I've written a poem for you

I ‘ve written a poem for you. Would ya like to see it? But Its not a regular rhyme Or a cheesy ballad It is only the underdone flickerings within me Yes the ones that I got while talking shit to you You know when I was comfortable just yapping shit. That. Would you be interested at all? Because I have no words of admiration The ones which squeeze themselves inadvertently While mentioning you Like when describing your lips or the high cheek bones Like mentioning the squeak in your voice Like narrating your petit nose Rather, all I wrote was how shitty I am All I spoke was the decisions I made All the fickle that my brain brewed All the holy blunders I executed with panache All the text that I could use to self-loath But didn’t you make all that so worthwhile I mean didn’t you smell like flawless Like when I hugged you on the sidewalk Like when we just yakked in the English pub round the corner With the signature green walls And the erratic paintings on them And orange faces inside guzzling beer And the hard accent but gentlemanly I quoted a Seinfeld joke on cleavage And didn’t you laugh like mad Then I guess you went calm for a bit not the awkward silence mind you, but where you knew you are not obliged to extend the conversation where you could just faff shit yes, and I faffed shit I guess I was funny enough That’s why you came over And after when you stood in my kitchen All high from the merlot And then you poked me With eyes wide and brimming And I shied Like I was a bastardly creation of his I should have held you strong I should have kissed you profusely Instead of writing a poem The words I write for you they do me no good I missed you entirely When you could have been there and in a jiffy I am also not kind of the audacious ones And with little guts and so laidback That I let it go. Now, I shudder when I talk about you I have not shuddered so much As if it were a scary movie I speak of As if I confronted my dead uncle alive Not because you were any horrendous Its because shying from the splendid you Was an ugly act And that is why I meander on Microsoft word Jotting words with quarter confidence. But the words have some affection Would you like give some heed Of course, you would find them cheesy But I found them out for you I give them in your face and unto you Your indifference kind of shoves them right up my ass

Brain Pluckings - Must 'read'

Those of you and the fortunate ones who have held ‘Brain Droppings’ in their bare hands ever, would realize that the title takes from George Carlin’s bestseller, incidentally called ‘Brain Droppings’. To quickly give a flavor, George Carlin is arguably the most revered stand-up comic artist of all times; although we do not have him anymore. But which doesn’t mean we cannot have more of him. I’ll tell you why he would name his book that though. There must have been two reasons for it (crisply laid down) as follows: 1. The book is not a regular style; it does not have any running story or even a theme or chapters interlinked. The only linkage is that all what is written was penned by Georgie. 2. It was essentially his stand up material put together- a mere congregation of pieces that ranged from 3 sentences long to sometimes 2 full pages; but which was usually it. And this was perhaps because what he wrote kind of just ‘dropped’ from his brain or so to say he felt it in such succinct a manner that he could pen it unmindful of the fact that he would ever publish it in the form of a book. He felt no need to tell a story. He just had, perhaps, the urge to blurt. And he did that pretty well. And yes, all of his pieces in themselves had small stories to tell nevertheless, which were also pretty clever. But cut to this text, and why would I stamp it as ‘brain pluckings’. It is because this is not a very fluid natural account of anything like the usual classic novels. In other words, I did not wait for those erratic flashes of brilliance to strike me which I could plainly write about; largely because I wasn’t getting any of them. Also, I must be the most under read guy scribbling away ever. I am also the most screwed up guy ever. Of course neither helps. I don’t inhale much ink through my eyes, therefore whatever I exhale suffers. I have thought about it (the cons of minimalistic reading and consequent writer’s block) and now for a while. Is it something to do with my current professional engagements, or is to do with the fact that I am not smitten yet. I did kind of an introspection of the self, but then I do that all the time. For instance, if I say a word to a colleague or a friend, regarding anything, I find myself taking a self-feedback on what I just said. And, mind you, I also do it right before saying it. I think a thought to massive degrees. For me making a call on anything, calls for over assessment; so much so that I am unable to reach a finding and remain in a flux almost always. In a nutshell, I do little but I think over it (destructively) to insane levels. Had I been reading a lot of good stuff, it may have compensated for my novice approach in dealing with routine situations, but I do not. And that is why I have been writing so little. I don’t have ideas to pen. I don’t suffer from the writer’s block; I suffer from the reader’s block instead. Perhaps I shouldn’t be writing at all. But then, once in a while, and only once in a while it becomes rather tough to keep away from frantically penning when you happen to rendezvous the likes of her. And yes in a narrow sense, when she often manages to smell so good. I don’t think I need to read a lot to be able to accurately depict the contours of a good looking face and the resulting scuffle in my head. All I do is then to jargonize my ramblings and put them on paper.

