Oh Shit!

Slumber ends as morning comes and our zombied existence continues, so does our never-ending battle of normality and monotony. The ritual meal is prepared and consumed amidst loneliness or conversation, all this of course is done after duly releasing the remains of a similar activity the night before.

Now, this time that is spent prior to the time of actual eating can be extremely irritating and frustrating, it may even result in dissatisfaction for some, but only if it isn’t just right (the timing, the ambience and the actual act have to have a kind of surreal synchronicity and it has to be observed every single day, sometimes twice a day). If it is done right though, there is no real substitute for the sense of well-being that envelopes you, not in the real world anyway. Yes I speak of the act, or if I may, the art, of excretion. Who would have known that human being s would be so relieved in parting with something that they’d only just made and which had already been ingrained so deeply in them.

Faeces is probably the only solid substance that defies logic and disproves clichés. No one has come up with or wants to come up with ingenious ideas on its utilization, even though it grows both in quality and quantity over time, more than any other human possession. Haste does not make waste, but as I have explained above, the actual process is nothing short of a miraculous intertwining of the many variables that need to work together in time and space. The fallacy continues, in the case of shit, the more you have the less you want it.

Although it is quite a distasteful expression, ‘Shit’ is probably the most used word in our vocabulary, we use it for commiseration in times of woe and pain and uplift it to sublime status in the extremes of those times (Holy Shit!). We use it when we are surprised, as an anchor to ground ourselves. In times of disappointment, it is, more often than we’d like, our only companion.

This age old pillar of our society is now facing stiff competition from new age creations, namely; ‘Whatever’ and ‘Crap’. But we need not worry as our friend still lives in them and so lives on in its re-incarnated form. While ‘Crap’ is a direct descendant the ‘Whatever’s’ lineage is a little trickier to understand.

It all began in one of our more up market malls, a beautiful young lady of wealthy background was spotted by an awaiting camera crew. She was asked for her permission to be interviewed by them, she most gladly agreed. In the course of their dialogue she was casually asked what she had done that day, she started of fine, but then came the awkward silence, she thought about it, but being of limited intelligence she did it anyway, “I shat before breakfast.” Ladies and gentlemen that was the end of her, her friends deserted her, her parents kicked her out, she never got married, the only thing that did happen was her answer became the talk of the town as it was published in many newspapers and magazines. When it was finally aired it was cloaked with voice-overs and the network seemed to have found a solution for the awkwardness that women and the now-growing breed of metro sexual men, may feel in the usage of such coarse expressions as ‘ Shit’ and the rest, this is how they managed that, “And then you know, I like got up and then I hung, and then I went in and did Whatever, grabbed some grub for breakfast and then that’s all, you know the rest, Whatever, was I okay?” The trained eye might observe classic usage of “Shit” replaced with ‘Whatever’ in two instances, for the others, Shit!

Digressing, another common alias used for the object of my current affection is ‘Potty’ originating in British Slang; this word too has many uses over a large spread of contexts. Men use it to express the craziness of their love, “You drive me potty.” People express anger or playfulness by adding the required tone to, “Eat Potty” or “Potty khaa le.” One word, a hundred uses and contexts, only one basic, underlying meaning. In the context of love for example you are saying, “You give me the same satisfaction that I get from a hearty dump.” When you use it in jest or anger, you are suggesting that the lack of faeces in the persons intestine is making them act the way they are, so consuming some would help the situation, a cure for the ‘constipation’ of their thoughts and ideas.

I guess all I’m really saying is that Crap is the best thing that’s happened to me, I just hope that it will happen again tomorrow.

Signs and Things

The writing on the wall says many things, but I’ve never been one to pay heed to these signs and things,
People of old and wise narrate many tales, but I’ve never really cared for these fables of the ancient,
There are many signs that surround me, many sights I see, multiple orgasms that haunt me, multifarious monologues the same,

It is an ornate world of external beauty, like empty vases of decorated glass, only true when broken and the dozen or so roses of ex-lovers fall apart,
These crumbling petals of sweet memories and dreams gently drift with the wind, straddled by desire and, those many signs and things,
Your old car, like old love reminds you of that familiar touch and longing, even when the rose is in another man’s arms,

