animal farm: chapter ix

  i     am on top of

you

you

you   and

you

fall in line, you filthy pig!

*the pig turns his head in slow mo*

if only
this was
the last chapter.

*trumpet call*

malice in wonderland

have faith in your warm being

and it shall e x p l o d e into tiny splinters

on the tip of your finger
like a doe in heat

tip of the tongue

unleash the whip

work harder

it is still inked with

the ounce of blood lost

still a long, long

long way to go

before it is toasted

to satiate the palette

just about right

the illusionist

look at        disappear.

intimate affair #2

eye                 patch

           
           no         

           se

           

      upper lip

     gun barrel

      lower lip

noise factory

type

type

edit

read

delete

type

edit

read

edit

type

read

delete

type

edit

read

delete

undo delete

edit or send?

the mad hatter

         his head is
       under the hat
   you casually flung
on to the bustling street

follow me

look up

to the word

word

as the word

word

does not only

define words

but is a

word itself

the chosen one

mobbed by you,

me, her and them

he threw a punch

in their gut and

thundered

“hail me not, for I know

not what I have done”

and the crowd went berserk

with resounding cheer

and applause

into the woods

only with a mind

to shatter the

           did he

eventually scream

silence silence silence

silence silence silence

silence            silence

pied piper of dumblin

flow with them not

into the lap of tempatation

where the pen slips

slyly between the leaves

in and out, out and in (repeat)

only to spill the ink

and the crowd shall remember you

as the only one who dared

to follow his nose

tamed

he tread timidly along her murderous curves,

slipping into the fiery crevice, never to be seen again

high

the whore

wondered why

interested       the

                           man

          wasn’t

          and

    lap

he rather          her

put his head on

rested

Play..

"relieve

my shadow", pleaded

the man to

his lord

slowly

stretching

out his hand 

to extinguish

the only

lamp still

burning in

the room.

"your sympathy

is irrational", thundered

the lord

cracking a

whip on his

beloved subject's

hand,

fearing

to let go

the sole

endorser of

the game of

existence

home

“there is a little part of me I own”, said

the young girl

“why justify”, asked

the boy

“you smirked”, said

the girl

“because I couldn’t, the part you don’t”, said

the man

smoke

i run

around

in circles,

said

the dog,

marking

virgin

spaces

but what

can i

own now?
asked
the dog,

circles,

i said

circles,

circles,

circles,

until

you

disappear

the brewing storm

“do you trust me?”, asked

the woman

“why bother?” retorted

the man

“for I am a figment of your imagination”, said

the woman

attempt #1

         do

        burn

    her     with

      the   lit

       candle

          or

       smash

     my head

      with the

   candlestick

   that proudly

   embraces it.

   instead,why

   not kill two

    birds with

    one stone

ruthless child

blink and walk

over the blurring lines

of her soul

led by the thoughts

in your head

no strings need

be attached

for they will not

survive the emptiness

of the emotion

tucked away in

the corner of her

naked eye

blink and run

around the boundaries

of her existence

defined by the

spirit that owns you

no strings need

be attached

for even they will not

survive the emptiness

of the emotion

tucked away in

the corner of your

naked eye

blink and kill...

let it flip

tying the rope around his neck

to the iron pole cemented to the ground

he sat on the edge of his bed

under starry skies

all night

day came and then came night

as he continued to sit there

waiting for his world

to turn upside down

The Old Whore

he ran his hand

over the moist piece of cloth

dressing the cot

as his fingers read

every movement of hers

through the uncanny contours

of the spread

feeling the dents

of her body pressing deeper

with each subsequent thrust

breeding contempt

for she came cheap

had he been there

he would have laughed

Bubbles

A child blows bubbles

dipping a bent wire

in a can of soapy water

and watches them

flow with the wind, unperturbed

about their destination

Along the way

they disappear

conceding to the wind

and people's restless fingers

the two finally left

one tiny, but tight

the other,

big and pretty loose

are the ones that

draw the child's attention

as he waits for them to quench

his quest for life

Pop!

