Saturday, December 6, 2008
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
One of the people i wish i knew better
..just went and killed himself.
Him: Hey mate i need a big favour from you. i need you to search wikipedia for a list of psychoactive herbs and plants, right now. I know this is probably the worst way to begin a phone correspondence but i'll make it up to you someday. I dont know how, but i promise i will.
how'd you plan on doing that now, eh?
i dont know, mate.i could really use some help in maths right about now, yknow.and some weed, ganja baba, you. and our fathers happen to be colleagues too, cool eh? too bad i found out a lil too late.
Him: Hey mate i need a big favour from you. i need you to search wikipedia for a list of psychoactive herbs and plants, right now. I know this is probably the worst way to begin a phone correspondence but i'll make it up to you someday. I dont know how, but i promise i will.
how'd you plan on doing that now, eh?
i dont know, mate.i could really use some help in maths right about now, yknow.and some weed, ganja baba, you. and our fathers happen to be colleagues too, cool eh? too bad i found out a lil too late.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
To The People I Wish I Knew
Meet me at the outfall. Meet me near public toilets.
Meet me at the park hotel washroom,
barge in and say hello. Say- hello, I’m
not supposed to be here; and you'll be forgiven.
Say- hey! You look ugly but just a little and
that’s forgiven. You’re a fucked up kid even when you
smile at me and that’s forgiven. You eat up a piece of your day
everyday, do you want that forgiven? Ask me. Say,
Hello! What were you thinking? The river always outfaces the ocean
right before emptying itself into the latter, and the river is never a rapist, not even
when it rushes- Meet me at the outfall as a river and be swift. Break
my stance on love affairs. To all the people that I’ve seen listening to
their music with a smile, listening to their mother with a smile, looking at
the world with a smile, looking their feet with
a smile looking at their feet whistling JESUS F. CHRIST DON’T WHISTLE.
Don’t whistle at the FEET- it makes ME feel worthless, and THAT is
the red ribbon you cut at the entrance. Walk in, draw a chair, draw a
breath and inhale my delusions of you. Bit by bit- not all at once like a
shocking fall in the stock market, or the hair-fall issues making me bald
and insecure, all at once. When you exhale, help me write a gist
of the mist that is your sadness, your pride, your disease. Make me sigh
and let it not return to me.
Today, I started writing you a poem and it read:
I wish you knew me and vice versa.
I wish you knew me and vice versa.
I wish you knew me and vice versa,
vice versa vice versa.
Today, I looked up the rules of writing to you-
spell out only synonyms of love, misspell them.
Never say fuck. Say 'this is not important',
mislead them. Work out your puzzles before
laying them out for others. Never make yourself the
subject, use vice versa vice versa
vice versa. And I swim through the dictionary looking
for words that don’t remind me of you. But I get
topsail, and I am Ship with mine pointing in your
direction. I get Macadamia, the nut of an Australian
tree that one of you is swallowing as I try
excreting your face out of my brain. I get quadriplegia
and I’ve already let it grow into me, settle in cozily,
helplessness et al. None of my other inconsistencies help me
get over this shizz so I give up trying to cover up, and
tell myself- well, this too is forgiven. Today, I hope to catch you
at that pathetic little corner of the street staring at
the madwoman like I do when my sighs return
to me. To you with eyes like anecdotes and antidotes
to reality, with the trench across your cheek changing
depth as you speak- meet me without your armors. Meet
me with your kitschy secrets. With your collarbones bare,
your shoulders just the way they are. Meet me near
the ruins and sit by me, wondering where we were
when it happened.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
girl drawing
because i have exams and because i must study and not while away my time, its exactly what ve been doing (whiling away my time).
although i was an impatient little monkey- i just left out the hair and other bits incomplete
photoshopped:
i also, dear peopleses, drew after the post-emptyfirsthalfofday nap. i drew my first face with a reference and i realised that i REALLY cannot shade lips.
