Riveted

The armours we wear are not gilded. Polished metal could never make for the strength that is required to step in arenas we know as playgrounds.Rusted iron, with chinks welded in repair. Edges worn , cutting through those who rub against at the slightest possibility, not just of a conflict but of a proximity too uncomfortable to leave to chances.Loath the fact that out of our playgrounds the armours are still riveted not to bodysuits but to our own bodies.

Our inseparable molds that would break with the contents that fill them. Paranoid we are! Paranoid we will be! Untangling and tangling what lies ahead,taking everything by the violence of our passions, weaving and then knotting the threads when they lie still as prospects.

Only the Paranoid Survives.
 How does the Paranoid sustain?

Ever sick but never dies......

I fed fuel to warmth,
trading flesh for light,
smoke smothers from doused embers,
not the flames that are alight.
no one choked on fires,
 it's riveting crackles prove
there is life even in pyres
till water sizzles to soothe.
there is less fuel to feed these burning,
hence more sense to let them die,
Sparks rekindle timbers
and with the fire it dries.
There is hunger in its wrath,
There is madness in its loathing.
There is is dark in its charred soot
but a fervour in its glowing,
it does boast of passionate ire,
yet passions' fuel it is not .
the oil of a warm body
is what it would feed on.
which life sustains death?
which fool would live in sickening
that would be unending
and hence the fire is starving.

The sea of Okhotsk....I am the island.

Navigation through this sea is almost impossible in the winters.I am the island that stands frozen midst the ice.
everything around me is the white sheet that covers the bubbling life beneath them. stranded? Not so, here by    the desire to be unpossessed. . Claims to me are numerous yet I am abandoned, do I regret?

I stand here in between grandiose and puny . Large land lost in it's own vastness is one of my my neighbors, mighty in nature and expansive like an ocean of land, tumultuous in endowments but laid back by choice, scattered in it's ravished and pristine landscapes, fertile yet barren, still so vast.
Puny, the little dots of lands, overflowing , virtual life, swinging in schedules,so much that each second gone is on the pulses of the living who tick like robotic devices.A vigor that would send a floating feather from one end to the other shore over the mechanized tracks, and the feather would fade in a whimper as it is swooped by the wind that entails the machine in motion.

Both on the map, one by the virtue of it's natural endowments and other by the virtue of their proliferation. I stand devoid of any. Most complete in my existence ,off the radar, off the map, a safe haven only visited by stranded boatmen and curious tourists. Uninhabited, untouched, utopia in it's solitude. Left alone, sustaining life on it's own. The sanctuary of all that lives in neither extremes, that knows the tales of both , that rest with none.
An island I am...an Island I'll be, not in the remotest but midst life, cut off from the worlds by sheets of ice. Cold ,pale ice that would thin on the crust and then melt into the Sea of Okhotsk.I'll stand their with all my wonders intact , visit me perhaps, I do not ask of you to stay.Please do not stay.For now, the sea is frozen.

Bottled Messages...floating in the sea...Chanced upon.

All that pain is not yours to caress alone, or perhaps it is, just as it is mine. How generous are we with our fortunes and how closely we treasure our afflictions and their infliction?

There was nothing to me,bound and unbound that you could fathom. as  unfathomable. Mostly if  not all that led you to me was misplaced ardor and the lingering of it in a chasm as pertaining to the least of logic and the last of nous.I think I knew it from the first knock at my door. Intuition does trigger a thought but I stop intellect from ravaging it's probabilities. The interest was my interest.This is no accusation though, not to be taken as any offence. I would only be glad if it were confirmed, I do understand.
Insensate to stabs of the blade that the wounds you left were, you knew. You could not believe that the insensate were loved and the insensate could yield to healing but you did try, undoing and doing with all that you had created and all that you had destroyed. Understood, Indeed very understandable.Not shirking from the blames that were flinching at your mention.

Here are your blames and mine:

.When you fill a void with concrete, you first shovel the earth, no matter how lose the soil, here is matter leaving it's land, with the roots that were deep, sown seeds and all that was as endowed by nature.You can plunder it and the land will not wince, unearth it all and sink them into oceans but tell me how would you ever synthesize the same soil, with the roots placed at the same heart and the seeds sown exactly as they were meant to be.  What were you looking for? A haven ? In the familiarity of the simulations that were created by a force or testing a passion in equivalence, solace in the sufferings of the insufferable, as we are known.
More importantly how would you destruct the block of concrete  , it was not concrete but quicksand(an amalgamation gone wrong in it's immature state), it pulled in all that it could and all that was , the structure you tried to built atop,they tumbled into the pit and were lost in the depths you dug.

In parallel was built a wall. at the periphery of the pit that was a bottomless swamp.Immunity to a devastated land. The structure used the raw concrete , leftover from your resources and bound by the disposition to cover and not fill the void that did exist. The void all bubbling of  waste that was never meant to be, radical reactions often lead to such miscalculated errors that lead to such disasters.
 You did not have a solution? how could you? still the facade of the problem remains, The wall. that was conquerable ,was it not?So I thought, so you knew and so each one through the forces, not concurrent but still parallel tried to mow down the structure.Our estimation did fall and rise but the wall was intact. (Though I admit, I once felt that by the nick of a chance a few bricks had been removed and vents were created.)

