Friday, December 31, 2010

a thousand butterflies

Caught between me and myself. I just want to throw something at the wall, and have someone there to witness it. For really, what is there to restless nights on empty stomachs and empty hearts? A nickel's worth of content is all I seek.

He breathes in her ear, unaware of what this simple act of unconsciousness does to her beating heart. She adores his hair most when he is asleep, the soft brown mess feeling like silk under her cool summer fingers. Mistakes and minutes later, he will apologize, and she will ignore him, but she knows she is already doomed. For her heart has been taken away from her in the dead of a foggy, thunderous night. Not a trace left behind, not a single clue. No ransom was asked for, no karma police contacted. That is the trick, you see. When destiny decides to show up in your life and twist your fate like it was made of ears...well, there's nothing to be done about that. No complaints, no alarms, and no surprises.

Monday, December 27, 2010


When the doctor told us he was dying, we didn't talk about it afterwards. Ever.
I still nestled in his adolescent militarily muscular arms, laughing at his haircut, his uniform, his acne, and the fact that he was mine. I would play with his Rubik's cube, and clean his glasses. We would sit in the sun on the terrace, drinking hot tea for our hot heads. Love was made like it was the last day on Earth.

The only thing that bothered me (and I did not speak to him of this) was how it would stay. All of it, everything all the time. His thick-rimmed glasses, my memory of his skin shining in the sun, the Rubik's cube. I bit my lip, and he would ask me where in the world I was. I didn't have the heart to tell him, I'd rather stay here forever, then move ahead (because forever does not exist, you see).

I'd be falling. Face up, back down, mouth sewn shut. If he left, (which he would), that is how I would feel. I'd be falling till I hit the bottom and escape.

Thursday, December 23, 2010

for hub X/ we knew right from the start.

young love: full of promise, full of hope.
ignorant of reality.

'she must think i'm crazy
i kinda think i like her
i kinda think i do.'

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

modern day Romantic

'We are the music makers
and we are the dreamers of dreams'

We drown our magic in wine that we fetched from the red rivers of our hearts. We run out like children of the forest, barefoot, running to grab the hidden moon. The trees are tall and bare, Mother is silent and resting till she is beautiful again. We dance, to music that keeps our backs straight and our heads fall off, unscrewed. Man invades us with his roads and parks.

Your lips are wet clay under my fingertips, I water them with my tongue, caress them into the shape I want them to be. You hold your elbows close to your body, I button up your sleeves so you don't feel threatened by me. We sit on a sinking sofa, and watch the moon go in and out of Nature.

Monday, December 13, 2010

are you a haiku?

every face that passed,
i thought
was not
but it was.

glow in the dark.

i was swimming in a memory today. colors were polaroid- ish, grainy, everything was simple. I was watching my mother not know how to swim, her yellow dupatta shriveled up, pleated hair in her face. She was gasping for breath in the green water, arms flailing, looking for my father. He was right in front of her though. I think that has always been their problem. They've always flailed their arms around, eyes closes, in search of one another, and they fail to see what is so close to them. In this memory, however, he catches her. She clutches on to his wet wife beater, he is laughing and pushing the hair away from her face. I take a picture.

Sunday, December 05, 2010

Thursday, November 25, 2010

for hub IX/ the blitz/ goodnight elisabeth

I've been noticing a lot of my own self recently. it's not too good. most of it is pretty washed up, pretty rusty. smells old and irreparable. I was very quiet today, very solemn, and dazed. I know I haven't been myself lately. I've been too blissfully happy. It's dangerous to be around people who love you literally just the way you are. Dangerous for me, personally.

Happiness is not a feeling. It's numbness. It's a tranquilizer. Blinds you, shuts down your system. It becomes an every occurrence, like food and laundry, writing on fridges with fading markers. There is no more joy left in happiness when you're happy all the time. Is that a bad thing? does feeling this way make me a bad person? ungrateful and almost selfish, no? don't you think?

my brother is my opposite. he is loving and kind and humble and incredibly wise for his age. maybe too much. and now S is off to school, her ambition making me cower in my own shadow. I noticed today, that I didn't have to say a word. Make my presence felt, contribute to the 'mehfil' in any way. All I did was look from left to right, and back again. I might as well have not been there. It was strange, being so alone in a very crowded house. There was a hollow feeling in my gut, like I was being dropped from high up. I felt sick, and jaded. I made my fingers do different wave motions to the music in my head. They moved very delicately, like a lotus floating downstream, not knowing where it's headed.

maybe this is my quiet plea for help.

Monday, November 15, 2010

Tuesday, November 09, 2010

for hub VIII/ A Story

they had an accidental baby, once.
it was only because she was so recklessly violent with her love, defending and mastering it's every move. she held on to it so tight, and let go just as easily. her manly way of sitting got to him one day, and to God, so they both decided to give her a baby, something she would not be able to let go of. something she'd have to think about, something she couldn't choke with her bare hands because it was inside and not outside.

Friday, October 29, 2010

bell x1

tonight we're the scent of your long black hair
spread out like your breath across my back.

Monday, October 18, 2010

if i don't ask for heaven, something's gonna turn out right.

i asked him to marry me.
the tree branch was swaying in the wind, and out of the corner of my eye, it looked like a shooting star. i was happy. the weather was very pleasant, and i was wearing my 60's skirt. for mid- october, you'd call me lucky. and i am. i didn't get on my knees or anything. i wasn't even wearing socks, so how could i afford a ring? it was like a light bulb turned on my head, like suddenly everything was bright and tangible. i put my pride in a single question, lay it out on the sidewalk among the acorns and freshmen. it made my heart soar.
he was very respectful in his decline. very polite. he used big lawyer words like 'surreptitious' and 'acquiesce'. he talked about our parents, and how sad and insulted they would feel if we went through with it, about the government and our passports, about tax papers. he was very willing, don't get me wrong. just not as...hasty about it. his palate was full with sured-ness. he had a plan. well, i hoped he did. he stopped me, noticing the light leaving my eyes. i looked to my left. two asian girls were running across the street into their building. a man on a balcony talking into his phone. a car with its emergencies on. the police. it made me sad, all of a sudden. very drained, i felt. very hungry, too. here was this moment we were having, perfectly perfect, smoking menthols and talking about movies and the like, enjoying the beautiful crisp fall in orange street lights, and i had gone on and ruined it. i had taken what was ours and made it mine, and was disappointed when he didn't do the same. i looked at the buttons on his coat.
'are you listening?'
'do you know that i love you? do you believe me when i say that and mean it with my whole heart?'

we walked home, hand in hand, tears making everything foggy for me.
oh well. it was a stupid idea anyway.

