Wednesday, September 28, 2011

The everyday apocalypse

Pointy, the submarine sits curled up nude underwater. The falcons above him watch his chest bloat in abysmal horror. The hours of his body clock are ticking fast. He can sense the rush in the movement of the tides above his head. Laws of buyouncy obfuscate an easy route out of his vision. He is convinced this reasoning would buy him a couple of more minutes in his underwater cave. Meanwhile the vessel outside is beginning to gather momentum. A vessel can take only so much pressure before it explodes to particles of cataclysmic nature.

The changing colour of the sky appears shamanic today, so do clouds in orange bandana holding their dreadlocks in place, desperately looking for cheap thrills around. The choir from New Orleans performs Symphony no 5. Pointy reminisces of the first day of his school. He visualises kids of his school running like bees amply seduced by the fragrance of fruitcream.

He was happy then. overweight but happy, which seems an exceptional myth today. He gets up, dons his khakhi shorts and vest, picks up his briefcase and takes baby-steps towards his wife. The scent of her body compels him to plant a goodbye kiss on her cheek. He chooses to not look at her. Armed with wisdom of his salt and pepper beard and a degree in Merchany Navy, he boards the vessel. He fastens the sleep belt and orders for a gin and tonic hoping to rest the convulsions inside his belly. He feels better but not quite at ease and orders for a repeat. The lights in the aisle are switched off, the sound from Pointy’s headphones seem to be the only suggestive sign of life on-board.

He woke up to the clamor of
“Good morning ladies and gentlemen, This is Julianne your captain speaking. It was my pleasure to have you with us on this bright and chirpy day, the temperature outside is 34’C. Have a nice journey on earth and resist eating octopus”

Monday, September 26, 2011

Diary of another insomniac

Living in the mist of your fragrance,

Today, tomorrow, tonight.

As the curtains of passion,

Fall upon a dishevelled night

Dancing to the symphonies of your breath

The artist in me comes to life

Forsaking the gazillion gaze

Of the awkward morning daylight.

Fantasy writers can't escape reality either

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Just a thought

sarcasm provides the cheat codes to the tedious game of life.
What is art?
A father curing a child's insomnia by handing him pictures of a sizzling hot slut next door for him to jerk off and sleep. Unable to contain the excitement that follows, he turns it into a song which is to be remembered for the next two decades and may be even more

Pictures of Lily-The Who

Friday, September 16, 2011

Feel Good Inc

To make Alex Turner's babies after listening to Submarine's OST.
To relive my teenage years inorder to be Oliver Tate's Jordana

A very cool quote from Anurag Kashyap's 'No smoking':

“To be is to do - Socrates

To do is to be - Sartre

Do Be Do Be Do - Sinatra”
― Kurt Vonnegut

To be in limbo has become a way of life these days
The dark circles on the other hand testify me as pre-mature serial killer

Cockerel has an I.Q of a washbasin,
4 minutes of conversation with her desecrate 400 cells of my brain.

The bird and bee is a very cool band, because they make glam-doll Rihana's lyrics sound surreal

Shiroshima is the coolest dog ever, I miss her.

Double espresso shots works as lethally as double malt sans the morning hangover

a super sad true love story

There will be a day when there no longer will be a perfect day
Rainbows will bleed colours and the sky will be stained
Of Pukeypinks and slimyyellows,
The whispering couples would no longer be heard
Ambushed in concrete brothels,
Hung like a clumsy kiss on brittle whiskey-dried lips.
Their ghosts will visit us for dinners everyday,
Smelling of scandal and mudcakes, from the neighbourhood bar.
Where Poetry (like this) would fetch, only a few misdirected stones
Scarred of the lover’s curse and lip-stick marks
There would be noise but of the unholy kind
Elvis died in nineteen ninety seven, his soul still suffering from insomnia.
Whodunit fights would decay the innocence of the infantile rosebud
Plagued by a very deadly unsympathetic pathogen
Till then.. drink the wine from your lover’s eye
hold hands and form cupcakes on a rainy night
strum Dylan to her after work, by the beach
and write about the naked encounters with fishermen and freud
hide where the moon cant find, the lambency of a libidinal night
consume love before love consumes you.
Weave no promises because tomorrow will be gone
Like the ash from an astray ashtray
Colour it now with majestic magenta and passionate purples
Because there will a day when there will no longer be a perfect day.