I spent years disgruntled
like a weary Ufologist pitching his
tent in the desert and looking through
a telescope for signs and symbols,
like a first-grader attempting to play Liszt
until time broke me like lightning tears
a telephone pole,
now, aged, with regret caressing my face
with her fingers like the first five syllables
of a depressing haiku,
I realise that I have no other choice
but to board the slow train of recovery,
never knowing where it’ll take me
or who I’ll share the journey with.
I think I’m letting go of the unsettling past
with every tick and tock of the old clock, with each
sweet, precious moment spent with you. I’m holding fast
to rhythms, patterns, and things I’d deemed out of reach;
songs, sequences, and echoes promising much more
than dying haunts — the yellowing grass and spoilt mead.
I hope this lasts, and I don’t walk ennui’s cold shore
again with its monotonous tone and slow speed.
Once everything came crashing down and angst and pain
were all I knew. Uneven planes and eldritch screams
made sure I lost my sanity and peace lay slain
by fate’s hand with all my hopes, purposes, and dreams.
But day by day, time with you has its wonders and proves true
these thoughts that echo that I might just be in love with you.
Photo by Oliver Hihn on Unsplash
She sits on a bench, thinking of him. She suppresses her grief as a mild breeze traces the contours of her face, reminding her of his touch. “I’m not giving in. I’m stronger than this,” she whispers, while the traffic moves on the bridge overhead, the cacophonous roar of engines and horns evoking some memory she thought she’d burnt, until emotion and thinking crescendo and embrace at an apogee of shattered whys, and broken hows. “Please…” she says, and then heaves. “Ple… as… e…” she chokes, and something wild and unmanageable explodes within, turning everything without monochrome while she weeps.
Image © Roger Bultot
I had a blog here in 2013
riddled with quasi-religious
poetry and redundant imagery.
I used the same words and
phrases to convey something
that wasn’t even clear to me.
Chaff, grain, tree, moss —
words I’ve now almost eliminated
from my lexicon, depicting some
throes and triumph, some
vague battle that didn’t make
much sense. I wrote 6 to 7 poems
a day, praising God with broken
Hallelujahs and terrible
doctrine that makes Jordan Peterson
look like a saint. I’d read a quote
by Augustine or Kierkegaard
and prattle on about some
spiritual awakening or enlightenment,
tossing in bits and pieces from
my personal life, which I deemed
a Kafkaesque (another overused word)
hell. I’d write about medication
and changes in moods, lucid dreams
and utter nonsense. Some poems
were dark for the sake of being
dark. Not sorrowed dark,
or chaotic dark,
just dark dark. I’d begin
my rambles with
an O! and end it with a note of
false praise, reckoning myself as
a Psalmist. I’d even throw in a
cheesy love poem now and then.
They were cheap, without substance
and ended with ludicrous lines
like marry me my darling,
or Oh! How I love you!
I cringe each time I think of them
now. They remind me of bad
American Idol auditions where
some poor, deluded guy sings/squeaks
She Bangs out of tune,
and gives Simon,
Paula and Randy the giggles.
She loves, she loves, oh baby, when she
twists and turns, I go crazy ‘cause she
looks like Neruda’s Jewels
(Yeah, I probably
wrote that without considering the
innuendo), but she sings like the sea.
Oh! (Wait, it was O!) Marry me!
I love you! I love you! I love you!
Anyhow, that was then, and this is now,
but sometimes a time machine
of regret carries me to then
and makes it now. *Cringes and
crawls away*
Photo by Thiébaud Faix on Unsplash
I’m listening to No Surprises
by Radiohead and I can
relate to the song, despite
Thom Yorke’s terrible diction
which verges on drawling.
It’s like listening to a
dirge-lullaby or a romantic
funeral song, and I have to
look up the lyrics.
Yes, no alarms and no
surprises, and I mean it,
unlike those Insta-popular,
histrionic, selfie-takers
who champion it, but
love the glory, adulation,
and the 3 Michelin Starred
meal that comes with them.
