The wise man walked up to me today and asked, "Where has the fire gone?"

Maladies of a Historian's Son

There’s a quiet knock on the door
It must be my regrets come to call
On me. Drink some tea.
Spill some crumbs.
Irk me.
They said they'd arrive at eight.

My family are the next to arrive.
The ones I love too close
They are. Like scars.
The ones I really like,
Too far.
My family is rarely late.

And they proceed to get well acquainted.
Helping each other. Passing the buscuits.
As they enumerate my flaws
In the small pauses between their pointing fingers.

I diligently archive their lists
For future reference.

I got...

...a new strat! NARF!

Radio Gargle

New stuff (including an article by me and the esteemed Jugular Bean too, incidentally) on the revamped Split Magazine. Check out the truly cool Split Radio, spinning your favourite [sic] Indian Rock tunes.

Oh, and by the way, I saw Bill Clinton today. Yup, Ye Old William. Ask me how 'twas.

Passages in Imperfection - I

Perhaps there was some deep sadness in their life. A marriage that writhed and seared like a wound of the diabetic. Destined to fester, but never quite devouring the flesh that marks its borders, held together against the ravages of infection by the ancient mechanics of propriety and passing memories of long-deceased passion. Perhaps he fell. She forgave. She sunk. He saved. They may have laboured in the delusions brought on by some Sisyphus cycle of combined struggles with each other, finding fulfillment in the daily task of doling out hate in tiny measures, treading everyday on their growing mountain of regret.

Nowhere Man

His name and title really don’t matter
Simply know that
In the continuum between man and Neanderthal
He tends towards the latter

And I’ll be vindicated by anyone who knows him well
For when he’s done with a day of rolling about in the grass
And being happy in the sun and all that
He smells

And in matters of poise, etiquette and grace
I must point out that
In the rainbow spectrum between violently boisterous
and phlegmatically gentle
He often finds himself in violet’s place.

When that other bearded blackguard was talking of
Hair Peace and Bed Peace
And other such drivel, this fellow joined in too
And what do you know?
The Peace Man is deceased.

But if I were to dissect this situation clinical
In truth, I wish that,
On the thread that ties hopeful and wry,
I was on his side of cynical.

Angry Again...

Be still my beating heart
It would be better to be cool
It's not time to be open just yet
A lesson once learned is so hard to forget
Be still my beating heart
Or I'll be taken for a fool
It's not healthy to run at this pace
The blood runs so red to my face

I've been to every single book I know
To soothe the thoughts that plague me so
I sink like a stone that's been thrown in the ocean
My logic has drowned in a sea of emotion
Stop before you start
Be still my beating heart

- G. Sumner

Welcome, wispy visitor,
Mistress of Warm pasts
And Imagined futures
Come.
Take a seat and have a sip
Of wine:
Before long our tongues will unravel
In slipping syllables of truth
And ravel again,
In careless intimacy.

Or, of course,
We could simply talk.

For when we do
I hear the creak of the cosmos
Bending backwards
And the strain of the stars
As they tread new paths
In our favour.

Mothers of the Disappeared

The mothers of two young terrorists are discussing the progress of their respective sons. The first mother said,"My son just martyred himself in a suicide bombing attack in Jerusalem." The second replied,"Well, mine died last week while bombing a U.S. tank in Baghdad."

"..*sigh*..kids nowadays...they blow up so fast, don't they?!"

Maximum Pudding

It’s funny that after you leave, they find the funk you long to be part of.

Any Colour You Like

I regret That in
The time we spent together
I never asked
“What’s your favourite colour?”
(Or is that “favorite color” ? I spell badly when
I speak on this continent.)
Perhaps we were too busy
Drinking in the light of some
Distant star
To determine the hue that
Most pleases you.
(Mine is grey, by the way.
(Grey or gray?))
Or maybe we did not care
To pause while chasing dream-drunk
Turtles in the Valley,
Or were we too engrossed
In sending our thoughts
Sailing
Through treacherous tides?

But as speculation lays truth bare
I have reached the conclusion
That you (and I)
Simply did not care.

...And Then there Were Some: RIP Syd Barrett

Former Pink Floyd frontman Syd Barrett died today at the age of 60. Here's an edited version of an essay I wrote at college about him some time ago. Syd Heil...

