Today, I did nothing.
I saw, others walk away with prizes
Today, I sat all day
Sprained my ass.
Cooked both meals,
Ate with a fork, white-yellow meals
I didn't read, neither write
Didn't intimidate myself with fear of missing any buses
I didn't kohl my eyes
Looked for the moon in a cloudy dusk sky
Later it poured, oh
And I braided my hair, standing in the balcony
Yes, that's special, my thinning horsetail of a hair.
My fingers running through semi moist strands of those
And now, with my braided hair
And my bellyfull of quietude, I slip into my Personal Night
Every other day, I would like to shut my eyes for a bit. A teeny-weeny shuteye. And view life from a distance. To assess our collective tininess. To bask in our inconsequential failure at being. And to nevertheless, extract joy in syringes and save it for the lifetime of winter. Or harsh summer.
You wouldn't get it, probably. But I feel loved when a gust of cool breeze grazes me on a hot afternoon of May. I wait through exhausting and unending days at work because in the end, I get to slurp noodles from my huge purple bowl. I love the onset of the night, despite our complex issues, convoluted emotions and unfinished businesses, it's an excuse to call it a day. It's over. Or, soon, it will anyway be. I love the way, the wind blows in my city. I appreciate how invisible I can be, if I want to. I love how being far-far from home, gives me wings of freedom. I lust for how a longish faltering stare from a man, can make my heart go up in bubbles, even if it's gonna lead us nowhere. No one, nowhere.
Despite the propaganda otherwise, I think I am kind of getting it. Shuteye. Night Night.
Don't know what I might see,
I am too scared to be
Alone with myself, tonight.
There's no confetti
Or rose petals and chocolate
Just a crumpled bed-sheet
And half read books strewn
I am imploding, as we speak
Haven't we had too much?
Haven't we had too little?
I am thirty
When will my love of irony, die?
My drama. My scarcity
My appalling dearth of guts
My fear of myself
And my pointless distractions,
Lined up one after another
So I ne'er haveta think
Where I'm headed
If I am getting ahead, or stuck
Or simply regressing, guess I am
My whole entire idea was to,
Just stay afloat
Merely nostrils above water
Exactly this way,
I'll float out into the sea
With least possible effort.
And life treats me right back,
The same way.
Quid pro quo
With minimal reward.
And hence my implosion
There's this logic
That I don't want to see.
But now see.
I know why I fall
Probably, I'd be no other way
My love for oblivion
Goes a long way
Transcends all ambition
My diminished self worth
Digs up nadir after nadir
Tied in my own tongue
I am succumbing to
Self inflicted asphyxia,
As I child, I stumbled on Icarus
Icarus who, flew too close to the sun
Melted his wax wings
Fell into the ocean and died
I can't recognize who I've become
But certainly far apart from the child
Who was fascinated with Icarus
I've probably made my choice
I've set my heart on
Never Being Icarus.
Missing the bus, most of the times
Building worlds within worlds
Pointing all furniture toward the TV
Waiting for that day of the week
When you can say, that
My day has been bad enough
To deserve a smoke
Cooking, chopping vegetables
The same condiments, in every meal
Yellow mildly disgusting food
Walking, looking at your toes
Stealing eye contact
Being mum, containing poetry
Coating hours with abandoned love
Soaking minutes in sunlight
Chasing cabs, chasing autos
Wading through knee deep flood waters
Fiddling for change
Running out of money
Thinking you're poor
What have you done, nothing
Except watch TV and shirk
Watch TV and shirk
And live in this perfunctory anxiety
Waiting to go kaput
So much poetry for zilch.
Coming to bed with a glass of
And I forgot, whoever does that?
Let dust settle on me
And watch days pass me by
Nights, more so
Let love hover over me,
Like a bee, and then
It just scares me away
And I eventually run out of creams
See my dull skin, in yellow bedroom light
I see I am suddenly older
So unfair, this
And sometimes I take my time, own sweet
When I finish, I forget the beginnings
You know, an oracle
Who reminds us of our memories
Because life, like a cannibal, eats itself away so thoughtlessly
Gathered and at peace
Awaiting the hours of my future
Tomorrow and the day after
November & December
June & July,
Holding a shaky pen
Between my index finger and my thumb
Wanting to write,
But not sure about what
Because, there is so much
And simultaneously there is, nothing at all
Observing my life
Meander from one mundane punctuation
To the next,
How much more common can I get
Now that I am already invisible
What else is still left to be
The coffee table is now strewn with our paraphernalia.Cigarette butts, the ash tray over turned. Ash mixed with vodka has created a clay which darkens the color of tonight. There's like a dozen other bottles on this table. Bottles of all shapes and sizes. Tall bottles, slender bottles, stout bottles, curvaceous bottles. Just like women, who come in all shapes and sizes, so do bottles, apparently. There is a measuring cup though, that works for all alcohol alike. Hour-glass shaped, on one side it measures 30 ml, turned upside down, it measures 60.
Large drinks are for the big guys. We take small measured sips. Moisten our lips mostly. And lick the edge of the glasses. And sit and sit for minutes that melt into hours. The night is forming outside, like an amorphous being. The buds of flowers are shyly blooming outside, in the courtyard, on the roofs of our neighbours and in the rest of the world. The earth is slowly rotating on its titled axis. That axis must have also been as drunk as us, to be titled all the time.