Doodle Bug

keep an eye on the pencil

as it moves around

on a tiny chit, hastily torn

scratching the surface

in short circular motions

boring the ones

incapable to grasp

the suffocation of spaces, defined

captivating the ones, ridiculously

waiting for it to burn a hole,

or simply fall off the rugged surface

divine comedy

her toes curl around

in anticipation of his warmth

the beat of his racing pulse

punches holes in her heart

bringing him closer through her eyes

her arms wrapped around

in the rungs of knowing him

a part within her begins to rust

the mirror, on the ceiling, shatters

to multiply his existence

gathering the tiny pieces of him

her lips bleed

as she lets go of her divinity

the search ends here..

let your eyes flicker as you pass me by

Unlearn

Back then, being schooled

I enthusiastically hogged on letters,

Rolled them into words with my tongue,

Swallowed them to form sentences while tripping down my throat,

Till they finally settled down and digested in my stomach.

This, to me they said was growing up.

Now that they say is done,

Am braving indigestion, burping out sentences,

Trying to bite them into words, chew them back in.

So much for trying, I am only puking out letters, not just the ones I had,

Throwing out much more than what I thought I had all these years.

This, to them I say is growing up.

pretty sure the whole concept of mummy kasam came from the egyptians. enna rascala.

let the head reside on your palms...scratch through the memories that remain

pretty much seem to have grown up on an imagined past...

penultimate step

I am almost done with my life...take it away...

the final countdown

pulling the latch up, locking the hollow wooden door,
he drew the curtains on the only window,
and sat on the three legged chair,
pouring another peg of whiskey in his chipped glass,
staring lustfully at the young piece of flesh slithering on the rickety bed,
with hands tied above the head, nipples pointing out,
gagged and blindfolded

and she twisted and puffed vigorously,
each part of her body hurting enough to want to make her revisit the time gone by,
her wounds glistened in the dim yellow light of the bulb,
suspended from the ceiling by a loose wire,
her lips bled profusely,
staining in patterns the plain white sheet spread over the bed.

he smiled devilishly looking at her,
her helplessness satisfying his urge to humiliate her,
for her deeds, pathetically uncalled for,
every drop of her blood reminding him of her atrocious behaviour,
behaviour he had repeatedly warned her against.

she flapped her legs, exposing her vulnerabilities,
ignoring the battered piece of clothing that lay besides her,
hell bent on cutting lose,
tears rolled down her bloodshot eyes,
from the pain she wished she had never known.

they could now hear the footsteps outside,
faintly approaching towards their shack,
she went silent to catch every possible movement,
while he was prepared to keep up with his routine,
in hope to relieve her from the state of despair,
calculating silently the time he had left with him...

Resolve

Normal, like most things, is a subjective standard. The whole notion of a thing being normal or not is based on conformity to a certain benchmark thought process which the majority comes to identify as being the usual order of things. Normal, hence, is not one standard benchmark that everybody can, or should, follow. For each person, it is something that depends on his/her perception, on experience, on habit, and on more than anything else, desire and the ability to reason and being true to oneself.

new letters in red ribbons...

and she sat there, unaware,
as he moved around,
nonchalantly with his eyes.
Her lips, twitched.
His words stuttered out.
Abruptly.
Absurdly.
Sense, lacking;
rhythm missing completely.

His eyes did finally deceive.
Then,
it hit her.

He cannot, not love her…

Notes to myself # 3

On the penultimate floor of her skyscraper
curled up on the window sill, she sits,
knees pulled back to her chest,
staring out, contemplating…
Tossing a coin off the window,
waiting for it to shatter the silence of the desolate street beneath,
clogging her ears,
she bursts out, screaming…
Moments later,
with the coin tingling restlessly still,
a blind rag picker comes in wandering,
poking his stick around,
he steps casually on the coin,
and walks past the building…
The coin, feeling restive, now lies lifeless on the path,
just to be stalked by her, thoroughly…

Notes to myself #2

He stood at the edge of the cliff,

feet sliding through

whistle at the rear

He puffed, he panted

as he ran down the dimly lit road

bent at the end

the end ran faster than him

He held on

as raindrops fell

on his forehead

rippling emotions surged past

masking the agony in his smile

as alms and coins he compiled

he gathered

fragments of a smile from within

and tossed it into her empty heart

unpacking the burden of hers

old letters in red ribbons...

