This is Tragedy

thinking of how,
  many lips must I taste upon to be called into the league of men -
  how many times must I rush into love
     to be felt for in the heart of many
          who called the words of a wife upon their lives
      how will this screen showing what does call
  upon my meager stages of respect faltered on the palette of success
a war making wounds on heart of souls
   souls dusting, upon how -
      we talk without meter and rhyme.
          the weak stupor of a young man in love with women-
          year by this year, the morose souls will face death
         and in some will this soul rest, as it is named after the deadwood.
       

ah, who would walk down the green parches
 as silent as the wind stalk right behind you hair and tells your every step
to the walls of infamy painted on the human cross
  as the sky melts in the distorted dreary of the early morning into
everything that lives in your vision
  Its a silent walk to the pool
no roses
 no silver plates
   no monies
      no fancy clothes to compare with your canvas
          
           day breaking into pieces of bread,
                 the ears awaken on the wind,
                    to hear the broth of your voice begin.

Silence is not my fort

Images behind images, this world is made in different films,
  Shades of transparency, translucent and opaque -
   there are sometimes, when I have no matter as the molecules of my mind shatter -
   what is there to look for and wonder,
   what is there that takes a hope for some slumber in the times
 life shows the gliding glitter on the living remains of your brain
the functionality - is gone and now what remains is bits of little memories
  that can take us now, nowhere, for the places have already been visited
the stars have already been broken and hoped upon
  the feelings already taken, the pictures already seen, the storm already brazen

when the body lays at its feet -
   silent into a long sleep knowing not when to become -

the sand grain flowing against time of itself
  knowing not what floats in your black eyes
  knowing not what dirt has made home in your blood raised its home
  knowing somewhat how your itch has been tearing up its feel once in every minute to make you hand go back to the scratch to where it had all started

   life is a mystery, please don't try to own it. all I ask is when will you show up to live?

Finally, it again trickles down to this,
Sitting here drugged on my existence.
I know of nothing I couldn't repeat
In my life without fail.


Is this the only way to be?
To be wasted every morning that you get up
And see the improper Sun on the properties of
lowly humans trying their best to make it to another day.
I have done that so far. With my mind numbing down.
Slowly. Accurately.


I am still am swimming in the orb,
Of things that don't matter.
Somehow, I have come to realise that you cannot
"Do art". It's just a bit too hypothetical
Art, lives like a parallel to everyday strangeness.


A pornstar cannot acclaim that she does like sex so much,
That she chose the adult industry.
Sadly, I have no means of living in both;
The everyday strangeness and in the Art of my being.
Never good at anything. That is a tad bit me.


I need to get out of this constant drudgery
Intoxication is eating me up from inside.
I need health. So bad,


Till anything better comes up,
It will be long.

Today

The freshly mown grass smells burnt,
Of machines and of intention made social in human.
The mother look ever more constrained, not strict
Their children ever more lost so, their mothers,
The falcons cover their width amongst their wings,
Twirl without a swirl, hungry skies;
The young hawk on the intentions of the providing,
The dire heart consequences of surviving.
The Women made so plastic, Men
Hover longer, maybe, provide for four wheels that make a ride;
The written verses of love fall shorter
Without a reach into the known life that lover proclaim.
The Fragrance comes swiftly against the
Demised sweet smelling sour sweat of mine.
Today, I feel short of needs
Like living of on a pond of decadence,
Wallow, The Doors ask me to smoke,
Their pieces of plagiary in dices and peace.

Today, may seem less named under the yesterday,
But it's goodness remains, just like everyday.

The Rickshaw

The Monsoons had just taken over. Leaving puddles within muddles, men looked into their reflections. Some women too, had the same demeanor as they looked at the reflection of their men.

