fulcrum

stay - poise !
a knife edge
insanity yawns below
enligtenment behind.

a light breeze blows.

babylon

i drown and i choke!
noises, smells, colours and smoke
life, chaos and crime,
coughing and sputtering, i look
out on some weird god's pantomime.

Search Results

shades

what good ?
what evil ?
what absolutes ?

black and white
are for the books
and the movies
I read and I watch
and shake such
fancies away
life has for me
but shades of gray.

maple syrup

There are things that for no apparent reason, get indelibly etched in your mind. The factoid ( if it is indeed a one ) seems to achieve no apparent purpose sitting there. Like maple syrup.

It was like this. Way back in eighth class, Nondi was yammering away. Nondi was the name affectionately given our geography teacher. He walked almost as if he had a limp, his whole body leaning to one side and almost a swagger. Well, at least he must have thought it was a swagger. And I don't, to this day, know if he really suffered a limp, but being kids, and with the amazing cruelty that kids are so easily capable of, we named him Nondi. And i digress.

It was geography time and Nondi is yammering. I then recall that he asks us, to name that which is used as an alternative to sugar in Canada. And some one from a bench behind me, shouts out maple syrup. And that's it. Maple syrup makes itself a constant companion to my life thereafter. I can even recall the way Nondi was standing as he posed the question to us.

Now at four or so in the morning, as I sit unable to sleep and with a ringing headache (quite the bastard) I think of maple syrup.

hushaar !

i am warned
to stay away
from the deep
and the dark
corners of my mind.

somebody was there
and did not like
what they did find.

lol.

Boredom

Loneliness. I wake up to a silent day. Coffee and the newspaper. Somebody dead, a thousand dead, somebody won and somebody murdered. Not a flicker on my face. I fold the paper and down my coffee.

Breakfast time. TV. Silicone, murders and pop. I am so bored. I look at my watch and it tells me that there are another twelve hours to kill. I pick a book flip a page, and toss it away.

Should I kill myself ? Maybe death holds some meaning. Maybe I'd feel something then.

Lunch - Chicken. I used to enjoy eating. Now its a task. Death, pain I think again. Maybe.

Night. Dinner is on the table, but I am not interested. I sit at the table and watch my blood pool on the floor below. Interesting color. The sharp ache on my wrist has dulled to a throbbing. I am so bored. Its getting dark. Did I not turn the lights on earlier ?

Oh.

So this is it. But I feel nothing. I was supposed to feel something. Damn.

Damn, its eight already.

I came across this post on a friends blog, with a link to this comic. I hope I have something better to put up for my tenth.

lukoi

head thrown back
running
i drank in the light
running
like i should never
have been able

the ground opened up
the trees moved
one with the green
i moved
things that tripped
and things that snagged
did not bother

graceful and lithe
i drank it all in
sharp contrasts
soft yellow light
a darker green
and the smell -
an epiphany played
played inside of me

easing into a stop
incredulity winning
for a moment
over the newfoundness
the world twanged to a stop
an instant after i did
like rubber stretched
and not wanting to stop
urging me on

i look down
scratches on my arms
almost healing
and flash back to
a glimpse of gleaming
fangs in the dark

only a moment
a single frame
that dissolves into
the world alive
in front and around
my body thrums
with an energy
that will not
be contained

i pull back
one last time
inside
and then
mouth wide
smelling, tasting
tendons stretching
and muscles taut
i bound away.

buckle up dorothy

who or what
and where was i
why and how
and when did i
get to be
into this strange
looking glass
alice - dear lass
thought she
had it bad
i'd give lewis
a run for
the money
he had.

pity

fend !
the barbs
the insults
the backstabbing
the nonchalance
the unending stupidity

what am i fending for ?
fending exhausts
leaves me no time
none whatsoever
to live with
whats mine
might as well
stop
and be rubbed under
trampled to the dust
from whence we
sprung fighting

such a waste.

almost perfect

Its a saturday morning and I look out the window. It frames an explosion of fresh green leaves and a wet earth. The air is cool and the smell of rain lingers - that absoluelty divine whiff of a parched land suddenly made wet. And my lines are prevented from becoming a cliche, by a sky which is a bright white, and not a brilliant blue. A cup of tea in hand, I stare oustide as my mind picks up on a thought. I forget the beauty, as it tries to think of ways to preserve a moment like this forever. Stupid me.

early death

musings, born
out of a monkey mind
that refuses to be still
jumping and grabbing
on to every passing thought
following it around
chattering
gibbering
and discarding it
for the next ,
die an early
death.

free falling

Exhaling, I lean back. Nothing fills my head, a white noise really, a blend of many babbling thoughts. The noise soon fades and my mind floats away. Staring ahead, I try to blink away fleeting ghost patterns that haunt my tired eyes. Shaking my head, I jerk back upright, trying to clear my head off a fog that is fast threatening to overwhelm me. But the sudden movement only serves to pitch my head forward and I am too far gone to resist. "Just two minutes", I promise myself and lay my head down on the table. Lingering I try to remember something. Something I had promised myself just a moment before. Something, something ...

And a sudden "But only in their dreams can men be truly free. 'Twas always thus and always thus will be" flutters in from somewhere, a dying sputter of a thought. But that is the last and I am pulled in. Pulled into a free fall.

Life's like this

Life trundles along the gray plateaus of the daily, avoiding the dark and sunken valleys of despair and missing the tall shimmering hillocks of happiness. There is a path that it follows amidst these, on this endless gray sea of slate. The path which for the most part is by itself, is intersected every once in a while by other paths and more often than not, takes sharp turns into the aforementioned valleys. Life has to be careful, for there are never any signposts put up in advance, to warn it of such things. "Conniving sod!" it says, its irritation directed towards the one who designed all of this. Surprises almost seem to be built in - a feature, instead of a bug.

And every once in a rare while, along the dusty path, are glimpses of what-may-be's. Having stopped now, at one of these, it pauses to look upon the what-may-be. And a moment later it ambles on, wondering about mirages.

A good day

The day wears on and I am witness to a brilliant sunset. Red fills the universe of my sight interspersed with a flaming orange. An orange at war with the red fighting for space and winning in bright streaks. This sunset, I think, should be a fitting start to the end of a good day. But I pause and wonder at what the remains of the day yet hold for me. While the magnificent spectacle plays on, granting me front row audience to a cosmic dance, manifestations of which fill the sky up ahead. Amidst such beauty, I am filled with a longing, not quite sorrow, that a good day is past and is never to be mine again.