As the psychedelic swirl of the band’s music takes the crowd to unexplored areas of trance-like consciousness, the energy on stage reaches a grim height. The stage lights and smoke only add to the already stifling heat of the club, and gradually, it appears as if the face of the guitar player is melting in grotesque measures. The crowd looks on in horror at this bizarreness, but the band simply plays the changes, unmoved by the display. If they are worried, they do not show it. They know that it is only a matter of vast quantities of pudding melting from the guitarists head; another day brings another theatrical stage act. This is not a scene from some Rocky Horror- style flick, but a day in the life of one of England’s most successful bands, Pink Floyd, and their ailing front man, Roger ‘Syd’ Barrett. These were the earliest signs of Barrett’s failing battle against schizophrenia and LSD use that led to the tragic end of his blossoming musical career. His life and early work had a profound effect on the hugely successful band he founded, which grew to mammoth proportions in later years.

Syd Barrett was the guitarist and songwriter when Pink Floyd began their career in 1964. His distinctive voice and musical sensibilities successfully melded the pop song-craft of his time with the swirling soundscapes of psychedelia. This seminal work can be heard on their earliest singles releases and the album Piper at the Gates of Dawn. But Barrett had a frail, soft-spoken personality, and the touring and recording demands from his managers, who he was reluctant to refuse, soon took their toll. Through the next few years, he grew more and more erratic. At times, he did not turn up at concerts, and when he did, would often stand mute and immobile throughout the show. The band decided to recruit guitarist David Gilmour as a back-up guitarist and vocalist to help Syd during the concerts, but soon, it became evident that Barrett’s sanity was slowly slipping away from him. In 1968, he was eased out of the band, leaving bassist Roger Waters to assume the role of band leader.

Over the years, there has been some conjecture about the reasons for Barrett’s mental ill-health. The most convincing reason is that he suffered from catatonia, also known as catatonic schizophrenia. Like Barrett, most catatonics suffer from bouts of five distinctive symptoms: reduced responsiveness to their surroundings, lack of resistance to instructions, rigid posturing that often cannot be altered for long periods, excited motor activity, and bizarre postures. While Barrett did show these symptoms, there has also been debate as to whether he suffered from Asperger’s syndrome, which is a type of pervasive developmental disease similar to autism.

There has also been much speculation about Syd Barrett’s LSD use. He is often portrayed as a man who ‘fried his brains’ with his constant LSD use. According to some reports, he was actually slipped the drug without his knowledge, and his episodes with the drug only served to further aggravate his delicate mental state.

In the years since he left Pink Floyd, Syd Barrett has been in and out of mental institutions, and is said to be improving. He released two solo albums to critical acclaim. But Barrett’s greatest influence has been on the band he created. Many of their most brilliant musical statements, like the albums Dark Side of the Moon and The Wall, are centered on ideas of madness and depression. Their art-rock classic Wish You Were Here and the epic song ‘Shine on You Crazy Diamond’ were dedicated to him, and reflect their own struggles in dealing with Barrett’s catatonia and mental breakdown. Despite their huge successes in the decades following Barrett’s exit, Pink Floyd still acknowledge his undying influence on their life and work.

In many ways, rock stars are parodies of themselves. Every story of sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll is a cliché that grows in stature over time into legends beyond themselves. Some people like John Lennon, Jim Morrison and Jimi Hendrix, though brilliant in their own right, have had their personas blown to such epic proportions that it’s hard to sift the truth from the fables. There are no clichés in Syd Barrett’s story. The legend has diminished over time, much like his mental stability, into a sad story of a truly extraordinary person, who has been broken by catatonia and drug use.

For various reasons, mostly academic, I had to remove some of my earlier posts. They have been republished below...
Don't you love outtakes?

The Road to Our Red Hill: Part II

Grandfather refilled his glass of scotch and continued…


Andreij never knew for certain what was ailing his Manu. She sometimes told him how she felt, but often she was quiet, never revealing the symptoms for fear of upsetting Andreij. Sometimes she would cough and breathe heavily, some days she would sleep for hours in the makeshift bed he had made for her in the wagon. But with each passing day, the saddest symptom was silence. Andreij longed to know how he could help her, but she believed it to be a passing malady.

“Don’t worry Andreij. Just wait till we reach your Red Hill. I’ll be better then.”

Despite himself, Andreij believed her. There were days when the snow would sprinkle in beauty, only to make the road a slippery, treacherous passage. They halted some days, and Andreij brewed her pots of tea, while she smiled at him from the blankets. He stared for hours at the passing woods and barren fields. There was less and less absent chatter as the days passed, and the modest crowds on the road became more and more sporadic. Andreij tried to make conversation with people he saw, trying to make up for Manu’s silence. He longed for a physician to pass by so that he could ask him to examine Manu, but none came. Of course, Manu scoffed good naturedly at Andreij’s concern,

“Give it some time Andreij. By the time we reach your Red Hill, I shall be well.”