I was wrong , not in my attempts, my intentions but my methods. The complexities that are owing to my own experiments, my own volition and my own belief, that nothing is irreversible do not apply to the simplicity that it was...once done, never undone. Something that stands created by the hand of something so staunchly divine, so perfect in it's existence , sculptured stone, never changes. Perfection that you are. Perfection that you want.While I ,human and fallible, discovering and undiscovered, yonder from the points that I know are to be sought.
Yet I obliged myself with this staunch belief, that if I had a belief it could pertain to things outside my own microcosm.I was not wrong in this. The time was wrong, very wrong.
We share the passion for not just the object but the proving of our theories on the object, that is wrong, very wrong, indeed.
If all that you are is perfect and all that I am is in search of perfection only, there will be no proving further. As for the Obelisk that stands,do not thwart your attempts at bringing it to life but for that be alive. For someone so resistant to change , how would it be brought to another?
Also, we forgot, the regard for the person beyond that object......
'Want'..'.it is all about the want' could or could not be coterminous. Still, I trust that you would know better. I for all that I am still am the distant observer who just observed...but passionately. The masterpiece was not my to own or to modify, I knew.

A temple of thought that is as ruined and refined.
debris that pierce through ravages of time,
A wail echoes like chants in it's prime,
deep abyss, oh depth of the dead.
sleeping like those who never rise,
a requiem is all left of a reprise.
reeking of the rot,
the dead leave to the living
through graves they dig
and thoughts in engravings.
they never change.
Are we dead enough?
Are they living enough?

Apropos!

Lets not say what I inferred of it all or perhaps you could stick into the implicit the stake and tell me was their some water in all of it, because when I did run through the scalpel of intricate skill through the clutter that required hacksaws to get through, I found a fluid more warm, sanguine. It was all having a life of it's own running, stinging in wild passions, rising in rushes, falling in tides. All that ran through with membranes enclosing the full bodied person that existed in your speech. I feel so much, is that a disorder? that I see through opaque and hence the life in the lifeless seeming drenches and the thumps that are a dead hum come alive in my ears as percussions of a wild beating heart.Too sensitive, too lame?
I never was, and now it's proven or perhaps it is,vinndicated I am, I feel.
As I speak, you utter....Apropos!

Tacit and tarter

Pungent, never subdued,
implied ,inferred, delicate.
yet the striking never ruined
the smooth roundness of her face
and chiseled , scraped almost ,
cleaved to perfection
all that it is the facade to.
dissolves into self
resolves into self
and implodes upon the misdirection,
all that nothing stands witness to.
you are tacit and tarter,
all I taste in my mouth,
left to linger
sharp at the tip,

lashing at my tongue
spread to blood
down in my throat
the flames that lunge.
all other senses I rest,
I feel,  feel again
without asking of much.
tacit and tarter,
no appetite for starters,
they never taste as bland.
More tacit, less tarter now.
tacit and tarter never the less!

Coppélia

Of all choices that you have made, the ones that were stabs aimed at me have not hurt me as much . I could have been anything, dark, twisted, damaged, tangled, chaotic, vain, veneered, wrecked, chipped, dazed.The adjectives I were, the adjectives you accused me of. were all meant for the living. The living who evolve,flow, fly, walk, slide, crawl , move.
Now you just ruminate on a spot, over a rotting situation, A wooden carcass.

.The want, the flare and the passion that exudes from the alive is amiss. That warmth that you channeled through every pore in the skin , the fire you raised as you lashed with your disposition to disagree .The cold shivers you sent through the my feet reverberating the ground  below .The embers you lit with amber chiseled.The cold is now frigid, the embers now flames and you have become the devout of the nymph of numbness.

How could you have been enchanted by  Coppélia.?

 As much as we are defined by what we love, we are defined by things that we hate. Convinced of the fact I have always been but the perception was perhaps half of what exists.What we love and what we hate are like two streams running in meandering intersections through the channels of our nous, and as estuaries they mingle in the ocean that our psyche is.

In a restless transition of the same water that wantonly meets the same end and flows from perhaps the same source,we drown. Not knowing which of the two rivers were which. This led to us becoming what we hate. By volition or not, by chances that sustain themselves because we let them, by the precarious existence of the two.
Apathy is drought.
The only repulsion that did exist within the realms of my acceptance was apathy.What more damage could you have done?
The only switch that  was not to be turned on has been flicked on and off, off and on and I am not alone in such experiences. Do not turn apathy on as of(f) yet.,not here, not now, not on this. 

Music Boxes

Lets make boxes for music,
the glazed polished kind.
 that ballerina
perfection captured in static
dolled in shimmer
painted in gloss
are you happy now?
Forever box this music
it will play on and on
the same happy  notes
till they seem static
would you be lulled now?

