Tag Archives: Baleful Basilisk


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



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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.

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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.

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– 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.

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Ghost House

– Baleful Basilisk

Middle of December, a chilly night!
As she slowly waded in a numbing tide
Ever so…quietly, her tombstone fell
A grave sealed had slid open
With no subtle foreboding,nor yell.

The corpse, it was standing there
Right in front of her brown careless eyes
Almost about to break in a pretty smile!
As the people gyrated in a fete of amusement
His bloodshot eyes swept into hers.

His lips curved with her incomplete smile
Dripping with a stench of hellish intention
As the people flew by, in bubbles
Vibrating with merry,sweet prattle
She stood hoping for a hallucination.

Escape then! And her river was back
As she took a step forward
His corpse shifted to the back
Almost graceful, in some unknown rhythm
Lurking in the shadows,to appear unbidden.

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Born of Ennui

– Baleful Basilisk

Sometimes, I wonder at myself. Maybe this basilisk has remained inside the walls for too long. Daylight burns, and the nightlights merely cause hallucinations. Maybe it’s time I accept that the Sun wasn’t something made for creatures of the shade. And I am one. How can I forget the way my mind shades everything? It’s too vivid! Yet, they are all grey objects, mere pebbles. Not the beautiful, shiny sea rocks with colours and stripes and life living in them, but simple grey cementy pieces lying in the dust. The first sight is always true and clear, objective. And then, it’s never the same again.

It was one bright day when I was once again, trying to peek out of the den I live in. There was this object, you see, that had inflamed my curiosity. This, my sweet reader was a unique, I wouldn’t say rock, let’s just call it a ‘rockish’ formation.

I had not been interested in it at first. It had a smooth and polished exterior. Standing beside a lake, it often had an almost oily shine on one side, though the other completely mixed in with the mien of the soil. I had given it a passing glance, and while I felt nothing objectionable, neither was I induced to explore any further. It was just another one of those weighted rocks, which remain in one stance for eternity, and seem to assimilate and grow into perfection in that specific state. While their existence does have a purpose, it does not collide with that of ancient beings . They are repetitions, and when you have lived a million years in your mind, you will realise that no matter how perfect, a replica still lacks the charm of originality.

So, my gaze had moved on, exploring and learning where it could. And then suddenly near night-time when I was at the opening of a higher cavern behind the waterfall above the lake, I gasped in wonder as I chanced to see it again. What had looked so ordinary at first, suddenly held an element of interest. I saw a dark patch on top that seemed to spiral on top of the formation. It looked like a groove, and I realised that the stone which had seemed so run-off-the-mill at first, had an aspect I had not imagined it could have.

I spent that night wondering quietly as I went about my hunting duties. What life grew beneath those grooves? Were they full of green moss and ferns? How had the gashes formed? I dreamed of finding life and growth, a rich forest filling the cuts which must have once been an unwelcome injury. Or maybe, they were empty still, dry and dusty caverns waiting to be explored by some tiny creature. As of now hollow, but only needing a few seeping droplets and wind-scattered seeds to become one of the most beautiful wonders of existence.

These thoughts carried me through the night well. They made the moonshine a little brighter and the lacklustre hunting just a little less dreary. And I lulled myself into a sweet rest, for once not feeling dry despair at the dullness everything reduced to. I woke up in the mid-afternoon.

And suddenly, a hiss of scorn escaped my snout, not unmixed with a measure of exasperation. The ‘formation’ was just the ordinary stone i had thought it at first. And my dark patch? Why, a lazy old python lay slithered on top of it..with its body spiralled in a leisurely attitude!

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– Baleful Basilisk


It was lush and green,
I gazed on with bated breath.
It was calming to stop my mind,
To blindly believe, in the roots’ depth!

Its leaves were green after all,
And the trunk well-grounded, seemingly.
For a few willful seconds,
My mind, silly child! Believed its immensity.

Such faith as I have never found,
In a faintly rotten-smelling ground.
The voice of the wind, lingered,
Ripping apart the covered lies.

I had nobody to blame,
This was my own special form,
Of self-created, delusional pain.
Born out of childish necessity.

And so, as I finally allowed,
My eyes, by now, half-crazed
To view the entire perspective,
My mind reeled back in shock.

The roots I had never seen,
But its pinnacle exposed the entire story.
It was dry, hollow wood
Cracked and withered, with not a single leaf.

Its roots had died long ago,
The trunk had but been lifeless glory.
And I, a mere impudent creature,
Struggling to find humanity.

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