Hot Mess.

I feel like I cheated on Bangalore with Bombay. I am not apologetic about it, and sure to repeat my doing, but for some odd reason it seems to be guilt tripping me.
Bombay was a fling. And Bangalore - my forever love.

Sultry air, humid breeze, and the kilograms of dirt you wash off in the shower is not at all something attractive. Yet it's that wild punch that goes straight through my solarplex, every time I set foot on Bombay ground. Who am I in that atmosphere? I feel like a spiked drink that really looks like a dry martini - shaken not stirred.
And then to stirring it up - Somebody stop my train. Every night feels like a one night stand. So fresh, so young, so wild.

Mode: Adventure
Well aware of what I am getting into, thanks to my grounded Bangalore ways, I unconsciously welcome the all mighty Devil that takes immense pleasure in reminding me of my angelic ways. And it's conveniently supported by the usual non-conformist in me that decides to be on holiday.

It's like a fully loaded gun of surprises. Those bullets blow my top off every single time, before I wake up to another day without even knowing that it's going to get me again. It got me by my weakness: Surprises. Clever, clever, I must say.
The spontaneity it rubs off on me, injecting some mean chemical that triggers off deranged ideas and not to mention, gives me a set of wings that work better than any pigeon. Even the messenger ones.

With ease, and maybe even with a blindfold on, it brainwashes me into doing the never before. Mind you, while I am trying unbelievably hard to hold on to the rungs of my morals. It got slippery, but gladly, I manage to half-hold on.

It's dirty, but it pleases with the momentous charm, effortlessly. Keyed in perfectly, without a blink, it skips all bases and gets me straight. Usually, I would hate it. But the boldness it gets me by could put any hungry eagle to shame. With a fearless push to the wall - it encircles my being without breaking away, lifts me up making me feel weightless. Cupping my contours, I press myself against the city letting my tongue speak things I would never otherwise utter, letting the feel grow deeper and deeper until I suddenly wake up to know I am almost undone.

I said it was dirty, didn't I?
It's not something I need. It's just leaves me thinking that it's something I want. God sent hot mess.

And then, to my darling, forever love city - Bangalore. It's my comfort, it's the place where I will return for a hug, a shoulder, a cup of tea, a whatever - it will be that reassuring place that I can always call home because it will forever overlook all my stray trips and it's nonchalant character won't let it do anything but love me back.


P.S: Bombay was a fling. And - always will be.

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Ears, bubblegum and the bright side.

I wish we had bigger ears to accomodate more anatomy between them. Bright things like minds and smiles.

-x-

I wanted to ask someone something and the rain washed my slate clean. Here I am with answers to god knows what.

-x-

Cruising through a quiet alley, the car jerked.
"Get the fuck out." he yelled.
Reeking with fatigue he locked his fingers tightly over her palm that rested on the gear, unknowingly contradicting himself.
Sometimes when a spendthrift tongue races a neural impulse not realising it, a helpless heart drowns in misery.

-x-

Won't you die if the sun wasn't around?
Oh dearie Sun, such a subconscious part of my life,
You'd like some more acknowledgement.
So would the brightside.

-x-

Bubble gum laughs while you do.


-x-


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Snow

Read this about snow somewhere:

It's been pissed out of rats, it's evaporated from the skin of the dead, flowed downs the shit-filled river, and at the end of it all, sucked up into the air and showered down on us. It's the sum of every dirty creature that's ever lived.

Yet still so pure?

a) Looks can be deceiving. Nature just proved it.

b) White is not necessarily pure. Suck it, racists.

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Smile on repeat

I'll be high on your smile,

If you'd only let it extend a mile,

Slowly let it tip-toe into your cheek,

And off your dimple, let it leak.

Ch: If really I could,

I really would,

Oh baby,

You know me,

I'd clean it up and make things neat,

Just to play your smile on repeat.

Come on, fair boy,

Play your demeanor a tad coy,

Loosen that brittle,

And smile a little.

Ch: If really I could,

I really would,

Oh baby,

You know me,

I'd clean it up and make things neat,

Just to play your smile on repeat.