:(although i was an impatient little monkey- i just left out the hair and other bits incomplete
(Edit: i reuploaded the sketch, the hair has been roughly sketched). but then i coloured or as i would call it, fucked it up totally, in photoshop. so well.
the sketch: (edit)
photoshopped:
closeup:
(EDIT) photoshopped 2: 
now the thing is, i took the reference from this DEV ID of a deviant on dA, even though she had 92376497498237492798 stock photos in her gallery. and im not very sure if THAT was..er.. allowed :P so i just wont post it there for the time being.
oh be nice and say hello lurkers.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Sunday, November 9, 2008
i dreamt of you dying.they told me
love is dead so
i must bury you with it before you
metamorphose into ashes and nothing more, nothing
more.im picking words for love like you pick flowers
for the dead and and this is not my poem. if this is an almost madeup
poem, its not mine at all. this
is a postcard of bereavment to myself and each phrase is borrowed
like this sorrow i carry as my only child.
*
my skin feels like an essay on the Thar, palms like a madman's
prayer, limbs askew from the hunting of leeches,eyes swollen in
wait like the girls in my incomplete drawings,
incomplete because i fear if i carry on, they'll end up with a pool
before them and desert skin from too much semblance
to crazy, lonely postcard writers.my head feels like a snowball
and there seems to be a cardiac pause
whenever im trying to turn the commas in my heart into
semicolons- so that we are closely related independent
clauses and you can walk away but i'd still
mean something, though it never works
without the promise of a longer pause.
*
when i hear them saying Time makes love pass,
Time is nothing but sinister. but then they tell me
Time heals all wounds, and i try saying them together
and it only means wounds give you a reason to
return.
*
sometimes im shit scared of not getting
life's metaphors like the wind blowing sorrow
into my hair,sorrow thick and wild, failing to
get my heart back home.sometimes im shit
scared of what my mother might say next
and as she enters the room, she tells me that
it smells like
something just died.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
its just writing. seriously.
love is dead so
i must bury you with it before you
metamorphose into ashes and nothing more, nothing
more.im picking words for love like you pick flowers
for the dead and and this is not my poem. if this is an almost madeup
poem, its not mine at all. this
is a postcard of bereavment to myself and each phrase is borrowed
like this sorrow i carry as my only child.
*
my skin feels like an essay on the Thar, palms like a madman's
prayer, limbs askew from the hunting of leeches,eyes swollen in
wait like the girls in my incomplete drawings,
incomplete because i fear if i carry on, they'll end up with a pool
before them and desert skin from too much semblance
to crazy, lonely postcard writers.my head feels like a snowball
and there seems to be a cardiac pause
whenever im trying to turn the commas in my heart into
semicolons- so that we are closely related independent
clauses and you can walk away but i'd still
mean something, though it never works
without the promise of a longer pause.
*
when i hear them saying Time makes love pass,
Time is nothing but sinister. but then they tell me
Time heals all wounds, and i try saying them together
and it only means wounds give you a reason to
return.
*
sometimes im shit scared of not getting
life's metaphors like the wind blowing sorrow
into my hair,sorrow thick and wild, failing to
get my heart back home.sometimes im shit
scared of what my mother might say next
and as she enters the room, she tells me that
it smells like
something just died.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
its just writing. seriously.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
An Almost Made Up Poem
by Charles Bukowski
I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny
blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
they are small, and the fountain is in France
where you wrote me that last letter and
I answered and never heard from you again.
you used to write insane poems about
ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you
knew famous artists and most of them
were your lovers, and I wrote back, it’ all right,
go ahead, enter their lives, I’ not jealous
because we’ never met. we got close once in
New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never
touched. so you went with the famous and wrote
about the famous, and, of course, what you found out
is that the famous are worried about
their fame –– not the beautiful young girl in bed
with them, who gives them that, and then awakens
in the morning to write upper case poems about
ANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they’ told
us, but listening to you I wasn’ sure. maybe
it was the upper case. you were one of the
best female poets and I told the publishers,
editors, “ her, print her, she’ mad but she’
magic. there’ no lie in her fire.” I loved you
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,
but that didn’ happen. your letters got sadder.
your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all
lovers betray. it didn’ help. you said
you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and
the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying
bench every night and wept for the lovers who had
hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never
heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide
3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met you
I would probably have been unfair to you or you
to me. it was best like this.