I’ve led a depressing life,
a lonely, ostracised one,
reading non-fiction books
on Modernism to kill time.
What the hell is wrong with
me? Why should I care
if Hulme believed in human
depravity, or if Eliot wrote
something nobody understands
using myriad characters and
innumerable voices, or if
Pound misinterpreted some
essay on the Chinese alphabet.
They were all anti-democratic,
elitist snobs anyway.
It’s not like I’m writing
a thesis and even if I were,
I’m not going to
sit and read Ulysses.
The only worse fate I can
think of is doing it on
the beatniks, those weird
guys who stared at each other
after they snorted coke or
whatever and aimed at
telepathically connecting
or reaching some otherworldly
realm. Yes, Eric Cartman,
I hate hippies, too.
Anyhow, I’m exhausted
and I’ve reached a stage
where I’ve fallen in love
with my loneliness.
Or have I? I guess it’s okay
as long as I’m euthymic,
without some bizarre train
of thought bursting forth
like lasers fired, urging me
to write, write, write,
or some despondent meh
mood asking me to
give up and yada yada yada.
A constant strumming of
a minor chord, filling me with
ache until I eat,
order a burger and fries
and then pork chops
and then mutton
and then chicken
and you get the drift…
and yes, I’m unapologetically fat.
So yeah, no alarms and no
surprises, and no batshit
weirdness straight from
the pages of Annihilation
or some other Jeff VanderMeer
book. We should replace
Kafkaesque with VanderMeerish.
Don’t you think the former is
dated and redundant?
While we’re at it,
we should also ban the word
petrichor. Ah! The sweet,
pungent smell of the earth
after the rain! How could you
possibly ban such a beautiful
word? Oh, I could
list several words we
should ban. Muse, poetess,
beautiful, dusk and dawn
are a few.
Anyhow, here’s me signing
off. No alarms and no surprises
or whatever the guy’s singing
in a high-pitched, falsetto moan.
I’m exhausted and
want to say more
and not settle for
beautiful with a
😍 emoji, because I
think she’ll think
it’s just another
useless comment
by some guy who
hasn’t read the poem,
who wants followers.
It’s not true, but I can’t
think of anything else.
I’m drained, and I feel
a weltschmerz settling in,
a deep melancholy
evoking brown leaves
and pungent coffee.
I’m wondering if I should
change it to lovely or
wonderful with a ❤️
emoji, but what’s the difference?
I’m so tired that I don’t know
what I type in,
my fingers punching the
keyboard while my mind
reaches a realm of sweet
cakes and tea, which will
turn monstrous in a few
hours. I wake up
and notice that she hasn’t
even liked my comment.
I rush to her poem and
read it. Damn! That was amazing,
it says with 🍆🍑😫👉👌
emojis.
The saints ascend to Elysian realms step by step
while I only dream of chariots of stars,
carrying with me from age to age my pain and scars,
burning with false fire and quasi-pep.
The saints cross sea green silky fields,
having fought the righteous war and won
with their breastplates of redemption and strong shields
while I only dream of salvation’s sun
shinning on me, and releasing me
from chains of bondage and transgression.
The saints stroll into the candescent wondrous city
with resurrected kings, transparent rivers and the tree
of eternal flame. An end to oppression,
while I soak in the pernicious fumes of pity.
Photo by Dameli Zhantas on Unsplash
1
As we passed
the paddy fields
on our way
to the Nilgiris,
their burnt copper leaves
interspersed with sickly green
evoked a sense of belonging
in me. A oneness
with creation and perhaps
even the Creator.
I was listening to John Mayer’s
Slow Dancing in a Burning Room
and I felt such sharp emotion
that I almost teared up.
It was wonder, nostalgia,
pain and delight coursing
through my veins,
sobering me and eliciting
a tender whisper of praise.
