Me and my Bobby McGee
If the name had been Teddy Gowers
Would it have been us and ours.
All this convenience would also spoil love
If love weren’t such an easy thing
Good enough for whatever

A sour jibe at crows mayhaps
The danger grows perhaps
Otherwise why these ominous signs
In the dead hours
As a brooding still murder
On a wire out in the winter night

But buzzing gay in my animal planet
Are mosquitoes as me they devour
And their immense grace would make me consider them my family etc
Since they let me dwell on their life’s work while I’m dying
If they weren’t so bloody irritating

Cigarette calls from the depth of the soul
I’m not that well kept and I wonder
What if I were to tear all asunder
And call myself sikander
Hephaestion’s butt whose fury fed

Oh absurdity I’m back, for you. Now take my hand and in the dark hold my fingers over the fire, ask ‘sweet or sour’. Eat your pills of madness with me for company at an incomplete dinner, the key to the pantry left behind. Order a feast of the choicest meats, the Tasmanian devil and the mountain porcupine. Gather orange pips for a game after, lock the babe in the shed. Light a queer candle, undress the pride of lions in their nightsuits. Caramel stuck to their manes, you call their names. The cats shrink meowling/barking, you clean their mess. The hero comes hearken, you tell me. I wilt in the shame, from the interloper I haide the same. Gothic walls crumble, in a heap of dust of Capuchin skulls. Where did you pick up such tales, slap. Building in distance, water, well. Predestination is in the final analysis the strongest force that persists.

Caresses wake me, it’s a lion.

Scratches, falling on the thorns, grief stricken relief for sore eyes in search of grief stricken relief etc.

Exeunt dramatis personae.

In the evening show, honey on clowns’ hair. The aforesaid pride and the caramel absconding, over. In the name of the father, we sit down to prayer. Slap, it’s standing imbibed and standing delivered. Psalms bring the chick into the toilet where she was found suddenly materialized out of thin air. It being the highest habitable pass on the Everest strengthens the claim. The police arrive. Whose chick. Whose chick. Nothing happens for sometime. The people make no bones about their disregard. Open rebellion. Much death and decrying. Thousands behind bars. Eras rush by. Now we revisit the virgin tale.

Grim Russian winter. Intermittent coughing, many with the gout. The old style but, slightly deviating. Here too animals, but tame. Definitely an improvement. Now the harvest and rosy cheeks, immaculately dressed. In the corner of the woods but before the dame in distress could land in anything worth rescuing from, a tender flower fell, on which fell the king upon whom fell the courtiers to be followed by the gentry, the serfs, the clergy, the jewry, the laity etc the list goes on. But the cast can’t. Jerk of head in time.

Unavoidable circumstances and the hurricanes and cyclones and tsunamis, the egos tempers and tantrums, the chains of supply lines of communication the demand curve, rising prices mounting debts sundry expenses. Into the grim times is born the saviour. But the show must go on.

Who should say this but Hugh Hefner, from the audience.

So exit saviour. But not for much longer.

Bush says that from another corner.

Philosophers ponder the question of the thread and whence it was broken. ‘Funny it never struck none to ask me’ was their only clue. An out of the blue answer was expected. Nothing struck but when stones were, fire. Here, the turning point.

Now the beasts keep safe distance and have their dinner by themselves. The butler is particularly fond of sleeping in the kitchen and the lock is on the inside, if he could have it but legend is that he has, with attendant mystery. Much scientific uproar in the vicinity. Textual factual prima facie normative theoretical a priori a posteriori investigations credit a shrewd discretion for this rare feat. Celebration dinner is served naked in joy wherewith metaphorically the wise butler hints that he is quite open and in fact when the spare ribs go missing it’s found that the pigs were fucking in the kitchen thus disproving the entire conjecture of the lock on the inside. The butler stripped forthwith and tried. Death in a secret dungeon. Thus concludes the butler’s tale.

Last words, ‘didn’t know it would go sour’ (reported tongue in cheek).