But she did not get well. They went for days without seeing anyone on the road. One evening they saw a peasant pass by them. He was dressed in deep grey, his shoulders were bent, and he carried a sickle in his hand. What was he going to harvest in the winter? Andreij wondered.

“Excuse me, good sir,” Andreij called out to him. But he simply shuffled passed them, ignoring Andreij’s calls. The peasant was humming a tune to himself. The same tune that Andreij heard from the roadside singer. He feared that the memories would emerge again, without Manu's words to comfort him. But now, all he remembered was warm hands.

The peasant turned the corner ahead of them, and disappeared out of sight. Andreij trudged along beside the horse, the wagon, and his silent sleeping companion. As they turned the corner, he heard Manu whisper something to him. He couldn’t hear her. So he stepped up closer to her and placed his ear close to her pale lips.

“It seems we have reached our Red Hill.”

Andreij looked bewildered, and looked further up along the road. There was a small wooden post, worn and battered, with the name ‘Red Hill’ inscribed in fancy, flowing hand. Beyond it were two stone gateposts, with only a single gate. He ran back to Manu, elated.

“We did, we did! We found our Red Hill!” he exclaimed. As he ran he saw a smile playing on her lips. But she had drifted to sleep again. He came close to her, held her face in his palms, and kissed her. But her lips looked and felt like winter.

And a tear splashed from his cheek to hers.



….And a tear splashed from Grandfather’s cheek to the floor.

And a tear splashed from my cheek, to the floor.

The Road to Our Red Hill: Part I

As I sauntered through my home from room to room, there were memories jumping out at me from every corner. Bookcases and peeping doors opened slowly to reveal reminiscences, often greeting me with a flourish of ancient dust. But much of the home was still in use, and soon my wanderings led me to the study. And there he sat, sliding the fingernails of his left hand through the grain of the armrest, clutching his scotch in the pudgy fingers of his right, and, as always, telling stories. Today, Grandfather’s audience was an enraptured trio of younger cousins. I listened from the far end of the room expecting to hear some familiar tale being retold, but to my surprise I found that I had not heard it before. Now that I think of it, I have never heard Grandfather retelling a story. Only telling them, but with an air that made you wonder if there were some grains of truth scattered among these fictions of his imagining. I had missed half the tale, but I sat down anyway…

“I regret that I will not be able to follow you past the border. You are like a brother to me, but I must return,” said Juan, as he turned his horse and started it off in a trot back down the road. “May She be with you till you reach your destination…wherever that is...”

“I lament that I will not be able to follow you past the border. You are like a brother to me, but I too must return,” echoed Alexia, as she turned her horse and followed Juan back down the road they had come. “May She be with you till you reach your destination…wherever that is...”

There was a pause which Andreij tried to fill by awkwardly kicking stones at a nearby shrub. But Fynn eventually spoke as well.

“You know that I cannot follow you. But keep the horse. You will need it to get to wherever you are going”

Fynn turned, but instead of returning down the road, he climbed the fence and began to cross the field, making his way North. Andreij called out to him as he left, “Forgive me Fynn.”

“What for Andreij? There is nothing to forgive…” But there was little to hide the disappointment on Fynn’s face. Maybe time would erase it. “May She be with you, Andreij.”

Andreij gazed down the road towards the retreating figures of Juan and Alexia. They grew fainter as the tunnel of overhanging trees engulfed them. Andreij stared and strained till he could no longer discern them from the other dark specks in the distance. Fynn was lost to sight long ago.

Andreij turned to Manu, who had watched the proceedings in silence. “What about you Manu, don’t you think you had better leave too? Winter will be here and I still don’t know where we will be going. Who knows how long it will take before we reach the end of our wanderings? Perhaps you had better head back down the road as well. You can still catch Juan and Alexia if you take the horse. After all, I haven’t much need for it. I’ll just walk.”

Manu smiled, half to herself. Andreij knew that she wouldn’t leave. And she knew that Andreij did not wish for her to leave. These were his desperate cries to stay with him. And she heard. And she listened.

“Of course you know where we will be going: to that Red Hill.”

“But that is only half way. If we reach there in a year, it means that there will be at least a year more till we reach the end,” retorted Andreij, with his characteristic self doubt.

“But if we reach that Red Hill in a week, then we only have two weeks left. Cheer up.” Manu smiled again, and Andreij looked at the wagon which was now almost half empty. But there were enough supplies, he deemed, and they set off.