Books I read mystify me, with how many pages I have to turn, to find just one on which I cannot relate to those I have known or the many other signs and things,
A walk in the evening and the old familiar drone, comforting, pungent squeals and squeaky, pitched cries,
But somewhere around the corner, you always find an oriental beauty, dressed up and about, high heeled and yearning to be held or danced with, yet in her ear dangle rings of shapes and in a form of remembrance of ornamental curves, they are designs of caution, restraint and signs and things,

Music plays a great role in the realization of most of our lives, Radiometric coincidences and the natural wave in which we flow, our ups and downs, may be explained by science,
Or probability, but theoretical analogies and graphical explanations do subside, and the hearty carriers of them stand ashamed only to be ridiculed by the staunch believers of the mysterious signs and things,

No superhuman effort can fight these supernatural beliefs in the intertwining of lives by a supernormal being, giving hints and forcing nature, the altruistic leader or servant of all that breathes,
A magical demon of passion or love, the machine that produces that produces in large supply, all that feeds hope and dismay and the appetite of many an ardent optimist,
Those who subscribe for their general well-being and survival, to a scarce and largely spartan diet, of hope and laughter of the joy that they get in the many occurrences, those very subtle insinuations of signs and things.

I am not without belief of bubbles, may I add, but I believe more in the fact that they will burst, and fall to the ground, like those vases, and most other, unshakable, till shaken earthy beliefs,
Of all that is true though it must be said, most men would do well to not be one with it, and dream in their lonely nights, of splendor, of romance and the surmounting, amounting, illogically deduced, fictitiously contrived, desperately required, sums and remainders, final revelations, of cautious calculations, of their eye-witness accounts of close encounters with the anchors of their existence, their signs and things.

Weakness

yes there have been times, when i've been alone and lonely
she's been my only friend
and times when i've felt unheard and unwanted
she's always lent me her ear
and all those times when i've known i have lost it all to mistrust
i've also known that i can believe in her
times of loss or happiness
i've always needed her
yes i am a weak man
but she is a worthy weakness
many a drink i've sipped with her
she's always gotten me sober
and my times of grief and misery
have always been soaked by her
sometimes i like to be with her for no reason at all
she understands
there are times i've left her
but i always come back
she never complains
even when it seems that i may never return
she waits patiently
sometimes i share her with my friends
but she is happiest with me
though she's never told me in so many words
i know she feels the same
my thoughts are only complete with her by my side
her slow gentle poisonous advances
always allure my mind
but never distract
just force concentration
i use her i know
but i am a weak man and she a worthy weakness
in an ode to her
i thank her for all and more
and blow away her ashen remains
only until i pick on her and light her again
and watch her, help her burn
only to light up my inconsequential existence
i kiss her then
and blow her remains in the air with a soft whistle
then i step on her when she no longer gives me satisfaction
and walk away
never caring where she ends up
a heartless weak man
with a worthy weakness...

Lost & Found

Lost,
I did my scarcely used mind at the edge of the water,
Splashing by the muddy banks, playing with the turtle necks,
Crafting mighty castles in the sand, I walk on the pebbled rocks,
A mighty breeze does come and blow down their walls,
No I do not think aloud my fears, they’re enacted out before my eyes,
I cannot now retrace my steps, for they have been forgotten and covered by these sands of time,
On the shores of life, the stream of health does shower a rain of hope,
But the loose grains of misery soak it in to the core of them,
What can I do, but question them, the loose grains,
No they do not answer, my plight remains, shower-less the night remains,
A sunlit sky at the time it may rise, a burning light streaking up the skies,
A sunlit sky as the sun may set; a pale, sad red fills up my horizon,
The sands, though still remain as they were, some now moist, some dry,
Some just settling down from after a ride in the windy sky,
The gentle breeze of harmony, was invaded by a stormy lash of angry winds,
And as I stood at the edge of the water, I saw it sprayed upon my face,
Exposing itself to me,
All over my body little droplets, now only travel down, back to where they belong,
But as they go, to me they sing an enchanting song,
The spray hits me again and now I know its for real, not just a dream,
As I sit there without my mind at the edge of the water,
I think to myself and I know now that the hope that presents itself to me now,
Is what’s true, and my rain, she might never come,
I run along the water’s edge happy and ecstatic, overflowing with emotion,
And amidst all my joy and the untamable commotion,
I knew that there was something that day, something… my heart, that, I...
Found

So what do I need?