Bridge: If you'd try to put that smile

in your wallet,

I can bet,

I can promise you,

that it'll say, "no can do"

Baby, my billionaire,

Do that thing, that makes me stare.

Ch: If really I could,

I really would,

Oh baby,

You know me,

I'd clean it up and make things neat,

Just to play your smile on repeat.

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Perhaps.

Perhaps I should let it all go,

watch you like a performing art.

Art is so abstract

it won't change its way.

It's the power of a label,

a catalyst to digestion:

a crutch by you,

a faint placebo

letting you last.

Then you can without restriction,

like a bird spread your wings,

play out our colour.

It will atleast look beautiful like a rainbow,

just out of order.

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You make clichés look good

When we lie,
Under a usual blue sky,
We don't see,
Clouds of cotton candy,
'Cause you've caught my eye,
Like a diamond in the sky.

With you,
Nothing is done before,
The things you do,
Keeps me coming back for more,
And I always wonder how you could,
Make clichés looks so good.

Scented love letters might be sweet,
Attempts made to sweep me off my feet,
Instead I turn red,
When you write love letters in my head.

With you,
Nothing is done before,
The things you do,
Keeps me coming back for more,
And I always wonder how you could,
Make clichés looks so good.

Chocolate kisses on my cheek,
Indeed make my knees go weak,
But it's the sweet stain,
That yearns to remain,
For you to lean over,
And give me that love fever.

With you,
Nothing is done before,
The things you do,
Keeps me coming back for more,
And I always wonder how you could,
Make clichés looks so good.

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Vogue-d

Her soft curls hang loosely over a bare shoulder, the nude chiffon wraps tightly over her bosom, falling free, subtly accentuating each curve. As she waltzes in her relaxed shallow wedges, the soft sun sweetly falls over her fruity face.
She’s the summer of ’10. Gentle prudery. Très chic.

Be a Marilyn Monroe in the summer breeze. Adorn yourself with a second skin that almost doesn’t let you feel it. Employ the beauty of georgette and chiffon that read comfort and sophistication. Add sheer fabrics to décolletage and bring hemlines down. Peek-a-boo sheers, sleeves and more modest, less revealing cuts are what we now see.

Before reminiscing on the summer of ‘69 do away with the print and go easy on the palette. With blush, bronze, rose, and sheer fondant hues, make your attire your new complexion. Do not forego white or black. They are and always will remain the new Black. However, if you still have memories of a usual bright and zippy summer left behind, thank Michelle Obama. Mimic the first lady’s citrus tones.
If there’s anything to load yourself with, it’s got to be sunscreen. Touch it up with peach cheeks and a clear fruity smile.

When the sun is asleep; mirror her (especially if you made a pass on the child-bearing hips): Over sexy lingerie, pull up a curve-fond, high-waisted skirt, and club it with a tucked in, fitted shirt. Sensually button down a few and slip on those Manolo pumps.
With variance in texture, ranging from a fitted Edwardian ruffled shirt, to a smooth hugging skirt, you’ll be the apple of everyone’s eye.

Skeletal size 0s, should decide to hide away in a closet and doughnut their way up a size. Layering is gone with the wind of winter. Asymmetric drop drapes, ‘60s A-line shift dresses and strangely roomy jumpsuits is now the zephyr that is blowing.

With the sun shining overhead, battle it out and strut your shine too.

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Rock-a-bye

If you've been thinking about us,
Together on a dream bus,
I will not wake,
You up to a heart ache,
It won't be fair,
To re-live your dream as my nightmare.

We will only be,
In another world,
You and me,
When you curl,
Up and sleep,
Dreaming so deep,
So, just rock a bye baby

Your eyes are closed,
In a love struck doze,
Hopeful yet lovely,
Don't make it ugly,
Waking up to,
Where there's no place for me and you.

We will only be,
In another world,
You and me,
When you curl,
Up and sleep,
Dreaming so deep,
So, just rock a bye baby

Here is this lullaby,
Bidding you goodbye,
To a world of dreams,
Where everything seems,
About you and me,
Because it's going to be better than reality.

We will only be,
In another world,
You and me,
When you curl,
Up and sleep,
Dreaming so deep,
So, just rock a bye baby
Rock-a-bye
Rock- a -bye..