Those were happy days for Andreij and Manu. He was quiet, and she would talk. She was endlessly fascinated by the things she saw on their way, and she never complained too much. Birds, flowers, young peasants. They all became subjects of avid conversation. But Andreij’s silence made monologues of Manu’s chatter. He was glad of her company. The ways were unfamiliar, and he often longed for home. He also thought of Fynn, Juan and Alexia. With the hours he spent pondering their departure, all at once, so suddenly, he realized that he was never sure whether he had left them, or they him. The roads they took were muddy, and with some company now and then. A few noblemen rode by, silently passing on their tall horses. Peasants with their shovels and spades slung over their bent shoulders waved or tipped their caps. With Manu by his side it became easier to forget how much he longed for Fynn, Juan and Alexia. They had been an eager company, but the pair he found himself a part of was just as buoyant. The summer rays lit up their days, but soon, as they traveled on, their breath began to turn misty, and they found their cloaks pulled tighter, and the scarves emerging from their bags.

One day they found a young musician, singing and playing a somber tune by the side of the road. Andreij knew the tune, and the words were vaguely familiar. He could not place it, but the song dragged up memories from childhood that he had long placed in secret burrows. They emerged from their hibernation and left him even more silent than usual. Manu simply took to holding his hand more. The song played in his head for days. He rolled the words of the song around his tongue, and the tune hung around his ears like the fog growing around them, while Manu’s fingers caressed the warmth back into his palms.

“Don’t worry Andreij, we’ll be at the Red Hill soon.” She smiled. He smiled.

And winter grew, till one day Manu woke up and said, “Andreij, I’m sick.” All at once, so suddenly, things changed again.

My Family

With each hasty word, I draw

one

more

thirsty

twig

From under the pile of desiccating stems
That is my family.

Our precarious perch
Will drop its fruit to the undergrowth,
And the wind will apportion the stench of silence
Between us.

Soon
We will scream back at the din of echoes
That ring against our thatch-work,
And huff.
And puff.
Till we all fall down.

Plague Eight

With our cricket screech song
We burst brain and brunch on bran in
Our easy.
Going life to breath to cold in
Our fields.
Of gold we dream in endless plains
Bounded in a hop.
Skip and jump to the map
Of many crickets, in one locus.
Our legs eke, lips chew
And wings banquet the sun.
But.
As the blades dull and the ears fade
We beat, shrink and we bury.

My Mimosa

My mimosa lies nondescript in the noonday
Slender limbs splayed in artless play
She hears the call of some distant wind
Upon its westward way.
"I have borne the dove and bird of prey
And bring memories of oceanspray
But now my wandering is at an end
Won't you dance with me today?"
In quiet tumult she folds her palms
Wilting before this unnamed harm.
But she has heard this westwind's song before
And it soothes her into blissful calm.
She returns to caper silently,
For she knows that it is me

Hit Me With Your Best Shot

I pray the Lord nudge me from above
If I ever talk of professing Love
For this feeling I take to be Love benign
Is probably the effect of too much wine

Godrej 7 Levers

Like a thief in a familiar home, longing steals in again.

Inferno

Seven o’clock was her time, the moment in the day when the post-dawn cool began its hesitant commerce with the clammy warmth of the day to come. That perfect equilibrium between the glorious possibilities and the looming truths of the day gave her enough time to enjoy the only real pleasure she had nowadays: breaths taken in true ease. Before them lay drowsiness. Beyond, life. She savoured every particle, the pure oxygen sliding past the waft of dung and sulphur. Diwali had ended with a whimper the night before. The night had started with such promise, but the dawn had taken her companion, with his black pants and inexpert love, beyond her reach. But she liked it best that way. No phone call to make if you did not have a number to call, and no lover to waste good 7 o’clock time with. Inhale. Exhale. Done. One minute past seven. Time’s up Sarai.

It was at college that she had morphed from easy-going idealist to mechanical animal. She was now the resume writer’s archetype: motivated self-starter. Like a Kinetic Honda. No kick-start for her; she was just a crummy machine that crackled to life with the press of a square red button and screeching bell ring. It was also in college that she had lost her archaic Old Testament name, with it’s stubbornly adhesive ‘i’, for the more androgynous charms of ‘Rai’. And like the name, the lifestyle had stuck. She did recall a time when she would sit at Koshy’s for hours consuming nothing more than their perfectly chilled water and the heady buzz of the journalists’ tobacco smoke. There had been mornings spent doing the Hindu Crossword. Cryptic, mind you. No pansy Easy versions for her, mister. Hell, there had even been lovers resembling steady commitment. Now, all were lost in a haze of corporate gobbledygook and balloon-empty hierarchy pomp. But no time for reminiscing or regrets, Sarai: two minutes past. Or Seven Oh Too, as they would say in lesser hemispheres.

