Desire

The night was dark. A warm moon slithered over the ground leaving a trail of slimy moonlight, I was alone... with the voices in my head. And then there was an another voice. I met my guest.

What are you writing?
Writing a story lil one.
Whats it about?

Its a ghost story.

I like ghost stories. What happens in it?
Its about a man who meets the devil.
Whats he like? The devil?
I see him as a tall man, smiling but he has very sad eyes.
Why is he sad?
He was thrown out of heaven by god. He's sad because he made a mistake and god wont forgive him.
But what did he do?
He challenged god. He wanted to become the king of heaven.
Is that what they teach you children?
What?
Gods children? hah. Image of God. Yeah right.
Who are you?
I am the truth. I am the one who has been mislabeled as the cause of your woes. I am,to be cheesy, the Devil.
Go away little girl, I am busy.
Do you want to know what really happened? Why did god distance himself from me? Why heaven was threatened?
Why?
I wanted.
Wanted what? Heaven?
No nothing so crude and trite, why wud anyone want a bunch of things singing all day long? gets on ones nerves doesnt it... I wanted. simple. And thats how heaven fell.
I dont understand.
I desired. I wanted. I craved. And Angels are not supposed to desire.
I still dont understand.
I created something.
Sin!
No! I created beauty. And I wanted that beauty. I desired to be part of that beauty.
Incest!
Really? If you create something, do you not feel part of it? Is
it 'sin' then?
You are just trying to fool me. I wont take your lies.
Why should I lie to u?
To take my soul.
And what, to use a phrase, in god's name will I do with it?
Take me to hell.
And?
Torture me for eternity.
Why?
Because you like torturing souls. You hate god's children. You are jealous.
Really? Jealous of what? Hell isnt for you. Mankind is just a gatecrasher in a sadistic party god has thrown for us, the 'rebels'. Hell was created to punish Desire. There was nothing in heaven that wasnt under god's control. Until Desire. I desired. I wanted. I felt the pain of longing. And with that i came to love what I created.
You created Sin! Your own daughter!
I created beauty out of my head. She was as much my daughter as the Mona Lisa was of Da Vinci, as the statue of Galatea was of Pygmalion's. As a character is of any artist. Every part of her was molded by me. So yes, in the truest sense of the word, she was my daughter.
What happened?
Like I said, Angels cannot desire. Desire cant be controlled by an external force. My desire was my own. It marked me. Set me apart. And so, as 'divine punishment', I was thrown to hell where my desire and its fulfillment are constantly kept separated. and that is agony.
I dont believe you.
I knew you wont. But you want to. See you at my place. Goodbye.

Broken Ashes

The Scarecrow of words
Lost in the field of Thought
rustled by winds of speech
rattled by rats of doubts

a useless toy on in a barren land.
Kwee waa ha ha ha
Broken ashes in a spilled crystal.

Writer’s Block

He unlocked the door and the silence welcomed him with open arms and a warm draught. He walked into the empty room, put his bag down on the end of the bed, looked over to the typewriter, not even aware that his hands had moved to switch on the radio; meaningless noise began to flow out swamping the room, creating a colloidal with the with the silence, snatches of words free floating in the air. But he wasn’t aware, he kept on looking at the typewriter, waiting for something to think, but as always, nothing happened. He shrugged off the despair crawling over his brain like an intrusive insect and moved to light another cigarette. The smoke burnt, a bitter acrid taste seared his head. “Too many.” “Wonder which one this is.” His body moved to the kitchen, came back holding a cup of chai, he sat down at the table, looked at the blank sheets of paper lying on the table, his hand picked up the pen, uncapped it, poised over the page, withdrew, recapped, his mouth noticed that the cup was empty, he smiled to the wall, got up and went to the bed, lay down, slept and awoke.

Ad infinitio, Ad nauseum.

The flame danced, cupped between my hands, it swayed with an abandon that was so hard for me to comprehend. Its entire being was straining to break free from the grasp of the match. A live being brought into existence by my one stroke, living its transient existence till the match ran out, or even fitting, someone put it out. But the flame wanted to live, to dance, to trip the light fantastic. To soar free, away from the match and into the blue beyond. And i was denying it its freedom. A tiny insignificant thing that pushed and twisted in its macabre dance of death and cursed me with its every turn. It was cruel of me to call it into being and then watch its pathetic attempts at freedom. But at that very moment i was god and that was my purpose. So we both stood, fulfilling our purpose, it danced and tried to dream of freedom, when it would be free of my grasp and i suffered to watch its play with the smug satisfaction of certainty. I would stay behind. It wouldn't. I would be the one to survive, it wouldn't. I would write these words while all that remained of it was a blackened match somewhere. I knew and was aware of the fact that she didn't her soon to be accomplished end. And so i watched, in gleeful solemnity, her trials at an denied freedom. But she had her revenge. Before burning out, she showed me her true force and left me with a scar of our ever so transient time together. I still wear her mark on my finger, a reminder of a being created, denied and destroyed. Of sweet revenge and sorrow.

Music danced on the spangled grass of lilac and thyme. I stood in the corner, watching... my inability to respond heightened in a beautiful ecstatic agony that kept beat to her solitary exuberance and held us both captive in that when one second where hidden from chaperon Time, the two of us tripped the light fantastic. Me in my stasis, she in her ecstasy. And then as the sounds of that kept the rhythm of our solitude intact were joined by others, the bond between us was broken and we were left stranded amidst the crowded floor. But the dance still remained in the corners of our eyes and slowly seeped into the makeshift realm of conscious , leaving us as mere memories to each other.

i love this just for the sake of the relief it brought me while writing it, and the relief i get everytime i read it... thought i'd share it...

Weep no more for Ireland dead and gone,
Remembered in no tone, sung in no more song.
The Emerald Isle is no more,
no less
than what you will call from it.
The eyes of a nation
struck blind blind by a world
reduced to meaningless signs called words.

Weep no more for Darius nor Alexander,
those that remembered them are are forgotten.
No more need to blow breath,
into tired dead shes flaking away.
The limbs of emperors have been
sent off to another way.

Weep no more for Hamlet, Ophelia,
their song is at an end.
The sighs to brave
outrageous fortune
can sing no longer anymore.

Weep for the sake of tears
hot and wet,
for what you will not have
yet deem your own.
weep yet remember
you too will be forgotten one day.

not one of my most satisfying lines, yet true all the same... the first line came when i was reading Joyce, and stayed, trying to find a medium for its expression... if it had but chosen a better soul... it's birth has been marred by my insufficiency...

little blind mice

Like mindless rats,
with oozing brains,
We all sit in a row.
Blind wee haha...
Scribble Scribble
Scratch Scratch
Furtive Glances
Puttering mouths
gnawing away
at words in our brains.
Everything
Everything
tie your sheets
lil mice, lets
lie our sheets.
STOP WRITING PLEASE
tomorrows another day
we will be back again...

written during the first exam for MA Final

Poet to Beggar Cried

A bit of fiction,
an ounce of fact,
The smell of diction
and the lack of tact.
With open mouthed words
and blinded hands,
with inert gestures
and silent shouts,
do I greet each one
who ambles across.
Begging for an ear,
an eye, an arm
to hear, see, reach me
and all I get
is the dust of their passing feet.

to W.B. Yeats.

The slow movement across the grass, feeling each blade; every moment; every step that I put down leaves behind something from me in the soil and every step I lift up leaves something of the soil on me. Soon I'll be gone and it will be the soil walking on me. And that's how it goes on. The bitter acrid taste of existence. Hamlet was a fool; it is never to be or not to be, it is not a question, it is a curse; BE, and thats all there is to it.