Thursday, October 07, 2010

Hunter S.Thompson

"We are all alone, born alone, die alone, and -- in spite of True Romance magazines -- we shall all someday look back on our lives and see that, in spite of our company, we were alone the whole way. I do not say lonely -- at least, not all the time -- but essentially, and finally, alone. This is what makes your self-respect so important, and I don't see how you can respect yourself if you must look in the hearts and minds of others for your happiness." 

Wednesday, September 29, 2010


In a fit of love and loneliness (funny how those two are never separate), he had created something for her. The creation repeated itself, like a carousel of memories made in a hurry. It repeated itself till she left, because she herself was always in such a hurry. Whatever he ate, after that, never stayed. The rain did, the cold did, the loneliness did.

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

on call

i know i make it really hard for you to stay, but please don't leave.

'what are you doing?'
'what are you DOING?'
'nothing. i'm doing absolutely nothing'.
'me too. let's do nothing together'.

Monday, September 20, 2010

eyes closed

it'd be nice
to just walk out
and have something happen
so they'd say
crowded around her
what a pretty little thing
she used to be.

be sound/ birthday post.

she said to me, over the phone 
she wanted to see other people 
i thought, "well then, look around, they're everywhere" 
said that she was confused... 
i thought, "darling, join the club" 
24 years old, mid-life crisis 
nowadays hits you when you're young
i hung up, she called back, i hung up again 
the process had already started 
at least it happened quick 
i swear, i died inside that night 
my friend, he called 
i didn't mention a thing 
the last thing he said was, "be sound" 
i contemplated an awful thing, i hate to admit 
i just thought those would be such appropriate last words 
but i'm still here 
and small
so small.. how could this struggle seem so big?
so big...
while the palms in the breeze still blow green 
and the waves in the sea still absolute blue 
but the horror 
every single thing i see is a reminder of her 
never thought i'd curse the day i met her 
and since she's gone and wouldn't hear 
who would care? what good would that do? 
but i'm still here 
so i imagine in a month...or 12 
i'l be somewhere having a drink 
laughing at a stupid joke 
or just another stupid thing 
and i can see myself stopping short 
drifting out of the present 
sucked by the undertow and pulled out deep 
and there i am, standing 
wet grass and white headstones all in rows 
and in the distance there's one, off on its own 
so i stop, kneel 
my new home... 
and i picture a sober awakening, a re-entry into this little bar scene 
sip my drink til the ice hits my lip 
order another round 
and that's it for now 
never been too good at happy endings...

Thursday, September 16, 2010

before sunset.

sometimes artistic relationships, like a painting, have too many clouds in them.

scene - 2 and the music that was english.

my pores burst open, thirsty for contact.
running, feet red with happiness and embarrassment. the glass doors never did work, did they.

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

unfortunate lover

On the phone, she hears the untwisting of a cap. Metal against glass. She hears him gulp; large, even-spaced gulps. The cap is twisted back on, like a sword cutting through air. He sighed. She missed him.

And later, alone, she watches lovers walk like monsters, retreat behind closed doors. She shuts the window she had been swinging out of, resting her forehead on the cool glass. Turns around to painfully finish her now nauseatingly lukewarm green tea. Watches the shadow of the unlit lamp on the locked door. Somewhere, a dress is being unzipped, and she can't help but wonder why it can't be hers.

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

Summer is choking.

I love this confusion that the weather goes through. Like a person, it doesn't know what to be. Whether to let the Sun stand with its chest puffed out or to let Winter sneak in through the holes in your shirt. It is being pulled in different directions for reason unknown to it.

In her dream, she was at a beach, finishing all the cheese in the basket. There was a child playing next to her sand-covered toes. She looked at the man sitting in front of her, seeing him for the first time.
'You need to realize the infiniteness of your soul. The world and its endless possibilities, like this child, are at your feet right now.'
'But what if I choke? What if the world I trespass is different, but I'm the same? I can't deal with being the same'.
'Don't you realize how different you are? Don't you feel the rigidity of your existence? Your energy is in sync with the universe. You musn't deny or fight what has been written about you'.
'I don't trust authors'.
'You don't trust yourself'.

She closed her eyes, and woke up on the other side. The side where possibilities were suicide-like, and summer is choking.

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

-abusive shoes-the real blond-

if you knew someone's body once, does it mean you know it forever? are we then, through the bodies we touch/ want to touch/ end up touching, all connected to each other by the simple sensation of feeling someone else's skin other than your own?
dance the flood away.

Tuesday, August 24, 2010

sexy creative- inspired by Leonard Cohen and Kings of Leon

the room is vast, with lots of floors and lots of clothes. there is a tiny bed, in the corner, and many books to the right. when she comes over, she makes this all work to her advantage. he forgets how it was that he managed to sit still when she was in the room. right now, he was lying on his back, watching her. she was slow, careful and intentional in her moves. Her clothes were lying among the many clothes at the end of the room, everything but her lace gray-colored underpants. she bent over at the edge of the bed, legs straight, to reach for the cigarettes in her bag. She unbends, slowly, legs still straight, she knows she's being watched. She lights the cigarette, walks slowly to the door. her hair giggles on her back, in on her every move. she closes the door, keeps her hand on it, inhales long and hard. lights don't hurt much. plus she needed the time, to make sure he was watching her. he was. she walked over to the tiny bed, starts crawling to him. making her hair dance to the music that she put on. she blows smoke onto his bare chest. he pulls her rope of hair towards him, she doesn't hesitate a single bit. smirks, even. like she had written the script. next line: he knows better than to hang on to the rope, so he lets go. this activity causes her hair tie to ride up her wrist, where it rests comfortably in the divide between her arms. she gets up to open the window. 'to move the mirror, or not?' she asks herself out loud. she decides not to, and starts dancing with it instead. the window is now open, the late evening monsoon wind makes her fly. in this room with many floors and clothes. 'the smoke matches her underwear' he thinks. she dances too close to the window sill, as if she wants to be seen, as if she isn't being seen right now. this causes her hair to knock over the fragile ashtray.
she looks up with her large eyes.
he forgives her, like he has forgiven other women, countless times.