----
just one of those poems that made me fall in love with bukowski, and now
something about it angers me, something about it makes me break into a hundred interrupted sobs inside my head, something about it tells me, i wish i was made up, just all made up.
i have exams from monday, maths first.
all you lovely people, enjoy my funeral, do.
I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny
blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
they are small, and the fountain is in France
where you wrote me that last letter and
I answered and never heard from you again.
you used to write insane poems about
ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you
knew famous artists and most of them
were your lovers, and I wrote back, it’ all right,
go ahead, enter their lives, I’ not jealous
because we’ never met. we got close once in
New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never
touched. so you went with the famous and wrote
about the famous, and, of course, what you found out
is that the famous are worried about
their fame –– not the beautiful young girl in bed
with them, who gives them that, and then awakens
in the morning to write upper case poems about
ANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they’ told
us, but listening to you I wasn’ sure. maybe
it was the upper case. you were one of the
best female poets and I told the publishers,
editors, “ her, print her, she’ mad but she’
magic. there’ no lie in her fire.” I loved you
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,
but that didn’ happen. your letters got sadder.
your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all
lovers betray. it didn’ help. you said
you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and
the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying
bench every night and wept for the lovers who had
hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never
heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide
3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met you
I would probably have been unfair to you or you
to me. it was best like this.
----
just one of those poems that made me fall in love with bukowski, and now
something about it angers me, something about it makes me break into a hundred interrupted sobs inside my head, something about it tells me, i wish i was made up, just all made up.
i have exams from monday, maths first.
all you lovely people, enjoy my funeral, do.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
addenshun plis
is anyone i know/or simply anyone reading this going for the Jethro Tull concert (Kolkata) and by any chance have tickets for the 3rd row? hell im desperate for company dont even ASK me why :/
Friday, October 31, 2008
happenings.
THIS FESTIVE SEASON YOU COULD'VE CAUGHT ME AS HAPPY AS A CLAM AT HIGH WATERS but atlas, no one bothered to come around and catch, leaving me to fall into the deepest reaches of the sunless ocean of PUS. given the condition i'm in, pretending to be seemly is the last thing on my mind right now so yeah, go ahead and exclaim how gross i am.
my ear feels like its chewing on a mountain and is nowhere near digesting the mound or throwing it up anytime soon. yes, I've had a boil, a poisonboilthatblockedtheauditorycanalnearly, and now that the pain is receeding (as is the FESTIVALOFNOISEMANIA), its beginning to sound like a paper churner, my ear. the past week has been eventful in the way that i broke the TV remote (frustration depression aggression oohyeah ) and my cellphone survived what the remote couldn't (heh, i suppose the dart across the room just made up for its lackofuse), and also, the fact that my father has successfully killed the PC. i did manage to get internet installed on the laptop again, but its not helping that i cant work with the pictures and photoshop and whatnot, so i have hardly any distraction from my noisy-ear.
earlier this week, i changed my orkut dp twice. hell the first one was THE sax, I'm told. ONLY because i appeared with sneha's camera in it. :/
something just made me lose the drive to type more.
my ear feels like its chewing on a mountain and is nowhere near digesting the mound or throwing it up anytime soon. yes, I've had a boil, a poisonboilthatblockedtheauditorycanalnearly, and now that the pain is receeding (as is the FESTIVALOFNOISEMANIA), its beginning to sound like a paper churner, my ear. the past week has been eventful in the way that i broke the TV remote (frustration depression aggression oohyeah ) and my cellphone survived what the remote couldn't (heh, i suppose the dart across the room just made up for its lackofuse), and also, the fact that my father has successfully killed the PC. i did manage to get internet installed on the laptop again, but its not helping that i cant work with the pictures and photoshop and whatnot, so i have hardly any distraction from my noisy-ear.
earlier this week, i changed my orkut dp twice. hell the first one was THE sax, I'm told. ONLY because i appeared with sneha's camera in it. :/
something just made me lose the drive to type more.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Did you spend a night? by ~weevilgirl on deviantART
done as an illustration for a friend Debanjan's poem. read it here.
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