The day slowly had passed through. With my lurches in my stomach, I ached, closer to the end of the day, but was stopped prior to the night, by a friend in the evening.  It is heard, that he said, “I think we should study with our examinations approaching. We have dallied within the attractions of dope, and now it’s soporific.” I agreed, but the day continued excitedly at the edge of the day, and its talks. Finally, the hour struck close to the leaving. The exit had to be made from a very obtrusively enclosed room which spuriously felt large enough when inside. I always wondered if making love, to someone I took fancy, would chance upon entering it. We made it to the stairs, somehow I never liked using the elevators even though they had polished wood plies plying to make it more sober never the less it wasn’t my choice, sheltered by plastic sheets that were damaged in each metal frame that held it.

Making back to the streets, wasn’t that hard a job on a likely unfed day too, the only barrier that seemed to be was the new wave of monsoon mosquitoes swarming about in shapes of men, as well as that of an insect. The tea stall was hardly a yard away from the main gate of my society. Me and my companion swift in gate, made it there before we realized it. Then the customary act, of peeping in through the columns of many a assorted tobacco powers gilder with flavors, made a crunch of plastic that I truly adored.  “Bhaiya, ek Navy Cut, ek Classic Mild or do chai” (Fellow, I need single cigarettes of Navy Cut and Classic Mild, as well as two cups of tea). People had been telling me not to smoke the former cigarette brand, because there were rumors that renowned hospitals had already forbidden its patients for they could not be cured. I was acceptable to that on measures of notable quantities of Nicotine. Within no time, we sat on our favorite spot, a cemented and grilled cover of a septic tank that had its elevation well enough for a proper seat.  

Soon my wandering eyes met a valiant blue shade, generously made piqué to my imagination.

Silently, twirling with tires on its front gape, the chrome on the front wheel. Wishing, it would go next to where I needed it to charging, no money for my wishes. The guy on the seat, sipping his chai (tea), like any master of his fate. This took me back to my days in Mussorie, when on a cold night of August I rode a rickshaw, how my bad hand at it, almost drove it to a trench. Little did I realise that I was narrating that account to my friend who had chosen to docilely follow me through.

"Bhaiya, kisi ki marzi pe nahin jeeta hoon, jitna mehnat utna kaam." (Brother, I live according to my own wishes, my work fetches me my income. My employment is my will). I smiled back in grace and so did my friend. This made me recollect, as once my Dad had told me, The one who works the most, is the one who earns the least. I think his context mean pure physical taxing labour. In a country with billions of people. I think somewhere the value of this nation has been distributed. So much so that the one who lives life of a many places and a life so desperately wanted by the ones on the epitome of prosperity, was so despised.

Like a many questions never answered, showed naught anywhere on his face. From what I remember now, his glistening showed from the humid summer afternoon. His grace, his smile. Like a answer to everyman needs, dwindled away in the smoke of an Industrious life.

Would we, would we not,
"I cherish your pretty pink under-garment",
Is it chosen, by a little
By them, few.

Drones stalking, Queens waiting,
There are words, and more words,
Your love, a verse; But tell me my dear,
Caressing you is subtle or hard?

"I like your back", screaming my eyes,
Don't please don't, Shun this part.
Isn't it for your best? To like me.
I sing, not drunk songs, Sire.

My eyes in your life, Has
Been tears, take not less,
Not a little more, Don't litter love
Queen

Placid Little Smoke

Little tranced ladies, of Nicotine smoke,
My spraying women,
"What do you think, they hate me?"
She drew closer, closer within each heart of mine.
Caressing every fragment of this little soul.

"Can we take it to our bedroom tonight,
I sleep with a smoke".

I Am

Once, I had stood.
Even in the heavy torrent of the rain fire;
Against me were seated
The dire ends of humanity definition.
"Mortal" and the "Immortal"

"Dear Bard, We have but heard you wail in your own demise,
Pleading for my swift execution and deliverance.
You have bid me closer to your heart,
Closer than any man has felt the warmth of life from his
Love that was beloved.
Seek no further child,
I giveth what thy seek
The End"
Mortality consumed me, thus, with his eternal pouring eyes,
Each word which left with the hollow of the Mighty Galactic Wisdom.

