Solipsism

– Dead Poet

Emptiness is all there is;
That and my consciousness.
So I fill the void with all of you,
And hope and love and loneliness.

I am the centre to everything,
The master of all creation.
And all I see and write and do,
Is but my imagination.

How do you know, what’s red for me?
For the same could be green to you.
Everything will be what I want it to be,
And never know if it’s at all true.

 

Advertisements

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

Demented Dictator

– Resplendent Rogue

A piece of paper from Versailles,
Powerless monarchy, a clueless Reichstag,
And the foolish world saw his sun rise,
Casting shadow on the German flag.

A guarded secret then, Not any more –
Grey bearded men passed the folklore,
That the ardent advocate of pure race,
Was once a nomad in the outer space.

Somewhere in Andromeda, a planet solitary,
Was his home, modest and consolatory,
During one of his ventures, unknown,
He had encountered the funnel zone.

A barrier – of space and time,
Where Everything was true,
And Every one was right,
A new dimension in the galactic paradigm.
His existence  transmuted to a waveform,
Jewish gods warn, “here cometh the storm”.

Remarkable it was, his newfound puissance,
Could see the future and the bygone,
Ubiquitous and omnipotent
He could dominate a planet alone.

Earth was an easy target, Germany a cakewalk,
His malicious mind formulated a plan,
‘All hail for the cocky Monarch’,
Enters ‘Messiah’ , the miracle man.

The propaganda was fraudulent,
His ideology was hollow,
But his speeches moved the Alps,
The mesmerized crowd had to follow.

The Wicked always get assistance in our world,
The friend Italian, and the German battalion,
He waged wars, massacred the Jews,
Merchants to tramps, then concentration camps.

But a single error and he would be exposed,
And the Humans would never spare,
He slipped into his own bog,
And was deep in the bloody affair.

The mess muddled further when he fell
into love,
Cute German blonde, the endearment of his life,
He Hurriedly arranged a modest marriage,
Last seconds on earth with his beloved wife.

Post the dreamy wedding night,
His ‘bloody’ hands shaking with fright,
Feeding his lovely wife the cyanide,
His lifeless clone by her side.

Bunker into ashes, so the reign of terror,
And the world fell for the forgery,
“Fuhrer commits sucide”, the bulletin read,
Humble humans and their tomfoolery.

Went back home and lost his wit,
Rapacity for dominion, the culprit,
The guilt and regret won’t leave him alone,
And he kept cursing the funnel zone.

He strolled on streets and boulevards,
And fellow men called him insane,
“Blood, blood, the Jews, my wife”
He still screams staring at the water fountain.

This was the runner-up entry to the online fresher’s creative writing competition, on the following prompt:

From Kurt Vonnegut’s 1959 book, “The Sirens of Titan”, the Chronosynclastic Infundibulum is a dimension where all the different kinds of truths fit together, and where there are many different ways to be absolutely right about everything. A Mathematical singularity where infinity ends, two parallel lines meet in Euclidean space, the last several digits of Pi can be seen and the entire number forms a perfect palindrome etc. Those caught in it could exist at all points in time in one place and also appear at another point for say, five minutes.

In a world that has long forgotten what Vonnegut knew, you and a handful others are the only ones who remember. So when a devious demagogue who charms with doublespeak comes along, you know exactly where he’s come from.

Leave a comment

Filed under Creative Writing Competition, Prose

Zen and the fidget spinner

– Loquacious Llama

i
like
my
fidget spinner.
i really do.
it’s not a
perverse
atavistic fascination
with childhood,
at least that’s what
i tell myself.
i just like it.

if you asked me
what it looked like,
i would not say
distant and dark,
like the tenderest of nights,
and there’s flashes of silver,
like the moon on the waves
lapping at the shore”
i’d just blurt out, in the most
vulgar, apathetic tones,
it’s black, really,
but that’s not important.”

if you tried still to probe
further into this fertile ground,
if you asked me, say,
what it felt like,
i would not say
supple and light,
feline almost, like the
goddess bastet herself had
slunk into your hands
when you weren’t looking.”
i would simply remark, in an
offhand way,
it was smooth and like really slick, you know,
when i first got it, but now it’s all
loose and jiggling around,
falling apart, really.”

and if you chose to
pursue your line
of incessant questioning
further still,
if you asked me, reasonably enough,
how fast it went,
i would not say
faster than
a thousand thirsty horses
galloping through the desert
in search of a well”
i would say,
and you would hear
the longing in my voice,
it’s nice and all, i mean,
does the job well and everything,
but i wish i’d gotten the next
model up, just the one
slightly better than this one,
that one, that one would have
been nice. but this one’s fine too,
really, i like this one just fine
the way it is.”

