Fatal

Flirting with freedom can be fatal.

When all will be revealed...

Come home my darling
come home my sweet
out from the tentacles
of the deep

Come home my darling
come home my sweet
out from the lost woods
alone where you weep

Come home my darling
come home my sweet
off from the streets
where shadows creep

The kettle is boiling
Come home my sweet
A sweater in cream
Come home my sweet
The fire is dying
tonight where will you sleep?

Come home my darling
come home my sweet
your hand on my chest
feel a pained heart bleed

---kash


This piece was hidden somewhere, so just got it out.

A line fades each day

You are all that is left of me now,

Recently I felt this feeling

That I stopped feeling a long time ago.

The words I still believe, will march on.

In hordes, a perfect communion.

"But you're like my talking book", she said.

And I was filled with an unknown scorn for everyone.

Didn't speak about love with someone for long

Could anybody give me my innocence back?

Feel like a war criminal already.

A battle of worms in my head now.

Could be better with a sewn tongue.

You are a different page of the story

which my author didn't write.

And you know why I did it?

Coz I thought it was possible

You are the R… word,

Worse than the F… word like you know.

KNAT

A poet will never be a calculator,
a dream shall never see the day
A laugh cannot be for reason
no matter how you say.

Maverick and bohemian
Without class and taste
Will never buy any armani
How much ever you waste

A piggy bank without a slot
is what he'll be
who never sings for freedom
And doesn't even agree.

To worship and fail...

I am the slave

Of my goddess of freedom

I do just as she says,

Her hymns I hum,

Every day and the end of it,

I believe in every word she needs,

Bound in the smoldering reed,

Leaves ashes as every breath bleeds.

Her pagan clay of a body,

Stands for the lust of fancy.

Her fingernails still smell

Of the snatched flesh fantasy.

Oral Transmission

Where are you pretty child?

In the nests of laughter

Is your smile trite?

Will you ask yourself?

When are you ready to fly?

Are there any answers which you owe

From me and them?

Will love happen for once

Or till the end?

There are quiet whispers I see

Which drip from the trees,

And they ask me,

Will you try to be?

Someone you never tried to be.

Was there a single moment,

Where love was hopelessly free?

Touched

CHAMPA

Nalini

Are the sunburns still there,
The one’s red and warm?
Do metrosexuals still outnumber,
The dusty swarm?
Do agents still sell names alike,
Everyone waiting for the rise of the Reich?


Natty

Are you awake or still dreaming,
Of featherless birds still screaming?
Are you black or still white,
Still afraid of heights or silvery eyed?
Are you silent or still loud,
Like the light tearing the cloud?
Are you alive or still dead,
Out in the dark or still in bed?


Natty

At the flick of a medium length night-bulb,
Overcome all your fears.
Sitting in the shade of hurricane,
You would see all are near.
Fasten up your seatbelts,
Gear up for the juju ride.
Whoever sits beside you, never worry
Will be your guide.
All your life’s questions
Will end up in surprise
So don’t be dumb, not so glum.
In the end we all want freedom.


Pranjal

Everybody is leaving,
every night and day.
Everybody’s leaving
And I wish they could stay.

Unfaltered dreams some have
Some have a few li’l debts to pay.
Some are original enough to accept the fears,
Some just break the ashtrays of clay.

And I just wish that you could stay.
But it has been a long day
And I know that you are lost and tired
Not knowing what to do again.

Everybody is leaving,
every night and day.
Everybody’s leaving
And I wish they could stay.


Rishit

I could have poured....
Boiling lava down your throat!


Gunjan

Will you be home tonight?
Or is that a question too stupid to ask?
I am tired of seeing you, boy.
Without any mask.

It’s hard to be alone.
When the boys are all gone now.
But see...don’t let life become a habit, anyhow.
I know you love to knock down slow.

So let your time come and blow.
Every dark spot on your body beginning to glow.
High point-medium point- low
Let the fuckin’ trip flow.

Through our blood-spent veins
On a frictionless-train.
There ain’t any words without any pain.
So be a bit less predictable.