I am a nothing, a nobody, a lifeless lump of matter,
So what do I need?
A mind, a body and someone to write their order letter,
15 days for postage and handling, cash on delivery and someone to glue it all together.

I am now a man with a mind and body,
So what do I need?
Some children, a wife, a car and a house,
A job to pay for their needs and someone to get rid of those roaches and that ugly mouse.

I am now a husband and father, the owner of a house, the murderer of the roaches and the ugly mouse,
So what do I need?
Money: lots of it, to pay for my wines, my clothes, and that new fleet of stairs,
My servants, their helpers and hotel rooms for my innumerous affairs.

I am now a rich husband and father, the owner of a house, the murderer of roaches and that ugly mouse, having an affair,
So what do I need?
An Aspirin, a Valium, to calm me and rid me of headaches from my wife’s shrieks and that carpenters hammering to reshape that stately log,
A doctor, a surgeon, and maybe some poison to shut up that stupid old dog.

I am now a very ill rich husband and father, the owner of a car and a house, the murderer of those roaches and that ugly mouse, having an affair, feeling sorry he ever got married,
So what do I need,
A damn good lawyer, to rid me of my wife and her children and her car and house,
A generous amount of alcohol that I will share with the relatives of that expired mouse.

I am now a very ill drunk, who was a rich husband and father, who had killed a mouse and made up with its family, who had once had an affair, feeling sorry he didn’t stay married,
So what do I need?
A motel room, some drinks, a TV, those roaches and mice and something to eat,
If I have all those things I don’t need any more, my life will be complete.

I am now a nothing, a nobody, a lifeless lump of matter,
So what do I need?

On Love... A distorted history of all times...

Okay lets talk about love, tell me what is love really, I mean isn’t it like an emotion, at least that’s what I believed until all these people started feeding me all these new ideas of ‘falling’ in love (making it appear like wide open chasm of nothingness) and the depth of the ocean of love, now where do you go about getting an idea like that, you don’t fall in sadness or happiness do you, then how and why love and even if we (for a moment) assume that love is a physical space in which you do ‘fall’. Why do people carry it around with them, to lay on the ground at convenient points of time only to fall into, if that isn’t the case then the other probability is that love is omnipresent, if so then why the hell don’t we fall into it while look at another man, or a woman we’re not remotely interested in, now that reminds, isn’t love supposed to be blind, then how the explain the following statistic that 99% of all couples consist of partners who may be considered equally attractive in their respective sexes by the opposite ones. Any way, maybe all that is just a coincidence, lets just get back to humans and their selective plunges into the depths of something that (even though there are strong arguments of disagreement) is described as an emotion. And the best part is “love” always “hurts” so why the hell don’t you parachute your way down, or hold on to the other guy you’re going down with, unless, everyone has a hole to themselves which they can retreat into when they are done having sex.

I mean, come on, love is definitely a new emotion, it might be even called an invention of the new world, life existed before love, all one really needs is the art of making it, and we don’t even need to call it that (‘they’ do though, so we might as well, otherwise we don’t get any), instead term it having sex… truthful and effective, short and sweet (I hope not), Birds and bees, stings and spewing venom, and then the spread of wings and flying away.

I truly think some smart witch in the early centuries created a giant and a big pot and ordered the giant to ‘pick’ interesting men ‘up’ (hence the phrase) and put them in the giant pot, where she (and all her ugliness) would lie waiting, panting, wanting, desiring, and the poor men for lack of anything better to do would do it with her only to be thrown out of the pot soon after… the pot was called “LOVE”.

Then these men and other artisans united from across the world and decided to create a magical pot called “LOVE” of their own, they tried and tried and tried again, until man perfected the ART of MAKING “LOVE”, and this ancestral knowledge has been passed from man to man, generation to generation, and now truly forgotten is the art only a few handfuls of mortal souls still practice the act of sex in a large bowl (pots are passé you see) while still others mistake their bowels for bowls and are satisfied within themselves, any way… “Sex will make more people and more people will make more sex”, oh and yeah before I forget… “Love will find a way… to hurt you.” (Yes love your friendly neighborhood voyeur, Love. He’s like a sex maniac, you know. Lock your doors at night, or not, going by everything that’s been written about him, he will find a way to hurt you, THE BASTARD.)