What stands on toes will fall
if taken out of the box
the arabesque in refrain
is as much a contained pain
as the beauty it exudes,
only the prelude.
out of your boxes
all music does conclude
and is filled with requiems
You can not keep joy
in a box.
'happy' never tastes the same.

Firefly in a Glass Jar

Living as a trapped firefly in a glass jar ,see through the walls, glass has such perfection in its finish, you can see the world pass by and look at the eyes that stare and study you .The light of your own burning would illuminate the faces of those bemused.

 In joy you would flutter and skim in the cylindrical environment of your existence, measured in the volume of air it holds for you to breathe, the lid turned and screwed to the top, with punched holes to let air diffuse into the virtual lest it suffocates you to death. Existence has its seemingly humane layouts. It is designed not to kill you. It is designed not to let you live. It is designed to keep you in a loop that hangs between the two. Just as the fire fly dangles in the jar.

The fire fly now trapped in the jar hovers with unease, the escape, there must be one. The punched holes at the top are not large enough to let out a life from the clutches of an existence. The glass walls, transparent are an illusion of the sight and insight that is devoid of experiences from the real and there are no windows. Why would you need them when the delusion of an amorphous state kept you from making any?

The fire fly is dying in its trap, the glow for which it was encaged now diminished to darkness, the buzz of its wings in desperate attempts of jolts to the glass that with all it’s perfect finish now makes it slide on its edges. Existence would never let you take a firm grip on it, would firm its hold on you and tie itself around in a helical infinite that would make you squirm and wriggle to breathe in a whiff of life.
 Eventually you would die not smothered but unwilling to breathe in through the shattered windpipe, that makes it painful to inhale whatever remnants of life you gathered in that jar.
The one escape: Shatter the jar.

Peace

A feather falls,
from  dark wings,
the clock ticks
a laggard vibrato
 Impaling the flesh
on either side, a knife slow
cuts throw the bones
in pendulum swings
drives through and out.
Ammo in impact
chisels on the skin
and then leaves numb perforation,
such vacancies have you left
in salvation.
Peace is haunting memory
of the wars.

The jinx of juxtaposition

He weighed too much

on the comparisons,

not reading the signs

of no contrast , no claims.

parallel identities , crossing names.

he said black was black,

grey was grey,

but blue was or may,

be close to black.

he said black was my shade, 

just as his past.

but blue is blue

in timid variations,

an array of hues, 

never black in blurring

but dark in imagination.

He weighed too much,

on differences,

all my thoughts seemed references

to his past,

his morbid past he never complained,

never lamented, always refrained.

but why was I such a bane?

his then and when 

if they were same?

had he never loved then

or did it cause too much pain?

'when' took over 'then'

while he was still sane,

to recover from either,

and curse neither.

Was it that grave an error

that I were a melange,

a bit of me,

more of his old romance?

and bottled the rest,

did not take a chance,

to reveal more of me,

the less he would understand.

he covered his face,

in his own palms,

through the gaps of his fingers,

he viewed a self trance.

and then he could have blamed

I was not too keen,

as I laid no claims 

to being me.

All I did make,

of what I heard of him last,

was that he was in love with once,

but now despised his past,

too swinging to know 

which of the either,

and hence he never blamed

and cursed neither.

As for my heart swinging on a steel line,

barbed with iron, cut through threads that were fine,

I were a fool. more mortal, less divine

in fragments of his past, what presents could he find?

it is not a curse, nor do I feel disdained

his romances had  him cold,

I was too close a flame.

to give him warmth or light,

and cause no burns,

I curse not him,
 the jinx of juxtaposition.

Surreal

I do not burn, do I fade?
in quivers yes, when you are all pervasive.
I live, in a tepid watery grave,
chained to iron resolves I dived
 the salt of my wound,
rust the chains
I smother and rot in saline depths,
all for vain.

Misplaced chronicles.
 lapse of  time,
is so ironical
the past the present all blur confined,
 dunes from bygones,
inverted hourglass chambers,
frozen in amber,
a clock that never moved aligned
to the evolving of spaces,
as defined.

 Not a preserved fossil,
I yield, I breathe,
but you are all pervasive.

Places where all has been,
places that I had never seen
Concrete trees, and glass covers
Curiosity makes me wander,
 roaming in wanderlust,
Have I lost my way? yes,
 you are scattered in dust
midst the sunshine that filters through opaque,
I chose the densest,
You are all pervasive.

Lived and now thrive,
 died in hindsight,
do apparitions haunt?
I of the present still linger.
 Died in some nook
my spirit would never loiter
in all of your presence,
 if I ever did.
in a subtle sensation,
it skims,
and it's all a delusion,
but you are all pervasive.

Le Proof....