Take out your alibis sometime.
Like dress up for your funeral.
‘Coz you never gonna do shit
When you are past your prime.

Will you be high tonight?
Or is that a question too stupid to ask?
I am bored brother, and
I need to see some of your masks.

I Laugh at myself

Miss Cheong what is life bringin on?
Wrath celibacy or trauma?
Where is the force feeding lamp?
Is it on, or switched off?

Where are the birds,
Which talked about souls
long lost?
While they flew next to each other.

Why is time blacked out?
Beneath the mahogany table chair
Where dust settles in spiral fuss
Why did sun pass out?

Why isn't smoke sculpting
State of loss
in an empty canvas?
A loss of despair.

Beneath glossy mounds
Why isn't stamped grass
aspiring to come out of whitish glint
Why are why's not being asked anymore?

BACK2BACK

Somewhere near the outer space, the mutant mercenaries with mangled limbs declared war against the Emperor of Hindustan and planned to uproot the empire with chemical weapons which spewed gases of rotten cabbage.

They first raided the MICA mess for ammunition. They were lucky, there was no cabbage. There were enormous quantities of cauliflower though. More lethal than any other weapon of the times which we are talking about.

The mercenaries before raiding had hi-jacked three bullock-carts and replaced the bullocks with stolen Rajdoot motorcycles from the scrap-yard. With these mean machines they roared into the campus. Panic struck across the length and breath of the campus. Scholars had left laptops behind, unsipped cups of chai beneath the trees, some spilled some not. Within minutes the view seemed devoid of any human presence. They had vanished like the true practitioners of occult.

Unchallenged, the mercenaries entered into the confines of the steely-cold mess. All in an attempt to fortification. Their radar gadgets pinned to their mouths could detect both offending and defending smells and pointed out directions and they discovered the huge hillocks of cauliflower. Nothing can be better than this. A-class rotting cauliflowers. Ready to be done anything with. Notorious grins flashed through their noses.

Now there was just one small glitch. In small quantities, cauliflower also acted as a psychoactive substance. And mutants are known to have gorged on cauliflowers throughout history. Right from the time when their ancestor Ghobolik was created by the alchemists of Taliban near the Molotov Sea beneath the farms of X-cauliflowers.

So there were mutants, there were cauliflowers.
And there were mutants and cauliflowers together.

----------------------------------------------------------------------That's It



When she met him, some sparks flew across several yards, a few mindless-harmless accidents occurred across the streets, people spilled coffee, kids fell down while shooting and pigeons lost their way back home.

BUT! Both him and her were oblivious to all these insignificant happenings elsewhere. Tumult occurred internally too. All the churning chilling shivery shivery intestines....ooooo love.

Externally, Ronald Mc Donald with a Big M was grinning down them in the midst of crammed traffic. He loved the scene too, of him and hers. He was bored with yucky families who wipe the faces of yuckier kids inside the outlet(there's another Ronald inside). Anyways, we ain't talking about Ronald here. The only thing he did was that he twisted the M with both his hands and made a heart:)

She kept looking at him...like a smooth caress...continuos and loving. He kept looking at the way she looked...this time dazed, colossal caress. His hair fell a few inches down his trickling forehead, her hair a few inches flew sideways. Blue dress for the lady, soft and kind...coffee brown for our dude...humble, rumble and round.

The chai-wallah put some more sugar in the pot, while gazing at them in vain. He filtered it too, through the old shirt gauze and spilled tea here and there again. The consumers they drank, happily I say. They didn't complain a word about sugar, when they too looked at him and her. In the midst of cardamom mist. Layers on the internal skin of their noses, sweet and fresh.

He too inhaled, whatever fragrance of hers that he could salvage from the army of toxic fumes mingling around in glee. There were smelling men everywhere, but she could smell him. Like she would't mind clutching his shirt in both hands after he would come back from work. In both hands, yes.

Outside, the red Kingfisher billboard loomed above like a glam-cage, glittery and captivating. But they had stirred the kingfisher's heart too. Restlessly it fluttered, after six long months...dust settled on her feathers two inches deep. It wasn't tough, when these two were there. She set herself free and a few luckier one's saw a two-dimensional, colorful bird flying across...leaving a name alone behind.

