The Many-Named One

•December 8, 2011 • Leave a Comment

Seven cents to the dollar,

Seven pounds under the skin,

Seven deadly ways to commit a crime,

Seven new ways to sin.

 

I’m your greatest fear, and your truest friend,

I’m the one who sees all,

I’m the one who crowns you and dethrones you,

I raise you up, and I make you crawl.

 

I see your dreams, and the people you love,

I create your nightmares, and the ones you despise,

I feel with your hands, I taste with your mouth,

I strike with your feet, I see with your eyes.

 

I’m the angel on the right, the devil on the left,

I’m Dextra and Sinistra and now,

I’m the Leviathan, and the gaping pit,

I’m the one who’ll make a sword from a plough.

 

I’m the fistful of steel, and the silver river in your veins,

I’m the fire-breathing dragon that’ll lay you to waste,

I forgive nothing, and forget less,

I’m the prick you feel and the blood you taste.

 

I have many names, some you many know,

They call me Hurt, Sorrow, Pain and Sin,

Strife, Anguish, Guilt and Conflict,

But most of all, they call me Human

 

Learnings And Teachings

•December 6, 2011 • Leave a Comment

I’ve learnt several things in the last few months. For your benefit, here are some of them.

1. I’ve learnt that learning how to suck cock (and kiss ass) can take you places in life.

2. I’ve RE-learnt that being smart and working hard can also have the same effect.

3.  I’ve learnt (though I suspect that I knew this all along) that live music kicks pre-recorded music’s ASS.

4. I’ve learnt that typing on an Apple keyboard can give you a technogasm. Yes, I’m into double digits now.

5. I’ve learnt that speaking your mind can get you into trouble. But it can also set you incredibly free.

6. I’ve learnt that being fired from your first job isn’t the greatest tragedy in the world.

7. I’ve learnt (as an extension from point 6) that being fired from your first job for speaking your mind is actually one of the best things that can happen to you.

8. I’ve learnt that if you don’t hold on tightly, you CAN get pushed out of a moving train.

9. I’ve learnt that point 8 holds true for life in general.

10. I’ve learnt that the best skills in life are the ones you teach yourself.

11. I’ve learnt that homelessness isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

12. I’ve learnt how to work on dual screens (brilliant) and how to set a wallpaper across both screens (brilliant-er).

13. I’ve learnt that the snooze button is probably the most evil invention in the world. And the greatest.

14. I’ve learnt that beer is my favourite alcohol. Asahi, Peroni and Kingfisher Ultra, baby.

15. I’ve learnt that you should never stop growing in life.

16. I’ve learnt that being foolish and hungry (thank you, Rashmi Bansal) is probably the greatest asset one can have.

17. I’ve learnt that you can go at any time. And you should always be ready to go.

18. I’ve learnt that you should never hold a grudge past sunset.

19. I’ve learnt that my office bay is probably haunted.

20. I’ve learnt that quitting smoking isn’t as hard as everyone makes it out to be.

21. I’ve learnt that I DO NOT have a sunglass face.

22. I’ve learnt that some things ARE worth dying for.

23. I’ve learnt, without a doubt, that there is someone for everyone in the world.

24. I’ve learnt that there is more evil in the world that we can imagine.

25. I’ve also learnt, at the same time, that there is MORE good in the world.

26. I’ve learnt that I will never be able to leave Bombay in my life.

27. I’ve learnt that music is the language that we turn to when laughter and tears simply aren’t enough.

28. I’ve learnt that my phone can be charged using Blackberry chargers.

29. I’ve learnt that, no matter what, I will never lose my capacity to love.

30. I’ve learnt that I never want to stop learning.

 

Insane?

•August 29, 2011 • Leave a Comment

You whip yourself,

With a lash made of hair,

Again, and again,

Till you bleed.

You’re not insane.

You take a blade,

And move towards a newborn child,

You scar him, a mark of manhood,

Before he can even speak.

You’re not insane.

You shave your head,

And tie a long, silky thread around yourself,

You’re still a young boy,

But so what?

You’re not insane.

You eat flesh,

Man flesh.

And yes, you like some blood too,

Judge you, shall I?