Monday, August 23, 2010

Paris Keychains

In the summer, we walked around a lot. So much so that our jeans tore because we didn't know how to be weary so they'd wear out for us. And afterward, when the sun had or hadn't gone down, we'd lay in bed, and suck each others' genitals despite the wetness of blood and sweat. The nectar of the body was always sweeter in summer, and there was always enough to last us.
Till the next day, at least.

Thursday, August 19, 2010

still learning how to fall

I saw a man today, in the park. His socks were on his hands. And then another man, carrying a bag that stunted his growth. And then another man, made of stone. Then I sat inside an empty bus.

When I told you I loved you, you didn't believe me. Just drank from your guitar and strummed your cup. I was limp in your arms, on the black leather couch with the garish throw. I'm pretty sure someone was watching us and filling our mouths with words they wanted to hear. I was so sure I had gotten through, please God, maybe this time I was lucky, I was honest and hopeful and unabashed in my affectionate ways. I let my feelings chip away like plastic paint that someone uses to cover up a mistake. I thanked the Mother Sea.
But you just needed your guitar and your cup, leaving me to think my hands needed frantic warmth.

Monday, August 16, 2010

burst into beautifulness

I'm watching a bug on my wall. It's quite fascinating because he/she is using it's antennae to look for something, but there's nothing on the wall that it could remotely relate to. I'm thinking about the foreign shore, about the Brazilian sunset in my living room, and how my hands are moving faster than my mind. Every day I think about cutting my hair, donating money to the poor, actually making an effort with people this time, and every day, it's just me and my fan, listening to each others' forced noises.

Friday, August 13, 2010

love. at any cost.

chocolate in the hair, sex and Red Bull on the sofa. you in between.

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

i don't feel elevated. or dug under. or in between.

that is the summer we started doing things. the summer of bulimia and drugs (lots of drugs), of bubbles waiting to be blown, the summer we itched our skins for too long, of classical music. of noticing things. things like lone cups sitting by window sills and white shoes. how our vaginas smelled different because we were wearing each others' clothes all the time. It was the summer when the river was orange in color and loud in thought. it was the summer of taking in, then pushing out. of wanting to be honest, but getting caught up in sacrifices so much that we finally sewed our mouths shut.

Monday, August 02, 2010

beauty is love.

'my anklet keeps getting stuck in the carpet'- she complained to him. struggling.
he was trying to read something in a different language. 'take it off, then'.
'no! how many times do i have to explain this to you? it makes me feel beautiful' - she was indignant.
'like wearing silver bangles reminds me of your mother. even when you don't want to become her'- he smirked through the foreign words.
'no...that's different...'- she was ashamed that she had divulged that information. she was still struggling.
'i don't understand how you can become so attached to a piece of jewelery, who's only trait is to sometimes make a deathly faint sound. A child sleeps louder than that'- he said, still reading.
'speaking of which'- she got up and he watched her go. The baby was pouting in her sleep when she checked up on her. Maybe a stroke of love would help change that. And anyway, she was saving her silver bangles for this one. Unless she turned out like her mother, in which case she'd probably chuck them out or bury them alive.
He was coming in just as she was going out. They bumped into each other, apologized, tried stepping out of the way, but not really getting anywhere.
He kissed her then.
'It amazes me how you get any painting done.'
'nearly all of it ends up on your face'- he said, wiping it off with the back of his hand, kissing her nose.
He goes in while she goes out.

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

by Granfalloon, for you.

a) Show off your honesty(and modesty) by thanking the person who gave you the award and link to their post. [check!]

b) List 10 honest things about yourself. Cheating makes you lame, so just play along, all you taggees.

c) Select 7 other bloggers you think deserve this award and pass it on to them.

d)Notify said bloggers about the award and invite them to be the honest ones next. Ooh, I'm sure they'd love that.

a)thanks........................ =p. hehe, no really, yours was too fun to read, hope i can make mine just as entertaining.


1. I love writing in pencil. In fact, I prefer it to such a degree that I will go out of my way to carry as many pencils in my purse as I can. Especially the squeaky mechanical ones, those are my FAVS. It's sad, but true. Kind of stuck in grade school if you think about it.

2. I'm dyslexic when I'm tired. People have been known to record/write down funny shit I say.

3. I constantly do things to purport my reality as a fantastical thing. I alter my vision or add foreign objects into my body. There are days when I'm stuck in my mind to the point where I start believing a truth I've completely made up. And then it's too much fun to actually come out.

4. I love the smell of skin. It's the most pure way someone can present themselves without even knowing/trying.

5. I'm very wary of animals. The fact that they don't trust me makes me not trust them.

6. I've had a generic stuffed teddy bear since I was born, and I can't actually sleep without him. Unless I'm sleeping with someone. Which means they have to be teddy, and up for long hours of cuddling.

7. I'm super-opinionated, and super-judgmental, but not really. Yeah. Try figuring that one out.

8. Sometimes, there's no point in telling the truth. So I don't. (This happens more frequently than I'd like it to).

9. The only reason I have an ok relationship with my parents is because I've gotten to know them as people.

10. I LOVE CHOCOLATE. I LOVE CHOCOLATE. I LOVE CHOCOLATE. (note: throughout the course of this list, this is probably the only truest of true things about me).

c) ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. ok. french vanilla, pinkgingerale,dreaminglass,mehru,a,z, aaaaaand granfalloon (where it started).

sigh. this is the shittiest thing I've ever written. WOE IS ME, IT IS LATE IN THE NIGHT, MUST SLEEP bye.

