Friday, September 30, 2011

Memories inked in 'ashes'...

Walking through life, flipping the pages deftly,
inked in sorrow and void of respite,
the stained and yellow pages, scream loud to be heard,
the suppressed agony ceases, to try and outlive the days.

Gibberish, esoteric, or legible it is,
scribbles, doodles and emaciated figures,
all lost, all over-analysed, all a part of the past,
numb my invisible heart goes, numb goes my soul.

A pale palm is raised, trying to stop the past,
but the pages keep flipping, relentlessly enroute to the last bit,
stop, please stop! The reality disgusts me,
but I am its creator, I shall be its destructor too.

A haggard me, meak and starvelling,
beholds the treacherous pages, beholds the angst against me,
I pause the galloping pages, I devour 'em one by one,
until the gross book is rendered naked, until I lose my will to succeed.

The pages all mock me, even the tiny bits of shit,
I'm flummoxed at my diabolical behaviour, I drop next to 'em lifelessly,
I'm as flagrant as water, and as frozen as the ice poles,
where did I go wrong? Oh lord, where did I not try?

And yet, I'm most certain, that this is the only way,
and this is the only thing I'm accustomed to,
I've fuhgotten the past, and I can't know the future,
I stand alone, I stand tall, no matter what I need to hold on for long.

I look at those delicate bits, snorting at me to humiliation,
but its me who scoffs at them, for they never understood me,
and never could they comprehend my faith in 'em,
and never could they be the treasure to me, that I was to 'em.

And so the decisive moment stands in front of me,
a bit vague, a bit lost, but I need to grab it now,
and burn the past that's no good to me,
and live with the ashes, that can never talk.

For life goes on, and so does our mind,
and it's time to disavow this old rugged book,
and create some new story, and ascribe life in the white pages,
that soon will turn brown, and soon will be caged again.

But can I really march forth? Can I really let go?
Can I be the one that I was? Even though I don't remember 'her' any more?
I think a new chapter has already begun,
for I don't remember the past, no matter where it is hidden.

Sunday, September 25, 2011

Brutal ecstasy...

A love tied in shackles,
a life lost in wait,
to ask for more elixir,
is a sin wrapped in wrath.

With a numb heart and soul,
he watched the light replace,
confined in a vicissitudinous state,
he couldn't help but hate.

And then the clouds revealed,
the cruelty of his pulchritude,
when his carnal-infested body,
transformed into a beast.

He growled and grumbled,
and compassionately moaned,
until his melancholic voice faded,
into the vacuum of feelings so evaded.

With heart wincing in isolated glory,
and mind racing away from realities so gory,
memories shy away from the only life they knew,
as twisted cadaver rolls down, from the treachery so strewn.

The lava spews, the ashes flare up,
the rage forecloses the agony with love,
the intense lividity, the overcoming hatred,
all become heroes, and leave the romance to shed.

And the beast feels lethargic, but still wants to continue,
to pierce his claws, to scathe the living flesh,
to ooze the warm blood, to leave the skin disfigured,
and with that pressure of angst, devour the soul that he loved.

And efface the trace, of her existence altogether,
for betraying him, for tormenting his innards,
for burning his trust, and castigating his love,
her filthy abasement, left him palsied.

To forgive her, is no longer an option,
his packaged soul, is bruised and lacerated,
and reduced to shambles, disgust, and ugliness galore,
how can he release her now? She has to pay.

And so he lifts his obliterated hands,
and thrusts her neck, and pins his claws in,
with outrageous agony, her winces multiply,
he digs deeper, as if into a self-destructing abyss.

Until he's derived enough pleasure, until his sadism declines,
he rips her ugly flesh, like tearing a cloth in two,
he twists the bits until he can twist no more,
and batters the disgusting meat, till its left no more.

And in this void, this blind sweet night,
the beast transforms, into someone he once knew,
and while his rage is still the hero, he welcomes the ritual,
he torments the dead some more, and throws 'it' into the fire.

With ambers trying to escape, the orgy of disgust,
the villainous blobs, now exit the fleshy state,
but the heart that he once loved, is yet to expire,
that red mass of shit, remains untainted from the fiery ribbons.

His hatred illuminates, his emaciated hands lift,
a ruby-studded golden dagger, and commence the penultimate action,
of stabbing the inhumane organ, until the flames around him,
grab his arms and pull him inside, the inescapable pyre.

The treacherous flames burn his face, and burn his soul,
till an epiphany to live, an overpowering will within,
repels the iridescent warmth, that engulfed him in,
he lashes out, on the tender green grass, a life after all.

Burned, bruised, repelled, damaged and ugly,
his physique is scarred, his soul is weakened,
with the ultimate inch of energy, he closes his eyes,
to find the bleak shard of life, if it still exists within him.

He rises, with a dwindling body,
coated with blood, not her's, but his own,
with wounds not only self-inflicted, but those lent by 'her',
he feels the utmost pain, between shades of black and orange.

For in the sky, a stillness wanders,
and on the ground, Satan's crime has now faltered,
an appalling site, will soon disappear,
into the ashes of the dead, into the death of 'love'.

And what is the 'human' to do now?
Live like a beast by night, to reclaim his lost right,
with solitude as his faithful companion,
will he survive the guilt he brought upon himself?

And the alternating emotions, of hatred and love battle,
he wriggles in fury, he wiggles in pain,
when the clouds give way, to a white spec of disgust,
he transforms into the 'beast' again, and lies loosely in dust.

And ardently he wishes, to be stripped off of this face,
and this heart and brain, that no longer lay safe,
and the reverberating agony, slipped gradually out of him,
like water being sucked in by a sponge, only this was vice versa.

And everything went still, everything was quiet,
everyone died in shame, for there was no sorrow,
and the stone cold eyes left open, still gazed into the sky,
as the body lay there emancipated, alone in the dead of night!

P.S.: Pictures used in this post are courtesy: RoHiT Iyer of Memoirs of a Drunken Junkie

Also written for: The Gooseberry Garden: week 6: Stories from mythology, Culture and of life.

Wednesday, September 21, 2011


I see the bright blue light,
I see the only happy smile,
as fresh as a flower just blossomed,
as delicate as the morning dew.

With those enigmatic eyes,
I look at the morning glories,
swaying into the wind,
swaying, only to smile.

Walking through the field,
wet grass touching my naked feet,
letting the life within me,
acquiesce to the fragile force of 'insanity'.

And yet my questioning eyes,
are in search of the repelling answers,
for life is a comedy of errors,
or errors of comedy is it?

The fields transform,
the flowers wither,
the smile shatters,
the 'insanity' prevails.

And the world that stands together,
its them against me,
forever and for always it will be,
always an alien, always a misfit i shall be.