The truth about liars!

The truth about liars is often misunderstood or misconstrued.
Lying is not the trait of a born loser, or an insecure soul but is a factual (or ‘nonfactual’) art, a way of life that is silently but quickly becoming the order of the day.

The artists and artisans (those who haven’t perfected the ‘art’) are present in every sphere of everyday life and most, if not all are well-respected pillars of society (those who aren’t are mere beginners, the artisans as mentioned earlier). There are many forms of practice of the art and many methodologies, misinformation, warping of facts, alternating perceptual maps, environmental conditioning, incorrect or incoherent representation of strands of logic and scientifically coating in some extreme brush strokes the color of darkness with a bright shade of pink, or yellow. These modern day maestros also downplay and frequently use the effectiveness of stealth to their advantage. There is a high overlap in the art of lying and the new reasoning that is entering the world, many now claim that it is closer to a developing science than an art form. I on the other hand am still inclined to the later nomenclature as it defines the subject in a freer, much more open space, a huge white canvas, in which he can paint at will and yield his masked webs of nothingness.

Liars often display traits of genius, as the common adage goes “one lie breeds a hundred others,” now imagine presenting a theory and then substantiating it with a hundred others, all at the drop of a hat, in awkward circumstances and doing so without a second of warning on the spur of the moment. This is what liars do, good ones do it flawlessly, bad ones often end up with too much fat on their fried bacon.

Good liars make the best lawyers, bad mothers, lenient fathers, good husbands, healthy doctors, wealthy mechanics, creative children, fascinating writers, prominent politicians, great salesmen, valued friends, respected administrators, and most of all wondrous, captivating, sensitive, romantic and generous lovers.

So I suggest to anyone presently in or attempting to be in any of those roles in society, remember these words: -

“Any fool can tell the truth, but it requires a man of some sense to know how to lie well – Samuel Butler ”

“ He who permits himself to tell a lie once finds it much easier to do it a second and a third time till at length it becomes habitual – Thomas Jefferson”

“Everything that deceives may be said to enchant – Plato”

“A lie can travel half way around the world while the truth is putting on its shoes – Mark Twain”

and my favorite,

“You say you are lying. But if everything you say is a lie, then you are telling the truth; you cannot tell the truth because everything you say is a lie. You lie, you tell the truth ... but you cannot, for you lie. -- Norman the android, Star Trek”

Repetition in the recitation of our ordinary lives...

Repetition in the recitation of our ordinary lives,
No splendor or grandeur, no extraordinary grace,
No time for timing or timing for humor,
A hundred days or twenty one, seem to me the same,
Eventless,
Each one even less worth the effort than the last,
But then something has to be different,
Or does there?
No, forget it, it remains the same,
Routine bludgeons all thinking ability,
But there lies hope still, in death,
Or old age, or retirement, or just in making better choices,
Choices exist as an optimist’s dream,
I really don’t have any control over my set of choices,
Neither, sadly, does anyone else,
Choice of life or death, of activity over slumber,
Choosing aggression or depression, a choice in knowing what you want or who you want to be with,
But that too is restricted to that which you see and those you meet,
Most choices are like most people and coins,
Two-faced and laden with hidden truths, or untruths,
That’s how helpless we are,
Our lives dominated by the two faces of a coin or man and you can only pick one,
Choices are nothing but a false sense of control in a world hell bent on losing it,
Fate is what is real; yes the myth is what is real,
Fate determines your set of choices and your hand in the final deal of the final deck,
Our choices have already been made, but only time can present them to us, to help understand, where we have been and where it is that we now stand,
No one has a choice, not in life anyway,
The one thing you can choose is to die,
To die before it might be destined, in circumstances that you want,
But it might so happen that even that choice of yours was destined to present itself to you in due passage of time,
Time and fate, fate and time,
Driven by each other they map our existence,
And we live then in these plotted days as pawns, or rooks or knights, never kings,
Not even of our own destiny,
You shouldn’t place too much importance in your next move, for your plotted existence will present itself to you,
So lead your meager, mundane life as a piece on a decorated sixty-four cell table,
And know,
That is what is real… fate is what is real…Repetition in the recitation of our ordinary lives,
No time or need or want to think,
All the time in the world to justify the lies…

The inadequate meal

Fiery raven eyes, shining in the night,
Large silvery wings, reflecting the moonlight,
Cold, frozen stares, an icy wind blows,
A pack of wild wolves promptly arrange themselves in rows.
Hellish shrieks of a scared mountain beast,
Fallen to the ground being prepared for the feast,
Four legged reptiles slowly rise from the swampy marshland,
And from afar stare convicts, as from the feast; they’ve been banned,
A feline family of large monstrous cats,
Arrive at the scene, under the shade of vampire bats,
The blistered bleeding beast is now screened for consumption,
Every tender inch is felt leaving no room for assumption,
A thorough investigation of the meal and its size,
Creates a sort of panic, as the guests realize,
That the poor monster is not enough to feed them whole,
And the hunger in their stomach takes on them a very heavy toll,
Verbal atrocities begin to flow,
And physical abuse is beginning to show,
A fight to the death, to the end, to the point of no return,
A nightmarish duel where all participating end up in an urn,
Nothing left to do now, nothing left to feel,
All that is left remaining is the inadequate meal.

Dreams

What to speak of these dreams of mine,
What to say, that will not be lost or forgotten with them,
They come only as disjointed images,
They stay only as withered, estranged memories,
Remembered, only to be forgotten,
And forgotten to be rekindled in these nights,
From dusk to dawn I dream,
But morning arrives and I open my eyes to the world,
Reminded, I am then, only of facts,
Of figures, that prove the futility of dreams,
Sometimes in slumber, sometimes while wide-awake,
I dream still,
For it gives me satisfaction and desire and hope,
Hope, of respite, of retribution,
Of solitude, of all the time in the world,
And all this time to myself, to remember to dream…

This life is a fucking 3-ring circus

This life is a fucking 3-ring circus,

A ring for him, a ring for her and the last one for luck,
The acts, they begin but never seem to end, or end without any inkling or spark to show where they began,
The morbid clowns of the circus, they smile in a superficial grin, the happy ones only hop along in their naiveté,

The ringmaster directs the rope walkers to walk across their tight ropes, who, then fall, only to have their falls cushioned by giant nets, laid there, on the expectation of them falling,
The gigantic net waits for its prey, act after act, day after day, then gobbles these fallen horses, these freak 2-legged horses,

Those magnificent creatures on the flying trapeze, how they swing their life in the complete trust of it, their existence dependant on those who jumped before them or those who might come after, never alone, never individualistic,

The multi-colored, scantily-clad, show-offy, showgirls, of perfect thighs and wondrous eyes, dancing hourglasses in your ring, they disturb the sanctity of the ring and take attention away from the juggler or the queen,
They lead meagre lives of mild means, sit by the elephant parade and wait for their lions to come by one day, but instead the weasels con them into a ride,

The strong man and the flame blower take all the praise, but not for long, enter the international man of rubber or elastic, he now gets the ooh’s and aah’s,
None for the clown though, the common clown, the star of the circus, never does he get no stare nor frown,

Then suddenly, as dare devils induce feat after feat, and the damsels prance along on their feet, the clowns gather in a great sense of haste,
The net gives way and the ropists dive, everyone hopes the trapezists are alive,

A silent showgirl runs off with her lion,
The elephants stamp out the weasels cage and move on forth, toward the stage,
The audience shudders to the circus tents fall, but it is fortunately held up by the man who is 10-foot tall,
They gather around but I’m nowhere to be found,
Life takes its toll on the midget and the troll,
The flamist lives but the strong man is dead, rubber man melts, turning white hot from red,

The human cannon ball yells fire, aims outside and lights his fuse, but the 10-foot man and the tents construction, prove to be wiser to his ruse,
They gang up against him as a major obstruction, leading the speeding bullet to its ultimate destruction,

Now, as always, covered in darkness, having shot our only hope, engulfed in a pall that doesn’t begin to please me,
I cry out to the ringmaster, “This life is a fucking 3-ring circus… Release me!”