Monday, July 26, 2010

Disco Inferno

She stood observing the sign, thinking how outdated it was and whether or not she should push the button. The heat was making her melt, like a snowman or a witch. Her cigarette was seeming difficult to finish. Then a 'blind' man walked past. He was swinging his walking stick, but his sunglasses guarded his eyes. She didn't even see him, like she was blind too.
'How do you do?'
'Just fine, thanks'
'That's good. You take it easy now'
'Thank you, you too'

She goes back to concentrating on the sign. He walks till he's about to disappear behind a corner. He turns around, still walking and says 'You're too pretty to be smoking'.
She is not only blind, but also deaf.

Saturday, July 24, 2010

- Notion

It's hard stopping myself sometimes, when I'm high up. I can't help thinking, well it doesn't take much. Just a leap of faith. It's just easier to play/do things on repeat, you know? I watched her in her hula hoop gloriousness. She had those dents in her lower back, the ones that tell a stranger she enjoys sex. I don't have those dents yet, I also know why. But I remember wanting to be her, her hate, her ignorance, her curly hair. This is not what I bargained for, you know? I don't want a person in my tree, or have to do the whole balcony thing alone. No one lives in or around my apartment, there's no sharing to be done. No Audrey and her half tub sofa. No cat. I should get a cat. I don't like it, don't like it, I've been here before. I sat listening to their song, to our song, to everybody's song. My air freshener is frantic to get rid of evidence. Do I care enough to be coherent anymore? Maybe my happy pills can answer that.
I wonder if you'll care anymore for presents? I think not. She said I should let go. And why did he say everyone loved me? Because he hasn't seen me recently. He had said:
'you're good. be happy. and never forget what you did'.
But that's exactly why I dangle out of my window, to forget.

Friday, July 23, 2010

for hub VII/ Black

My dear. I wish I could be where you ask me to be. I wish things were simple once again, like back then, when I cried for no reason, you know. The trouble is, my darling boy, I've been aching, my heart has been fighting. And I'm tired, you see. So tired, I felt like a man. I sit comfortably above the (sea) city, but I couldn't figure stuff out. I couldn't figure out the position of her arm. And so I miscalculated. Was she moving or just laying? (on top of him). Either way I was mad, I flicked my cigarette heavily. People think she is a hero. I wish I could be a hero, sometimes. I mean, wtf anyway, you know? Maybe when I grow up, I'll know better than to tamper with hearts that aren't mine. Maybe when I'm older some day I'll learn not to let bugs bite me. Because these things are in my control. Things are what they are, but they also become what I want them to be. It's all about skewed perception, dear. I'm sorry I was hard on you by letting you be hard on me. I'm collecting all the people I love to sing me a song.

Sunday, July 18, 2010

- i wish it was half as funny as you think it is

I just sat, in pink underwear that my butt was too big for, staring at the white door with the golden door knob. 'I feel really anxious, nervous, angry'. She laughed heartily at me. Not thinking anything of it. I played along. My hair was plait-less, clothes everywhere. There is stuff that needs to be done, but I have neither the energy nor the interest to do them. 'Talking to you is really draining', he said. I had apologized. He was right.
I was exhausted.

Tuesday, July 13, 2010

- What is Cool now

Of course, there are perfect nails and mismatched towels, printed clothes and beer bottles. Golden curls and real tears in the Sun, the people you think are your friends but want to jump off of rooftops in orange trunks instead. Nothing will ever be the same again. Penny Lane keeps telling you you're home, but you don't even know her real name, so why are you following her? Jimi Hendrix is chilling next to Abe Lincoln (and you write with people in your room), and for all you know, you paid too much for not getting your hands massaged. Let me tell you something, nothing is ever going to stay where you put it. You walk into a room expecting golden girl but you find mop boy instead. You will deny anything you ever said (even if that means still water runs deep), to protect yourself and loved ones who are creeped out by your lifestyle. You will deny your past, but make bonds with the present (in diners where people eavesdrop). You will put a lock on your big heart.
But given a second chance, a third, a sure to at least do yourself right. Today is dead. Yesterday never was. And tomorrow....well, we'll figure that out tomorrow.

Monday, July 05, 2010

for hub VI/ joga

Summer is of colors. Of driving through the countryside at night listening to meaningful music. I don't understand why people complain about the humidity. I love rubbing the moistness between my fingers when I leave the house. On the porch, out of the sun, testing the waters before I jump in. In a car, only the 2 front windows are rolled down. That way, hair blows in the perfect direction. At a 45 degree angle. And the night wind makes me feel like a lark that was born free.

Wednesday, June 23, 2010

she lives far, somewhere. i do not know.

ugh. very much not wanting to slip back into my old skin. but things make me mad. us on the same page shakes me makes me want to break.
i wish you had caught me. like your eyes did. your heart, your soul.
i wish you had caught me.

total life forever

There is a place I've decided to come to. A place not too far from where I live, where the fountain waters try to reach the sky, and sounds of waste in the gutter run free. A distant truck passes. Lightning gleams pink behind the now-departing clouds. No cops, no CCTV, no white lines. Just plain tar and shrubs planted evenly next to each other. No one wants to kill me here. No one wants my fire hydrant personality. I am neither thin, nor curvy. I am private. The wind makes the tips of the water pirouette.
Just as the last of my cigarette is inhaled, as if someone is watching, the fountains are turned off.

Sunday, June 20, 2010


summer nights that smell of baby diapers and burnt bark. contemplating whether to turn the key or not.
the wind in the hair.
the empty feeling of where your hand used to be.
the wind in the hair.

Saturday, June 19, 2010

coffee shop thoughts (on the back of a receipt)

will my daughter remember things I've told her throughout the course of her life, like I've retained what my mother told me?
It's not a bustling evening, just a few people including my father and i. an old couple, a father and his young son, a young man on his laptop. we just wanted to get out, do something cuz we were so bored. i'm in pjs and socks. playing with the silver chain you gave me, sla. This couch is comfortable, my nails are purplish-black. i scrounge for inspiration and father didn't let me bring his camera. 'it's called art, and i shall indulge in it because i can'. he rolls his eyes.
it's sunny.
last year, this time...things were different because it was eons ago.