2
Now the flame of the forest is a blur… the sun an object like a discarded book… the twilight, something ignored… music, something I hate… the oneness gone… the whisper, a bark… the grass, a carpet that I defile…
3
I don’t want to bestow form or design
On anything or anyone
But this stupid tendency to draw things in a line
4
I could let it all go/ with Slipknot’s rage/ say, fuck this! Fuck that! / use distorted images/ meaning nothing/ dada man with daddy issues/ riding a bicycle with five wheels/ under five moons/ green/ or perhaps steel-purple/ an invented colour?/ a Mona Lisa without a mouth/ the Scream made from whipped cream/ rhyme without meter talking of Long John with his enormous shlong/ Them girls can’t endure it/ So here I am with my third leg/ standing like a cricket wicket/ fuck everything/ the machine with ten headlights and an octopus’ body/ the lamp made of liquid nitrogen/ the people darting towards winged horses/ the cavemen with their smart phones/ a simulation of sex/ isn’t that enough? / a ten headed sphinx with the nose of a raccoon/ a hillbilly wearing a three-piece suit and eating coon/
5
I don’t want to bestow form or design
On anything or anyone
So help me not draw everything in lines
(That doesn’t even bloody rhyme!)
6
One day, I hope I’ll sort my shit out and find peace. I’m not talking of mystical euphoria that sages herald, but mere contentment, or inner opulence (if you’ll permit me to use a figurative term). I’ve spent almost eleven years of my life medicated, trying everything to stay stable, from Lithium to a cocktail of other drugs to Christianity to prayer without faith to therapy to exercise to eating comfort food. But all I hear are auguries of annihilation, screamed from each corner, rooftop and crevice. Mangy, starved mongrels and a hopeless busker hitting clinker after clinker riddle every path I take. I think I’m burdened with Sisyphus’ curse, rolling poems (in my case) on a hill of indifference, the weight of them pushing me down whenever I try rising. Nothing invigorates me anymore. Nature’s something that exists for the sake of it, and cities and skyscrapers seem like gaudy simulacrums of New Jerusalem. Even love that I held in esteem is now a fleeting emotion. A transient feeling of giddiness that disappears as soon as it arrives, like the Yeti in the Himalayas. Perhaps it’s puppy love, that’s all. Lust which galvanised me with Freudian jazz, making me write odes to breasts and masturbation has evaporated too, become a silent symphony some avant-garde, mad musician composes and calls art. The women indeed come and go, talking of Michelangelo, but I wish they’d stop. But even if they were to shed that veneer of sophistication and speak to me, I don’t think I’d respond, because I don’t feel real anymore.
Photo by Gerson Repreza on Unsplash
I’ve watched chiropractor videos on YouTube, where the practitioner yanks the neck of the patient using a Y-strap and calls it spinal decompression or something else. Did you feel it all the way down? He asks, and the patient responds with a euphoric grunt, a throaty hallelujah symbolising release from years of pain. He groans and moans like he’s having a rough orgasm, breathes sharply, and replies, Yes, sir! I did. I’ve always wondered whether the entire business of cracking joints and twisting necks is dangerous—something a surgeon would condemn, saying with a heightened sigh or a high C# of concern, That could lead to paralysis! But I realised chiropractors are tame creatures like little floppy-eared bunnies, compared to Indian barbers. One cannot articulate the Indian barber’s massage with its neck, skin, jaw, eye, nose, and pelvic cracking. You must view it in all its grotesqueness, replete with the barber’s demon-possessed histrionics to understand it (if we can fathom it). It’s a rhythmic dance performed by two pockmarked faced, moustached dandies akin to some shamanistic ritual. The unsuspecting victim sits on a steel chair while these men with mean grins enact a macabre rite of disturbing hair pulling, kicking, arm raising, lower-back distorting, and implement using to ‘relax him.’ The poor, shirtless fellow soon finds himself with a reddened back and a chest with palm marks on it like the recipient of an ultra-hardcore BDSM pounding. He mewls and grunts while the barber-shamans slather an ugly, yellow oil all over him, mock him and beat him with sticks and other ‘massage accessories.’ The whole affair looks like a weird caricature of a soft horror movie (if such a thing exists) or the weird parodying itself in some meta way that makes the video game High on Life seem basic. The strangest part of it is that it’s tagged as ASMR and actually relaxes you, slowly hypnotising you with its armpit cracking, knee jerking, and eyebrow pulling. Perhaps the mildly grotesque on repeat has this effect of giving someone a brain massage. Now I’m not referring to gore or butchering. If that sort of thing relaxes you, then you should move out of your grandmother’s damp basement with its rusty tables, chainsaw, and cobwebbed refrigerator. I’m referring to a simulacrum of the grotesque, or better yet, a repetitive parody of the absurd or a post-Kafkaesque, self-aware, ironic retelling of the weird on repeat. A sequence of cracks and hair ruffling, strange sounds and weird expressions, putting you in a trance, slowly pushing you off insomnia’s cliff, and making you plunge into a deep sleep.