You’re not insane.

You promise to keep your vow,

Even under pain of death,

Your solemn oath was taken before a crimson-filled skull,

A caput mortis.

You’re not insane.

You burn things,

And watch the flames reach the sky,

You dance in front of your Goddess,

A trident-wielding, death-dealing Goddess.

You’re not insane.

You drag people up a slope,

And leave them there to rot,

But the birds, the waiting, hungry birds,

Will not let them decay in peace.

You’re not insane.

I murder people,

And made masks out of their faces,

Take a good look at yourself,

Can you really call ME insane?

Out Of The Box

•August 23, 2011 • Leave a Comment

He peered over the edge, his tiny face barely reaching over the top of the wooden frame.  Everything seemed so strange, everyone was all puffy-eyed and serious.  He knew what had happened, but what else was he to do?

It had been a while since he had seen his grandpa, but he didn’t realize that he would see him like this.

They had tried to keep it from him.  His mother had called home, and his brother had shut off the movie they had been watching.  Suddenly, everyone was talking in hushed tones, hurried whispers that he could only understand snatches of.  But he was nine, not stupid.  He knew what had happened.  So he simply played along, not saying anything.

But then his grandmother came home, and she was crying.  Strangely, as soon as she came home, everyone glanced at him.  Everyone did it, that quick head-turn in his direction.  It made him a little angry.  What, did they think he wouldn’t be able to handle it?  Did they think that delaying it would make it better?

Didn’t they realize that he had as much right to know as everyone else?

It had only been a matter of time, but it was still strange.  Everyone kept saying that he was in a better place, that there was no pain where he had gone.  But how could his grandfather have been going through so much pain?  Whenever he had seen him, he always had a smile on his face.  He always had a quip to make the people around him smile.

Even though it took some effort, he always had arms that were willing to reach out and hug his grandson.

What pain?

And then it came to this.  Everyone was pale, and everyone was crying.  Everyone was in white, and again, people kept looking at him.  But he wasn’t going to cry.

Because he knew something that they didn’t.  His grandpa wasn’t really in that box.

They picked up the casket and started to move it down to the car that would take it away.

He felt a hand on his shoulder.  He smiled.

He looked up, into the ever-smiling face of his grandpa.

Without saying a word, he slipped his hand into the larger, warm, comforting one of his grandfather-just like he had done so many times before.  Those famous walks that they used to take together-collecting those red seeds (Devil’s Eyes, he called them), looking at the turkeys in the compound of one building, trying to persuade his grandpa to buy chewing gum.

So, hand in hand, with smiles on their faces, they walked.

Unzip

•August 19, 2011 • Leave a Comment

I want to put my hands,

Behind your head and grope,

I want to unzip your skin,

Reveal.

 

The real you, the unmasked,

The undressed, the truth,

The ability to love that you conceal,

Behind that hard mask.

 

I want to peel away your shield,

Your defence, so hard and strong,

I want to lay you bare,

For everyone to see.

 

They need to know you,

Like I do,

I do.

They need to know you too.

 

There’s a place inside you,

That just needs some sunlight,

It’ll grow, till it overtakes,

The festering, blinding hate.

 

Each cigarette, a violent fantasy,

Each stone, a measure of revenge,

Each measure of the vile potion poured down your throat,

A message.

 

A cry for help,

But who’s going to help you?

Everyone’s deaf.

And you’re alone.

 

But only till I find that zipper.

Inferno

•April 15, 2011 • Leave a Comment

It was bigger than anything they had ever seen.  The fire had engulfed the lower six stories of the building, and it was spreading fast.  The residents had fire escapes, but the flames were just too dangerous.  They couldn’t risk climbing down past the fire.

It would be up to them, and them alone.  They would have to go out there and get those poor people out.  And then try to save whatever they could of the building.

Sergeant Briggs divided them into two teams.  The first team would be inserted a couple of floors above the fire to see if they could do anything to stop it’s progress, or at least stop the awful march of the flames.  The second would be inserted even higher, to get the survivors out.  Neither team had much time, and the time for action was now.