Enchanted Land

Lost opportunity, and a mind lost to the world,
A mind rock,
A heart stoned,
Laggard, haggard, flushed butts down his hole,
From fix to fix, I exist!
The electric shamans ravings, coo somewhere in the distance,
His Indians gather on dawns highway,
We breed in the darkness of dusk,
Where do we sleep, in this enchanted land of smog?
Why do we sleep, in this enchanted land of smog?
There she goes, should I go to?
No I must sleep in this enchanted land of smog…
Tired eyes,
Exhausted lies,
Told and retold,
Lo and behold,
She stops and winks at the ravenous one,
He gathers courage and the remains of his strength,
And they disappear in the enchanted land of smog,
While I still bravely attempt to sleep,
But I do not exist anymore,
I do knot care,
I while my time while they come and get me,
As they slowly get to me,
Those carriers of us all,
Ours are the souls,
United in the enchanted land of smog...

An Ode to Life

For all her mysteries and misgivings,

Its twisted ways and untold turns,

I salute life,

I know, if it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t know her,

And all that is part of her,

For it is more than life itself that I treasure these things,

Much more, so much more…

I do not know life, but I do know that having her, means more that just having her,

Experiencing her means experiencing the wind, and the stars and sunlit rooftops, shown with rising heat in days of summer,

And having her, means knowing all other who have her…

I salute life,
For the people she has blessed by giving herself to them,
Some more, some less deserving than others, but all there to strike a balance,
Damsels in constant distress or highwaymen of a time long gone,
Those I know and those I care for, mostly those I don’t,
Among me or you or them, she does not discriminate,
She knows not how,
Selflessly she gives her all to all who ask and some, who don’t,
Maybe its because she knows that its because of them that she exists,
Or maybe she only exists for them to exist,
I salute life,
For all her confusion and all in her that isn’t,
For all of chaos and all order and method,
For all of her contradictions,
For all who strive to better their experience of her,
For all who fail to do so, or give up trying,
For her challenge,
For those who accept,
For those who choose no to,
For all beings who’ve had her or have her or will have her,
For myself and for her,
For rationality, emotion, original thought and the lack thereof,
For the past, the present and the future,
For fate,
For destiny,
For death,
I salute life!

The Drunk Bartender

Parallel thought invasion causes angered devastation,
Knowledge is rightfully burnt and love undergoes molestation,
In this world what is true is often lied,
And people’s aspirations regularly commit suicide,
Standing in the middle of this god-forsaken road in the middle of the night,
Here they come, step on me and march clear out of sight,
Those were the giants of grief, fear and anxiety,
The underlying danger on the road of life’s complexity,
They squeezed you hard and got every last drop that remained,
After they were done all your energy is drained,
Theoretical assumptions and analytical studies add to the confusion,
And they believe that people would fear the threat of a nuclear solution,
I’m positively low my man hand me a drink,
Make it strong, Long Island with a whisky stink,
Ahh! Much better, now that my senses are slow,
I wouldn’t have to think about that what I already know,
The end of the world is near, they say, it might come at any time,
I laugh at the poor bastards while I nurse my Gin & Tonic and carefully try to rhyme,
Riding on the storms of filtered perceptions,
Trying to hide from fanatical misconceptions,
There is a craving desire to know what is true,
But those who really want to know are but a few,
This world is a cliché, a statement delightfully sarcastic,
And every time the past repeats itself, it’s equally fantastic,
They call me a drunk, and say that I have lost all my senses,
But the rum in my hand is just to help me drop my defenses,
A clear shot of tequila and the tangy taste of fresh cut lime that will follow,
Activates my senses and frees my mind, that earlier seemed so hollow,
I drive up beside me and strike up a conversation,
And they stare at me as though it were some sort of hallucination,
But I don’t just give in; instead I look at their eyes,
And at first glance in know it is but a disguise,
Strange but true, they feared me; because they knew,
That I was their Messiah, their savior,
But I still couldn’t understand their strange behavior,
Their dense dark minds are brimming with pain,
And their, soul, screams out through their eyes shrieks in a manner that seems insane,
I close my eyes and to my home I go straight,
I’ve decided now, that I will quit my drinking and try to improve their fate,
To make them see what they never saw here,
I think I’ll become their bartender when sweet death draws near.