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More than just a cliché

More than just a cliché
Mute teddy bears,
Gold wrapped Godiva,
Are too far
to speak my love out,
If you wonder what it’s all about,
Decipher it baby, it’s not bizarre.


Just you and me,
we’re meant to be,
But these lines are
too easy for my guitar,
‘Cause we’re more than just a cliché.


Candle light,
and a plate for two,
It’s nothing new,
A bottle of wine
‘Oh will you be mine?’
Seems like déjà vu.


Just you and me,
we’re meant to be,
But these lines are
too easy for my guitar,
‘Cause we’re more than just a cliché.


Paper hearts,
Candy floss, red roses et al,
is so plastic - Barbie doll,
I’ll pour some sugar on you,
not sickly sweet and the overdo,
Just enough to know, that I’ll catch you when you fall.


Just you and me,
we’re meant to be,
But these lines are
too easy for my guitar,
‘Cause we’re more than just a cliché.



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?

If lovers live forever,
are you and I immortal?

Would you bloom at night
if the sun was out?

Why isn’t it ever understood that birth control helps saving the unborn from this world of filth?

If less is more -
Why aren’t you ever satisfied with the green on your side?

Do windows suffer
from an inferiority complex when they see a door?

If no two finger prints match,
Have you checked to believe so?

Do the sheep feel cold
when you’re wearing a sweater?

When your mouth waters with lust,

can you still taste my love?

Why is there racism
if black makes a statement?

Is the lipstick on your collar - a message
for me, or just plain ignorance?

Why would you give my heart an ailment
when my blood is so pure?

If I play dead,
will you play mourn?

If I sleep with you,
will you call me your virgin tomorrow?

Are you a sadist
if you smile at a rainbow’s perpetual
frown?

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It's been yesterday

Melancholic dampness -
a sponge as her front
covets her expected.
The expected.
Her prerogative snatched,
she sits aside.

Through the valley
of her shuddering limbs,
recoiling in pain
her purblinded eyes
notice the pestle:

In the corner
a sacrificial beast awfully de-hearted,
silently lime-lit,
stoning the leaves.
Treacherous leaves.

A poisoned palette leaves her be.

From womb to Welkin
unswerving she leaves.
with the leaves.

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July

The blue above
forming July sky.
Summer harvest,
bliss.
Feathered flock ripple 'round,
sheepish smiles being bare.
Warm horizon,
He watches.
Toil,
toil away.
He watches composed.
At Us his keen eye falls.
Hack, sweat and fruit.
Yield in the yellow
the glow sets us away.
For it is Us who stomach
June, July or October.
A furnessed cringe sees to Us
as We tick around the ring.

Poetry should..

I loved the read. Try it.


When in public poetry should take off its clothes and wave to the nearest person in sight; it should be seen in the company of thieves and lovers rather than that of journalists and publishers. On sighting mathematicians it should unhook the algebra from their minds and replace it with poetry; on sighting poets it should unhook poetry from their minds and replace it with algebra; it should fall in love with children and woo them with fairytales; it should wait on the landing for 2 years for all its mates to come home then go outside and find them all dead. When the electricity fails it should wear dark glasses and pretend to be blind. It should guide all those who are safe into the middle of busy roads and leave them there. It should scatter woodworm into the bedrooms of all peg-legged men not being afraid to hurt the innocent or make such differences. It should shout EVIL! EVIL! from the roofs of the world's stock exchanges. It should not pretend to be a clerk or a librarian. It should be kind, it is the eventual sameness of contradictions. It should never weep until it is alone and then only after it has covered the mirrors and sealed up the cracks. Poetry should seek out pale and lyrical couples and wander with them into stables, neglected bedrooms and engineless cars for a final Good Time. It should enter burning factories too late to save anyone. It should pay no attention to its real name. Poetry should be seen lying by the side of road accidents, hissing from unlit gasrings. It should scrawl the nymphomaniac's secret on her teacher's blackboard; offer her a worm saying: Inside this is a tiny apple. Poetry should play hopscotch in the 6pm streets and look for jinks in other people's dustbins. At dawn it should leave the bedroom and catch the first bus home to its wife. At dusk it should chat up a girl nobody wants. It should be seen standing on the ledge of a skyscraper, on a bridge with a brick tied around its heart. It is the monster hiding in a child's dark room, it is the scar on a beautiful man's face. It is the last blade of grass being picked from the city park.
-Brian Patten