Thursday, June 17, 2010

an excerpt.

It was hard to picture him. Outside, a man laughed; she could hear the drone of someone's TV. She looked up at the sky, which opened over the motel, an untroubled, improbable pink. She turned on her side, bent her knees, slipped her hands between them. Inside her, a door shut firmly against any thoughts, and she felt a dizzy, empty happiness at being here, nowhere, alone at last.

-For Love, by Sue Miller

Saturday, June 12, 2010

daddy's analysis

'you know how to carry your baggage and get out of the airport, asap'.

Thursday, June 10, 2010

Dear Old Pond

I'm sitting here with 2 silver cameras and an old notebook. They are telling me about your empty waters and about a box that forgot to keep the earrings in itself.

Tuesday, June 08, 2010


the angel sang to a crowd of millions. Only two colors existed in the world that night, white and black, of which she was the former. Her wings were the speakers, and your ears.

Monday, May 31, 2010

pernicious pumpernickel

it was hard to hear the sound of anything but the roaring river, but i managed alright i think. the water was orange and crashing in to everything it touched. good thing i was way up high lying on my back. if i could, i would turn around to look down at it through the cracks of the bridge. but i'm pretty scared of it. especially when it's moving, and i'm a worse swimmer than i let on. i was in a 12 ft pool earlier today, testing my floating methods. i ended up with chlorine in my mouth and my bathing suit falling off. but i guess that doesn't matter.

we talked about mistakes as the moon hid in the clouds, as if it didn't want to get sucked in our crazy existence. we talked about has-beens and will-haves and what to do with the time left in between. we talked about the secrets we keep from ourselves and how to map out the future so we're at least having fun living it. of course this talk is all left behind, on bridges over rivers that were rail tracks 200 years ago. we leave them behind, we always glance back to see what we're leaving behind. not because we're losing it, not because we won't remember it. but if we're back just in time to take it home before the sounds of the river carry it away, crashing in to things.

Saturday, May 29, 2010

a sticky situation

She had nothing against any of these people, for all she knew, she and her friends didn't even really want to be there. All she knew was that time was pretty much up. They knew she was involved, and this black tie event had turned in to a nightmare. People everywhere were either being shuffled out of the great hall or being held for interrogation. But the politician knew who he really wanted to talk to, all this was just a show otherwise she thought as a shiver ran down her spine. She recognized his mustache, and he recognized her solemnity.
They were both uneasy, and unprepared for confrontation.
Those who thought they had something to do with it were trying to run away. But the police would spot the guilty before they even knew they were guilty, and haul them in to a dark room to have them wait on their knees in their best suits and shoes. Her black dress glittered in the little light that was still on. She stared at her friends, who were standing a few feet away, helpless eyes staring back. She stared at her lover, who, for once, would not be able to save her.

It all started a couple of years ago. Everyone had heard of the horrific story that the president's son had been murdered, along with three of his friends, in his own room. The room was rectangular, and had one single bed facing vertically (pretending to be a sofa) and the other on the back wall, opposite the windows, horizontally (pretending to be the other sofa). It was a typical boy's room, pizza crusts, game controllers, wires leading in and out of various musical instruments. The windows were large and never really shut, the curtains were never drawn. And the sun was always outside, hovering among the eucalyptus trees. This one particular day, nothing was out of place. The sun was at an angle so that the shadows of the blinds were making dark lines on the carpet. The boys were smoking, the handsome son reveling in the company of his closest peers. She would glance at him often, his strong jaw, the sound of his laughter. She enjoyed being pulled towards his power and his elegance. God knows he was just an unfortunate son of a powerful father, trying to be simple despite the latter's best efforts. He believed in cliches like everyone else did, world peace, 70's rock, and the fact that the seafront was a magical place to be. She was standing in the space between the windows, her back to the wall, watching them play a really good game of football. The unfortunate son had just missed a goal and everyone was talking over each other. He lay his head momentarily on the vertical bed, in exasperation, when gunshots were heard. He looked up, 'nay, he didn't even have time to look up' (she remembered), before he was dead. She dived to the ground and pushed up against the wall under the windows, covering her face, shielding her eyes from the glass that was raining down. She watched in terrified silence as all four of the boys fell, one by one, in a pool of their own blood seeping into the carpet. The bullets came less frequently now till they stopped altogether. She lay still as the dust and debris made the sunshine seem gray. There was blood on her hands from where she'd been injured from broken glass. Unable to breathe in the dust, she struggled to get on her feet. The bodies strewn across the room were almost unrecognizable. It seemed like bullets had ripped apart every visible fiber of skin. She turned around to look out the window. Four men were standing on the roof of a one story building, three had Kalashnikov, and one was smoking a cigar. They were standing, relaxed, talking, looking content, till one of them glanced over to look at her and alerted the others. She wanted to run, to save her life, but her feet were rooted. All four men stared at her, and she stared back. She waited for the bullets to penetrate her body, for her to be lying on the floor as well. Then miraculously, one by one, the men turned, descended the stairs of the roof, and disappeared. The cigar smoker turned to look at her one last time, his pale suit seeming orange in the evening sun. He itches his mustache, and leaves.

Now, years later, when she had completely changed her life around, they had found her. Now, after she had tried so hard to run away, to forget, by completely altering her social circle and her priorities in life, they had found her. She stood in line now, waiting to see the president. The door opened, and the guard signaled her to go in. She didn't glance back once at her friends, at the immaculate setting, at the world she was leaving once she entered that door. The room was dimly lit, the marble floors were empty except for one big carpet and three chairs, all occupied.
'I guess I'm meant to stand', she said.
'Yes', came the answer. The politician.
'You know why you are here. You know something that is of value to us', another voice spoke. The president's wife. She was looking particularly nice tonight in her maroon dress. She reminds me of my mother.
'We just want to know the truth. You will be allowed to leave', said the president.
She stood still, head bowed, like a child who's being told off.
'What were you doing in his room?'
'What did the men look like?'
'Why did you disappear?'
'What did the men look like?'
'Where were you when we were burying the bodies?'
'Were you a part of this conspiracy?'
'Did you not feel obligated to come forth with information?'
'How much did they pay you?'
'What did the men look like?'
'What did the men look like?'

