Letting it rain.

The symphony of raindrops,

Shatters the isolation.

Self chosen.

Self woven

They seep into your soul,

Tired that it is.

Healed fears.

Healed tears.

As it rains down on you,

You fight to let go.

Fearful pain.

Fearful gain.

You choose your mind,

The one you think exists.

Dance to the sound of the afternoon rain.

Dance to the tune of the declared sane.

Release

As the twinkle faded,

And the dosage decreased.

The hand lost sight,

Of the feet beneath.

Yet strut along it did,

As the hands flapped,

To be released.

So as it struggled,

With the essence of defeat,

Along came the dirt,

Accompanying the off-side beat.

At the yellow altar,

You will find a strip of faith.

Which will only bind you,

To your authoritarian fate.

So flap all you want,

Flap till you forget to count.

Your feet will carry you,

To what your hands,

Will never want.

The key is to find,

A common bend,

Along the body-way.

 Drop

 a

 bell

 along

 the

 way

 then

 maybe

 a

 dung-beetle

 might

 just

 find

 you

 and

 show

 you

 the

 way

 to

 that

 place

 your

 dreams

 never

 find.

Into nothingness.

When you sell your soul,

You do so thinking you’re doing it for the best,

Obviously.

Why would you sell your soul otherwise?

Why shouldn’t you aim for better,

Who is anyone to condemn you?

After all souls too,

Are like commodities,

Auctioned to the highest bidder.

There is no space left for principles,

Morals,

The truth.

We live in an age of compromises.

And yet we dream we’re more,

More than what we prove to be.

More than what we end up being.

Rhymes and aspirations are for the lizards,

Who crawl in your space,

And silently abide by the laws,

Put down by you.

You claim to be in control,

But you’ve already sold your soul.

So you go through life hating and waiting,

For something more,

Something that will bring.

Your despairing self,

Back to this unworthy life.

You think you deserve better,

But then you don’t want to deserve either.

Be it love,

Monetary assets,

A kind word,

A strong hand,

Physical abuse,

Emotional strength.

Maybe if you could feel something,

You’d be alive,

A new soul would emerge.

But then you’re already so bitter,

So angry,

So silent,

That nothing can change,

Because you’re used to,

Wallowing in pity.

Paying attention to yourself,

Because no one else will.

This is not a help-your-self thought,

Or an emerge-in-this way idea,

You are your own self,

Only you can save yourself.

It depends if you want to be saved,

Or not.

So we go on compromising bits of us,

Nothing matters,

Since you’ve already sold your soul,

And the irony is,

You didn’t even realize that you had,

Because you were elsewhere,

Not on this plane,

But on one where you were perfect.

A July yet to come.

When a situation seeps in,

It’s replaced by something else.

Numbness.

So we cut off from this world,

And dive into another.

So many things,

Obstruct that path.

Thinking they have our goodness in mind.

But they are just obstacles,

To be crossed.

And what they say,

Is of no consequence to a lost soul.

Let things run its course,

Even if the course leads to isolation,

Or sensory deprivation.

So even though July brings us rain,

Floods our senses with hope,

The hope of cleansing our empty souls,

We still wait when July will come,

Not with pain,

But with sunlight,

From which this soul will gain.

So we wait,

Wait till that July comes.

Lil bit of this and a lil bit of that

A step or two,

enhances joy.

Joy for a lifetime,

or just for that moment?

You take a pinch of soul,

and a dash of high spirits.

Pour in a pint of let gos,

and your fit to hit the road.

Fit to let your toes dip into the sands of mortality,

without letting your conscience getting in the way.

I'll let you whistle,

if you let me breathe.

Caught in a loop-hole

As days grow longer,

and nights scratchier.

She finds herself wondering,

why the wind gave up on her,

just when her legs started to run.

They ran towards dusk,

and dawn sometimes.

She reaches out to you,

when silence blends into nothingness.

When doorways shut to open to breathlessness.

So if you hear tiny voices,

know that its ok,

even when the voices say it isn't.

When your finger tips begin to disappear,

then call on Fitzsimmons,

he'll sing air-bells to you.

And you'll feel good,

for one minute,

and thats enough.

It's good to feel

like you feel something sometimes.

When you loose that feeling then the end draws near.

