Friday, September 14, 2007

Now I Feel…

Oh I were a rockstar then, of Bryan Adam’s sort-
Didn’t bother much whether I had a guitar or not
Nor ever cared for background melody-
Why should have I cared when my virtual stage was ready-
My voice had no job as my mind was performer,
It was the guitarist itself managing bass, saxophone
What more could I expect from this versatile singer!
This mind was my hero then, my warden too
Steering the boy in me through all red and blue –
Air was so full of essence then like never before
Stars kissing my head, moon luring for fantasy tour-
Was I achieving freedom from boyhood bondage
Or utilizing those golden pieces of time to my advantage?
Today its no more a world of ‘twinkle twinkle little star’
My stage has vanished throwing me to world so blur!
More I try to simplify the space around me, it gets smoky
Obstructing those rhythms which had moved me so far-
Many says it’s a bigger stage, so do perform at your best
How can they sense-the player in me has opted for rest;

I walk over stony streets like a guy with crutches
The green land in me has tuned into beaches,
So close to sea- it has no reason to be parched
Waves hug the shore million times, still full of earth.
I’ve lost my balance, my limbs are throbbing
The ground so frail, as if rocks below me are breaking.
Is this a virtual occurrence giving me a false intuition-
Or I’m undergoing a transitory figment of imagination;
I keep thinking about my suspicion all day and dark
Who is my teacher now who can give me a feedback;
My mind is dynamic perhaps like an obedient child –
Taking up a number of responsibilities & turning a blind-
What’s the use of its curious, sensitive azure eyes
Where it toils like a slave in the world of filthy lies;
No beauty to gaze just about, no color to praise
I’m an odd man here, deserved to be out of this grease.;
Am I a marine life rolling over sunny warm sand-
Or I’m a cub isolated from its mother in its first month?
I suffer an era of shilly-shallying-

I’m a prudent chap now, now here I’m not dying.
Not crying over the melodies which tempted me flying-
I look the world now through a different pair of specs
Bind my mind tight with thousand steel braces;
Those rainbow whims don’t rock my wits anymore,
I’m getting matured now, may be core turning impure-
I accept what comes to me irrespective of its spectrum
What else can I do, to my yellow days I can never return.
I know life is thorny, life is rigid, life is yank
Life is the name of motion, navigation of unseen dark-
My wheels are set, my fuel is full & have the map as well
I can dive into ocean, cross the roads and pass along rail.
My boundary has widened, my horizon has broadened
Still shiny pleasing reminiscence swivel like a pendant;
I sit with an ocean of memories perched in my eyes
Mist of tear fills my sight-I miss those schooldays!


Friday, September 7, 2007

Lunatic's Song

The hanging metal bell over your head
The wail you hear, sketches my death;
Swing the bell baby, swing it hard,
Shake the brass body with your fart;
Swing the bell baby, swing it hard-

You’re ashamed to fart before them all,
Hey listen, none bothers for your fall;
Licking dogs smell the bloody thieves,
Never do they hunt for their wives;
Don’t be shy baby, shed your leaves-

Dong-Dong-Dong-Dong- rattles the bell
Your witchcraft suits the stinking hell-
The sore on your lips drives them mad,
The blood inside it has turned a clot;
Prang the bell baby, prang it hard-

Don’t slow down, you cankered bitch
Suck my blood like ever-longing leech;
Suck my vigour till my eyes are shut,
Else you’ll burn in my lustrous thirst;
To shake the bell, baby you’ve to fart-

Moving to cloud nine is such a fun
Only you and I, there’ll be none;
Then you expose your distorted curves
And you can test my masculine nerve;
Hear the wail baby; do catch its verve-

Let me lie once on you unguarded lap,
Fantasies will haunt me in my last nap;
I’ll kick the devil and fuck the witch,
I’ll turn incestuous; sins would get rich-
Alas, my soul is fancying out of this ditch!

- littleWriter

Saturday, September 1, 2007

The Tragedy of Errors

Give me a puff of air- I’m badly yearning for it
I need the air of my share you’ve gulped in;
Lungs are half roasted fishes of your tender hand,
Till now desperately alive for your final close in-
Long forsaken in the mist of ghostly souls
What human sense hell do you expect from me?
Sipping my own blood from the vessel below-
This caged piranha is damn glad; do come and see.

No rising sun in my prison to steal my daydreams-
I’m at liberty to have my head in the clouds of captivity
The consequence of ruthless whipping on my bare skin
Will slump you over a frozen earth of zero gravity.
Howl for an Adam there, like a desert cries for rain;
Fortunately there’ll be none to melt at your false tear
And none to drink the peg of your poisonous appeal-
My soul will cherish at witnessing you naked in fear.

My eyes bathe with the memory of an unpublished play:

(Sitting on an archaic wooden chair
In a warm evocative afternoon,
When she was resting on a couch
Only few yards away from me,
In the same veranda facing the
Bougainvillaea shrubs of south-
Sun wasn’t till then so lethargic,
Radiating the crimson golden rays
Those fondling her hanging locks
And igniting my envious self…)

That script was unworthy of staging for a real show…
I burned my fingers for scribing such a manuscript,
Submitted my mind and bulk to your beastly assaults;
No wish I’ve to amend my play, I’m not a soul to drift.
A flock of birds hurrying by in the brown sky above,
A wounded sun dropping down the burgundy horizon
Marking the reign of nocturnal lives and their shadows;
Trickling drops from my vein whispers, “The end, the end”.

- littleWriter