Pelvic musing

Dick. A very important name in the day to day existence of humankind. If you are christened with this name, you are forgiven. Otherwise, you should try to not be a Dick. It’s a hard task because take any random person from a crowd and there is .93 possibility that he is, in fact, a Dick. 

Advise: Do not get your dick intertwined with the reasoning in your head. This is the most important bit. Do not, I repeat, make decisions with your dick. If you do, you certainly become a Dick and you can live the rest of your life happily married to your right hand.  

Pussy. Another important name in the day to day existence of our folk. Nobody gets christened with this name unless you are a cat. If you are one, this conversation doesn’t apply to you.

Funny how the colloquial lingoes for both male and female genital organs have connotations that portray attributes that aren't exactly desirable in a person. I know people who are both a dick and a pussy at the same time. But none who have a dick and a pussy on them at the same time. Or at a different time.

In the years to come, I will remember him as a coward and a proponent of negative thinking. There is a disappointment in realising this man is a sycophant, not capable of receiving or assimilating criticism. This disillusionment contradicts everything I had come to believe in my childhood, setting me off on an identity crisis like never before.
There are times I believe if he comes to see his own bigotry, the system would simply shut down and exist no further.

I don’t want to end up as him.

Boo

'There is a bitter vacuum that surfaces every time I go out for a stroll', the three-eyed onion that sits across me muses. 'I feel like making others cry for what they have done and are doing to me'

'What are they doing to you?' I ask him, hands interlocked, a mild lunge forward, feigning earnestness.

'They are peeling me, layer after layer. Honestly, every time I break down I believe it cannot get any worse. But it does'

It's two eyes gaze dispassionately at the ornate ceiling of my apartment while the third bores down on me. 'It's amusing as much as its depressing. Do you think you can prescribe some pills for me?'

'To an onion?'

All three eyes are on me. 'That's racist'

'I'm just saying. There is no way you could ingest a pill'

It hesitates and resigns itself to a shrug of the shoulders. 'Could you at least do something that could get me through these days and nights without inflicting any more harm upon myself?'

'Well, I could put you in a pan, slice you into little pieces, add some ghee and fry till you turn golden-brown, sprinkle a bit of salt and devour you tonight'

Silence is agreement. 

Time-travel

And eyelids.

Tripping Point.

Gorbachev could do a weasel tonight
Handshakes on a full-moon night.
We're in the shady sunroofs
taking swirls at the sky.
Two people caught in the bungalow
refused to come out and play.
I hope you had a good day
Let this play may bay.
Say, may be play anyway
Why nay say now.
Phone.

Morning watch

"We all commit to things in our lives, like relationships and professions, and you make it work over a long period of time. With the relationships you value, you make them work. The guiding principle is, "Don’t be an asshole."                          

                                                             - Citizen

Et cet era,

Very hard. That is the only honest thought I can think of while trying to publish this, high on weed, and coming to a realisation that somebody who types out chat transcripts as a book, shouldn't be allowed to do so. I mean, you know the real authors. They have intricately designed sentences, full of multiple commas that don't make sense but still you go 'aAAaaWh! You see what he did there <-- a="" didn="" div="" first="" has="" i="" level="" meta="" nbsp="" of="" previous="" really="" sentence="" shit="" t="" that="" the="" think="" time.="">

After a phase of phasing out, I'm back with a new paragraph. You'd be amazed if I tell you I think you've been reading this for a long time. You know, like being here with me, travelling through time and multiple iterations of words. "You know" <-- a="" and="" as="" at="" author="" by="" cetera="" div="" dravid.="" et="" got="" he="" inspired="" it="" kid="" mouthed="" occasions="" out="" phrase="" rahul="" say="" sri="" stick="" stuck="" the="" this="" to="" used="" wanted="" was="" when="" where="">

 I've been sleeping here instead. 

Ho 

I've been sleeping in my bed 

Hey 

I can write a song 

Ho 

I've been in-love with you 

You've been in-love with me 

Sweetheart! 

I don't think he is right for you 

Ho

Hey 

Yay! We neeed it now. 

Frozen

saaY 

I've been in-love with you 

You've been in-love with me 

Sweetheart! 

We could go on with different lyrics from different songs. We should, honestly. I was actually going to say we shouldn't because that's what a cheap writer would do. It's like we, the two people in my head, are hoping you would actually be able to understand the different thoughts before it actually gets inked in a digital medium. The craving to write the lyrics has faded after being intensively exhausted trying to make sense.  

Laughter. The next verse begins with a smile. Glee. 

To make us still remember 

Dum. 

You cannot du-du-doo

So when you found we cannot make sense 

We'll still make good friends. 

You didn't have to cut me out 

I don't need your love

You didn't have to stoop low

Now you're just somebody that I used to know

Now you're just somebody that I used to know. 

Those of you who actually know the song would know the state of my being. 

I don't want to live that way.

somebody that I used to know. 

You know, I feel like some open ended funnel. Get any song on my head, I'll be a devilishly obedient slave writing whatever I hear. 

I used to know. 

It's like I really have two people inside. And they are having conversations and fun with each other. On some level, that is something pathetic. You know, I'm so hip that I'm lonely and honestly, I love it, you know, there are two people, but I know I'm on my own but I'm not lonely. Self-loathing shrug of the shoulders. Nobody stood stoop this low trying to publish something. 

Talk show host, that's who I should be. A poker-face, straight-faced son of a bitch with mirthful laughter inside. 

Take this storm to my home 

Swimming in the song 

Jumbled and mixing and mashing 

will get you another verse 

that would look all great 

like another billboard chart singles track. 

Richard Linklater; the man who I'd like to file a case of plagiarism against, for stealing my idea. 12 years focusing on a kid growing up. He had the privilege of age at his side. This blog was my product. He had more content. 

Another realisation, I write the things I have conversations with myself. The muse is my own reflection. That is new. 

Stopping this

The holy chapel of my dog nights. That is what I decided to call the place before turning the key into the lock. It wouldn't go in unless twisted in a very particular angle and pressed gently.

I thought of it's owner, the gem of a person who'd every day go through this procedure with not as much as a thought, and how the key would go in seamlessly every time.

Form

1.

a. The shape and structure of an object.

b. The body or outward appearance of a person or an animal considered separately from the face or head; figure.

2.

a. The essence of something.

b. The mode in which a thing exists, acts, or manifests itself; kind: a form of animal life; a form of blackmail.

3.

a. Proven ability to perform: a musician at the top of her form.

b. Fitness, as of an athlete or animal, with regard to health or training.

c. The past performance of a racehorse.

4.

a. A mold for the setting of concrete.

Spotting the villain

There is this scene
Where I masturbate
Looking into the laptop screen
And out of the darkness
in the screen
comes a reflection
Two eyes
and a face
Ugly
Consuming it
without any emotion
Animal.