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.