and yet, if you pressed on
with your uncomfortably familiar
queries further still,
if you asked me
if it made too much noise,
i would not say
just a little soft sound,
like the chirping of the tiniest
of sparrows, you have to
almost strain to hear it sometimes.”
i would say,
lightly pressing my temples,
it’s crazy, it’s like there’s
a whirring sound in the air
everywhere i go, even when
it’s nowhere near me
at the time.”

yes, i find it peaceful,
cheering
and,
generally speaking,
healthy.
and no, that is not
the probable autism that
dwells beneath the waves
surfacing,
i would not say to you, for instance,
some say it is salvation,
some call it nirvana,
others shangri-la, maybe
it’s just your very own personal paradise,
just yours and no one else’s,
endlessly.”
i would say,
exasperated at how difficult it is
to get a simple concept through
to you,
i just like my fidget spinner.
and that’s all there is to say about that.

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

Another Brick in the Wall

-Baleful Basilisk

Flashes of white, where the light had streamed in. Little inexplicable squares of light, set side by side neatly, almost intentionally. They disappeared before I had the instinct to estimate how many. Strangely enough, they would appear whenever the shutters closed quickly. A biological punishment.

Then, blank. Not completely blank, though. Textured black. Sharp, tingling pain.

Something inside dropped. Only on one side. The other felt fine and light. A step function of sorts. In and out. Though the shutters weren’t opening anymore, the entire sequence of events repeated itself till it felt like a steady refrain. Except that was all there was in this song. A steady, ebbing repetition accompanied by rising and falling lightness.

Then it dulled. A sound. It was a whiny, weak sound. Hatred might have intensified it, but pure hatred required a careless energy that this parasite didn’t have. Yet, there was trembling and there wasn’t, at the same time, eyes down and fingers moving. Thought war, edging on the physical. They could all smell it, but no one changed the gears. That only happens when a part makes noise. The competence had to drag this one into the cesspool, while they quietly distanced themselves.

The black was now stained with a reddish hue. A sharp twitch interrupted the process at play. Unsurprisingly, the rhythm moved at its own pace, regardless of the flashes, the twitches, and the sound.

Strange, how easy it is to destroy thoughtfully made things with a puny, malign stroke which needs neither skill nor force. They are, by their very nature, unlike anything else, already fragile with the contradictions they must fit into to survive this matrix.

It didn’t know how far this seemingly rigid and motionless wire could manage to streṭch and bounce back though. And the thing is when skilless hands try to fiddle with sharp edged wires, they get cut. Sooner or later, not intentionally, just by consequence.
The shutters opened when the artist dropped in. Never had the wires been so played. The artist knew. He started on a series of notes which somehow did blend in seamlessly with the rhythm. She tried to normalise it with all her imagination, but she failed. The sprite had no sense of beginning and end, only continuation which was refusing to blend in with the surroundings. She thrived on drops alone. The twisted fatalism mixed in the artist’s veins would make drops build in the drops, as the sprite watched peacefully, unafraid for the first time. It knew these patterns weren’t meant to be imbued with meaning. It was unbound and meaningless, and yet perhaps even more beautiful than it could have been any other way.

So, the artist dropped visibly, and the sprite constructed imaginary rises of the drops until no modicum of sanity remained with either. Sometimes, all of the time, the shutters would close without the sprite’s permission. Then, it flowed one day. Suddenly discrete colours and shapes started mixing in. The floor tiles slowly mixed within themselves and the swivel rose in a sparkly logic defying splash to the roof, hitting the lights. The shimmers fell down on the keys and the keys rose up and down in no pattern at all. Sparkling keys banging on wires, a vision of nothing and everything.
The sprite disintegrated into tiny pieces that vanished as the song ended abruptly.

Leave a comment

Filed under Prose

When I Move Again

— From Under The Rubble

Oh yes, I recall,
Little sparkling beads
Spread atop the skies
And a little frame underneath, lightly hopping
Rhythmically on the tiles that lay,
To the beats that set the days of infancy forever anew.

Oh yes, I recall,
That shifted frame, towering over
Those tiles that lay, no hopping just passing,
No beats, just signs, signaling and signaling and signaling

The hopper soon crawled across the lane.
For the skies didn’t change,
But still the beads got lost,
Heavier and heavier, that silly towering frame
Just forgot to look up again.
There had set mist, and then blinding fog

Just when turmoil set, the slouching frame
Caught sight of worlds yonder
As a swift flew by, swiftly alright!
‘So light, so pure, so swift’, the frame thought.
Following which, over himself, a heap he felt.
That foggy world felt distinct,
The sparkle was felt again, somewhere it was,
though still out of sight.
Laying and laying I had waited long,
It was time,
When I move again

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

Pointless Melodrama

– Baleful Basilisk

No one should read this. At least not if you have a sense of purpose. If you must though, (assuming you are just as pointless as I am) then do.