It couldn't let my mind stray, Immortality, coughed.
Like the dust from the times of the Great to the history of the Shrewd blew.
"I offer thee, the Gift of Gods,
Where they would come for thy council,
But few day, the Valkyries will giveth their
transcendental beauty and their make,
To you, Mighty Philanderer of Maids.
To such glory, I giveth thee in Grace
To you the Valhalla".

Odin himself, it seemed hath struck the golden Hour of Gain,
Upon my fate and had my soul smoldered in Elysian Gold.

I stood still, as time watched me in patience
Having gripped every activity of life in a certain pause.
Anxiety spread like a Wild Majestic Galactic Fire
Oer the Threshold of the Unknown and the Known.

The Bard stood, to the fore.
Looking at my feet, it calming the dust under it.
Spake, thus:

"Dear Lords of Human fate, Peace can be but brought to me,
In the pleasures of Death or the as the Masters of the Human Sand,
'Tis more than any mortal could have hunger for.
It is the Eternal Sleep well deserved to them
Who liveth in the stricken labor of tide"

"My needs be not humble, lay so wandered,
Under a confused Sun and the troubled Moon,
Wisdom so wrought with self-disdain.
Fain, but I cease to think...
But, I choose to believe

Mortality if you take away Immortality from me,
The Only remains is me.
My immortality wouldn't be of virtue, If I had lived longer
more Than the pages of the sun proposes.
Death can only but harm me if I,
Was not a flame of passion,
Was never a smile for the season.

Thus, I choose to remain without both mortality and the immortal,
For my Soul speaks louder than any man hath said,
"Passion in me will be my Word bearer,
Even if Death takes me arrayed with its swiftness,
I will remain and stay, in my Words,
As the life of my Enlightened Immortality".

Maybe, a cloud drowned me in its Melancholy.

Goodnight

Back on the hewy cot,
The eye within the eye, looks at the eye.
The difference between the worlds;
Tiles that float as a fall from the ceiling and the plaster from the floor.

"It's a good night's sleep" I remind my poor memory;
As everything is torn in the waves of the breaking calm,
The Calm so still, immute and full of tirade,
Like a saboteur from the land of Cold winds and Warm fluids.

Takes me by chance on everything I say,
If I must, then I must not;
The fate in me musters not,
To make it a must in the Must of the seasons;
For I have none of the must to offer, if I must.
Thus, take it by the dust if you must.

Maybe, it still is a good night's sleep.
The tiles and plaster now in an array of erotic passion;
the dust in my mind calling for freedom.
I tell them, that one day they shall be free.
One day, the dust may swirl again.
But, today. As the world is made and made not

in it's mold.                                      Would it stay?
No, surely not.                                but the world is working for the dust!
No dust there must be surely.           We but are, all, nothing but dust.
Too much dust. Must you dare?       I will Must like a mammal if I must.


Goodnight.

For those, who love the Morning Gray Sun.

Cigarettes

The evil that has me sold.


About, four years from now I remember that burning lady I had put on my lips for the first time. It was sizzling away to a slow blast of smoke. Easing, seeping and mellowing the ever engorging activities of the mind welded on my pulsating brain that works like a petard. Slow now the world seems manageable, the reigns flow back in my hands. But there is darkness in the draws made by my being, not so seemingly now.  

Two years back. Stillness. Waiting for me to collapse, feel the slap of water on my cheek as my senses swivel away in morose depth of the cold waters. They are many a maidens of revival on the cost. But none shall set me free. I do not appeal to the eyes. I have caught on with my retarded survival and then it eases me out now.

Sinking low. I feel those memories of niceness escape me in gasps. I will hit stone-dead on the lake-bed.

The cold stilling in me slow. I feel finally the smirk escape me. I pull out the last cigarette and smoke myself the final ease. No pain, no blurry vision nor hindrance of my sickened body. I am home.

The Ink in the Pen writes.

Winning Lifestyles -
How profusely you had to wait.