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The CLove Story

It was almost as if she held a bonsai sun in her hand. It glistened with a traditional touch and a rather incandescent glow. For her, all that glitters was gold. A tepid smile left her face as the pretty pair of earrings glanced back with antiquity. Crestfallen inside, she lay it down on the counter.

Were somethings just not meant to be?

Flushed cheeks and teary eyes kept her committed. There was no letting go after coming this close. Her patient sister-in-law carefully pushed the tiny black spice into her ear as she shuddered in pain. An old aunt while picking out thin-stemmed cloves, yarned into a story about a detailed account on ear hole caretaking during her childhood.


Pushing, pain, cream and clove- it was finally in her ear. Those earrings had no better place than on her ears she thought.


Hopefully it is just a matter of a week that I’ll have to fit spices in my ears until they’re ready enough to entertain thick stick antique jewelry.

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I'm changing.

Give me some privacy.

Ignorance is not bliss.

This afternoon I sent out a simple text message to my whole address book;
“Have you got your voters ID yet?” And the ghastly replies I got completely mortified me.


“No, why?” was the most common reply; which got my blood boiling at two stages. At first when I saw the ‘No’, and then again at the ‘Why?’

“No.” this brutally honest, undaunted answer, isn’t going to answer any of your questions that sound like, “Why can’t the government do anything about the potholes?” or “Why can’t the government ensure more security to avoid moral policing?”
Who are you asking? The government? Which government? The one YOU didn’t vote for?

And, “Why?”
No, really, was I just asked that by 90% of the people who replied? If you’re living in an opaque, soundproof bubble, you are excused. It’s surprising how oblivious educated, up town residers can be.
With the elections round the corner, and the ceaseless, persistent awareness campaigns going on like Lead India and Jaago re, you really have wild courage in you to ask a question like that.


If you’re one of those inexperienced citizens of India who think the procedure of getting a voters ID is difficult, let me enlighten you to know that it’s not.

1. Print out Form 6: http://209.85.175.132/search?q=cache:zUpSqga9VCQJ:nchills.gov.in/FORM6.pdf+form+6&cd=1&hl=en&ct=clnk&gl=in&client=firefox-a

2. Fill it up and submit it to your Electoral Registration Officer, who will give you Form 001 to fill up.

3. Go to your Designated Photographic Locations (DPL) and get your photograph clicked and voters ID made right then.

Tip: Go around 6.30pm to get your photograph clicked if you aren’t passionate about waiting in queues.

Of course, I will have to consider the some of you who are of the stubborn, undutiful citizen kind: all your silly debates against voting, are only going to improve your futile argumentative skills; a sweet suggestion would be to bin them.
You know deep down under you are wrong so just go ink that finger.


p.s: Visit www.jaagore.com

1 2 3 4 5 6 7. lost.

'One Family, one child. Horn OK Please.'
Twiddling my thumbs, lost as ever-
third eye blind.
Four and square- let's rewind,
lend me a hand,
I'm outta my sixth sense.
Be the seventh wonder, show me who you are.

Advice: Don't loaf on this lane

This filthy, all-purpose lane is a total attendance grabber. With a whiff of freshly squeezed orange juice and the sound of motorcars and the buzzing of bees, the busy latecomers who return from the sight of locked classroom doors grab a warm cup of coffee or a refreshing plate of cut fruit. These groups of rejected women gather around the dirty footpaths engaging in their lengthy, chitter-chatter early morning rants.

The now faded orange juice aroma is usurped by a cow who decided to do her perfumery business for the day, swishing her semi wet tail as if the cool wind were her natural hair/tail dryer. Insistent flies of course find their daily hub as Mrs. Moo moves on to house many more of them.