An Attempt at it

Summer's salt drips down my eyes
A wisp of cloud forms
or so to be wiped away

Wireworms

Its so strange to see people trying to play safe all the time. I feel sick sometimes imagining them locked inside the carcass of flesh bone muck. I am stuck too somewhere...but haven't lost hope yet.

Its strange to look at them painting their fear with a word called simple or maybe moral or maybe plain...its fucking fear I tell you.

Why can't you embrace life with two arms open? Are you afraid that it hurts? Do you want it to look beautiful? It is man it is. But its beautiful instinctively. Not something that you gotta act smart or witty or clever to make it work. No no...you gotta let it get on you. Like a wireworm creeping up your nostrils. You have to let it get inside...spreading all its slime. Lick your pain as if its cocaine. Its gonna feel good.

I am hearing strange lines in strange places. The true one's are true but. And free like the Indian summer. Forceful in lung and tongue.

And the strange lines continue. The urge and advice as to take up life a it comes or whether to make it as you want? Who knows what it wants? Who knows what you can do?

Sounds cryptic?? Thats what I want it to sound like.

Anyways...do i take up life as it gets? Do you try stopping it from happening? Don't you love people in strange ways...is it wrong to fall into situations you never ever thought about?

I sometimes feel that they are resisting my struggle to live. My frantic ways to jump into it. Why are we so afraid? To live? I don't know.

I silently look at the carefully crafted meticulous observations of people about people...the grin of knowing them perfectly. The pride of unraveling the layers which define them. You might be true, but how are you so sure?

I have great problems in explaining myself to people. Often because I don't want to. But I do speak. I do tell.

Can you break the crypt of my tongue, can you decode the abstract? Will you take the pains?

I don't mind the observations on life. I don't mind the comparisons we make. I don't mind the straight fucking desire to play safe act simple in this fuckingly complicated life when others might or might not choose to do so and you still give a damn about it constantly hammering brains with some serious shit which don't fucking make sense to me.

I don't mind all of it at all. There is only one thing which pricks, sucks and pinches....That surety.

How can you be so sure friend?

It's been a long time...

I don't know what to write about. Its been so long. But the temptation was strong enough. To open up my eyes, switch back the lights on. Open an empty page, find a filled pen.
To scribble some nonsense like the good old days.

Life is so much like the electric light. Switched on and off...all its contents. Switch off a part of memory, switch on a idea, switch on love , switch off a sexual urge.

No not exactly, its not exactly me who operates the switches. They work automatic. Some really sophisticated hi-tech tool.

Its so much like various slimy yet ecstatically colourful liquids. Fusing, melding, merging into each other. Splitting, diffracting distracting away sometimes. Purple slowly blending into some thick, slightly yellow kind of serum. Sometimes thick brown dirt like something settling down, leaving that same yellowish liquid clear.

Like love and hate merge and mix like friendship and trust sometimes separate.

I ain't sure about the feelings which mix or separate. Just guessing. It's different for different beings maybe. Need to think more about the chemical side of life. But watching these myriad liquids playing with each other in the geometrically carved glass tubes was so much exciting. Than wondering about their name or properties. The colours(including colourless) fascinated me.

Coagulation is another thing which reminds me sometimes of life. Or rather sometimes life reminds me of coagulation.

I ain't sure which way it is. But I don't know when I feel coagulated. Have you got any idea?

Trust me...it's wonderful to smell the pages again.

The first time I smelt pages..um...not exactly the first first time. But whenever I consciously did. It was laced with some kind of cheap rose perfume. I would smell them hungrily as if it were some kind of drugs. I'd written some stupid ideological poems on them. The time when I would be more worried about form and shape and less about content.

I think most of the writing I do is to make myself believe in certain things.

I mean I can't really believe in thoughts or in voices. I got to see things typed...black written in blue or red...something. It makes them easily digestible to me.

The one's in head or ears seem to be to far fetched.

Maybe one reason why I keep reading the lyrics of rock n roll over and over again while I am listening. Or why do I love reading those subtitles on the bottom of the screen.