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Evolve

The need for flagellation is intense,
Like the will of death creeping and
At bay... The doc's medicine is working,
Stopping it at the doorstep, a step at a time.

The need for solitude has never been
So fiery but the fear of it more potent
And effervescent like epsom salt.
Bubbling at every stimulus my brain reads.

Why does it require for a man to fear
Liberation over tyranny of self? Why
Isn't the sea full enough to quench his
Thirst for novelty? Evolution at its best!

The Sapiens should grow a tail and dwell
On foliage while the apes may take the
Scepter and rule with instinct and preach
Instinctual liberation. Or maybe its just me.

Your's Truly...

One of those days...

 



Its one of those days when the sun sets
In the morning and the moon is eclipsed
At night. The seas and lakes are like a
Murky film of oil floating on astral forms.
A day when suddenly happiness and joy
Fizzles into a despicable air of heavy gloom
With menacing abruptness. Even the shade beckons
You and then pushes you away with scorn.
The distant phobia lingers in again like the
Unexpected ring of the telephone wired to my
Brain and being. Like you- my spine who holds
Me up straight and then suddenly pushes me away
Making a reptile out of me. Its one of those
Days when the dusk is dawn and the dawn- dusk.
The last ingredient in this potion of misery
Was added with an ever so precise stealth but,
Unintentional nonetheless. A sudden rise of thorn
Between our sheets out of nowhere, from the
Sleight of your hand and straight into my injury.
Thy will has been done whoever you are.

A perfectly adorned evening, poised to be ever so
Sweet and passionate, doused by the sands of
Infallible nothingness. Without reason, without
Mercy, without a name. Just tore everything apart,
Made nothing out of everything and everything out of
Nothing without us being the cause. This itch never
Ends though the lines have ended.

Comatose!

My mind posted an ad in the classifieds-
I am sick, impoverished and scary,
Seeking lookalike minds. Contact
Me when in coma or when vegetative.

Whether days went by or years ran their
Weary course I couldn't figure. But it was
A long time since, when between a
Suspended night  a mind knocked at
My lobes. It was comatose.

Numb, parched and pungent, just the
Way I like it it said. Many a vegetable
Came and stayed in my cranium since
Then. All of them hum the same tune,

Everyday, everyday! They hum and sway,
Pray and go astray, as if being pulled into
A whirlwind of endless chatter of sliced
Thoughts, images, words and perceptions.

The skull does not burst. Its tough, its hard,
Hard enough to not let the captive be free
But, dull enough to not let the walking ones
Know of the death noise and unending,
Riotous fury within.

All coming at once, with a violent force,
Adamant and sadistic, rips the neurons
Apart but the transmissions don't stop.
A constant dissection of thoughts and 
Actions.

Just leave my existence. Let me be. Don't go!
Coz I think, therefore I am. But, do leave this
Head, already cluttered and bashed about. 
Bruised by incessant neural activity, by thoughts
And inaction. 

Don't leave but then maybe you should. For you 
And I are insane, not those! Not them! We are, I am
The collective consciousness. Not those! They are
Comatose! 


 

I lie...

Am in a state of insolent silence,
Where the noise is peace and the
Silence is maniacal ruckus within.
Am here not for tomorrow, by today
I lie...

Am not the one who seeks or is sought,
But, just a shadow of flailing discontent
Of the givers, creators, painters of pieces
That once saw images of others on him. In
Time I lie...

Am and not will be or was or should be,
For all the sights and the sounds that
Maketh me the dire beast nor the winged
Angel. With needs few foresights many
I lie...

Am what you will not make of me and you
Do not exist in the chasm where I lie cold
But content. The warmth not toucheth me;
And you, a dream amidst a reality in which
I lie...

Am what you made me, made of me, made with me,
An equation, a numb sense on a bed of treachery
That once made you man and woman- alike. I am what
You should not have but yet, you just as well... I,
I just lie...

Begone! Not you, not me... But the strings that bind
Us together in the amber of time. You be your fossil
And me mine; you be your truth and me my lies. You be
The sufferers and me the folly. The bitches and whores
Of Immortality! Away from you I lie... Always.

Panic Attack





The walls have been closing in-
For a while. Losing the depth of
Breaths slowly I lunge forward to
Try breathing again. Becomes 
Harder still.

The lights are on with routine
Perfection. But, the blending 
Neural darkness fades its aura
Away into insignificance. The
Body, my body scatters...

Numb and suspended in wakeful
Coma I stagger outside to
Feed on some fresh air, like
A glutton trying to live. The still air
Engulfs me like a flowing spectre.

My throat is as heavy as a chimney
Full of soot. The more I breathe the less
It is.  Its not enough, its not enough!!
Is this death incoming with all its 
Resplendent potency or is it just me?

Why am I afraid? I don't know. 
I feel my head bobbing like a spring doll's 
And my ears feel like remnants of a shell burst.
As my bitter hands chafed beneath
The dust I knelt as if in prayer. 

I lie on my bed and wonder about the past
Few minutes. The body feels detached from
The mind while it strives to restore the balance.
Experts call it a panic attack but I felt it coming
Like meeting a new acquaintance. Strong but
Intermittent.