They were the only precinct that did this, but they put their hands into the middle of the circle, and looked each other in the eye.  These were the bravest men they knew, some of the toughest and meanest firefighters this city had ever known.  But they were more than just colleagues.

When you’ve pulled a man from underneath a burning length of teak wood, you’re not his colleague anymore.

You’re his brother.

Masks on.

He made his way up the ladder with his team, making sure that he was right behind Jean.  There would be no better man to fight this fire with, and he would be beside him all the way.

Tough, brave, resourceful Jean Driscoll.  He had managed to squirm his way out of a lot of tight spots, and he had managed to take a lot of others with him.  He would have to see how Jean managed to make his way out of THIS one.

And he was going to be beside him all the way, watching.

They climbed in through a smashed window.  Even though the flames were two stories below them, they could still feel the heat of the awesome flames.  It was a sobering reminder.

Don’t fuck with fire.  It will fuck you right back.  And then fuck you some more.  And then leave you, nicely cooked, for the birds to eat.

But that wouldn’t be their fate tonight.

They broke off into two man teams, to scout for any places where they could stop the blaze.  He tapped Jean on the shoulder, and moved towards an apartment.  Jean followed.

“Come on, I think we can do something over here”, he said.  His voice, muffled and tired, through the mask-it had always sounded funny.  But there was nothing funny about what he was doing tonight.

“I think you’re right”, Jean said, “Let’s call the others over and see what we can put together.”

“Not yet”, he replied, “Let’s see if there’s anything we can do.  Don’t pull them off a scouting trip for nothing.”

Jean didn’t reply, he just grunted and continued looking around the apartment.  His walkie went off, “One floor, guys.  Be ready to evac”.  Meaning that the fire was now one floor below them.

“So, been having fun with that redhead you met, Jean?”

Jean glanced over at him, his confusion and annoyance evident even through the moisture-fogged visor of his helmet.  He shook his head, and continued looking around.

“Come on, you can tell me.”

Jean swung around this time. “What the fuck is wrong with you?  Will you focus?  And talking about me back at the station?”

“Sure.  I was just wondering why you left out some details about her.”

He ignored him this time.

“Details like where she lived.  What she did for a living.  What she looked like.  That she was married.”

In front of him, Jean grew very still.

“Married to me, you fuck.”

He brought his axe down with an almighty thud, onto the back of Jean’s head.  Even with the helmet, he didn’t stand a chance.  He dropped to the floor, unconscious.

He leaned over to his friend, bringing his face very close to Jean’s mask.

“Yes, I referred to her in the past tense, you prick.  Figure that out.  You fucked a friend’s wife.  You fucked MY wife.  Now, you’re just fucked.”

He turned around and walked out of the apartment, shutting the door behind him.

“Your floor, guys.  Evac. NOW.”

Baby Lou

•March 10, 2011 • Leave a Comment

Baby Lou, baby Lou,

Baby Lou, I love you,

Baby Lou, Baby Lou,

No one’s going to love you more than I do.

Can you talk, Baby Lou?

Can you say Mommy’s name?

Can you blabber and blather and make her laugh?

Can you make your dear Mommy smile again?

Can you grin, Baby Lou?

Can you smile for your mum?

Can you laugh and giggle and do it some more?

And change your mum’s mood from oh-so-glum?

Baby Lou, baby Lou,

Baby Lou, I love you,

Baby Lou, Baby Lou,

No one’s going to love you more than I do.

Can you play, Baby Lou?

Can you have some more fun?

Can you flitter and frolic and shake it some more?

Can you tire yourself in the bright morning sun?

Can you stand, Baby Lou?

Can you get up on your feet?

Can you rise and totter and stumble and move?

Can you make your mum want to give you treat?

Baby Lou, baby Lou,

Baby Lou, I love you,

Baby Lou, Baby Lou,

No one’s going to love you more than I do.

Can you fly, Baby Lou?

Can you glide off the top?

Can you hover and soar and bank some more?

Can you fly when Mum throws you off the top?

Can you save yourself, Baby Lou?

Or do anything other than on the ground lie?

Can you scream or shout or make a huge fuss?

Or can you do nothing but die?