Exactly one hundred and twenty seconds earlier, in the empty plot of land behind Rai’s house, Ullas the newspaper recycle man languorously unhooked the single safety pin that held his fly and his tenuous modesty together. With his legs spread to avoid splash, he unleashed a golden stream on the back wall of the house, now stained with the signatures of many men and many styles. He absently stared up into the sky as he indulged in his Constitutional right to Take a Piss Where You Please. He completed the ritual and walked towards his bicycle, stacked with the tools of his trade: weighing scale, some crude iron weights, and a few deflated bicycle tubes. And with an avian cry, Ullas plunged into the lazy day’s traffic. “Newspaper!!!! Newspaaaaper!!”

Three newspapers a day, each one a small chunk of her father’s collage persona. The Hindu to feed that haughty part of him that thought he liked to read ‘serious’ news, verbose and erudite. In reality, he only read the sports page, and usually only Arvind Aaron’s chess column. Then there was the Malayala Manorama, testament to his devotion to his home state and unfailing regret at abandoning his family business and property. His cover-to-cover reading of the Manorama, his source of news and worldview, was his act of daily penance for his sins against the motherland. The third was his whimsy slot, changing from the Times to the Asian Age, sometimes even the Express. When he died three years ago, the place had fallen to the Financial Times, and there it had stayed. They were the only legacy her father had left her. Even though she had little time to even glance through them, they came in everyday without fail, except the day after Diwali, when even journalists and the newsprint people take a break. And so the piles grew, playing unread Pyramids to her father’s unreadable Sphinx.

***

“No Madam. Manorama only two rupees fifty paise per kg. Hindu three.”

Rai could never understand this discrimination against vernacular newsprint. Isn’t all newsprint created equal? Rai liked to think that at the root of the disparity lay a deep vindictiveness against her tribe for their rabbit-like ability to infest any nook of the globe, and their ferret-like ability to make it their own. A conspiracy among newspaper recycle men to rob the Malayalees of 50 paise per kilo of used Manorama newsprint in token recompense for the injustices meted out by the race of its readers.

Rai smiled to herself and assented. In reality, she would have given it all to him free. With each paper he stacked, carefully removing any superfluous paper, sorting and weighing them in front of her, she saw a small portion of the bitter memories being purged. She was selling off the memory of her father piecemeal, and without a hint of remorse. Perhaps they would be bleached and reborn as fresh newsprint. Perhaps they would be rolled tightly around silvery firecracker charge by nimble five-year-old fingers. Perhaps they would burn.

It was seven-thirty, and for once, she didn’t give a damn. The fucking boss could wait. Rai was finally getting to spend some quality time with her father. Ullas was overwhelmed. Every time he thought it was done, she would emerge from another room with another stack of papers in her hands. But he did not complain. In an hour, he would have collected a day’s worth of newsprint.

“That’s the last one,” she said, laying down a small stack of the oldest newspapers in the house. She walked slowly towards the phone, dialed, and waited.

“Srinivas News Agents? Yes, I live in Rang Apartments, flat number one zero two. I would like to cancel all my newspaper subscriptions…Yes, Mr. Chacko’s daughter…No, there is no problem. From tomorrow onwards, please do not bring any newspapers. I shall settle any dues at the end of the month. Thank you…bye…”

Ullas was done with the last set and began to haul the neat stacks downstairs. It took him a few trips before he was ready for the last one. He paid her the money that was due and started to lift the final stack.

“Wait,” she said with a start. He held the sack down and looked at her curiously. Without a word, she grabbed the newspaper at the top of the pile and closed the door as he left. Grabbing a pen from the counter, she sighed and eased herself into the couch in her living room. She breathed in the nine o’clock air like a newborn. The world could wait. For now, Crossword No. 8352 beckoned.

Two down. Conclude negative response leads to Hell.

Puhltikl Klout

To give vent to my puhltikl opinions, and any other vitriol that pops into my head, I have created Puhltikl Klout. Let's see how long it lasts.