These trends of a new life, don't appeal much.
Where are the lives of the given millions.
Waiting in lines and ques for a living brew.
Their backs are on the run and front is all torn;
They say that you are the winning and the loss of time.
It's a myth you only live twice.


To be the beaming beacon of the dry starved hopes,
To wring in the Circus of the petulant grope:
"Don't worry, little kid,
It's only worth a dime."
And you keep wondering, if He's ever got time.
To be on the road
Or to be the broad.
It's not worth a thought -
Neither a soul.
It's a myth you only live twice.


To be conquered of Woken,
You must know by now:
that at the break of dawn
It's only what you must leave and then
Live on the behind.
Harken your will and weigh you soul.
It's a myth you only live twice.

Pray the Made and not the Medium.
It's a hoax, your life is sometimes worth a dime.

My While

My long gone last save in the words of your mirth,
Here is where I had toiled.

http://theadvertheretic.tumblr.com/

Blitzkrieg

Things. That brake, fall, fragmented and from scar made again as a collage of memories and past. Something beautiful made by the scrutinity of the mind. How can we avow the the seconds that had ticked by in blimey water of slow revival. When you think that places are alway made for the taste of your choice that you so judiciously has made. We are frail and fallen away. Into the bits of ashes that are set free by the winds of time. Time. Again the worst prim of imprisonment. You project yourself as an image through time, and you come out as a frame of confound dignity weighed down by callous use of relations thus, truly so becoming the the wants that have not been noted for. The harshness of crude reality, which is hardly ever justified or refined by empathy and human kindness. It becomes a variable to the void term REAL. The blaze of bitterness that comes forward. Get real, yeah look around where this time has tele-ported you. I am probably optimistic about my opportunities. Where, the doors are opened for a new light, or the sweet melodrama that the phrase brings. But, the dust of nostalgia and scent of the past never stops.Who must care now. They are free and limitless. Let them be. Now, here starkly, waiting into the day of din.

Hunger comes back, hurled back into reality. The scents of better foods come back.

Bon Nuit. (whatever, it calls for.)

Whiskey House

Stranded on the shore of the off-night mirth,

Dissuaded away by the churn of the city –

Rampage a crawl through the blasphemy.

I wake. Freeze.

Soft breath draws me near,

Nor the thought that makes this dance so sneered yet clear;

Like an Occult, scorned off his path,

I yet again stretch these words on this parch.
Clearer still.

Silently still I stood waiting against,

Breezy night of the shedding cold;

Against the skins that foil with the fog,

Whiskey, which warms the sanguinary thought.

Apprehension and its chill wear me by,

Blunt in the thought of the warmth;

Mind stood frozen, at such a heat,

Will those get away from me?

The scorn that I held in my hands and cherished;

Made its way through the blinded past.

Thorough on the wade, I descended in the marsh of serenity,

Where this part would start or where it shall end.

But I am in my whiskey house,

Looking at her, as pleasant as she is free.

Would she now bleak, get away from me?

I must not care. For I, alone, must live this sordid stumble.

Pillage of the Night

This night fog makes dense
The impulse of the scent scattering –
The alleys finding the right imposter,
Who had shunned from beauty his core, his darkness.
Dead night has yawned his moonlight over the skies of decay.
Simplifying the need for the Scent to find,
Thieves of New Order.
Hidden has it all the parches of fantasies
Withheld from the pieces of the unmade streams;
Of the massacred Dreams.
Long gone is ‘The Revel’ from the Village of Dead dreams,
As unfinished is left the job by Maker of Dreams.
The thief roams unchecked yet bechested,

“I am the writer of all Dreams, the Fantasia;
Archived are now withheld Trance,
The Maker, the Specter to you now am I,
Agony of the nights would yawn to dreamless blight.”

Curved veins of seeping, transcendent cirrus,
Blank darkness is no better than creeping nostalgia of an unknown heart.