But the end is just a dot in your existence,

smeared away with one lil finger.

So when you're stuck in a grain of sand,

then its time to swim towards water.

Swimming on sand never really provided locomotion.

So we'll swim on sand when we have oodles of time,

oodles of thoughts to spare.

And I won't give up on you,

even though the sand may after a while.

To mailed glasses and cups of tea,

clearing away uncertainty,

and that lil thing called hopelessness.

Pleasure

Hedonistic?
What if I stated I only live for pleasure,
a life of joy.
Joy through my senses.
I attain it at my own cost,
it may bring about difficulties for me,
but it gives me pleasure.
So why shouldn't I?
It's causing someone happiness,
and another mental pain. 
So is it right or wrong?
What if its neither.
No morals are attached to my pleasure-being.

Anyways we are motivated by our self-interests,
so then why should I be stopped from attaining pleasure at all costs.
I exist alone,
I'm breathing right now without your help.
So do I owe you my pleasure?
Why then will you take it away?


Such a simple word,
it slurs in your mouth,
your tongue rolls,
your lips curl.
A hiss clouds your taste.
A simple word that evokes so many thoughts,images.

Kinky thoughts.
Happy thoughts,
Memorable thoughts.
Erotic thoughts.
Yummy thoughts.
Sensual thoughts.
Thoughts that isolate you from a majority of this population.


Sex,
questionable films,
movement,
free flow of legs,
touch,
eye contact,
melted cheese,
clean bathrooms,
ironed clothes,
crease-free bed sheets,
words.
Pleasure derived is pleasure attained.

Is it a sin then,
to want to always exist in that state of pleasure,
where only you count.
So if i go to any limits to attain this pleasure,
then I'm self justifying my actions.

Am i committing a crime,
by being so happy.
Will you question my happiness,
because yours doesn't match up to mine?
Criminals have been charged with attaining pleasure,
at its most violent,destructive,
chaotic form.
If I'm not causing you harm,
then is it still a crime?
Can i be branded a criminal for wanting my pleasure.

What if I told you that I could fly,
I've touched the tips of melting ice-caps.
It gives me pleasure to say so,
the idea of truth and lies,
doesn't even figure here.

I could touch you,
just a light impression of my fingerprints.
Of course not to violate your sense of space,
touch or feeling.
Just to let you know,
pleasure isn't just a word,
it's a state of being.


So what is termed as hedonism,
I can even call salvation towards a higher power,
power of the wondering imagination.


Back to the pleasure syndrome,
don't shy away from it,
frequent it whenever possible.

Cheese and sex might go together,
touch and movement,
clean bathrooms and questionable films.
Who knows the limit of pleasure.
Who really dares to know pleasure.
We've been conditioned to avoid it,
in its extremes.
But why not?
Exist for pleasure,
a state devoid of suffering.

Eutopian ideas,
flung around to preserve flicks of sanity.



Pleasure,
pleasure,
pleasure.



　
Saying it aloud is another thing altogether.
To be whispered under special circumstances,
written down to evoke some of them.
Why is it such a subdued word,
a subdued thought.

Let it flow through your senses,
through the gutters in your mind as well.
Let it just flow,
no fear in flowing,right?

save it.

High on tea,

The sunlight screams out,

To the dehydrated back.

Lets talk and talk,

Drown ourselves,

While we’re at it,

Save insanity,

From pitifully

Taking over this,

This congested mind.

Knocking on the wall,
Sparks flew.
It seems to have,
The power,
The power to light up,
My darkening soul.
Throw in some mud,
And I’m all set,
To start a revolution.

Death of a spectacle.

The brown-ness had spread across,

the rim of young desire.

He lived only to unlive,

the life of a martyred saint.

Would he be called a saint,

one unknown for any saintliness.

All he did was see,

and let others see,

beyond the limited blurred reality.

Short was his life,

ended so tragically,

his body cracked in two.

His murdered soul shall be remembered.

Those brown flakes sorely missed.

His soul still floats,

floats around the red tree.

The futility of life,

one second of glorious sight,

the next second a crack that ends all.

Questions erupt,

the whys and why nots.

The glares he received,

or those sniggering voices,

mean nothing now.

The sound of his sight echoes,

through the valley of garbage.

His soul still floats,

floats over blue fields.