The air feels warm for after midnight. May be, we are just locked in a closet, a closet with the mirage of a window. In a closet, mind numbed in asphyxia, high enough to believe that we are making sense, when we are not, and we are whiling away our entire lives watching American television. And then from being the size of a closet, the room expands gradually and becomes an open field, an open gallery. And there is no need to hide behind walls anymore.
There is a back room though. A bed room. With a fluffy mattress and a bobby print curtains. Should we leave the night alone and go back in there. What are the chances that we make love tonight now. What are the odds?
Gleelessly stuck in Penumbra
Between the ages, thirteen to nineteen
That teen angst, wasn't like nothing else
One particular afternoon,
I wasted sitting in the sunbeam
That trespassed through my window
In the dark, and writing a letter
On pen & paper, yes, real blue ink
And sprinkling it with rose petals
An unposted letter with that angst
About being alone and unwanted
Don't recall much else though
Literally speaking, for instance
My first sip of alcohol (cocktail - sex on the beach)
Or my first kiss
The first smoke,
But I know I had many firsts
Growing like a multi faceted organism
In so many directions
And with so less control
Nothing could begin to heal that angst
Not a box full of books,
Or nights spent drinking coffee
Or making craft
So many years of constant rebellion,
Do you recall yours?
Stuck in Penumbra, glee-less-ly
So long, so long.
With those sharp little tiny eyes of yours
Won't you glare them at me
Whimsically, as if by mistake
When our eyes meet mid air, mid way
Only to undo that mistake instantaneously
And look elsewhere with a shallow gulp of guilt
Observed, wanted, needed
For what else do we need more
Than this need to be desired
Tonite, and every other night, like this one
Thirst and lust, and the feeling of being quenched.
My goodness, hasn't it been long. It has.
As we run out of breaths and time
We run out of passion and even words
Just be, this way, and steal your coquettish glances from me.
Been seeing you:
Watching over you
And now look
I am stuck with a tonne of memories
Not knowing what to do-
Remember that time
That August evening
When we stopped by a tree
For a quick smoke
And in the dark, lit the cigarette from the other side
Burnt our lips and laughed so much.
Remember the homes,
We have lived in
Middle aged clingy apartments
Our clothes drying on railings
Piled on chairs..
Heaped on the bed
And the getaways
Particularly that one-
When we passed out in the bar;
In mid afternoon
Boy, were we high!
Don't recall puking, but I know we did and a lot
Do you remember,
Conversations and walks
Comparing our tastes
Among authors and makers of cinema
Couldn't have been more divergent
But, we were both alike in being different, for sure
All these years
We have both grown older love..
Ain't nobody gonna deny that
You've grown larger in my eyes
From a boy to a man
And then you've shrunk back
You're many men. Many mirages
Probably, it's just me hallucinating.
And drugging myself unnecessarily
With your bygone memories
To squeeze out sleazy poetry
Yeah, that's how it works
But I clearly recall.
Your grey eyeballs
The li'l bald patch, you were so nightmarishly afraid of
The neat buttons on your shirt and rolled up sleeves
And how you altered conveniently
Between being many men and the One for me.
As a multiple of days
I never think of,
Say, a week, a month,
A year, or a decade
All I think of
Is the fuckin' day
In the morning
I pray that it be a good day
That we be saved from misfortune
At night, I pray
That we get good sleep
That we are alive and safe
When we open our eyes.
Isn't that enough?
Thinking of life
On a day-to-day basis
Sometimes, I count hours too
A day is the smallest unit of life
Also I am afraid to think of it in longer units
I live day-wise
Buy milk every other day
Do the dishes every other day
Do my laundry every third day
Have a drink once in a week, or oftener
I watch two episodes of Seinfeld every night
To lull me to sleep
I can't paint my nails, as often as I would like
But that's okay
Same with writing
But who cares?
All I care is that,
Did my day go okay?
I am not looking for flamboyant success here, or glory
But is life still livable, are we alive,
Did I see things I was shown
And most importantly,
Did I hear what I was told
And did I
Open I mouth even half as much as I would like
Very modest expectations
May be this lack of ambition
Has me impoverished
And I don't remember
I got into this business of
And hours till I got to go home
To eat the dinner
Whose recipe I've been Googling
Since 5 pm
But I just am.
And I can't complain,
If I can have it this way
For days to come.
On early mornings in December
Sisters in tow from upstairs
Rushing down with school bags & lunch boxes
Their hair split into twin braids
And tied in white ribbons
So neatly, so neatly
I can never be a nihilist again.
Some hidden order in this chaos.
It must. Because of those braids
And the bed of flowers
Here, you know.
They haven't got marigold or gerbera, I believe
All they've got is chrysanthemums & roses
In that paucity of variety, there is infinite beauty
Heaps of roses, blood red, orange, pink, magenta
And chrysanthemums yellow and white
Those hawkers, stuck in your peripheral view are omnipresent
And they make life feel akin to
A bed of roses & chrysanthemums
And even if you don't buy yourself a bunch for Valentine's, that's okay
Until it is.
That your poems don't rhyme, horribly
You couldn't care less
What matters is that you remember and write
Like a mild insomniac beyond caffeinated midnights.
On some no moon nights
They glitter like insomniac jellyfish
And keep me awake too, and thoughtful
Dries my afternoon wet hair,
Clinging to my shoulders
I reluctantly give in again and think
What am I letting go, to become who I be
Which layer of me, be the true layer, like I were an onion
Am I numerous persons, all at once
Or am I a process, and every day catalyses me towards my core being.
I know, it's impossible and untrue.
To pay bills and die.
But when a westbound sun, quietly dries my hair, I've gotta think.