Often as I have quoted the same
There is a cure to bursting pleasure,
it's sporadic remains.
a sensation to cease
a stab of a pain
but numbness,
 a curse beyond mundane.
wince and write off,
in a 'whence'
and then with a sly
I wrote in a nudge
to all fowl cry.
"tell me(if at all there exists), the antidote
to Novocaine"

Love perverted
Lust,Greed, Gluttony

Love deficient
Sloth

Love malicious
Pride,Wrath,Envy

and yet yo say you say
not absolve of Love?

Love redeemer
The penance for all these love,
 hold it to virtue
without the sins above?

Love not despised
is love left untouched
Not a virgin
but a whore
off her path .

The vacuum under the large suction cup of life, is that what has become of me?
A vanishing trail of a virtual life, under illusions of scattering light's disparity, that is all that I can see.
I am afraid, what has become of me?

The Condensation on the Glass Walls.

In the veil of the pouring waters, everything drenched, and the mossy ground thawed from the showers swooped into a muddy whirlpool as the water gushed through a hole, there was no ground below my  feet, it was melting away into an abyss and I walked on it , steps firmly rooted in a nebula . I stepped into a puddle, the water cold and filthy washed at my feet with a splash that reverberated my thoughts. My eyes had been stalking a figure in that downpour, a hazy figure, appeared in white near the blue glass walls, it traced my glance,met me in the eyes and then like a the condensed haze on the window pane it was all removed by a sudden sweep. I conjured the haze.. The lucidity of a glass wall never alarms, is like a monotonous pain after you have pressed your self against it in an attempt to walk through, illusions and haze arise and then fall leaving a twitch of agony. Hope leads to hallucinations and despair is a counter drug. Which one of them is the poison?   

I am Leaving.

Take my eyes and look at me now, the last time you'll see me.
I am going, vanishing at the light frames, vanishing with all sounds and names, vanishing with all that I said, vanishing in dark or light's own tread.
A ghost disappears, such false existence,
a whiff, a chaff , a gnawing rodent.
 despise , I despise,
I'll leave nothing behind
yet everything behind.
and in a lost claustrophobic being
rests closed contempt,
and contempt needs no space, no place to grow,
I despise, despise, I leave behind,
but contempt will not seed, as I throw.
It fissures in from cracks in me,
a growing pain is a remedy.
it flows , it flows, it brims out.
charring flesh like lava's spout.
the skin I never had to wear,
the skin at which I gnawed to tear
and the bones that are full of a restless fear
the flesh that needs fire to douse
it all has to disappear.
You keep my eyes,
the last of what you see me as.
I am leaving.
they have seen inside, you and me,
and insight to you and me,
a hindsight to you and me,
not a foresight for you and me,
I leave behind
I bequeath, a world that I had to see,

A marvel at which I could flee.
my eyes have seen it inside out
and I hope they impair none about
your sight, your flight,
your varied dreams be
fragile as they were meant to be.
A face that masked the better
I set alight,
and my eyes did glitter
at another face that steals in the wood,
and let you know the ghosts in the hood..
I am leaving, forever,
a long long time
and if the route of your still crosses mine,
I plead, keep my eyes,

see me as I am,  I was, I were, I seem.
My eyes also enclose a dream.
keep them, don't frown at them
don't laugh at them
don't cry at them
I have lost you,
I'll find me
my eyes with you.
I have your sight,
your sense
your sensations
My tears, I'll take from them.
I am leaving.
I have all I need.

The Poet Acts.

 It says it all. 

What is the trouble with being NICE....?

Grey by choice

I like grey, the shade. A little less towards the ash a little more towards the charcoal grey. The colour exudes a certain uncertainty. The dabbling between the two extremes. Black is dark, stark, unchangeable. white is too prone to contamination, corruption, easily stained even by the hues of the splatter of a consequence of the external nature. With white comes this invisible inked commandment....'Thou shall not err' . A slight deviation in the angle of the falling light and the colour of the linen is all of a different shade. White is subject to perception as well, relative in it's interpretation and at the mercy of the beholder.

Once I complained that a white cloak was too heavy an attire and an admirer of the nun like purity(on the edge of the cutting knife between it's opposite and itself) had asked me 'Why is it not nice to be nice?'
I had answered creating a superficial air around the less obvious,more substantial reason, with a nonchalant 'There are not too many takers in this world'. It leaves you vulnerable to attack from the more sharp, common and ferocious tools. These tools are like off the shelf merchandise, easy to acquire, more convenient to use. Self defense being the excuse, Offence being a temptation.

So well, I prefer grey now, it means not to don the white cloak on the outside, it means to keep white under the layers, less vulnerable to stain and gory. It also means to don an armour. A darker charcoal grey. In true sense it means to let the shades blend with each other and let one take over the other in the invariably varying situations in life. I lie, not deceive. I share, not give away. I have to learn how to say a no, I try to, I have to learn how to negotiate a denial, I have in some situations. I pull away from unpleasant situations most of the times.I avoid the people , pretense and perjury that runs amok in the masses.I show a clumsy display of goodness sometimes, a crafted show of sly at  others. I am unapologetic about both...knave, naive. It also gives me that unpredictable nature, an edge over the obvious.