Silence. The wife is in tears now. The president is wiping sweat away. The politician is looking at her wearily. Her head is still bowed.
She falls to the floor. On her knees in her beautiful black dress. The unfortunate son's laughter is ringing in her ears. She cannot say anything because there is nothing to say anyway.
'We just want to know what the men looked like', the president said calmly.
She meets his gaze, slowly, sadly.
I'm so sorry...
She looks at the politician, wanting to rip off his regal mustache.
He shoots her in the chest.

She is alive when they tie her up and throw her in the sea. She remembers seeing her blood mix with the ocean's water, the sun shouts its goodbye. She knows the unfortunate son is standing at the seafront.

Sunday, May 23, 2010

82 sunday

i am upside down, watching planes fly through my window. they leave easy breezy white-blue trails of dust that the sun seems to swallow without hesitation. i miss a summer of clicking fans and upbeat traffic. where my room is not my own and my clothes are large. time to leave another unknown place, where spanish strawberries do not exist and cracked heels aren't given a second glance.

Wednesday, April 28, 2010


You think about people. You think about their lips, their eyes, their brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers, you think about what they smell like at home. You think about people with strange legs and large shoes and how long its been since you slept in complete peace. You think about how long this thought has been going on. You wonder if this is normal, you muse at how used to you've become to comfort. You smile at how someone has noticed you for your inquisitive nature, noticed you for you. You consider running in inappropriate shoes, wiping things clean with dirty hands. You wonder if you'll ever stop. You dream of retirement in the grass and if distance is the only answer left that you'll ever accept.

Monday, April 26, 2010

sigur ros binge

I remember when we ran so fast, I lost my favorite earring. Just one. A gift to the gutter, a gift to the city. I remember we sat listening to Jeff Buckley, who died too soon, so we'd be too warm under our covers, with his music to placate our raging fires. I could only concentrate on your vampire marks and the feel of your spotty skin under my fingers.

I thought I could beat you. I thought I could talk over you. I thought I could out-sulk you. Everything was a competition. Now, knowing that I've lost, knowing that I'm wrong, humbles me. Even though my performance was lacking, even though I didn't quite make the mark, you didn't care. Not like I would have.

Amma kehti hain:
waqt baadshah,
waqt fakeer.

Wednesday, April 21, 2010


"You have to find somebody who is willing to accept you for who you are and then tell you that that's not good enough. And with their help, you figure out how to be better. And you need to do the same thing for them. But if you're not willing to turn around and say, 'I accept, I demand, and I work,' then you're not willing to be married."

Thursday, April 15, 2010

on the 15th

I understand the need to experiment, I understand competitive feelings and that things don't always work out as we hoped they would, but do you have to be so bitter about it? The sun is out, I don't care any less than I did, and we're clinging to what we're familiar with. The least you can do is smile like you mean it. But if even that is too much for you to do, then you're not worth my time, any more.

Tuesday, April 13, 2010


lover, please
do not fall to your knees
it's not like i believe
in ever-lasting love.

Sunday, April 11, 2010


just give up on yourself already.

Sunday, April 04, 2010

The Game

'When I say 'bullet', you have to pretend like you're holding a metal shield that's protecting you, ok? You know, like a chicken.'
'Like a chicken?'
'Or a cow'

Wednesday, March 31, 2010

endless rain inside a paper cup- fiona apple style

The first time she stole something(a watermelon-flavored lollipop), she hid it in the drawer. The drawer was one of two bedside tables, and it was her everything. It served as a bookshelf, a desk, a safe, a mantle. The versatility of her spirit was thus apparent from an early age. She would sit there, reading, drawing, over and over again. Once, her older sister had a friend over, and while they danced to Ace of Base, she tried her best not to look and laugh, drawing circles that pointed to nowhere. Her sister had asked her to leave, to save them both from embarrassment. And that one dreadful winter, when she was too sick to go out and play in the snow. She stood by her desk in a fuzzy bathrobe, looking out her window on the second floor. Her baby brother caught her attention, and made a snow angel for her in earnest. Couldn't have been more than 5 years old, and he loved her so much.

She picked up habits like they were memory stones (ones that remind you of places you've been) and pretty soon, she was sleeping like her mother and smoking like her daddy. Her fingers scraped crumbly-textured walls as she watched herself do things like drink sour milk and be a lover to people who slept with their backs to her. The future promised floral prints and sinking toe nails into wet, squishy mud.
'I'm not scared of forever'
'And I don't think there is such a thing'
She often overlooked his short-sighted pessimism and logic because she knew happier times were just around the corner. They just had to get there. And she didn't care where she was going or what was going to happen, or if they ever got there in the end at all. As long as he was riding shotgun.

Thursday, March 25, 2010

this taste..all i ever needed, all i ever wanted.