It’s been quite some time. Dull drudgery, nothing to write about. Wheels turning, life moving forward and me swatting flies. One part of me that is. The other takes care of the pedals, mechanically and precisely. Not an effing detail out of place. Nothing overdone either, since there is no way I love this bicycle. It rolls and I jump on and off and drag myself in the torture machine. A bare line of masochism has started evolving by now and I can’t be brought to care about it.

I wish I still had my roller blades. But I outgrew them and well, life moved on. I miss them. Terribly. They were my first love, and if I did have a learning phase before I was comfortable, I don’t remember it. Funny how many things turned out to be just like my roller blades. Fun while they lasted, eventually misfit and broken, discarded by force into some corner.

I am sitting in this perfect room in a perfect place. And all I can think about is flies. That pisses me off. It must take some strong natural instinct for flies to be so eager. I sit there and do nothing, trouble no one. And they come buzzing in. Seems like hiding behind an open, curtained window isn’t safe enough. Some are like bees, coming to sting me with anger. Leaving behind poison that takes years to drain out. Years of sitting behind curtains. Others are harmless and uninteresting, flying aimlessly, now on my head, in a while sitting on a rotting orange or a dead animal. No distinction. I think it’s time I buy a good swatter. Or clean up.

Except swatting them away would prick my conscience and cleaning this mess is pointless. It’s one of those things which never end. I try to keep it in a tolerable condition, but then it takes just one moment of chaos to roll all the gears right back to where I started from.

The other day, I was trying to find my roller blades. Can’t remember where I kept them last. Or my sanity. Or anything, for that matter. My room is clean and organised, though. It takes an effing ridiculous amount of lost stability to just sit here and write like this. Emotions dribbling down indiscreetly from a machine which has always been loaded beyond capacity. Fucking ridiculous of me to even be doing this.

But I still need things. Like breathing. It happens sometimes, only it feels more like choking. Three years and counting of not breathing. That’s hyperbole of gross proportions, of course. What did you expect in a piece titled melodrama? I’d absolutely love it if I discovered the problem was with my lungs. I would rather believe I had a physical disease than accept that I was sniffing soot. Consistency is for fools, apparently, and I am definitely one.

Then, the volcano I live under. Not in the perfect place. In my permanent abode. Recently classified extinct, hopefully? Survival instincts can kick in when nothing else will. You don’t know it until you do. If you know what’s best for others, however, you don’t keep pets or invite guests. Not that it really matters anymore. I adapted and shrivelled up. The need doesn’t exist anymore. This is vomit. Clearing up my system, building it up to efficiency. No more soot. All gone.

The journey was so much better than its conclusion, right. As if you climbed a dangerous and beautiful mountain, feeling waves of purple and red bursting with warmth in your mind, to find out the peak was just a dirty place the locals use as a trashcan. I can’t believe I battled against all my instincts and experience for this idiocy. Now, I just laugh. Grow the absurdity in a field and set it on fire. You can spend your life trying to break down a wall or just light a cigarette and fade away with a smile. I am not sure if there’s a difference between the two. My choice, made with a witless, smart whiff.

Leave a comment

Filed under Prose

Untitled

– Baleful Basilisk

 

I saw a pothole

Right there! In the middle of a lonely street

Surrounded by the most beautiful scene

My heart would dare to see.

Or my nightmares allow.

It was a little dirty at the edges,

Rough, with such bravery

As decided martyrs to no purpose preach.

 

I laughed at the irony,

The pinnacle of uniformity

Was the piece of difference

And my heart broke as it felt

This might not be tolerated.

If you quite get what I mean?

 

What if that was the whole point, the pothole?

And the water splashing in the rain,

With the promise of a whole new biome

In a crack we don’t understand

So, then we were the drones,

Not able to see.

Sometimes ‘repair’ is destruction

And loss of faith belief.

 

Then, of course I had to do

Something terrible, you know?

The way I always do.

Run and jump! Like a fool.

Mother said, ‘Be careful’

But I was always crazy

Everyone said so.

 

I had a back thought,

That I would slip at its edge

Not as if it could happen

But with the quietest acceptance

That it must…

Though I could be quite the athlete

And this was hardly athletics

And I waited with the half-anticipation of a child

Who loves the first few seconds

Of a disapproving scolding,

Before the aftermath strikes

 

I was a mad fool

A chipped, unstable pawn

In a game of perfect pieces.

Allowed to survive as a variation

Just in case.

For the first time, I rationally felt

My part was still gently played.

 

And usually I fall with such control?

But this time it was on my face.

Then I was the pothole,

And for a few seconds

That would never pass

The weight of humanity

Would pass over me.

I tried to contract my lungs

And suck in water like some would gasp for air.

 

And then mother came

I just was lifted up

Through no volition of mine

And the pothole, a kindred spirit

Soon to be destroyed.

Left behind, as I went away

A walking mechanism.

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry