Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized

Just Something

-Baleful Basilisk

Note: For a better experience it is recommended that you read the poem while playing the given song in the background : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hPdX389kLxI. Thank you 🙂 .

That rope is twisted.

But I am the cat curiosity killed.

Not once, but four times over. Tick, Tock, Tick.

Tock.

Five lives left.

I like puzzles.

My brain is addicted to the high,

That accompanies understanding.

Everything has math sneaked into it somewhere.

I’m twisting, with pleasure. I choose the hard paths.

Without regret. I love lonely treks. And silence.

And rare tea with beautiful strangers.

I love them, all of them. In my own, free manner.

Every single person I shared a tea with.

But they have threads in their clothes. Some have ropes.

I am not an animal in some Jungle book?

But.

If I were, I would be Bagheera. Not an overbearing Sher Khan.

Not the strong, protective mother. And not a domesticated cow in a herd.

Though I would love them both to no end.

Solitary

I fear that if I stay more than a few days,

They will throw light, strong threads on me.

I am afraid I won’t see them, and one day when:

The noose tightens. I’ll suffocate.

I am not afraid because I won’t escape.

I will, if I must. I’m afraid I’ll break threads.

The snap of which will not be felt in my bones alone.

Seemingly hard to describe how:

I fear that thin threads.

Will force me dead in a way,

Ropes cannot. They cut deep.

Philosophy.

Helps with finding excuses. I think.

As I read Nietzsche’s rants? and wonder,

Why I find it funnier than Wodehouse.

Enough.

Of archaic writers and their absurdities, though.

I was laughing at Nietzsche, the way he laughed at Plato

Socrates and Voltaire. The whole bunch of them. Not really, though.

Laughter, then.

I think it’s good. I wonder who would laugh at me.

It should make me turn in my sleep, or my remains whip up a small wind.

In a way that would be amusing, not frightful.

Because sickness must end somewhere.

Stunning how even cold sunsets remind me of the dawn these days

When I am wrapped in a sweater of warmth, dreams and thought.

The one that was torn away by force. Leaving me:

Dirty, brave and naked.

Wrapped in mud, growing steel shanks.

I missed the soft, mangled sweater through all these years:

To my own consternation:

I find myself knitting scarves again.

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Posted in Poetry

Things that should be funny

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jhC1pI76Rqo]

–Baleful Basilisk

Silence is a funny thing

It has a way of acquiring meaning.

It has a friend called Stillness.

If you remain with Silence for too long,

She comes along after a while.

 

It’s funny how silence can be enforced.

A logical solution in this world,

Where we, one of the most inefficient species

On the planet, decide:

We want our inefficiency to be efficient.

 

Funnily enough, the same comparison applies

To classes of human beings:

Haves and have-nots. Men and Women.

Silence is often for those who have-not

While those who “have” scream at the top of their lungs.

 

It’s like we are really children,

With the added ability to have sex.

And added incentive to control other people.

People with candies scream because the shape isn’t right.

While a world of hungry children,

Would be glad for a rotten piece of bread.

 

Silence is often assumed to be a characteristic.

And it is, but not acquired by choice.

Invisible threads of privilege support our puppet shows.

 

It’s funny how we all forget,

That plants grown without water and nutrition,

Or without fertile symbiotic soil,

Tend to die or become stunted.

Consciousness is funny,

You think it’s you.

 

Strange when you are half-supported by the best threads.

And the other half is dangling because some cheap paper tore up.

Perspective is the funniest. It gives rise to other inefficiencies.

 

Like empathy.

It’s giving somebody your threads,

Because you think they have only paper.

An inefficient process for someone,

Who cannot prevent their threads from being stolen.

And with people who paste paper over threads,

To maximise capital.

 

I don’t speak of Stillness very often, though.

Because stillness is love.

And I like to protect that segment of my existence

From the multi-level system of inefficient puppets.

That measures everything by efficiency,

Which is just a justification for inefficiency, in the end.

 

Love is the calm that washes over me,

When I don’t have to be a puppet.

It’s a rare, unintended side effect,

Of partial isolation. It’s lying down with my parents,

In silence, saying nothing, absorbed in thought.

But still not alone. Its when my silence breaks for a moment,

And the whole world doesn’t matter.

 

Stillness is delicate. It spoils with display.

They call it love. But their love is not stillness,

The calm of not having threads.

It’s pulling an act for the benefit,

Of nobody. Not for enjoyment.

For entertainment.

Subtle distinctions are funny.

 

Posted in Poetry

About Her

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MCdXzNb9JBQ&list=PL2sanO7Y1CafG-jtVYSt3F0rr_Bo5YO-S]

–Baleful Basilisk

Sunshine doesn’t burn her.

She has thick skin.

But the wind comes in,

It enters her without a conscience, without care,

Making it ache where it still can.

 

I look at her, there are so many images.

I have lost count and I have lost care.

I don’t understand why it all comes to this for her.

 

Sometimes, she smiles as she peers,

She is a child, I don’t understand her.

She makes a graceful pattern

Out of everything as if

It does not matter to her whether you throw a stone

Or a knife, Or a petal.

She has learnt how one can change into the other,

In a moment’s glance, a single act.

 

I made a home for her,

And she made heaven out of earthly things.

In a quiet ecstasy, I watched her grow

Faded scars and bright lights.

She looked so strong, I let her out

And she ran out joyfully.

 

Rolling down with glee,

She was forgetting me a little,

She was lost in someone else.

Her memory is by necessity

Short and unsteady.

With a tendency to repeat mistakes,

In the name of kindness.

 

I didn’t see her for days,

I missed her. It was cold here,

I managed with coffee and books.

She took all the music with her.

I was happy though, for I am old

And her joy gives me life.

 

Yesterday, the door knocked.

She was there.

My child, in a tattered cloak.

Her music stolen and her heart cold.

I looked and though I embraced her warmly

It doesn’t seem to make a difference.

 

I wish I could convince the winds

To neither love nor hate her.

Just let her be, in the quiet calm

She creates for herself and her many loves,

Where her best thoughts mould her world,

And sometimes reality.

 

Posted in Poetry

Glasshouse

A house of mirrors inside the madhouse

I stand there quietly,

but not quite calm as I see her.

 

Draped in a costume, a chain on her neck, padlocks on her soul

Standing with candy.  

Sticky, sloshy gel for them to suck from a glittery wrapper

Her soul and brain smoking it up

Smuggled stuff inside a cold cellar, where her heart used to be.

 

She was smiling long ago in a green field, with the crops tickling her legs

Her dress fluttering, a little too fast, a little too high.

Blinking, eyes full of light and the warmth of love.

As air rushed in and out on its’ own whim, probing her mind.  

Minds don’t heal in flurries of snow, I don’t think yours has.

Mine rolled up like an armadillo, hiding the parts you probed for.

 

Now, she is black, shrouded in mystery.

Not a glamorous dress, but a veil of deception.

Sudden tremors from her spine travel up as she counts, adds and multiplies.

Lucifer whispers into her ear, a little too close for comfort. The world has hidden itself.

It always does, many spines together often add up to no spine at all.

 

Inside her, the child was sitting in a corner, under the bed

A slight coughy tremble and tear-stained eyes round with wonder and joy

As the world underwent metamorphosis. Broomsticks, elves and strange lands tickling her mind.

And she looked outside, my only flame. Then she saw me, and broke into a smile.

A smile I answered with a laugh, as Mother bent under with coaxing eyes

And my blurry, crazy world, for a few moments, couldn’t twist my mind

 

Posted in Prose

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.

Posted in Prose

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.

Posted in Poetry

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.