The Womb

The dry days are long gone for the hunt that we took in place to satisfy. I look around. Women, the guardians of mankind, that now toil about. Look at them, their inhibition. They, the ones that brought settlement to the civilizations. The womb that betrothed many a success of mankind. Is now but a pale piece of instrumentation.

Look within and you will find - Appreciation, Relevance and Vitality. They seem a perfect place to take pledge in the ruins of a homosapien underframe. The womb takes thy mortal and pathetic self to a world above than petty consciousness. Is there a thing another than a beauty of women.

Forbearance to purulence. Women today have forgotten their place amongst us. Their very entails of lucidity has made even immortal lords sucrose.

Intimidation into women is the most superior worship to self. To detain the departed world behind and live the ways of the immortal. To earn their warmth keeps in you many lives alive. To respect them as goddess is an altar to your conscience.

Oh petty fools, to make love with deities form a sublime abode is your portion that, if you shall respect you would gauge the wasteland of this debasing world.

Oh Women, let loose thy charm upon the human race. Make vivid the non-nonchalance to the world of coming and becoming. Leave behind the raisins of nothing but of Eros and Dionysus. Let down the wine of pure conquest and fervor.

I have but let down the account on the pure grace of women. Women, the home to humanity. Nature's modesty and reservation.

Go and conquer the world. Teach warmth, love, trance and tranquility. Splurge.

Bail for the Bard

How could you find me here,

Amongst the last strongholds of the era;

That prison gloom that keeps me

Separate from all that I was made with?

Where the heartbeats are the throb of the common

Murkings of a lurking Death.

How pleasantly you keep me,

Unveil me, my miseries…

Your laugh, smiles trickle down the soiled

Stony walls and stony steps.

You make way home.

The rain seep in me, makes my Maelstrom high.

Cleaned I feel as the Oceans in me rise.

A shadowed rain; Message from you is send

Nature grows in the gloom of a disparate glaze.

Fill me, thou sleep in me to make me the Liege of all the waters unknown.

Maelstrom made am I. Sooth me, as the water’s rise again.

The Kohl

The Darkness,

Smudged to dreary clay;

The slit opening the world to a new light,

Of the Darkness kept in lark of the queer.

Smear it to rub new scenery on the world,

With the pupil sitting still

Making their way through a

Real and Murky globe,

In them is the Dark;

Wear it, Smear it –

Line thy eyelids with black

See the Dark world

Gloomy,

For it may Brazen your Light.

Your Essence much tangible

from Sight.

Debri

Why does it still feel the same. I lurk in the depths of my self. The corridors of darkness. Perishing upon the dust ascending debri of time. The scrolls lay ashen. I want to part ways with terror. The voilence of my mind. Please stay! Maidens leave me vanquished.

Exiled from mirth I am. Please stay. Stay for a while.

The clocks are hazy. Thoughts of detain are here for a stay,
The cold outside lingers as those
The eyes of HIS thunderous gleam
Are here to betray my hope of Death.
I am digging for myslef bowles again.

The myst is my company, forever atorn,
I pray to plead for it dirt my seeds of hope.
My mind raging from terror
It's a shack of cards strewn apart.
I am digging to find my storm.

At the lake of disguise I see,
My body strewn without a face,
Force me to pull my entails apart.
A long night again
I am digging to find my pains.

My house of masks is down,
My tears so real they make no sound.
I held against my black sun my sins,
A cold winter replies my din
I am digging again to find my sound.

In dirt, my mud i slack,
The earth from my eyes pour,
Is it the last day I am here to stay
I am digging to find my early gore.

Could I have some hands?

Put out the lights.

There is no need to wait for the road to pick up dirt again.
Nobody's coming.

Let's go inside, have a broth and some bread.
The candlesticks are the last to have of this night.
Eyes shrouding a night dream.

Walk away, please. Nobody's answering your door.
The call is the wood in the stark sties of the barn.
Knit, for the Night Light is still far away.

Have I alarmed your time? My clock is stirring a new Black Hole.
I have to clean the dishes.
Could I have some hands?
My mind.
Could I have some hands?