Inamorata

Brush slightly,
pass lightly
silently chafed skin
dusky with the sin.
of cicatrices
in the sleeves of  Laces.

Kiss the rouge
fallen blossom
and tinge the rest with a
red macabre.
Silent pondering,
wistful blabber.

Lesser god of the higher,
a forbidden paramour
Lulled feebleness
Psyche as restless
slave of passion
 the priapic reason
suppressed love
and flourished pretension.

Cacoethese ,
all at unease.
downpour
lest the flood
should unleash.
A vineyard drunkard
A tarnished wayward.

Jinxed, juxtaposed
blatant or forced
more in conflict
less in consoled.

News for Savaged

Yes, blow by blow, the creeps of the last breath have drawn themselves away from my frame. It is beautiful if you ask me, the sensation if at all  there is of being numb and the drop before the anesthesia of an encompassing hopelessness swallows the ooze of pain through the creeks of the last of your senses.The blows were vicious, a sting would not hold the venom of the strike that were meted out in successive beatings. A pulverized being, least malleable yet flattened to the earth by such a strong hammer that the marrow in the bones mashed with the will in the blood and dissolved like the grit to stand up to the fate.I have resigned , perhaps, no longer is there a will to reason with the unreasonable twists of the last few conscious moments.Another limb has fallen, this is not a post traumatic disorder.

We were Water.

I know of desire,
have tasted it's ashes,
less warmth from a fire,
with a splinter that crashes,
flies in soot after glow,
crackling on wood and flesh hollow.


If we were not wooden
(in expression, but profound)
 in words spoken that night
of the sea, the wind, the sand and the tide.
Closer than they were there,
the prospect of passions to share.

We could have been water,
waves,from an ocean rising twice
lashing and mingling in stark high tides
miscible, liquid, in a flow.
tuned in spirits , fervent or slow.


not sand but water in entwine,
mingling of breath, blood, flesh
 by the tranquil blue, never enmeshed..


 sands are parched, dry and pale,
by summer tempest and winter's gale
now at the end meet the shore
Could the wind not float evermore?

water and salt
by them soaked in love
before the storm will fall.

We could have been water
in each others arms,
miscible, liquid,less viscous layers
each flowing over the other in there,
river or the sea, each one in form
and how does it matter
where the other is from?


 .

Virtualization

Forgive my cheek and abandonment if you have come here looking for a technical definition(you shouldn't have, the title to the blog makes it apparent)though the inspiration for the title and the content came from that very context.
A social circle comprising of a couple of adept computer geeks and listening to their conversation with theoretical  resources  to bake only half the information into something fruitful can lead to well, digressions ( if you find this article a regression though, I firmly recommend you to switch to an article of absolute relevance to you) . My basics might be intact but as they continued with the nuances, I shut myself to the interpolation of my own graph between technical definitions and their analysis(it is a rather deformed curve) and the thought process ran in a different direction.

Versions in the human machinery have been particularly of my interest. It is strange that a human psyche can inhabit so many incompatible traits, each running on a different platform.A plethora, still contained by the diversification and the adaptation of each as and when the situation demands.
Recently I was in discussion with a friend over the traces of paroxysm that exist in my behavior.I chuckled with a complacency that has become my natural defense to such frequent accusations by people. In fact all people who have known me at any point in my life can recollect an instance when they had been exposed to what they thought was some kind of a neurosis.I differ, not only because I have been on the other side of the glass but also because I see these switches not as a disorder or even merely as a natural tendency.

It is a remedy. A remedy to all those actions that we logically feed into ourselves as precautionary measures,not knowing what have we cautioned ourselves from.A remedy to all those unnatural traits that we have acquired over the practice of norms in our day to day life. The human temptation of killing uncertainty with manual attempts or the fallacy of adding to the rut with some exotica (so much that the exotic is perfunctory).
The 'virtualization' of the human psyche may seem spontaneous,but amendments are never natural, they are added to modify as a result or a cause of some chronological or sociological events.
The term justifies the significance of the 'make believe' element that exists in this labyrinth of increasing complexity.Divisions and blocks that try to distinguish one aspect of ourselves from the other but trace mazes in the process.

Perhaps the starkness that comes from doing away with the subdued is the paroxysm that exists in my behavior. The equilibrium that is at play most of the times is not superfluous but is virtually fed. The deviation is natural.
Unlike computing the disadvantages of virtualization to the human machinery are many ,they are serious and the damages could be irreparable. If the paroxysm or neurosis is the ultimate state of insanity to people then let me introduce them to another disorder that is delusion, it takes them away from reality.... 'Psychosis'.

Blank Noise

Blank noise,
blank noise.
all that is
a blank noise.
even the white,
went out of sight.
the wind past the tunnel
it was hollow.
Cuddled underground,
a hare's burrow.
Long ears, My ears long
a distant voice,
a distant voice.
and all they catch
is a blank noise,
not a sound.
Underground.

