When you are broken

I don’t know if you're
broken when you can still open

your eyes to your nails and find
skin beneath them, body
stretched like a
sailboat
each bone in place each rib
like a promise your chest still

serving as sailcloth. You’re
home, even if you're obese, even if tired.
you can cry on the floor
in a hotel room and you'll still be obese,
still like hamburgers, still need sleep

and know it. But you have a closet
full of holocaust
victims to return to, a road running into the tummies of
all of Africa, most of the Mediterranean, and losing
its trail in vacuity Mexico isn't an

escape, neither is your house.
Cries of horns, women and
sighs of old men, haggard eyes ricocheting
exhaustion-alarms off your attic, fill the glass
no reason to drink re-fill

the sky, stay up, watch it empty itself
into your lachrymal glands. You stick to music
because you started, because you are
a humming bird with no better

purpose. You know what the postcards
will say and wish you had settled for
blood in the arm they had spared him then

and now you have a
man with a bullet in his back buried
in your backyard as cattle, vegetables
growing on the mound with none but

the dead to feed. When you make up
conversations in your head and save them
up for afternoons to come, hoping
that the earth explodes

before they do. You can’t ask
about your mother or for
photographs of when it was
different, because maybe that equals

never. When you hold his hand
and you're cold when love feels as
stagnating as being convinced, or being

miles from it. The world sets out
to set you free from your peace
of mind, and when you give them
a piece of your mind,

the undoing begins. You let them molest you,
asking to yourself 'will this keep me safe will this

keep me..' and the know-it-betters won’t have
a benchmark answer. You're broken when
you swallow silence every night silence like
a nasty hangover you can’t

shake off. When you have stories
to be thrown up, but no
words are worth a damn, you know
what to do. Break them up,
and become

the puzzle pieces.

this is the HEIGHT of badluck. i get done with a call, which told me how i must be ready for another call which i might be getting in a while and as soon as i hang up, my phone decides to hang, and then dies. you understand dies? its not getting switched on. idunowhathappened i DUNNO BATTERY GELO NA KIHOLO IM TECHRETARDEDANYWAY ARGH.
edit: around 9:15 p.m.
SO i finally got done with something i'd been grumbling about this morning, over here, so here you go:(fullview, PLEASE)

hitch a ride noncolouredrough by ~weevilgirl on deviantART

so far, so good. but what happens NEXT is that the retard suddenly decides to take a paintbrush, AND paint.. AND, yes just as you were thinking.. THAT very picture up there, and puts them together. in the biginning it was sort of a blue waterwashed sky, so pretty pretty in blue itwas. but then there was the only FLUID poster colour left, how could she not rape the picture with THAT? it was black. BLACK, DOODS! BLACK POSTER COLOUR+THE SKY IN THE DRAWING +A PAINTBRUSH + A PAINT ILLITERATE FUCKTARD = DIS-AS(S)-TER.

SEE FOR YOURSELVES( fullview AGAIN, please)

oh YES. now SOME people might find it artistic [ oh yes, such unbelievably sdhgfh people DO exist (do something about my vocab, someone) i'd give you an example, but you wouldnt know the person ], but i'll tell you straight out what it really is.

it is my absolute inability to paint.period.

and i thought i'd -ahem- dedicate the painted shit to shruti and arunima, justlikethat. but after this -hangs head in shame-

and oh this is justan old doodle. reddoodle.

and if this looks scary enough or summin, this is for old PK WHO STOLE THE LOWE OF MY LIFE.

p.s.: my phone, dear friends, is still dead. rejoice!

also, please see last post. CD covers or whatever, tell me if you'll buy a cd with looks anything like that i need to SHOW THAT SHIT TO TEH WOMAN WHO TAKES ASSIGNMENTS :/

i've been away-ish from this place, cause i've started ANOTHER blog, again without any specific reason. runnyfingers. that one, yes. im a sucker for rant blogs, and thats what all of them end up as. so anyway, updates.

summer vacations are on. ISC results are out and are SCARY AS FUCK. i dont wanna be around this planet this time next year. :S

flickr is great.there's this group i found, called CD COVER MEME.

About CD Cover Meme
Always wanted to be in a rock band?Well, here's your chance...sort of. Make your own CD Cover with the following steps and rocket yourself to mulit-platinum status and start fending off the groupies.

1. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Special:Random

The first article title on the page is the name of your band.

2. www.quotationspage.com/random.php3

The last four words of the very last quote is the title of your album.

3. www.flickr.com/explore/interesting/7days/

The third picture, no matter what it is, will be your album cover.

4. ???

5. Profit

so i joined today, and made a cover today itself :D
Source photo:
www.flickr.com/photos/slimjim/2506817180/

itwasfun!

i'd done another cover for my Graphics assignment, which is here:

source photo: taken by me. sneha's camera. my lowely fender. <3

ok so this one's suppossed to be a compilation of guitar pieces by three jazz guitarists, whoever and whoever and whoever. so that.

i havnt done the spine or back cover for either i must imust :P

so thassit for now.

Today

first hit me in the garb of an
early morning fart from
father and shot me out of bed
unawake, snatching at residues of
7 a.m. half dreams.

*

was another hatechain.
i wrote hatepoems inside my head
for someone, a chance break for mother,
(and guess what day it is)
and laughed at his childishness later,
hating myself for smiling about
people i choose to hate.

*

i discovered a bald patch and
wished all todays would do me a
favour and end,
but not yesterdays nor the idea of tommorows
and never
3-years-agos

*

i lied about God and wrote him
a note saying: "Dear God,
i don't think i would've liked you much if
you did exist."

*

i washed the heat off
my nape
and felt my wet hair drip
on my bare back
for a little longer than
a prostitute can
afford an orgasm.

*

i didnt nap for i was
afraid i'd cry
pools in my dream i'd
cry pools i thought silly me.

*

hasn't ended yet

*

i felt like an old man without his grand-daughter
though I'm still a teenager with
a need for brassieres , and have never wanted
a child of my own.

*


i realized that i've grown up a little
due to this city with its share
of madwomen at bus stands,
and lack of starlight or clarity.
making sense was never this easy

*

i didn't fall in love

*

was an empty box of crayons,
or an empty bowl of soup i
sat picking at the insides of, with nothing but digestive tablets
to indulge in, but after a while
i felt some greys crawl under my nails.
its never truely colour, or complete lack of it
greys always crawl in much closer.


*

i wished the sky would unhinge itself and
blow me a kiss or blow a spine into me or just simply
spit, goddammit.

*

i wrote another note
this one said: "Dear God,
i don't think
you would've liked me much if
you existed"
and hoped he cant read
thought-notes in this language.

*

i laughed at myself and refused to admit
that this shell is safer than not-quite-rights, for
a change.

*

i just made up stories or spat out strings of hackneyed
words trying to make up for the
waste it was, and look
this wound up as a waste too

*

is not an end either.

For Bukowski

i ran into you today, after school,
after an hour of embarrassed laughter in my head
about a bra-strap coming undone.
after a tear for humanity, lost after a stream of
blood rising to my brain because im
unimportant after saying to myself that its ok to
hate old people,its ok to
sleep while they leave for
a surgery after having the low down blues after all
this
my surgery, you gave me back
my veins.

and i love you already like a girl loves
a man she's never smelt, just read and felt and
built in her mind for centuries after he was dead anyway, though
she's unaware. like an unlettered girl loves a man she steals poetry
off, knowing it as her own.
im a bugger that way, a burglar, but goodness knows
its only been an hour
lets see how, if at all, this changes
from peach flavoured to wine
.



im sorry i couldnt do any better, but im not getting over him for a lifetime, not for another.

for now

i'd like to get that feeling like you're
talking to me like im
here and its then
when i heard you say
its summer
but cobwebs dont glisten in the sun.

like im stripping naked boys of
their lies and shame and pride with
words no stories nor facts
just words to cut up their silly
rhythm and i'd like some cake
to go with the fuckyous, thank you.

and d'you know i dream of placating
winds of changing directions
of deranged prisoners and i
get that feeling of walking
summers, streets, snow,
dust crawling through the gaps between my toes
pulling out as sheets of phantom mysteries behind my back.
and i dream of me working in the sun,sweating
sweating like they do outside
my windowpane,
like the fluids have an easy outlet
easier than this.


i'd like to get the feeling like you've read me,
fed me, having tasted each morsel before offering me
a sin, but i'd know what's forbidden
but i'd like to forget
though i dont really know anything about this at all.

like ive just glutted on straight lines
that refuse to curve or bend
and get stuck like the swirling
lines of songs i cant remember, coming from
the other end jammed in my throat. glands can be myths
meant to scare, just myths i like to
think up faces staring straight at
reveries i cant fit into.

but you see i dream
of getting the feeling like
i can hear you and feel something
something else anything
at all as long as nothing
doesnt butt in, as long as
i know there are secrets clumped as
cobwebs in my shell
and i can tell you that i'd like it
when the sun dont matter so much.

i dont know where this comes from.

