being your "IF"

If I wear water,                                     
If I drink from dusk,
If I cut my lock,
And enchant the flinty musk;
If I pour like rain,
in parts yet to drain
out in this sea of subterfuge,
Could You tell me, Who would I be,
Brown or grey, faint or Huge?
If I wade
out of stale sleep,
and on your shoulder as I keep,
My fluttering wings,
spluttering buzz deep;
Would You not 
head to north,
And pet me like 
that geisha moth?
I dine with thine
on gasps of playful time,
at an edge of night,
an edge of day,
Then you say
you hit a hump,
And why do I neigh?
Get me water, Get me sky,
For I do no more rely
on the pylon
that inside me resides,
kindling prisms of ebony.
I want to take after those,
that light- house,
this sugar- cube,
that into your tea goes,
And tastes of pristine dew.
I am waiting, I am wanting,
Am I willing,
to seclude wilderness?
For if my 'if'
Dies of "IF",
Will an Other,
I create!

MoM@!

I WRITE TO MY MUM, THOUGH I DON’T REMEMBER HAVING FOUGHT WITH HER NEITHER TO HAVE DENIED GENIAL TREATMENT OF ANY OF HER PARAMETRIC MORALS, IN THE RECENT PAST. YET I WRITE. I KNOW, FOR A FEW MINUTES NOW, THAT SPEECH COULD SEEM CACOPHONY WITH NO SIGN OF CHAOS AROUND. MY BUTTON- HOLE EYES WOULD HAVE KEPT APPPEARANCES, BUT FOR THE DISTANCE!

AND THIS IS HOW I TUNE MY PIANO OF WILTING MISCHIEF- writing to Mum.

MA,

        If I had to tell you about this city where I eat, sleep, walk, often sigh;

        Talk, think yawn and seldom cry; I would give it a lazy try. I would tell you, this is the place where I do all things goggle- eyed apart from feeling. Don’t get me wrong! There is undoubtedly more than a need to fall for revisiting nostalgia (that which is solely yours). Swish! A second’s pause, by your troth which I guard now, you see a hurrying haze of a home you partook in making, of busy buzz and shallow boot, of a melancholic walk- the longest one, of that pink flushed face contently bidding on ‘nothing’. Hurriedly, the whirl ceases into an eddy, then a bubble, and then into another ‘nothing’.

     Nothingness engulfs you. An azoic half of yours squirms for a vernal touch and I give it a lazy try. The city has me ensconced in sweaty palms. I do not belong to it though. It is not mine either.

If I had to tell you tales of things sundry and this city, I would take refuge in that ‘nothing’ and you would know “I belong to you”. 

- partaking in his' last

Earning from the vagaries of the twisted, tainted and shrivelled, (the afflicted in a nutshell), is comically natural among other humdrum lessons of life. This shouldn’t be a catch- phrase; I wrote it plainly as plainly as it succeeds to bemuse me. Oh no! I am not being the sadist; nothing at ‘awwwl’ like that. Trying to be grounded, “tick……tick…….tick………..3…..2……1 and here I land”; oops; muddy, soggy, coy, lol…………the ground lacks grounding……lol. I afford myself a good laugh often, after meals especially, rolling on the bed or down the bus seat with fits of fervid giggles, and an uncouth burppp that follows; regarding what?! This ninny nice habit of being practical; over round glasses as Miss Lobo says; “PR-AC-TI-CAL”; round glasses with which you see the apparent and hail down soaring idealism with potions of pageantry; I laugh at how Shelley fixed them all, coldly. Grounded huh!!!!

But there could be a turn you take in the whole course of seemingly straight route; kind of a joyous detour; that is to say what you earn and how you earn from ‘their’ compulsions; I do not showcase meekness in lightly referring to them but more honour as they transcend circles of sympathetic treatment and deserve a parliamentary approach of equitable right to feel, gracefully humanitarian.

So, cynicism if it is, I denounce an arm protruded to lacerate an already gaudy wound with puss and stench.

“Nemesis,                                                                                                                                                                                                       the feared one, oh my god of grim times, come on in, into this halo of muddled thought, towering conflict.                                                                                                                                                                          Come to bewail my mirth, that scampers to hide behind myrtle bushes, the scent of which you can twitch to admonish, can let to fester in arid drops of rain;                                                                                come now or never again, for I am prey at your hands, my defiance creeps away after that ripped scent. Ripped, Raped, Cleansed.” My sore deepens with theirs’.

 Is it flesh, or the taste of blood; is it the knife or its’ jab; is it sense or sensitivity that we lose and gain, time and again and hurt, hurt, hurt.

I caress this malicious surge of bile up my throat. Morbid sunshine, opal sky, sunny boy, and his forgotten toy. I look at a man of eighty and an eight, and I have reveries on the above lines. I look at a man of eighty and an eight and I know man is the jellyfish, not with a jaunty gaze. I look at a man of eighty and an eight, and I am yet to know how long is my lease. I look at a man, my grand-dad damn! And I know thy arse is not a private place.

Phew! Shaw is good for an impassionate vault; “ life does not cease to be funny when people die any more than it ceases to be serious when people laugh.”

BOTTLE UP THE GUILLOTINE, LAUGH AND LAUGH BEING GROUNDED.