Evermore(Lamenting part I)

Infallible...you are,
and my imperfections are at stake!
vanity, pride all human mistakes
but you and your composed aristocracy
sweep with grace such blatant fallacies.
infallible,you are
and I fell
only I fell
and I only fell.
I fell and for you I fell
but infallible you are!
such cold perfection exists alone,
in deities etched,
in cold ,staunch stones.

Evermore (Encounters part I)

People, there wanderings, there chatter
all to pyres,
they irk my being

and irk my ire.
in the lost and found of love pure,
I ask them first'

where is pure desire?

each takes to the other's name
and they conspire it is not the same.

I found you in the whilst of shades
with your dark lady
her poise,  her grace.
entwined in the mane of her endless curls

you played, you fumbled and you turned your face.
(such a lost, lust lover, and such innocent greed)

I played on my tunes,
 and the the people were charmed

and your lady sprung to feet

though you sat disarmed.
not a praise worth your lips do part?
and the sheer ignorance of your love for art.

the art besides you took my hand
and led me in your beautiful lands.

Oblivious to your passions deep,
oblivious to what all you keep,

oblivious to your enchantress
I fell and failed to impress.
and you with sheer indifference

led chaos in the sheer constants.

I have led men and the higher men

each beguiled to there innate sense,

I seduce not, I don't entrance,

I enchant no spells
Nor prowl or prance.
I merely reduce to rubble all.

egos and their mighty falls.
I have crushed them once,
I'll crush them again
but to be swooned at your steps,

I never feigned.

We yet again drew a collision,

for my tryst at the stage,
now had to be weighed

and with two mere provisions

you offered me to write my fate.

a blank paper and ink

and I laughed at such a childish challenge
your aide drew out a well cut blade.
my hands not fidgety, my mind not stalled

but the doubt that rest above it all,
you who never praised my best,
have put me to an indefinite test.
would it be enough to defeat

your insolence at our first meet.

I did write and well in time

and with the courage of a a wild in own territory

 I threw my work disowned

and waited for praise and flattery,
 he took it then from my hands

and raged through it (if only he could understand)
and said hollow words just of the rhyme
so much for passion, so little for my time?
till you , swept the once blank page

and drew out meanings from words en-caged.
my verse had found its worth.

in the first few encounters.

Lady of Pain

This blog is the result of the inception of an idea that grew on my mind, body and soul. Swinburne's Dolores, is not just a verse, the church could have deemed it satanic in it's approach owing to the controversial nature of the creation and the creator but the sighing and panting followers of visceral purity  would agree to the theory.Pain in its glory and pain in its absolute form, more intense, more stark and concentrated in this existence than all other diluted emotions and the sensation of them .

 A sudden wry smile appears on the face of that dark ,enclosed character that I am involved with. I need not say that such mystery, such puzzle, a collusion of pain in pleasure and the art of the balance lie within the depths of the embodied feminine fate.Leaving aside the realms of Paganism and the19th century zeitgeist that might have inspired the poet to come up with the inscriptions, I could enliven these aspect in the 21st century with the examples that are incarnated in the myriad shades of feminism. Women and pain seem to have had an eternal relationship, not just the naturally endowed gift of it or the unnatural myths  that a fragile frame brought along but the sheer ability to incite and induce it. I do not blame my kind for the Sadomasochistic behaviour, I love them for it.

A man would spend a lifetime of cold logic and reason in a struggle to avoid any inconvenience due to pain, then finally his fears catch up with him and the very Ice Man approach freezes him in a hollow meaningless existence, sometimes they seek to break it or the escapist that they always are they create a pseudo comfort of some skewed kind that spells the end for them.
They blame women of being perennially miserable, bringing emotional hysteria and inflicting it's ramifications upon them but they do not realize that women are no strangers to pain, they have long known the latent threads of bliss and how to invoke them through the shock of a spasm.For a woman all pleasures come through pain or pleasures lead to their darker counterparts , the onset of a carnal bliss or the satisfaction of motherhood, Sacrifice at one stance brings success in the other. Deep passions, deep bliss, deep pleasures come through deep sacrifices, intense pain and a acidic penance that dissolves all that is impure. The moderation and balance that the wise seek also lies within this pendulum motion that oscillates from one extreme to the other, balance is not static it has to be dynamic.

A woman embraces pain, chooses to let it dwell in her because she knows that her pain is not some punishment , nor has she been guilty of it( yes, I rubbish the theory of pain as rendering of guilt or the fire fueled by sin). Pain is as much a part of our essence as the quest of pleasure, in fact if there were no pain the quest of pleasure would be meaningless, to know light you need to suffer dark and not just suffer it but live through and develop an intimate understanding .

I have always believed in a higher being, some people chose to avoid that aspect or well absolutely nullify it but I believe in it. In my understanding that higher being dwells within us, there is a science to explain this inexplicable being but it lives within, it has to be brought out from the shackles of the superficial , it needs a chiseled weapon to scrape of the tatters from above and that chiseled weapon is pain. How will we know our own extremes, the range or the lack of it if we deny to explore one side of ourselves?