Photo by Benjamin Sow on Unsplash
Today, you sit on your laptop, writing an insightful comment, and it’s as if we’re sitting across the table, the words exchanged, the beer, and the emoticons, the peanuts. It’s surreal and frightening. Surreal because you’ll carry with you some idea of me that will shape your next comment. Frightening because that idea isn’t real. We’ve never met, and yet we converse like old friends, chatting amicably about culture and the political zeitgeist. What’s terrifying is that if we were to meet, I’ll carry traces of a pseudo-you from the comments section, and you’ll carry a notion of me, a judgement based on my writing and we’ll either be pleasantly or unpleasantly surprised by how different we are from our concepts of each other. It’s better we don’t meet. Perhaps that’s the introverted, aloof, smoking-alone-on-the-balcony, introspective part of me talking. A nuanced creature with a plethora of opinions he enjoys keeping to himself. Isn’t it alarming that our notions of what’s real are disintegrating each day with the latest app or software or piece of technology? Once, when the internet was in its nascent stage, mewling in its birth pangs, we emailed each other, and went on with our lives, our concept of what’s real, as solid as the pillars Samson pulled down. Now, the phone is an extension of the arm, the AirPod, an extension of the ear, and the screen, an extension of the eyes. Tradition, latitude, longitude, and perspectives have all coalesced into a murky mass, and we’re united, but still independent. The human being has become a product for consumption, an object bought with likes, comments and followers. What is real anymore? With the metaverse and NFTs, concerts are no longer events reeking of stale cigarettes, alcohol, sweat and bravado; they’re digital facsimiles with avatars holding vodka glasses, bobbing up and down to a Nephilim-sized incarnation of a rap musician who rotates. What’s worse is that they happen in virtual lands that cost millions. What is happening to us? I could write a dystopian lament about uploading our consciousnesses, or a parody of the present, but I doubt it would express what I feel clearly. And what do I feel? I don’t know. Maybe I’m excited, bored, energetic, jaded, happy, and miserable at the same time. Coming back to you, each time I punch the keys of my laptop, I’m worried someone will form a direct link between me and what I write. A straight line that no amount of erasing can make disappear. You are your art, he’ll say with the conviction of a religious fanatic proselyting because he believes he must. Not you, dear insightful commenter, but someone else with too much time on his hands, hypersensitive because the cyberspace has eclipsed his apartment, anxious because the coke bottle, the PS5, the poems he writes, the ideas he comes up with, the nonsense on YouTube or TikTok, the political wars on Twitter, the pop-psychology about narcissism and empathy that’s thrown around everywhere, the madness that plagues him all press on him like the hairy arms of an incubus, crushing his ego and fracturing his identity, until he uses his only defence mechanisms — nitpicking and deflection.
Just a Writer 
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