Open letter to people in general

Dear People You are doing all very well. No qualms there. In whatever you are doing and no qualms about that. Not that I want to say things necessarily to confront. But then the obsession with mere belongings is kind of heart wrenching. Although even that’s not callous. The point is that the liberation, that fuzziness, that nimble sort of existence has been left behind. Living lacklustre seems to be the norm. The mannerisms to live, the do’s and don’ts, all seem itched and stoned. One way to realize could be to walk barefoot on the dawn dew that layers the grass at that time. The misty realisation of the current hazy existence would metamorphosis better then perhaps. When ranting on those lines vanishing to the woods and dwelling there doesn’t sound much out of synch as well. May be the errant hills snow clad so benevolently are again so much of a respite. One could feed on plants or hunt there. And lie down on grass and swill from river water. But apparently we are vying more for concrete jungles and corporatisation. Makes only miniscule sense that. Hum, and play and work and dance and write and act and make jokes and do whatever shit that pleases you. But please do not down tread yourself into capitalistic junk ventures. Do not be party to flawed concepts of happiness just because that allows you to rear two kids and fly your girlfriend to locations perhaps exotic. That should not work in great measure. Or does that? When they tell me to buy stuff because it is on television and social networking, I understand it to be all advertising puke. You do get it too or don’t you? The callous amounts of backbreaking work with unfair amounts of pure stress dangling in your head only to be buffooned into purchasing some god forsaken articles that have colourful imprints on them. We are anything but grazing animals to be lured by brands and ogling over them. Jerry Seinfeld instead or Mirza Ghalib are kind of better engagements for bliss. Why don’t you try and glean the awesome sarcasm out of Calvin and Hobbes or whatever? How could you murder yourself (as in make your life worse enough, obviously not literally) over some metal concrete and rubber tyres? It is fun to ride one of those but for how long, and is the juice worth the squeeze? Please appreciate that ‘pleasure’ and ‘happiness’ and ‘magnificent conversations’ are what we are kind of carved for. Anything else is just so much fluff. Capitalism is far more injurious than smoking up I guess. More than that is your slow wit. Please do not imprison yourself in voluminous and mindless and helter skelter of any whatever tasks. One could start by liking art over and above doing the brilliant work that you do day in and day out. Please indulge, but otherwise. Please get your ass up and smell the pie around. Self-loath a bit, a self-loather

I see me

One of the Royal parks in the middle of the town. smack bang in middle of London. I see a bench. In a park, with leaves that are half orange in colour and clinging to them this cliché rustling sound. Is this bench the ugly chic in a bar? Neglected. Its just another one amongst quite a few. Its just another brick in the wall. Too bad, I get a feeling I shall oblige it. Let me walk over and rest my ass.

Now as I sit on this considerate yet indifferent piece of sitting material, I know I am supposed to do the human 'thinking'’ To look at the rest of the world as if I were a mere spectator, and in a very showbiz style imagine and analyse the mediocrity around me. I have this obligation I feel. I should come to terms with me. I should make myself realize. Well, and guess what..it does dawn on me that we all are actually two people. One guy that ‘does’, and the other that merely watches the other guy doing as things take their course . Yes, there are two separate beings within. I get it I can watch me. Well this other guy who gawks at me is obviously uncomfortable whenever we are in proximity. Grossly. I can make that out. Whenever I bump into him on instances like wining alone on a bench in a a park, its quite awkward. At times he’s shy, but most of the times I am when confronting him.