Desire and Love, Passion and Detachment, Pleasure and Pain , an indisputable cycle,  rather a strong and lasting relationship. Strangely, a woman is capable of all..She rests in her pain, smug, diabolical, silent and inviting with all such connotations drowned in the mystique that surrounds her being.

Paradox

In the paradox of what the hidden is clear
in the paradox of how distant is near,
in the paradox of who you are and seem.
in the paradox that tells life from dreams
I have stopped seeking words.
silence is far more than we know.
the contrast that steps in from bounded hope,
In the despair that lies untied in ropes.

Perception

I cut a truth in two,
A half I kept from self
A half I keep from you,

Suppress the sadist inside,
as I cut little incisions
and make truth from half lies
with an alchemist's precision

Deny either of us two,
the whole as it is true,
I have cut it in equal piece
for fragmenting unease.

The truth is brittle as it is
too strong to survive with the weak
and too stark too outraged
to subtle down with the meek.

The wedge is thin.it divides,
the line between true lies
there is truth, there is deception,
but the devil called perception?

We have sold to the devil,
There is no good and no evil.
It is defined as per say
Infinite in many ways.

What was half a lie
half a truth became
and further twisted and turned
and truth and lies were the same.

There will be truth, there will be deception
what becomes of perception?
and then there is wrong and right
but what's left to decide?

then we termed 'Belief'
Laws, religion and lack of it.
All carnage of the psyche
split and as perceived.

We free our own devise
of virtue and of vice
and sins have become petty crimes
with convenience of times.
Soon they will be mundane,
but for the paranoids and insane.

There are wars and there onset,
arguments and unrest
outcomes,grim gore grief.
never death of a belief.

There is truth, there is deception
What a curse is this perception!

I had cut a truth in
equals of two
as one it was defined
now it is sublime

there is half a truth
half a deception
and triumphing rest
is the evil good perception.

Consistency

I just figured out the lack of it . Consistency, I find myself incapable of it in most encounters that I have had with life. I have been told off and on that I work in spurts, that I can not sustain even the quintessential traits that come to me as an individual, that I am so changeable.

'Rubbish'

Had I been inconsistent and changeable I would have taken to the expectations of an ideal characteristic quite easily.Is it so hard to figure out that the inconsistency is the consistent trait I have? I work in spurts, that is a constant pattern.I find writing prose a tough task, I end up being so inconsistent in making my point.
Did you figure out what I just meant to say in this post?

Perhaps

It is, is it?, will it be?
No rule in its propensity.

there is no fate,
no date,
just a stagnant will,
and to save the face,
'Probability'.

Digression

Constants are natural misfits, sustenance is a struggle,.
In the wake of stability, instability grapples.
why stick to the point?
why tread a course?
Why trace patterns?

they end in chaos.
Instantaneous Impressions
and flings with all that is reason
and why not askew, soon to turn.
Why are they Digressions?

All disorder, in order and place.
Digression is that,
Symmetry and classification
familiarity to trace?
Digression is that.
Survival is fine
but still a phase.
that is not Digression?

The rainfall cloud.

1.
     
        all
    is      in                          scatter
It              vap-          , the           in       -densed ,
vapour.            -ours                       con-              and      be heavy
to                                                                              it will              ,heaving
 fall                                                                                                           to fall,
      tears                                                                                                      but
           of                  until       dense      wander    .stall          shall           the
              brim      the       mist         with           So       never          wind
                     last
2.
t           c          b          a           o      f             a       h                    l      L         l       r
h          l            u           n          f       e            n         a        m       i      o        i       a
e          o            r          d                    a          g        v           y       f      v         k     i
            u            s                 c               , r        u         e                  e.    e        e       n
            d              t,               a          p             i                f                         b           c
                    h                        s          a              s              l                           u           l
                     a                       c           i             h               o                          r          o
                       s                       a          n,                          o                          s           u
                                                d                                      d                           t          d
                                                   e                                     e                                     s.
                                                                                             d

Pale Sunshine

There is a pale sun
some distance away,
about eight minutes
in a go cart race.
it's warmth is what fills my heart,
the sunshine gilded on a hopeless face
it eludes me in the mist, in clouds.
and it's rising have never seen,
I walk to a subtle sunset
and it hides inside the paler greens.
I catch the trace of it's warm rays
always so near
eight minutes away.
warned me of it's severe heat
Its burning and so you will be,
scalded is far fine than frost
that it's evasion has kept me.
I walk with the dampened glow
I walk away as i do know
the sun is still far from reach
and the sunshine is not here to stay
about eight minutes,
that's miles away.

Delay

Death, mercy should have played by now.
there at the brink stands a pawn
and await a Zugzwan .
and you should have been the man.
and driven the daggers through,
The first the last and spared move.