Draining half burnt pages in ink,

an old, broken pen he held

in his trembling fingers drenched in black,

sifting through scores of sheets,

overwriting letters repeatedly,

agitatedly forming those words

irrelevant in their meaning,

sentences intended to create a design then,

losing relevance with each passing stroke,

emotions transcended through

the nerves in his spine

to the tip of his left hand,

as the middle finger of his right

dripped profusely of red,

and finally he lay there in peace

for he had lived those memories

through the moments they were the best…

...

So it trickled down his face, washing away years of repugnance and pain.

Notes to myself #1

He switched the sun off,

Wore his glasses,

A faint effort to hide what he got,

darkness within.

He set out on the path he had been before

The path, pebbled

Had returned then with a battered soul,

Lost spirit

Sitting on a new milestone

with a sheet of paper, torn,

a pencil, broken,

he began to write

a new story with a new end.

Ting!

Not a lot of people have realized this yet but now that everyone is trying to be outside the box, being inside it might just be an out of the box choice.

Rekindling, they called it.

She slept with me out of sheer guilt while I was still searching for love. 

Murphy's Law

I never had a slice of bread, particularly large and wide, that did not fall upon the floor, and always on the buttered side.

, . , . ,

~add all the jazz you want to around these lines~

I am finally getting ready, for you to break

I am finally getting ready for you, to break 

I am finally getting ready for you, to break

~I live in a world where no two lines mean the same~

...

For me images die as soon as they slip out of my mind, out into the open...Rarely do they not..

A New End

He sat on the beach with the waves washing his feet every time they came rushing ahead. He wasn’t in the perfect state, slightly drunk, perfectly in his senses though. It was quite strange that he was alone there. He had never pictured himself this way, ever. But now was different. He was unguarded for once and just had to go on with it. A voice echoed in his ears, getting louder by the second. For the first time in months, it was more than just noise to him, waiting for him to unclog his ears, to let it in, to at least try and understand her. He chose to ignore still, pushing the buds deeper in, it seemed. It wasn’t for her that he was doing it, it was for him. He knew it would ruin what he had, for him it was golden. His feet were sinking deeper into the wet sand, he didn’t even seem to care, realize even. He casually digged into his pocket, it was his last stick. He had gone a little overboard with them last night; more than a couple of packs, still this was special. It being the last of the lot made, maybe. He lit it up with his lighter, a gift from a friend. He placed his priceless possession on his lap softly and held the lit stick right in front of his eyes. It gave him a sense of immense pleasure to just watch it burn out, go down into ashes. The waves with their sheer cruelty were washing away the proof of its existence. He hated it for he loved watching the ashes settle on the floor, every time forming a different yet intriguing pattern. He had always believed that the least they deserved was a mark of their own, had struggled enough to provide him with all his highs. A forgotten existence is what he had always feared, be it whatever. But here he had no choice. The water was hell bent on his task. He stubbed the stick half way through, for the insult for him was unbearable. He buried the piece in the depression of his left foot, he owed it that. As he got up from his place the lighter fell off his lap. He picked it up, wiped it off the sand, held it carefully in his right palm for a brief moment and then in a fierce burst of emotion threw it into the Sea, as far as he could. A tear trickled down his eye, a smile escaped his lips. He knew at once, it was the beginning of a new end.

...

My molten state is being poured into a glass vessel.

I am finally getting ready for you to break.

Two of a kind

One of those last winter evenings..
his version against her
They fought!
racing thoughts
pacing words
sharp tongue
heavy breath..
in hope of a soothing touch...
Sudden silence caught the air...

felt yellow
damp pillow
plenty lies
sullen eyes

The annoying silence still prolonged..
Alan Parson playing in the background.
"Two of a kind...Silence and I....We'll find a way to work it out"

What was she thinking
SMS?
A new dress
Lasagna!
Still crying
Pictures
A camera
Life should have moved on
Sobbing
Why did he still love her??

She spoke
As about to choke
Incomprehensible, this time, but never
She couldn’t see them together..ever

Was she the same girl he knew?
He played the song louder this time...
this time to himself
"Two of a kind...Silence and I...We need a chance to talk things over".

-I owe this one to you, Lavina.

...

When I had her, I let her go. 

She came back once. 

.

I tried to test her too often.

Let the music play

killing Me softly

Through the murky corridor,

brushing aside the webs,

he totters along; injured.

The pain, blood oozing out.