Vegetable sellers, turn on their vocal chords for the day screaming reasonable prices despite the heavy recession. Pharmacies burst with fresh orders of pregnancy tests, tampons and contraception as the cafes clear up the half finished idly’s and the left over sambar bowls, in the midst of planning lunch menus for the day. Cars and bikes hustle their way through a measly path flooded with living creatures the size of a fly to an enormous cow and everything else between them.

I took myself here on hearing that the shortest route to the other side of the road would be through this lane. It's certainly not the shortest route of most pleasant sights, sounds and smells.

Newest found way of submitting my assignment

Dear Mrs. Ramesh,

I have lost your email id, so I thought that this is the next best way to submit my assignment (in time) since you want a soft copy. Sorry for the inconvenience.

This is the sci-fi flash fiction. (Not from the movie)

“No. 90X4P to Earth: !, No. 90X4P to Earth: !” as this resonanced in his head he was blinded by the ultraviolet white light, a distant yet close blurry image of a cyborg with a chemical smile and an unusually luminous reflection of himself.

There were T-200 seconds left, the clock beeped in a niggardly fashion. Making a choice, for someone with a deficiency of decision-making skills was pressure beyond comparison; especially when his world might have to come to an end.

Did he envisage a new and updated Mathew 2.0? Or was it easier to be reduced to dead chemical matter in a fraction of a second? Struck with an internal conflict of feeling futuristic and frustrated with his life, Mathew felt his brain cells being braised by various thoughts.

He rewinded a 1000 years ago : 2000 AD, when life had a close to definite span and mankind couldn’t alter the living hour. He regretted how technology had fabricated itself into a whole new evolution. His past played in his head as if it went by in the speed of light; he vaguely remembered the concept of love- how he fell in it and out of it, his mundane monotonous schedule and a handful of random important events.

His anti-intercourse, unsuccessful 2-week-old invention Xilo lay in the corner diseased by a rare morphined coma. “No. 90X4P to Earth: T-100 seconds.” A little more than a minute and he would walk into his future. Mathew looked into the shadow of the radiant UV ray and saw Xilo who was deprived of assistance. Without anymore thought processing he took a confident step into his reflection. In a flash he felt a passionate tug. He turned 360 looking for the source of the tug and instead saw an awakened Xilo spurting the ever-lethal Xenonian Ammoric elixir over the cyborg. His eyes strained to capture the supersonic action of the cyborg disintegrate into shreds and magnetically transport its self towards the moon. “Xilo! My son!” he screamed with intense exhilaration and shock.

Don't bother decoding.

4:36:21 PM Beauté: Yes sir, how may I help you?
4:36:53 PM Superchrist: 2 double veg burgers,1 coke and some fries
4:37:00 PM Superchrist: please
4:37:25 PM Beauté: Veg burgers? No can't do.
4:37:42 PM Superchrist: just pray to me baby
4:38:14 PM Beauté: .. Amen.
4:41:41 PM Beauté: Okay, now go climb the sky
4:42:02 PM Superchrist: im alredy on the subway to venus
4:42:48 PM Beauté: Pick me up? I'll wait at Marrianna's trench.
4:43:25 PM Superchrist: o...im going via guernsy city at shoreside vale
4:44:15 PM Beauté: Do a sweet favour and buy me bubblegum toes.
4:44:47 PM Superchrist: alright honey if it removes your woes
4:44:57 PM Superchrist: but dont act like those other whores
4:45:12 PM Superchrist: they work at those petty lil stores
4:45:22 PM Superchrist: beside the bayline shores
4:45:33 PM Superchrist: pretty little diddy snores
4:46:44 PM Beauté: No, no, my child, the possible is impossible.
4:48:03 PM Superchrist: and vice versa
4:48:40 PM Beauté: Praise the lord, halleluiah
4:49:09 PM Superchrist: its hallelujah btw
4:49:20 PM Beauté: Jah Jah

x

Jet: Ugh. I feel so allergic to boys right now it's not even funny.
Tess: Why?
Jet: They're like foreign creatures invading our territory who don't even look or smell good.
Tess: Any specific foreign creature?
Jet: No, the whole testosteron race. Ofcourse, exceptions aren't forgotten.
Tess: Say more;
Jet: Pulse.

x