Parentheses Poetica

I talk in verse, my words may be the ramifications of what my mind rejects and what my heart chooses to keep to self, but verses, they define me. Poetry is abstract sometimes, impish and bold at other instances but it invariably eludes the common sense.It requires a depth , an abyss to fill. It is open to perception but is never keen on deception.It is elusive but not delusive.

A direction, a subtle hint might just leave the traces to the path it takes. The parentheses to verses are words themselves and they have struggled to keep up with the abstract quality in verses. It could ruin the essence , the taste if the lines between the absolute and the perceived are not blurred. The apparent may or may not be the truth. The conviction with which we put bold words and delimit them between the brackets could come from a belief  that the self has imbibed from the surroundings. Hence the parentheses are too defined in fewer words. Barring my earlier interactions , words in my posts have diminished to verses or to few abstracts extracted from the apparent. hence the name 'Parentheses Poetica'.  

Consideration

Spontaneity urges me to pen this thought down. Hence it is my own, Stemming from the authenticity that is much branched, twisted and debated. I write today with the absolute indifference that I hold towards the 'other'. Neither my despise, nor my delight reconfirm my thoughts today. Should I even label these thoughts as thoughts? NO. They are merely the ingrained instincts that have overflowed to fill in the void.

In emptiness have I realized what fulfills me . My essence or my existence? It defies it all today. The theories the philosophies all kept at the brink of understanding. this is just as I am.I write and I write, Not merely words that spot a blank page but engraved inscriptions of my being. Is there anything at all that I have put to consideration? the norms , the belief, the questions, the doubts.Now I pause.

Why? this pause breaks it all. I  am tempted to label it as authenticity still. The Frommean way exists. It says consideration would also lead to the same conclusions.I doubt. The seed of Consideration plants the weeds that rot the oak of all my belief.

Nullified

Insignificance, I'll be.
what is the worth of none to none?
what is it's worth to me?
insignificance, 'i'll be.

Conviction

No altars of morality
forgive my concocted sin.
sacrifices have been made,
not to them but within.

of what has been uprooted,
truth has been denied
but whatever sacrilege
has been,is worth of the one belied.

Love seeks courage of conviction,
what would convicts give?
on paroles of restriction,
so still unfulfilled live.

Burial for the living.

When I found that Chances, Pain and Love never die, I buried them alive. I wonder if they need an epitaph., their smothered screams from their graves are their eulogy as well as ode.

Reason and Passion

Clasped, unchained
of no possessions gained,
we held once or twice
reasoned and seasoned,
I rest in reason, 
toiled in passion
You toiled in reason
Rest in passion.
and never shall they rest together.
seasons don't phase like the weather

Testing the waters.

I throw caution to the wind if it is an impulse. I am enslaved by my whims that are masters of their own will, so much that I have started thinking of an evil twin as an answer to all my inexplicable conducts. I admit I have always wanted to ride my own wave and do a bit of a jig in a crowded street with the abandon of a fakir. I resolve not to think much and drop my guards when I need to.I fight to survive the repercussions, but have I hit back with the ruthlessness that I posses in resolve?

That perhaps alters the whole essence of my being. I now test the waters before I take a dive. They say it's a realist's approach, with all due respect to the realists, I do not think I fall on their side of the line.There is another way of following the instinct and going for the nosedive. It 'is' a 'nosedive' and going by how the world should be and how the last pieces of idealism can actually put it in sync with the theories that it holds high. That is a dreamers way.

An idealist  survives all such nosedives and even if the waters are choppy , sinking should be a temporary state of reality catching up, the idealist resurfaces from troubled waters and even makes a way back to the shore.It requires a not so ideal way of testing the waters and even if they seem deviated from the ideal temperature ,take the plunge. Just as caution is no way to live, ideal or real,surrender is no way to survive. Convenience and inconvenience, they are relative to the situation per se. Sometimes drowning is more convenient than staying afloat,hence they are no perimeters of  determining the state of my existence.

 If I live on and on its impractically ideal, If I survive and live on , its induced idealism but if  I take to being real, It wont be either ,survival or living. It's a little too dead to be experienced, the state of staying still at the shore. .

I took the plunge, I was asphyxiated , Has no idealist ever heard of a revival ? It is survival with regrets drowned.I learnt after I did sink. 

Scars

A wound is fatal when it heals from the surface but in roots develops a septic that stems from being infested. When external elements invade it before it sealed it's own.  While some ooze , others dry, fresh beyond the first layer and pain seething inside.  Now the clot and the cicatrices are the apparent signs of healing and time remains no caliper to measure the extent. No external remedy can heal it, it would not be soaked in now. The wound has become immune to remedy by sewing itself close from the skin. The scar will have to be broken again, rather it should be cut. The shrapnel that had twitched itself within will have to be pulled by a healing force and uprooted, it may lead to a swell of blood but to drain the malice is the only way to heal. Instantaneous but sharp pain removes it's chronic counterpart. Scars do not always point to healing. Do they?