When I do the math in my mind for all the acts I have put together uptill hence, I can well make out, I have let down this other gentleman big time. But because this other person has a body only in me, people wouldn’t be able to gauge my embarrassments in frequent rendezvous with him. Sometimes he also sits with me while other real people are. Other real people who are decent, or at least, seemingly in the math of life.

Nonetheless, I have this knack of knowingly overlooking him, but still using his feedback for defending the dismal performance of the ‘doer’ guy . It basically boils down to the ‘actions’ that I do. And those actions are inevitably executed by the guy more in synch with the ways of people.

Rationalizing it further, this would sound to be some callous banter, to avoid committing fruitful, yielding actions. Perhaps yes, but I would like to believe the guy who watches and embarrasses me. Also because he has a sense of sarcasm,and is breezily witty. I so want to stick with him. But the thing is the bastard is not very revealing of his own ideas or acts. I mean I could walk with him , but I do not know what would lie like half a mile ahead. Terribly uncertain is he. While the other one is so comfortably almost numb in doing what he does, simply because he’s quite translucent about his ways. I know where about he’s treading. If those paths do not confirm to me, it is a completely separate question. But this one knows his way out, and that is what perhaps makes me biased towards myself. My fellow human beings howsoever close will usually not comprehend this dichotomy. But then not everybody has two people in them. Not everybody is pissed off with themselves.

Gory

So folks in the guise of penning something from muse and drafting out of the box sentences, may I flicker about to jot rotten phrases? In the guise of ingenuity, may I deface the language? Would you allow me to let open the floodgates to buffoonery?
For in the guise of this inappropriate, only can I down tread the lame clock time which has just whizzed passed on me. In the process, though, to you noble soul who has just bestowed his or her eyeballs on this text, I must also be profusely grateful. But am I? Am I already not smeared enough to be expected to be sugary mouthed or any gracious. Each one of you is a star of your own little romantic comedies, and can locate rejoice, regardless of the ugliness that takes shape at times.
Allay those curves of emotions but. I wish it were, so much I do, but this is not some text which would entertain you in leisure, but a careless yet considered account of perennial dismay, of which even I myself am exhausted to speak of. But you see I will keep on with the flutter. Even the pen seems to give me a wry sarcastic expression, and tries to break away, but it does not realize, this shit is not some ink or the nib. It’s the mind that pens, pen pens the brain, so whatever the snob pen ‘feels’, may well take a backseat. Its emotions will certainly be taken account of, be given a thought or two, but would promptly be discarded; for there are more reasons in this world than there is material to write. And this shit is so true even if read back from the ass of the sentence.

Only last night, in the bar right across my hall, did I bump into some pretty females who look better than themselves in that kind of a low roof friendly bar. Symmetry on skin is som rejoice forever.

They also sell the liquor there at subsidized rates. Well beer lets you bear whilst you’re there, but not after a point of intoxication. Hapless and not helpless are the senses for what they see is but seemingly faith. Fine events usually harm more than the grave ones. Just stare back into your life events. The bad ones are bad and you know they are, for they are not robed. And if anything they bring a smile now. But when some assumed seminal event of bliss, caricatures into tons of gruesomeness, the idea settles fairly layered in the head. No moment of pure elation is unadulterated, if not by anything else, by the idea of death of itself.

Some greasiness and some pettiness

Only at times, and very rarely more, do I not repent. In the midst of a life situation (but there really is nothing called a non life situation), when rest homo sapiens of even meagre aptitude would arrive at efficient conjectures, my thinking would ram against me, and dismiss its own potential.