The scars, darkened, neglected,

screaming for attention;

skin, peeling off.

The journey begins again.

A knife, broken, blunt at the edge,

held tightly in his hand.

Intent,  a score to settle.

Pressing it deeper, an inch a time.

Slower the penetration,

a prospect to experience;

thicker the stream of blood,

faster, it is over.   

-

He does not feel alive till he kills himself...slowly...each day...  

J.I.L.L.

Still simmering underneath, a craving.

Hear me out, I plead.

Reminiscing of times bygone.

Everlasting memories soak my head.

You think it is over.

An eternity I leave.

Arrghhh...

He He Ha Ha He Ha Hee Hee !!

Shut up, you bitch!!

Blip!!

Nolan checks out Ghajini, turns to aamir...

(hisses)

" arrre youuu SERIOUS?? "

*Bursts a pumpkin on his Head*

Histrionica

A room, pitch dark
Silence, deafening.
Stand there, elevated.
Feel the moment.
Are you a part yet?

A crowded lane, sun belting down,
Noise, deafening.
Take the centre, elevated.
Eyes closed, arms raised.
Are you a part, yet?

Set, capture, the essence
Get involved, manipulate,
In a manner, polished or raw; untamed.
Are you a part? Yet...

Celebrate, pure excellence.
For it is not a part of our life,
it is...
our life...

Puch Puch Phoo!!

A room, a blend of brightest possible reds and yellows.

A bed, in centre, soft and fluffy, cushions all over.

A wall, full of classics, posters.

Another, for graffiti, insane, untamed.

A few racks, hell lot of music and movies and books.

A corner, a bean bag, lamp on top.

---

A house, I always dream of.

A home, only you can turn it into.

Hall Of Shame II

Robert Frost says....

The woods are lovely, dark and deep, 

but I have promises to keep, 

and miles to go before I sleep, 

and miles to go before I sleep.

I say, 

His shit is smelly, dark and deep,

but I have 75 percent attendence to keep, 

and miles to go before i reach, 

and miles to go before I reach. 

...

The point here is not to let people understand but to make them want to understand...

Funky Junkie....

Speak Up, Speak Out;

Stand up, Stand out...

Copyright @ 2008

...

Am back to being the joker.

Just that this time, for them, I am the joker...

Silence Speaks...

-Silence

Hall Of Shame

We don't need no stinking bedroom,
We don't need no Potter soul.
No potti shotti in the bathroom,
Mogli, leave us kids alone
(Hey MOGLII!! Leave us kids alone)
All in all you're just another poop on the wall;
All in all you're just another poop on the wall.

...

My mind has a mind of its own....

....

Innumerable people, opinions galore
not even a hint of credibility...

another tin in the bin...

The wall, the place to be…a spectator to

times captured in frames, cracked glass covers,

smiles twitched the wrong way at the ends,

fingers crossed, men double crossed.

Ticking past offers a glimmer of hope,

its face constantly being smothered with chalk,

the one used to write on slates,

but can be dusted off at one’s own whim,

offering the swords the opportunity

to sweep the dust off,

forth and back, forth and back,

of histories of time, of destiny.

There, yet not.

Done, is not.

A little step forward, the path ambiguous,

two steps back, past captured entirely.

Illusions galore, a menacing situation to be,

haunted by things that ought not to be.

...

Why can’t we move beyond our histories?
We always take one little step forward to be forced to take two steps back….

Burp...

Fortune Cookie : You will be the centre of attraction today.

*Reads*

*Smiles*

*Enters client's office*

*Farts*

.

It's all been said and done before.
But somehow it has still not ceased to affect me.

Once a Flame

Slamming intense feeling
My heart pounds through a wall of
Broken glass.
Shattered words stutter out
Unheard, unheard, unheard.
Unheard
By the only one I know with ears.

Brick by brick
My paved road falls out
From under my feet
Leaving me suspended

I hear echoes of your name
Spoken by different voices
Penetrating through the dark
Through my mind

A million mazes lead me through
Scene after scene
Of blurred faces and muffled tones.

My skin feels your touch-
And his, and hers and theirs.

And ours

I am led through a burning flame
of smokeless fire.

I close my eyes and open up my heart

To you.

I am just ashes of a forgotten existence
Burned away

A lingering feeling of warmth…