Just then, I feel the wind chill of the ensuing
Winter... I realize that I am still alive. Oh I... I 
Am still alive! I am still alive...

Depression the Almighty





Depression has many sides to it,
And one of them is happiness and
Laughter. Cautious pre-cursors that
They are, or preludes of the graph
Spiralling downwards. Self defining
moods...

Its like a body shivering with cold that
Draws a blanket of euphoria over it, only
To remove it later coz its too warm. But,
The body is always there- till it draws the
Long breath... Once.

It respects the satin warmth or the passionate
Chills of mental weather but, it is always there,
Like that obscure shadow at the corners of winding
And dingy streets with fading gas lamps. Only you
Know that the shadow is lurking around... attached
To your feet like chains.

It never tires, never frets and is never bored of the
Chocking monotony that it constitutes. For it knows
That death is always near when the victim leaves the
Body knowing the true purpose of his depressed self.
But, that seldom happens. Most of us develop a host
Like habit to let this parasite sustain and feast on our minds...

Dying a happy death knowing that we were unhappy all along,
Or waking up to a different life knowing that purpose is finally 
Here. Although, in any case you die, everyone dies. Finally the
Mood wins, sustaining itself through life and housing itself in
Another host, then another and another. Its ever perpetuating.
Prevailing in man more than religion, faith and society...

Its pure, that it is. Its humble and honest. It shows what it really 
Is and drowns you in itself no matter how happy you are. Its ever
Faithful and never leaves your side. Gives you tears, screams,
Howls, pains, lacerations, bleeding and sometimes flight. But,
It is what it is. Omnipotent, omniscient and all pervading. The 
Most powerful of nascent phenomenon... Then is this the real God?




Jeremy the Bee and Icarus






Arms raised in a V. While the dead lay in pools of
Maroon below. Poor Jeremy O' Delle lies in bones
While Eddie is the priest. Where do we have such
Commemorations everyday? Why don't we? 

Oh so many died! And so many more lived and are waiting
To breathe; Against pointing fingers and blunt, wicked
Smiles and gawking stares. The worm tickles in the head
Like a fly trapped in a glass jar. 

The buzz and the thumps are for Jeremys to hear. It says,
"Goooooo! Dooooo!! Liiiiiiivee!! Leaaaave and be on the
Outside... Please!" It begs. Coz the fly knows its life has
Been shortened by an overpowering thud of a hand.

How much does it take to take the first step and then
Run like hell?! Thats pricey... Hehehe! An awful lot and
Sometimes takes nothing at all. Run like a mustang,
Fuming with rage against chains and a 'need' to go.

But then, what fate did Icarus suffer? We are quite like
Him arn't we? The need to fly high on waxen wings ends
With a shattering drop onto the oceanic rocks- smeared
With red. So what? The pain lasts for a minute...

The freedom of those few minutes, gliding to the sun
Lives forever! Lets die. Let you and me die. I presume,
A death preceded by moments of pure freedom without
Silken threads and iron chains is worth trying...

Who knows? Maybe you will live after that. Maybe you
Won't. If we live, we shall keep dying glorious deaths
Everyday and sleep content in oceans or hills or
Woods or the open highways. And if we die...!

Aaah!! The death will be sweeter than birth ever was.
She will embrace you like no other and never let go.
Rebirths? I have not seen them... Neither have you...
But life we can. So, shall we now?

Or maybe later....





A Whore Called Maxine





There lived once, a whore called Maxine. In the bowels of every city she lived
A life feeding on greasy crumbs, thrown in jest at her by pleased guests.
A gentle hostess, Maxine let her guests fulfill any fantasies, feed on her
The way they wanted to and then leave when she was spent and numb.

No qualms ever crossed her conscience, or no persistent super-ego ever
Tore at her for choosing such means to an end. She was doing all that she
Could do best. Please a hunger which no emacipated soul can ever quench.
Forced into mediocrity, raised in strife, throttled with competition- she is now a whore.

There was a time when people had relations that she had to keep. People had hopes that she had to share. They had dreams that she had to see and
Expectations she had to keep and live up to. Soon enough, the seasonality
Of these, drove her into the streets where at least the cold roads, the thick air
And the leaking houses are faithful. They show what they were, are and will be.

She sang. She could sing. In modest gatherings where people of principles
And values took seats of dignity she sang. Now, those figures of stature seem
Like insects and reptiles crawling up her stairs to feed. She is a good Hostess, our Maxine. Never placing their shining pasts on their present.

But, maybe thats the way with the calling such as this. You feed but are not fed. You dont judge, but are judged. You dont stop entries but are shown Exits, the moment the cold coins hit your palm. Even love is scared to walk up Her stairs and ask for a glass of rhenish wine to replenish itself.

As, unselfish he is... He cant bring himself to breathe her air, share her bed, eat from her plate and cleanse the body. Love is too righteous for that. Too Emancipated to look at her from a height that is light years away. Her calling
That feeds her cats, pigeons and ducks cannot feed that crevice in her Bosom hungry for a tinker of light.

That light is not there... It isn't a light or a shining ray of unequited hope. It is
But a mere reflection pretending to be in full glory of values created on beds.
Just like the moon, ever shining but devoid of life from self, this is the calling
That she chose without help. This is life...