'Quaint little big city', she thought. she was standing at the pavement of a four-way street. she would switch from being perpendicular to the main road to parallel, depending on which way the wind was blowing. she leaned against a pole. leaned off. looked this way, then that. three men stopped, pretending to be lost. 2 crackers and a nigger. they looked at her inquisitively, but she had no answers. 'is she homeless or a hooker?'. her coolly unconcerned face said they'd never be able to tell. 'she has nice hair though'. they exit, stage left. it's cold tonight, and she forgets why she wore shorts. her socks are too small and her pea-coat won't button the right way. oh well.she is listening to relatively 'new' rock in her head, but rock all the same. she looks up, star light, star bright. the clouds are moving at a wild speed. 'always late, those clouds', he had said. he doesn't say anything any more. this time a china man stops. 'she must know where this is'.
but she never has any answers.

what i'll tell them about you


Friday, March 12, 2010

angry rant

my poor city, my poor poor country.
i write this sitting in a London flat, Zone 1, listening to relatively amazing music, as boys do my chores and the weather outside flutters. i scroll down my twitter, a sinking feeling that news of anything that happens in my country has become too old to post by reporters. they're bored, they're confused, they have no idea what to talk about. suicide attack, people dead, same shit, different day. i watch as other news pop up, stuff about...stuff. other things. unconcerned individuals going about their day, like i do for most of the weeks and weekends. i'm biting my lip, i want to be back there, amongst the rubble, in a tattered shalwar kameez, pulling people out from underneath concrete and metal. let the dust collect in my hair, i want to be there. but i know it's never possible. i know i say these things, like so many of us do, yet we watch with horror and humiliation as we let the barbarians do what they do best, again and again. more scrolling on twitter, something about Harry Reid's wife in an accident, says npr. what about the rest of the accidents, you fucking morons? will you stop your tomfoolery so people can get on with having a life and actually being able to live it? is it so easy for you to sleep at night because it's really all about how it's important to save black boys and make sure China gives you the money you need to keep doing what you're doing and not have to worry about stuff like honest foreign policy or anything that Plato or Chomsky spoke about. Like peace, and interdependence, and integrity to the human race. Chuck the UDEC out the 30th floor window, theek? Aur woh kya religious fundos, how the fuck are you letting them get away with this shit, again? Again and again? Unn idiots ko bhi tou samajh nahin aani. Kisi ko bhi kuch nahin samajh aani. maar dalo saron ko, buss. Fuck MAD, just blow everything up.

everyone cries in the kitchen

The red lips stain her cigarette, as the sun makes her smile shine. She waits for the smoke to clear, among the noise of heavy engines, crying babies in plastic prams, electro-pop music. She glances up, the seasons have changed. It was January forever, then it'll be June too soon. Men with shaved chests speaking in foreign tongues. How does God expect her to focus on troubles when the weather makes her want to belt out in song?

Wednesday, March 03, 2010

Gain the Wolf

I let the monsters come out to play, wretched me. I know a problem when I see it, but this is getting out of hand. I'm a lot less depressed than people think I am, but I'm a lot more depressed than I let on. I know it's wrong, but I have a great many sides to me. There's a side that lies to my parents, a side that lies to my friends, a side that lies to my lover, and I of course like to myself all the time. That, to me, is not the problem. To me, the problem comes when all those different sides accidentally bump into each other in crowded places or isolated rooms. And we try to get out of each others' way, but we get anxious and flustered and then the panic comes and we're paralyzed. Regret, sadness, anger, sleep.
Wake up swollen and repeat.
I get cornered, my vocabulary commits suicide, and I lash out. Playing the victim is the best part. Losing all sense of time and place is the next. Being incoherent follows, and wallowing in self-pity closes the show. I pass out often, thankfully I'm always in my room or near a bed when this happens. I sedate myself with the overwhelming feelings I have, preventing me to dream at all. I know that too much has happened when my eyes were open, and if I have to go through it again, this time with my eyes shut, I surely might die simply because of emotional exhaustion.
I mean seriously, what do I do? Just be comfortable with myself? I'm trying really hard to be good after a solid year of being anything but. However, there are some things that I just cannot afford to admit to, even to myself. I remember looking into mirrors from time to time, wanting to smash them, hating my fucking face, wishing it would burn off so I couldn't bat my eyelashes at anyone ever again. I remember not being able to figure out which punishment was greater, a physical one or an emotional one?
Nobody knows the truth, my love. What makes you think you're so special? I'd rather keep you than be honest with you. I'd rather love you than have to hate you. I'd rather see you than any seven wonders of the world. I'd rather compromise my self than compromise you. I'd rather lie in the cold with you than sleep in the warmth alone.

Monday, March 01, 2010

new massive attack

In the sheer regality of the awesomeness of her gloom, England forgets that she sometimes has what are called beautiful days. Today, my irresponsible and tragically jaded self feels particularly delighted at the thought of noisy imagination. It could be the presence of smoke making a temporary but suitable replacement for food in my stomach. It could be because I've been haphazardly put together. It could be because I have a black marker so I can now leave my mark in places I've never actually been. Of course, it could also be the obvious; the sun is out so us flower children can make merry.

Saturday, February 20, 2010

dinosaurs roaming the earth

Ravens dancing in the sky,
I'm the one dancing alone

Dim the lights all around
thinking it'll bring you home

Suffer,sun,suffer but shine
I'll just yawn in your light

'We' as you and me,
'we' as we.

Design the letters
on your page

so they look nothing like
they're supposed to

Double-edged swords,
my compulsive little liar

But love, you're debonair
your love is so debonair

Musicians and their Women

There are a lot of things that happen in magical rooms that will soon be forgotten and eventually lost in the every day hubbub of real life. They involve watching half-naked men turning into pregnant angels then back again. They involve food in dungeons and suspending time for the sake of temporary but much-needed hedonism. They involve half-almost-awake musicians in the night, their rhythms forbidding them the sweet taste of slumber. Tunes must be played, the devil may care. There is the occasional memory of people believing in each other, their hands doing the rest. There is the rushing and interjecting noise of early morning traffic. There is the sun.

But like I said, there are things that happen in magical rooms that will soon be forgotten and eventually lost in the every day hubbub of real life.

Friday, February 19, 2010

i write to your strings

We are naked but happy. I watch notes rise and fall in his eyes. My heart soars. He knows when I am watching him. He plays my song over and over again ( I do not know what it is called, still). Us two lost souls, swimming in a fish bowl. Him a piranha, I forever the goldfish. The music resonates in this tiny room. He sniffles. I die inside. I vow never to tire of this tune, my dreams can lay forgotten, I don't care. The mirror witnesses our ease, mirrors it for me to see. It sends a shiver through my skin. We can hold hands as we hear fireworks create explosions in the sky that are actually in our hearts.

I would very much like to kiss him right now, but I...alas.
Heh. He kisses me instead.