Final Questions

Our foot soles mark, in the mud we leave behind,
The entropy of reason,
The concentricity of inevitable dilution.
Sipping slow seconds in the
Insurance of infinites
Lying before us
In warranties of wear and tear
And affidavits for anarchy.
Our squalid treads in hapless unison
Stride towards the light switch to the Sun.
Flick Switch Off Cold Dark
We lie down with inanimate lovers: cities built, empires adored
All settled now in a heap of equitable lassitude.
Together we rest in the comfort of the universe’s ultimatum.
Dust to dust. We are food for thermodynamic legality.

Kia and the Boy Dragonfly - Part 1

“Well, my father’s a wizard!” said Kia with some finality.

“Indeed? Well perhaps during the course of his pedantry he has chanced upon the study of hydrogen bonds. I recently consummated my own research in this field. I spent a good part of the past year in Farmer Neal’s Farm,” said the boy, sitting perfectly poised on the stump of a tree, back straight and slick hair set in place. Kia hadn’t a clue as to what he was saying, and had never even heard of Farmer Neal. It sounded insulting, and it probably was. More than anything, Kia hated it when people talked of their friends and acquaintances as if the whole world knew them on a first-name basis. Her friend Adam did this often and she loathed it. So Ambrose and I spent the whole day together catching prairie dogs. Adam had been talking of this Ambrose fellow for a few months and had never cared to point out who exactly he was. Kia hadn’t bothered to inquire further.

Kia was a girl. And she was the only Kia in the world. She knew that, because her father the Wizard had told her that her name translated loosely into “Characters and events in these stories are fictional. Any resemblance to real events and persons is purely coincidental.”

“What a tiresome translation. And may I be frank in saying that it is a rather phonetically unlovely nomenclature,” said the boy, rising to his feet, when Kia pointed out the uniqueness of her name. By now, Kia was seething, but her father the Wizard had always taught her to remain calm in such situations. It was only this training that kept her from slapping Adam hard behind his knees. Similar instincts were creeping up on her now, but she kept them in check. Besides, the boy was wearing grey pants that looked like a 60-40 blend of polyester and cotton, so slapping him behind his knees would be rather futile.

“Well, let’s hear your name then, smarty pants,” said Kia.

“In actual fact, my slacks are a 60-40 blend of polyester and cotton. But yes, they do look rather smart, do they not?” The boy then proceeded to look down at his paints, admiring them, carefully fingering the creases and flattening each leg from his waist to his knees. Kia rolled her eyes, and walked off through the thick grass in the direction of her home.

“Djkrie,” said the boy, calling after her.

Kia spun around on one heel. “What?”

“That is my name. Djkrie,” said the boy, with a look of smug satisfaction on his face.

“That’s the ugliest name I’ve heard in my life.”

“So be it. Have you met Trotsky?” The boy seemed somewhat crestfallen at the response to his name, but quickly recovered. Kia was annoyed. This Trotsky person sounded a bit like Ambrose.

“Who? Trotsky? The Russian revolutionary chap? Nope. Haven’t had the pleasure. Perhaps, during the course of your study with Farmer Neal, he told you that Trotsky died quite a while ago?”

Djkrie did not respond. He whistled two sharp notes, and called out, “Trotsky.”

Kia noticed a faint buzz filling the air. It grew louder over the next few seconds, and Kia looked around to find its source. Suddenly, a large, initially unidentifiable flying object flew into her view. The buzz came from a pair of glass-like wings, thinly veined with a mesh of red lines. They were flapping at a furious pace, and Kia was sure she heard ‘Purple Haze’ playing somewhere in the background as it hovered in front of Djkrie.

“This is Trotsky,” said the boy, absently stroking Trotsky’s long, glistening abdomen. It was about six feet in length and looked like shiny sections of sushi squashed together.

Trotsky was a dragonfly. The most beautiful, and the only, dragonfly Kia had seen.

Earth, Spirit, Blues

I sit on a chair
Like jazz.
Chromatic thoughts colour my
Sullen syncopations,
Drifting into a lazy day's coda
From one mode of sorrow to another.
Old blues lick new wounds
Panning my self indulgence
Across one cheek,
And now another.
But I,
I
Can’t

Quit

You

Babe.

I Advance Masked

I advance masked
Through eddying crowds
Of my dreamless fellows.
We have offered them up,
Severed, hacked, mutilated
And burnt at the stake
In our mindless sacrificial rite
Baptized daily life.
What we seek is the peace of dreamless sleep.
What we receive
Is ash.

Last Night...

I saw this guy....




























Jamming with this guy....




























And this guy.
















This guy decided to tag along too...
































This lady walked onstage once in a while, and blew my mind each time.





























And because he's so nice, this guy opened up the show...



...and did I mention that someone else bought me the ticket?

