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.

skipping ahead time

a memo to some people who i know,

know that their lives are ok,

but the life they knew before was fantastic.

Hitching rides through giggles and strangers,

a bandwagon of limitless dreams,

a handful of friends expanded their circle,

as they smoked.

Yes they smoked,

did all the stuff college life is known for.

And they enjoyed every bit of it.

Their eyes sparkled as they recounted their stories,

stories which i heard,

stories of their madness,

their gladness,

their past lives.

Now they are grownups,

as grownups normally are.

Logical and cautious,

scary and in charge.

One of them is my mother,

and she was happy.

Their carefree days have been taken over,

by their demanding families and associates.

Hitching rides taken over by watchful eyes on their counterparts.

Openly flaunting smoke taken over by bathroom sessions.

But when you look at them you see,

you see the life they had which we probably never will.

As they relive their past lives today,

they probably struggle to focus on tomorrow.

But with the grace that perfects them,

they will take control and adapt,

adapt to tomorrow and the days that follow.

But that brilliant evil smile lurks somewhere beneath,

their responsible lives.

To have known their stories inspires life.

Inspires hope.

I had a different yesterday,

and probably a more different tomorrow.

But their stories are intact in time.

Their past sealed in their aging minds,

containing a glorious,loud and beautiful yesterday.

And as they recounted their stories,

they missed them but here they are together again.

Still laughing,

still joyous,

still as beautiful.

They made me think,

over the essence of what friends are,

the importance of similar ones,

who laugh and run for cold coffee at the beginning of the month.

The bonds that link one to another.

With their crew cuts and fancy bell-bottoms,

they ruled over their lives.

Enjoyed whatever they had,

snuck away for movies,

followed by oily bread pakoras.

Were always broke.

But they enjoyed it all.

So many of us spend our todays cribbing,

over materialistic lives,

never letting ourselves go.

Let time slip through our fingers,

and never even realise what we've missed.

So,

this is for those four friends and their limitless others,

to coming back after all those years,

and reliving their yesterdays,

with such love,fervor and excitement.

Over ABBA,munni and sheela,

and shaking hips and booty movement,

alcohol doses and a thirst for life.

Heres to the seventies,

to the forever young three woman and one man.

To the beauty and misery of their lives.

Changing tunes of the winding road,

if you walk for too long you'll realise my symphony.

It sounds a little vague and uneven.

It really does.

Listen to it,

it may consume you but it won't.

It realises its incompleteness.

How it never really fit in,

to the normal codes of convention,

or decency for that matter.

So if you walk,

and walk......

till the sound of your tired steps,

grow distant,

and fill you with a music unlike one you've heard before,

in your bonging head obviously,

you'll know.

Know that it's my symphony.

That it will stay as long as you want it to.

No clinging to your sanity,

or sanctity for that matter.

The moment you're fed up,

it'll blow away like the evening dusty breeze.

Never to be found when you need to vanish,

from the confinements of your feeble reality.

It'll spring up again one day when you walk,

walk along the road of sandity.