(for mb; i found the paper)

Monday, February 15, 2010

for hub V/ the city

I can see God beating in his jugular.

You never get used to the cold, you know. Or the change. You convince yourself that you've done fantastically, that you've learned a life lesson because you've walked so and so miles and now your socks in your boots are wet. Wet socks mean achievement, you tell yourself. You eat your cigarettes when you're drunk and stumbling on modern cobblestone. You hate sleeping alone on the mattress with the springs poking out in odd places, so you instead listen to shadows shifting their noisy feet on your dead carpet. You wonder how this city is still capable of holding oxygen, whether it's even there or not. You promise yourself you'll go to the park on Albert Terrace every time you pass by on the bus. 'Next time'. 'When the weather's better'.'With someone'. You try to come up with reasons why everything stopped all at once. Is it because you have nothing to say? Is it because you have too much to say? Do you not see the beauty that surrounds you? Don't you want to keep it forever? Well, then, why don't you say something?

Monday, February 08, 2010

Friday, January 29, 2010

friday nights.

maybe we all just need to be alone for a little while.
really alone.

Wednesday, January 27, 2010

camels die too fast

His is the giving sort of love, and mine the taking sort. Match made in heaven? Not so fast.

I refuse to explore. I find him completely mundane and endearingly ordinary. His room smells like he lives in it, the empty wine bottles stuffed with melting candles forced into them like he's some romantic fuck. He sits quietly, watching me retreat into myself, waiting for me to come out. He sits with his hands folded, like the patient man he is. He touches the many folds and layers of skin that wrap me up, trying to get to the chocolate underneath.

He has seen me cry, with shame and without, many times over. After a good movie, after a bad one, after sex, before dinner. He has watched my dark hair fall on my face as I hug my knees. He has watched the wars I fight with myself, he has seen me defeated. He hesitates to tell me stories I want to hear, yet he always knows how to make me laugh.

It makes him nervous when I watch him be. He averts his gaze, raises his eyebrows, distracts himself from these feelings that are entirely his own. He asks me questions, this one. My answer is pretty much always the same:
'I'm just thinking'.

Tuesday, January 26, 2010

fingers and scent

you and i got something
but it's all and then it's nothing
to me.

Monday, January 25, 2010

so here we are

I need to make new love. start off fresh, with organic ingredients and a wooden stove.

I can hear the cigarette burning. I've never let it be so quiet to actually notice that before.

He kissed me, again and again, all over my newly old body. He inhaled and inhaled, like they were about to nail me into a coffin but his nose was large enough to store my scent in forever.

sorry, but my endings have become sloppy, like forced football matches. maybe something exciting will happen in the last 2 minutes of the game?
Only after I leave though.

Sunday, January 24, 2010

what does it feel like to be kissed by patience?

my breathing gets heavy, my hair falls out of place. my skin tingles with fascination that is foreign to my body. my eyes are half-closed, my lips are ready, heart in hand, ready to hand over.

i'm sneaking around this wet city, stealing kisses that were mine a long time ago. This city is not real, and I am living up to its expectations. It has many, albeit bittersweet.

I hate it when you sing, by the way. A writer, distressed in the dark, a musician, struggling with his out-of-key note. both ill-equipped where their voices are concerned.

there is no easy way out of this, and i will never admit to having an escape route till the fire of my flesh dies down.

Sunday, January 17, 2010

just like that

one day i was complaining to a (now ex) friend that i hadn't been writing as frequently as i wanted to. he told me he was glad to hear that. i asked him, why? he said 'because you only write when you're sad'.
many months and lots of blank pages later, i realized he was right.

It happened once, suddenly, in too many small-sized minutes, and large-stepped walking. it was cold, the cake the terrible, but it was a joyous occasion. he told her his preference, but that the choice was ultimately hers. she had the ability to laugh off things, you see, thus stalling time and necessary conversations. it was all about the moment, the short-term laughter, the instantly sleepless nights. cookies and candy. this or that.

he sits alone (not by choice, of course), caressing the spot where she once lay, his guitar making rhythms from his sorrows. he knows not when he'll see her again, that's just how things had been made, but he hopes it's soon. like, in the next 50 seconds. that would be nice. he would have a reason to shave again.

[while each is busy with their selves and then some, she disappears from rooms full of happy people. just like that.]

Saturday, January 16, 2010

wherever i am in the world,
i always just want to get out.

Monday, January 11, 2010


People, people, everywhere
not a face to drink.

Friday, January 08, 2010

this is in no way meant to mean something

writing writing writing, furiously. i was up at 4:30 am, tossed and turned for about an hour. and now it's 7:30 am. In my dreams, I'm running, or doing something, or constantly busy, so when i wake up i'm bone-tired and i think 'what's the fucking point, again?'

My new year's resolution has lasted a total of 7 days.

Wednesday, January 06, 2010

for hub IV/ sorry

found more stuff.
postcards, books, hand-written letters with the ink smudged and seeping into the crevices of the paper. a silver chain, an intricately-carved wooden box. words.
you are capable of feelings that i carry proof of.

Saturday, January 02, 2010

dirty injury

Let the lover be disgraceful, crazy, absentminded. Someone sober will worry about things going badly.

Let the lover be.

Friday, January 01, 2010

New Year's Resolution

As we grow up,
we learn that even the one person that wasn't ever supposed to let you down...
probably will.
You'll have you heart broken
and you'll break others' hearts.
You'll fight with your best friend
or maybe even fall in love with them,
and you'll cry because time is flying by.
So take too many pictures,
laugh too much,
forgive freely,
and love like you've never been hurt.
Life comes with no guarantess,
no time-outs,
no second chances.
You just have to live life to the fullest,
tell someone what they mean to you and tell someone off,
speak out,
dance in the pouring rain,
hold someone's hand,comfort a friend,
fall asleep watching the sun come up,
stay up late,be a flirt, and smile until your face hurts.
Don't be afraid to take chances or fall in love and most of all,
live in the moment.
Because every second you spend angry or upset is a second of happiness you can never get back.

author unknown.