorious after all.