Baby Lou, baby Lou,

Baby Lou, I love you,

Baby Lou, Baby Lou,

No one’s going to love you more than I do.

Binge. Purge. Repeat.

•March 1, 2011 • Leave a Comment

Friday night.  Texts.

There MUST be a plan on.

Oh good, the guys are hooking up.

Meet.  Must meet.

 

Loneliness is a bitc*.

 

Mirror.  Face.

F*ck, it looks ugly.  Make up.

Lots, lots of it.

Foundation, and everything else.

 

Powder makes a shaky foundation.

 

Run to the wardrobe.  Open.

Glittery, shimmery, slinky clothes say hello.

Twelve K, Six K, Nineteen K.

But tonight, we go with the Ten K.

 

Cheaper club, cheaper skin.

 

Hop into the cab, smoking.

Light.  Draw.  Blow.  Extinguish.

Light.

And then something a little more potent.

 

Not all herbs are good for you.

 

Reach the club.  Walk straight in.

Here every couple of weekends, who’s going to stop us?

The club is dark.

Good.  Better this way.

 

The merciful darkness hides the ugly faces.

 

The music makes you groove.

Move.

Wind.  Grind.

Wonder if the person I’m touching will remember me in the morning.

 

Because, God knows I’m going home with him.

 

Run to the bathroom.  Feeling ugly.

Fingers.  Throat.  Urk.

Not bulimic, are we?

Nah, just unwell.

 

Why waste space on food, where there can be alcohol?

 

It’s snowing in the club.

But this snow comes not in flakes, but lines.

Not on your tongue.  Up your nose.

Sniff, sniff.

 

Things are so much better with CharlieBoy.

 

Home.  Not ours, though.

His.  And hers.

Hands pawing at bodies.  Writhing.

Sweating.

 

Leave your inhibitions at the door.

 

Morning.  Wake.

As always, feel SICK.

Fu*k, it happened again.

Never, ever go home with a stranger again.

 

A dirty, filthy, violated feeling.

 

But that’s okay.  Shake it off.

Get over yourself.

Let it all go.

Because, before long, it’s going to be Saturday night.

 

Binge.  Purge.  Repeat.

Fooball

•December 2, 2010 • Leave a Comment

Nothing is forever.

You pull a muscle, you’re fine fifteen minutes later.  You blast a shot off the post, you’re celebrating disturbing the back of the net soon after.  You’re sprawled on the ground one moment, and off and running the next.  The lightning strike of cramp hits you, but you grimace and push it off and you’re in the game, as soon as you can stand on your feet.  You play well one day, and then TERRIBLY the next.

And then well the next.

Sport, the great teacher.

Lord Of War

•December 1, 2010 • Leave a Comment

We burn, when there is no flame,

The ashes return, whence they came,

Dust to dust, pieces for peace,

The screams echo from the mud, for the rivulets still flow.

 

Tiny streams, Christmas red,

Winding and moving and snaking forever,

Escape, you must,

But though you run and run, ever they flow.

 

The push of gas, the blast of acrid powder,

The dragon’s mouth spits fire,

But it’s flames are metal and lead and steel,

They burn not, but kill nonetheless.

 

Tipped bringers of finality,

Tiny, wingless angels of death,

A power no man should ever wield,

A cylinder doth carry in it’s bosom.

 

Unleashed they are, the dogs of war,

Your boy brigade, your children of doom,

A bullet brings the end, you say,

Whether the wielder is forty, or fourteen, perhaps.

 

The stucco walls have their red paint,

The mansion shines, ever bright,

Strutting, proud, powerful,

The daylight you own.

 

Come sunset, alas, the dogs turn on you,

You awake, carcasses piled near,

Horror clogs your nostrils, fear plugs them,

You fling yourself into the sleepless abyss.

 

The years gone by, wasted, squandered,

A shell remains, no more,

Gaunt, faded, broken,

The mind robbed of it’s strength.

 

And at last, the angel visits you,

Tiny, wingless, merciful,

Dragon’s mouth against your own,

You pray for redemption.

 

The final sweating moment arrives,

The trembling finger begins to squeeze,

Hear the awful sound, you murderer,

The devil below is ringing his knell.

 

 
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