At The Melon Stand

I was a riding in my car one day
Shopping for some melons
When from my Maruti I glimpsed
A fateful glimpse of Helen.
Helen was a friend of mine
In her jalopy flying
From her anxious look I soon surmised
She too was melon buying.
But then I found, to my dismay
The cause of her worried pose
It was not because of the melon stand
But due to something in her nose.
So Helen reached in eagerly
And found the sinful foe
For some young ladies of high society
Prefer to reach in, rather than blow.
While I must admit, I flinched a bit
And the incident left me vexed.
But nothing I’ve known could ready me
For what I witnessed next.
Graceful Helen, maiden made
Of niceness, spices and sugar
Proceeded to, without remorse,
Feast upon her booger.

Messianic Doorknobs

There are silences in my life that need to be shouted at. For a time, there’ll be no space in my room for pompous verse, only vitriol and prose. No space for graceful complacence, but a To Lease sign for jagged bitterness. I like to think I avoid talking about my mundane everydayness here, but sometimes, the plainer the autobiographical tirade, the greater the catharsis. Sometimes, it’s nice to put words together that in the end have no meaning whatsoever. It reminds me of how much bullshit we are all full of. The fumigating bloke assuaged the licensing fee of messianic doorknobs, scratching a storm in the gaping crevice between shoe polish. Sometimes, even a bleak outlook seems wholly pointless. At that point, grammar

Syntax

Meaning

All

Fall

Over

The lips

Of a gaping

Precipice.

Sometimes I Feel Like Screaming...

A Night of Pondy Dreaming

An angry dusk settles into hesitant calm, placated by the matronly whisper of the night wind. We watch in silence as the streaks of fiery red disperse in the wake of gathering darkness. Our steady breathing matches the pulse of the waves, one with the intangible subterranean engine that sets the pace for the heave of our chests, the relentless salt water crash, and the winking innuendo of the stars above us. No theatre could be a more apt setting for the drama of tiny lights that unfolds before us.

We had often told each other that some day we would spend a night in wordless togetherness, watching the sea together. There was never much hope in that promise, but tonight, by chance, our playful covenant has been fulfilled. There is no romance here tonight, or any night, simply the unfettered oneness that old friends bring. And she is perhaps my oldest friend.

In the background we hear the primal din of our companions. They immerse themselves deeper in youthful decadence as the cloak of the night falls heavier upon us all. But we are oblivious to the invisible haze of smoky intoxication. Our liquor is the sea.

Soon, our silence has extended long into the night. The waves have turned into distant aural shells, like common words left bereft of their meaning from constant childish repetition. So we speak. We speak of God, and friends, and love, and music, and dissecting frogs. They are well worn topics, beaten into crude philosophy from the shapeless iron of our banter. But no one can see knowing smiles in the dark. So we talk and smile to ourselves, while the insistent waves try to get a word in. Eventually we tire of speaking, and as we drift back into silence, the waves continue their united monologue. We listen again.

Behind us, our friends are now silent, lulled into fitful dreams by the same waves that hold us hostage. They will wake with a crushing throb in their heads, regretting the night’s revelry and the bilious aftertaste of their adventures. But for us, there will be no waking, as we run the marathon of sleepless defiance hand in hand. We refuse to let any night wind’s lullaby shut our heavy lids, and as our eastward-facing amphitheater begins to brighten, we know that our sojourn is at an end. We rise with the sun, dust off our clothes, and turn our backs on the vastness of our watery, night-long companion. The play is over, the blazing curtain of morning closes the stage to view, and the promise is now complete.

You

Hey you. Yes you. I’m talking to you. Don’t turn around and make furtive glances, acting as if I may be addressing someone else. There are very few visitors to this place who make visitations without leaving a visiting card. And besides, I heard your tip toe on the carpet trying to read in stealth (you have nice toes, by the way; I’ve told you that before). I have a couple of things to say. One, I miss you. You’ve rarely been away when the shitake hit the Kawasaki, but as I’m beginning to learn, oceans are hard to traverse, good times or bad, despite all good intentions. Oh, and that’s another thing. I’ve forgotten to say thank you. It’s been many years since you threatened me with glitter glue, and searched for gold dust (potentially toxic, I’m sure) with me in petty streams. And I’m still waiting on that novel you said you were writing. If nothing else, at least start a blog! It will give us both an equal chance to stare at each other’s self indulgence with well-meant voyeurism. But I digress. I was thanking you when I started rambling (characteristic, don’t you think?). Yes, thanks. However far or near we’ve been, or however long the silences, talking to you has a singular comfort. The good thing about bad times is that they serve, if nothing else, to remind me how much of my thanks I owe you. Anyway… till next time, which won’t be too far away. Before you know it I’ll be knocking at your gate at seven a.m. for another morning walk.