Will he be remembered?

Shall he sing,

in the recylement of his body.

Who knows the future of the dead and undead.

Those who know,

dare not indulge in curiosity.

They live in fear,

fear of their end.

The light touch on my face,

of his brown skin,

created a magic of its own.

His soul still floats,

floats over the purple sea.

If you care to honour his death,

to remember his fragile body,

that curved around my eyes.

Then sing a silent word,

that will etch itself in infinity.

Maybe he'll see it,

i'm not sure if he will hear it.

His ears were always hidden,

from my weak eyes.

But be sure to close,

your silent eyes,

and whisper that all is not lost.

That vision has not fled,

my searching eyes.

He will be remembered,

and his story told.

As his soul will float,

till it reaches yellow roads.

torn in two.

Walking nude,

distance askew,

eyelids flutter,

voices mutter,

shadow seen,

darkness keen,

skin touch,

revulsion such,

melody entwine,

body undivine.

Ambiguous thoughts,

death rots,

painful pleasure,

rightful leisure,

atonement undone,

fear overrun,

chest ache,

face fake,

blood bleed,

sown seed.

A time and place like this.

“I shall eat pie when I want to.”

Stand when you feel like it,

Or just stand to feel it,

Feel the world dancing out of control.

You can sigh out loud,

For people to hear,

Or for people to remember you.

Dance with the dust,

Let it flake your body,

Reminiscence an aching past.

Try to seem kind,

When you’d rather just close,

Your ears and eyes  to smell.

Would you eat,

Just one slice of pie,

To redream a dream so beautiful.

Would you let leaves,

Flutter across your room?

Even if they stole your sanity.

Spread your arms,

Take off,

Without even leaving the ground.

Afraid that people stare,

That their eyes condemn you,

Without even blinking once.

Justify your sense,

With words that collide,

And mesh into nothing.

Or would you rather,

Breathe for,

A time and place like this.

Where we might just meet,

And disappear ,

Into infinity.

window

She sits,

maybe silently by the yellow window.

From time to time she brushes aside those strands of hair,

that seem too eager to caress her pale face.

She sighs and goes on reading,

the book that mourns for her touch.

Dostoevsky fascinates her,

his words claimed her soul,

like Murakami has distorted her sight.

She is at harmony in silence.

If you pass that yellow window,

at around 3 in the afternoon

you might just spot her.

Her head bent over those demanding books.

She may even turn and look at you,

but her vacant eyes see no one.

They see only elusive dreams.

She laughs for no one,

cries for no one.

Her dreams are caught,

caught in the spider webs outside her window.

Her world is filled by authors of many an orgin,

their words stronger than her reality.

She tries to grasp that reality.

She succeeds sometimes,

when her sanity creeps back in.

But to let go is all she wants,

to float away into oblivion.

Realisation is yet to creep in,

responsibility catches on.

She is on her way to that land,

of endless roads and white beaches,

red mountains and purple waters.

If you wave out to her,

you might catch her attention,

though the chances are not very likely.

She is shut in there,

her concocted world,

filled by words with a million rhymes.

She is untouchable,

too far away to be reached,

Yeats' Lightning Bolt still out of her reach.

She sits by that yellow window searching,

searching for something,

that would awaken her.

Her fingers itch to fabricate her inner dwellings.

But she sits,

by that yellow window,

you can see her.

But she probably won't see you,

just not yet.

Silence shattered by a yellow cup.

It's silent-the chairs bear witness,

The table bears the burden of imagination.

A rickshaw crawls along the lonely road.

The yellow cup stands bravely.

It's dark,the air coloured with fear,

Loneliness can but consume you.

Yet the yellow cup glows like a dewdrop.

Brewing liquid hope and faith.

It's humid,the heat clings to me,

Like the drop of tea sliding down.

The yellow cup doesn't encourage the drop,

Yet its shape allows it free escape.

It's forgiving-the last stand,

The night begs to indulge in sleep.

The day knows better,commanding action.

Still the yellow cup waits for rest.

It's faith,the enlightenment we seek,

The yellow cup knows patience,

Like the soul seeks transcendence,

As the mind demands creativity.

It's silence,the yellow cup shattered it,

With just a stand that it held.

The hope standing like a tall pillar,

In a mind that seeks but silence.