I understand the way out and from seemingly more in synch with life peers is to work purely on 'instincts.' It sounds meaty and sexy but how worthwhile can that be? There’s no reasoning put to use until then. Its only an uncooked piece of a stray thought lying pell mell in some weird alleys of unexploited neurons. Well, in all honesty, I still certainly would cling to 'instincts', but then my brain forgets that it must function but by those suggestions of the mind prompting at first instance. The grey organ then slips, hovers, also craves but never does it yield. And see now when the bastard does, it yields only on paper, on this some form of wood pulp. It is of miniscule utility. It did not when it could. What am I supposed to do from my own ramblings? I am clobbered by my own mesh of wishful thinking which metamorphosises into concentrated repentance so rapidly that it almost feels brilliant, in the event one can gauge this switch of emotions.

I perceive death must relieve me of this cacophony. Much because people who are dead are not seen around, and are ideally expected not to be, but I guess its still only a lame assumption. Who knows if this extends beyond my existence. For these feelings seem too homely to betray me. I use affectionate vocabulary because it is this conflict of sentiments, that urges me to jot, although tremblingly and with quarter confidence; so that I can make my roused negativity conducive to some degree. (The way people belonging to my caste would like to think. Benefit of any nature from any venture would give them solace.)

This world and I have a strange chemistry. It seems to confirm my body, but not my mannerisms! It takes me in, and yet leaves me stranded in bullying life frames, where seeking words from friends would imply diluted masculinity. Its startling how much of a slave is literature of harsh and sour feelings and green eyed jealousy, of bitterness and crudeness, of burnt and exhausted endeavours; of relishing but more of repenting, of memory and gross moments. Soothing literature sometimes also arises out of gross looking cunts, and God’s humour then I must confide, is not at least slapstick.

Enough of bleeding on paper, I shall clot. And then I must also do the regular things in life like sitting in the library and pretending to read.

More from the stinking wound. Later.

Scum

Well, the cheesiness and sappiness of this text is not embarrassing. Neither is its brutality and naked candidness. We are but lesser beings, gasping on but some celestial mess in a hazy congregation of time, and that helps a lot. Yet still, I struggle to gather testosterones enough to commit to my fancies. My fancies of penning in idleness. My fancies of blurting out the heartfelt.

Inaction when not desirable and action when, makes putting up rather an irrational continuum laden with repentance so much, that even weed flounders to get you stoned. Well, the simili is out of place, but not out of context. (and MS word, very slyly puts the sentence to its grammatical scrutiny almost always ignoring the mettle in it). Most of the people one meets are also like that. But I do not, and ideally ought not blame them. For they have not made themselves, it is some person else. Someone who seems to possess supernatural tendencies and yet thinks that majoritarian mediocrity would be a workable way for earth.

I have little profoundness in my writings, not even a wacky turn or a mystic twist. To my mind it looks like linear string of words, which is rather akin to blots of blood than prose on paper. Much of this shit is because of not being in the right kind of an affair, not getting the right break, not doing the right things even in leisure- all for pathetically wrong reasons.

Also, only a different arrangement of words from my previous pieces but the identical implication convinces me that though i can pen but only so much. Some for depression and self loathing, few soft words for the girl, miniscule for the God above who loves mediocrity, and some for writing itself. That is my own fencing which fences my fancies. And that is what I contemplate to rely upon for bread and butter for rest of my life and for recouping this monster of a student loan. But then I must not certainly err repetitiously, in a series, or must I? I cannot go on doing things for consistency in my resume. For coherence I should not smudge with the remaining lifetime or ought I.Since death for sure impends, even doing the conventional seems of little harm. But the fact is that if I want to absorb vanity by watching strangers reading my penmanship, or massage my ego in watching the known people doing that, I should do the unconventional; conventionally.

Boy, I am not sure if this would be but sheer abruptness. However, since what reason has dictated hitherto has not fetched; I may as well befriend the unchartered territory of my instincts and desert the safe harbours of comfortable logic. I may take the plunge. Or must I?

So much for scribbling on paper.