Dope Hope

Nights are grenades,
Wishes are folklores,
My ass is full of weed and;
I need someone to claw beneath.

A Monochrome Dragon

In a dim-lit alley, waiting for a piece of flesh. That overpowering greed drove him all the way here; that insatiable hunger for crimson skins, moist breaths and sport. Away from his palace of stacked-away typewriters and buzzing bees. His cigarette fumes breathe in the crisp night air and vanish. His heart beats ever so slow, each dull thud is a painful reminder of his desperation. Shrugs those petite, unkempt wings.

The prey, white by light, glides wistfully through the poisonous mists. Her eyes, lifeless, gaze at his shallow heart.

Doomed are we who set sight on the magnificient, doomed are we whose hearts yearn for a better tomorrow. The eddy pools stir and crackle upon his weight. His eyes glow bright in the dark and the face contorts. With each advancing step, he is reminded of the path that brought him here; the four days of isolation, years of conforming; and a moment's madness. The empathy he once placed for the beings around him is replaced by that never-quenching thirst for consumption.

The uneasy sense of calm is broken by the flipping of a coin. She waits for it to land safely on her pouch. The food is here.

People Places Animals Things

What is it that anybody has to say?

Tales of misfortunes or triumphs?

Rogue dreams?

Plights, sounds and sights ?

Or musings ?

Remembering S & P

We are attempting to resurrect a dreamy and drunk artist here. One for whom love, agony, happiness and misery are just excuses for maintaining eternal loneliness. This silent turmoil dims his intellect and dampens his heart, usurping the place reserved for great joy and sadness. At times, it seemed that one of the two spirits within him had, in the end, emerged victorious, leaving the other behind, and that he'd finally forgotten that silent and loveless aspect of himself.

The unexpected appearance of a woman at an open window, silences, thought and patience. 

The forgotten parable

Insignificant movements of the fingers are the order of the day.

Trudging on the path that was, is and will probably be;

The path.

Refinement; the atonement that will never be.

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!

The world forgetting, by the world forgot.

Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!

Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd

Routinely selfish little worlds of meaningless victories over other people's seemingly

detrimental achievements.

Would we be happier to live life not remembering how many of the things we gave up hope on ? 

So oft in theologic wars,
The disputants, I ween,
Rail on in utter ignorance
Of what each other mean,
And prate about an Elephant
Not one of them has seen!


(From The Blind Men and the Elephant by John Godfrey Saxe) 

-_-

We all have our seminal piece of work. It could be that odd-shaped poop you shit out one morning or the progeny you bring to the world. It could be a successful brawl with a rickshaw driver when you're down with diarrhoea or sitting with some useless thought looping over and over and over and over again. For each, his own.

Its all a big work of black magic. The permutations will favour us one day. We'll be satisfied. But well, it passes. Everything passes. There's an eerily unwavering pattern to the mysteries of the chaos. The God. Of bits and pieces. 

Desire. Conquests. Shattered ideals. Illusions that are too proud to go to dust. Reincarnated perceptions. The Self. All words don't go onto make sentences just like all thoughts don't get into words. But what is important is that you identify the message, the broad message. One that you already know. 

Peace.       

Jellyfish

A ship inside a bottle
cannot sink,
cannot collect dust.
Its nice to look at and
floats on glass.
It doesn't know where it sails
The world doesn't blow it's sails
It has no sails.
Its legacy;
A broken trail of bubbles no one will ever see. 

Familiar collision of Flesh against Flesh. 

Though, for some reason, there’s a hint of carefree expenditure now, a waft of warmth. 
Nuzzles her jawbone with his nose. 
He notices a faint gold-shot azure from each iris. 
The human paradox – the same and the different. 
Gaze meets gaze, revealing, as ever, everything and nothing.

Aches

The Roman emperor sends his troops across the boundaries.
The white emblems melt and flow onto the embracing streams.
And she goes to educate herself in the cool breezes.
I, fucked up, sit here with clenched wrists, hairs lost.