Metronotomy

Our days were delirium.
Treading sweet nectar from idle hours of
Quiet togetherendlessness,
Weaving tunes with our tied-tongues
To the signatures of dusty road wind.
Keeping time, Two thousand
Eight hundred
And 12 to the minute.
But now
Seconds of silence stagger into the scene.

'Tis the Season to be Jolly

There’s a joyous din in the forest eaves
And a spring in the fox’s trot.
The cottontail rabbit lies in repose
With the mink at their favourite spot.
The quails have abandoned their shrubbery fort
To frolic in playful ease,
And the badger returns from his longer winter snooze
To pick off accumulated fleas.
Why such a mood of festive glee?
You ask, does it stand to reason?
Shouldn’t they all be slinking in fear
At the start of hunting season?
But no my dear friends, the animals are safe
Free to have their fun.
The ones in danger are the hunters themselves,
Because Cheney’s got a gun.

A Countercultural Dictionary of Nothing

My tries silenced by misanthropic silences;
Beeswax halting creative flow
Scream from within: numbers on a line, negative, positive, relative, flow
I see, you see, but feel flows, my friend.
If you have it, flaunt it, my friend of many years
For years will divulge the secrets of our short time
And people will gather to hear late reminiscences
Of the dogs of war, and men of hate
We perambulate, we procrastinate
And we see what we refuse to see.

For the Jugular Bean, a friend and inspiration through ages.

Roman Ball Games, Anyone?

Some champion the cause of Pairity
While others esteem the virtues of Singularity
The Pairity camp is singular in that they deride without charity
The life of the individual bent on solitairity.
The Singulars parry calmly by drawing attention to the deep disparity
Between the proportion of the dinner bill laid on the table by the Man
And his Manatee.
But Pairs in their rebuttal will rebut,
Will hmm, haw, tsk-tsk, and tut-tut,
And point out that the broken-hearted heart owner
Is better than the individual possessing the heart of a loner.
But can I make a proposal, with due modesty?
I humbly suggest we mingle in groups of three.
Let us reject this morbid fascination with Singles, and Doubles;
For trios, trinities, triumvirates, triplicates, and troikas will save us much trouble.
To those enamoured of Ones and Twos,
Haven’t you heard? Three is company, too.

The Ocean Blues

I felt the ocean today
Rising in tumult around us,
Tearing at sinews
Steady relentless beating acid
Eating at shores and continents,
Like hunger at stomachs lined with emptiness.
Making islands of men
And pebbles of hard hearts.
I see your ruins at a distance.
I hunger. I hunger.
I tasted the ocean today
Bitter brine from eager cheek flow
Parting reluctant lips.
Speak in tongues
Of Sadness and Longing.
Tongues of Sadness
And Longing.

Longing

Longing is the price we pay for a central nervous system.

More Split!

I've reviewed 'Whose Line is it Anyway', a song by Bangalore's talented Shoestring for the latest update of Split Magazine, as well as the classic Rock Machine album, The Second Coming. Enjoy.

Tagged

Here’s my response to Fingers’ tagging about my ‘ideal’ better half. Firstly, she’d have to be a she. Then…

1. I’d like someone who’s artistically inclined. Any art: music, dance, fine art, film, theatre. A sense of artistic aesthetics would ensure one thing: she can’t be too boring. If she can teach me about an art I’m unfamiliar with, awesome!
2. If she’s relatively easy going, it’d be nice. That would balance me out without annoying me...*sigh* how perfect it all sounds.
3. Someone who’s ready for compromise, because I am.
4. Nice feet are absolutely essential.
5. Someone who can sense and match my level of interest and commitment. A girl on either extreme is just trouble.
6. I like whisky. It’d be nice if she does too. But I won’t fuss.
7. A girl who has a quirky sense of dress who can correct my own would also be nice.
8. I’ll leave this blank, because inevitably the girl will have AT LEAST one thing unexpected that you didn’t know you’d grow to love…

Splitting Hairs

I have been writing for an online music magazine for the past couple of months, and the editor finally managed to put it up after many unexpected delays. It's called Split and the inaugural January issue has 2 of my articles. One is a review of Thermal and a Quarter's Plan B, and the second is a book review of The Rock Snob's Dictionary. Check it out and look forward to more content in the future.

...and Fingers, your tagging will be acted upon soon...i promise..