Tangential humour raises suspicion and fifteen years later, when facing the firing squad the king would remember the butler he had damned in that very nightgown who doubled up as his chef because he was saving up for a long holiday.
Here too night overtakes the traveler.

for b

in the morning if you find the burnt end
you will think what is it
that blends so poorly with the air, and
tells the story
of the boy with charred hair
ballistics,
a study of hurled objects
and fired weapons
and dropping bodies
and lets just use an etc
and be done with it
oh its music
to be sitting here
and my thoughts turn to you

for someone i kno despite all evidence to contrary

odd to a nightingale
is a somnambulist who wouldn't speak to her at all , forget in the daytime, because the voices in his head, mostly his, are louder
often conversations are like knife grating tin but at night he is still sleepwalking and she is singing and both are thinking of the best things to say.
there was hope in the air when the dust from dragging feet had settled but then some fool went ahead and said actions speak louder than
so it was back to square one.
the action has to be love. but we missed it. the message of the millennium lost, pouuf. gone.
so i like nothing more than no meaning and theres no telling me to stop
but it is not like this always not fire and brimstone, nice really if the cock doesnt't crow before morning and if it isnt dark before nightfall. and it is silent but not haunting. really there should be no rude awakenings
more later

unfit gas

gathering metaphors #1
sometimes its a vacuum and nothing to do like a balloon. easy as a balloon. but what is essentially balloon if not unfit gas.

chalti ka naam gaadi

maalik ka gaadi, driver ka pasina
road pe chale, banke hasina

a word in private

The curve of the earth
The bending of perception on a high
Every time she does
She leaves on a plane
And ive tried
To train myself
This time
Im going to climb a tree
And lie in wait
Patiently
For the spring to return
With her to my doorsteps
And without her this dry season
Id take joy and succour
At least from the dried twigs and leaves
If not from the blossoming that comes with rain
If ive survived desolation in thinking of a garden of dreams
Then lovelessness at least hasn’t gone in vain

theres nothing for it but to get it off my chest or as hugh would say make a clean breast of it. language is an awesome perversion. benefit it is to us that it aloows us to say, but woe to me that it makes it obligatory for me to say even when i dont have anything to. the needling provocation of words. i mean how far possible is it to stay calm, prepossessed, and quiet when there are words waiting to be uttered. so many of them just a whisper and the genie appears.
like i didnt want to go where ma ba want me to. i was sure till sometime back that im not going. i knew that il easily produce my infallible last minutes and vanish. stay back merely actually.
but then the parents induced first mistake, the fatal exception that occured in the afternoon.
namely, me going to drop them to howrah. i didnt want to go. thats what i kept telling myself throughout and for sometime. but then like my other helplessnesses. this too.
i saw trains, saw the station dog, saw the porters, the passengers, the retinue the see-off party, the welcome party, the touts, the taxi-wallahs and their touts, the police and the ticket checker, collapsible gates pushed wide open and on the high ceiling a fan whirring, of course purposlessly.
thats it. nothing at all had any meaning to it. no pilgrimage, no homecoming just an incessant horde grinding one insane machinery.
me too theres no meaning to it, il go to orissa i realised then. it follows i guess. because theres no reason for me to go nor is there any remorse in me not going. the circumstances and the situation had been shat out long time ago. il have to go for no greater reason than that there is howrah.

an ding-dong parable

whereas he came and sat on the stool waiting for the rabbi to produce that fool who was to be their dinner. but then the plague struck the news that night and the two of them all affright caught the first plane and flew to the roof of the tallest building(they had such money to spend). the fool was left behind his hands still tied his head covered with a slit at his mouth, so seeing
this our boy ran out on the streets and lo he caused people to run pell mell at the apparition that had come storming out white at the mouth but black of face. he fell into a shit pond and emerged muck laden. it didint occur him to cry because he felt no fear(now that the evil pair was rid) it didnt strike him to stay hid nor cry out for help, he just figured he had to get the hell out. so as he ran sightless he fell, picked up and fell again and then as was wont with him collided with this school of belles and there the muck on him was all over. and thats how the news arrived that there was a bout of plague--our prettiest school girls smell foul, with their skin peeling off in vile eruptions from toe to head.
like this story the lord prayed all his meek children would prevent their own murder by being the cause of their own deliverance being the white lie that dark rumours fed.