The black the white the gray of life

The black the white the gray of life

Wednesday, June 15, 2011


I'm the ocean in the drop.
I rest my head on sand's arms.
Blowing a conch,
Into the chaos inside my head.

My Story

I'm here. I'm there.
I see myself everywhere.

Again and again, full in all the fragments.
Never broken, not so still.
A butterfly in the caterpillar's dreams.

Stealing, running, growing lean.
Becoming all I could have been.

Whatever I touch turns to tin.
In this world of hate I believe.

In a tub I swim like a fish.
In the cupboard I breathe like the sky.
And in my hands I die like a fly.

Thursday, June 9, 2011

Destiny's Boundaries

Here, where the horses graze and the stream makes its course known,I find freedom. In the lap of the green pastures and mystifying unknown banks, pebbles rotund where the water's passionate kisses lie ample. Like ripened, luscious fruits, sons of the sun.

I meditate, under the halcyon shade of the leaves. Self-possessed in bucolic ramblings.
I make love to my spirit. Slowly and languidly. Planting one kiss at a time.
Elated like a fickle, little butterfly, I surrender.

What an orchestra nature is!
The leaves, the song of the creek. Chirping and buzzing to make me believe.
Solemnly, I visualize the distinctive line between the sea and the shore. Slowly fading. Talking. Telling stories of those that strayed its path, some plunged head-on, suavely some floated alone. The water drank up their stories but the shore stored them, carefully beneath the pebbles.
The crane dips its beak, to quench its thirst. My thirst for freedom is unquenchable, its depth feverishly imaginative and arcanely unknown.
Under the cranes wing I find thee.
In its flight I find me.
I'm free.

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

Interpretation is a product of experience.

Monday, June 6, 2011

Nature TO Me

I am not a colouring book. You cannot fill me with the colours of your choice.
I am warm and gentle, so much so that I carefully melt flakes of snow, one each at a time.Though I garner great strengths of destruction, I seldom use them. I devastate when my gentleness transforms into fury, then these innocent flakes of snow suddenly become murderous storms.It is a reaction to a very malignant syndrome.

I have recently developed the H.D.D. or the Human Distaste Disorder. A disorder born not out of a deficiency, but out of superfluity of a commonly found being.

Its population floods my body with trillions and eats voraciously into all my resources.
The common symptoms of this hazardous disorder are:
The sparseness of my dense green grows and the parched-ness of my flourishing fluids.
Black vile, wisps of smoke suffocating me and chunks of waste, white and stretchable,choking me and throttling my soul.

Tolerance gives up on me, and I vomit my fluids, sometimes I cry and whimper. Then further and further I melt in agony.

Now the chaos has completely deafened me. The smoke has completely blinded me.
Yet they do not hear my plea.
They play. They pirouette, triumphant over innovations; unaware of the inevitable devastation they invite, their end and my cure.

Literary Spurts

Friday, June 3, 2011

Spools Sanguine

Some here, little there.
Yellow aspirations,
Green flush,
Mellow mirage of dawn.
On the carpet of faith.
Flowing yet bound.
Subtly sanguine,
Squeezed until last.
Free but not,
Until I'm woven into a single form again.
Back to being human.
Faraway from liberty.
Hopes tied to my ankle.
Back to dependence.
Wretched to human.
"So called" sapience.

From the lack of inspiration.

Dark in a corner, slowly I melt. Like a candle in a cast-iron stand, melting without fire, flickering without wind. Rust on my nerves and old glory in a caked puddle beneath. There is still life in a remote, desolate corner of the despondent dark.
My smoky imagination crowds to blind the light. After the revelry of light, my end is here. Right here in this darkness. I belong. Yes me.
I have no gender. No form. I'm just an amoeba of thoughts.I'm stripped off every human demarcation. You don't know my colour because it won't shine into the retina of your definitions.I'm undefinable, just like I always wanted to be. With every drop I create a more potential fire. I break to bring together. I dissolve to reappear. I create and then I disappear. Leaving an aroma of mystery behind, trailing to your nostrils and intoxicating your mind.
I detest permanence, stability. I stand naked, the wax of botheration I have shed.
Nude, immune, ever-changing into the dark I delve deeper and deeper. Un-cast.
Waiting for the rust to desert me for the spark of inspiration.
Into rebirth.
I am creativity.