[edit: 00:04, 20th april]
i think i like goodbyes, i think i play hard for them, hard but fair.
subconsciously. we had two, roughly. glances, both, and brief. maybe somewhere a heartbeat sputtered, but its hard to tell, its more of a fake vintage photograph peeling off my brain. textures, always. like a memory not built entirely, too hard to remember, but impossible to scale. i liked your nose and i never got that litttleboy smile i had saved in my head,the one i stole off pictures of you with strangers and mist.maybe you've killed it don't tell me what it is or maybe you've hidden it away in scripts for dreams to be played on some winter midnight don't ever sound like you did then, please. but its not anymore,i think i've seen snatches of who you could be but who pulled em down?
maybe that's what makes pretending easier maybe that's why you need to pretend at all.

..hide a while inside your smile
and it's going to be spring again..

happiness was never this game, but i played hard for a goodbye for maybe ,
I'm just too used to it.
------------------------------------------------------



if you were smoke and music
and two years ago,
those eyes of summer couldn't have
made you fade like the purple of my chamber,
the purple off the walls.

no more my favoured alphabet soup
my swell my beat no only
just six letters and the ceiling sometimes just a floodplain
left when i look away, bare walls of stars smart eyes no more.

peeling candies off the sky, spring seems
long gone but
if we were those two and
one on a branch
if you were more than a draft
i'd wish you into the thick honey evenings
of dreams and sprinkled stardust,
moon at sticky fingertips still
no want of water no wilting moments just
those which settle politely in my lungs and
drip


inhalable and fluid in that lovely way..
if you were smoke and music.

blue, blue nights

.. for im all alone,
ill blow myself a few fullmoons..

photomanipulation, by the me.
stock credits:

girl:http://trixypixie.deviantart.com/art/oui-my-love-80565068

and i dontremember who from i took the stairsandthechurch stcok, forgibhe me. hence, i didnt put it up on dA, i couldnt've credited proper.

and this is a pic taken a fewmonths back i think, the night when the moon was suppossedly closest to teh earth in (insertcorrectnumber) years. a very crappy cam, 1.3 MP if you wanttoknowthetruth. fullview might make it better.

..how lonely are we tonight?
Like mirrors that lie,hidden inside a woman's past.
-The Shayon.


p.s: for those who i havnt already bugged into checking out my dA and flickr account lately, please do so.plisplis :D

Fullview, please.

Egghead.

egghead. by ~weevilgirl on deviantART
because im an egghead and in case you dont get this, you are one too.
collageishthing.

Asima.




ok so the girl thinks you hate her because of her facial asymmetry.no she dont think that's teh reason you hate her, but THAT is the reason for her thinking so. such people exist, yes.she doesnt, but whatever.and they dont let her fly a kite cuz of that. :[

and she's called asima.


and my life does not exist beyond teh virtual realm, and even that is being curtailed now.
terrific, aint it?

and i havnt learnt to say sorry or thank anyone when one deserves it. so what am i to do now?

same new drug

ive been feeding on darkroom images of
the sin i sought,
modest lust and thought.
my eyes memorising a neon-glow jawline,
collar bone and
there are hollows and ridges i climb up and into
in my sleep,no more
than grains of spacebound tears

music scattered around by those eyes
and gaping nostrils
like the forest breeze in spring,
wild yet soft and the tint.
theres always the tint.

but beyond the grainy hue,
a tide of burning red and the witching
hour gives me
more than thirst or thought.


-----------------
this aint nothing, ho. and ok yes i posted, go me. even though more than half of teh people i tagged in my lastpost havnt done their tag. sheh shoot me someone.

and bytheway, this:


is me and the new oink. ive had enough of virtual pigs, now this is the real shit :D