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?


 .