The City That Forgot To Paint The Sun

Gemeinsam werden wir das Ende der Welt

2009-03-28T01:52:00.001+05:00

“What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the master calls a butterfly.”
Richard Bach (American Writer, author of 'Jonathan Livingston Seagull', b.1936)

And he built it, and left on a rocket, to watch it from above - just to watch the people burn it down to the ground.

With patience, he watched; watched it all fade away. It burnt; piece by piece, portion by portion. In his eyes - sorrow; but, his heart content

With his needle, he pricked at the heart of the sun.

And he found not pain, but, a hollow stud

The stars moved into the black. Past the purple haze.

And pulled him along. To see the other end

And then, he saw. The wavelength of existence.

It left him in awe. The complexity of it; yet, the simplicity. Could it be? Dumbfounded, and confused. He asked the question, "How?"

Intricate. Beautiful. Laced with passion. A toxic yearning for love.

And so, he deliberated; considered it carefully. Could it be? Is it true? But, of course! The elements that make up Existence.

In front of his beady forehead, the map of existence. The strings of life. The stories of Beyond. The answers to "what was before?"

With his fingers, he traced what he could not see. It was all too much; too abrupt, too late. He tried to get it back. Screamed in vain. Banged on the invisible doors, and pulled, at the intangible bars, that imprisoned him.

And before his eyes, there started to spin a white. An all surrounding white.
Right. Left. Above. Below.

It embraced him. Took him under, and numbed his pain. All was peaceful now. With this white drug, he could be brave.

He dives into the white. White.

The white takes over. Memories white-washed. Erased. All is white. AllisWhite.

He transforms.

The white becomes a part of him. Does he lose his sanity? Or has he finally gained it?

He is no longer he. Free of the demarcations of worldy thought.
Free from fleshy constrictions

He is not bound by any limitations; no more. He is free from his weak mortal body.

Going. Going. Going. Going. Gone.

It is beautiful.

---
Scooby & Flappy

Far Beyond Forever

2009-01-07T00:48:00.002+05:00

Hello, friend. Lovely friend.

Let me touch - skin, smooth. Tickle - senses fail.

Watch me, friend, from the tower of your gunship.

Travel the skies, friend. Inhale the clouds of our youth. Leap off.

Static. I feel. So good. Nice. To know you.

Crescendo.

Thank You, Space Expert

2008-12-16T21:15:00.002+05:00

Liar.

It's what I want to write on my forehead, with a bold black marker.

Bastard.

It's already written there, in some invisible ink, drawn from the blood of a dying marcupial.

Dog.

It's what people should see.

Innocent.

It's what people see.

Deception.

It's my functioning.

Manipulation.

It's how I choose to use it.

Language.

It's what I manipulate.

Emotion.

It's what's manipulated.

Need.

It's what I fulfill.

Heart.

It's what I break.

Hopeless.

It's what I agree to being.

Hope-giving.

It's what I surprisingly am.

Cornflake Wings

2008-12-03T23:19:00.006+05:00

Wish me farewell, child of the moon.

Sprinkle on my hands your father's dust.

Watch me float in every direction, like some sedated cougar.

We are a newborn race - revolving around blueberry pancakes,

And if I were the fire, I'd be called a fool in the rain.

Let me write out your world in binary.

Let me mistype a 0 instead of a 1, and watch it mutate into something beautiful.

May I transform your dystopia into my redlight district?

Join hands with I, and discover the wavelength of love.

iIi

2008-11-24T21:12:00.000+05:00

Titles. Labels. Names. Slut. Bitch. Whore.
You know where I encounter these?

In the car. On the street. EVERYWHERE.

"Look at her, with her tight pants, plunging neck-line, and back-showing top - she must be a *insert derogatory female word here*."

She must be. Of course. How can she not be? Why, even if the universe were to implode, and become cellestial nothing, she would still be it. She would still be what you "know" she is.

An incogurent splatter on the female chormosome. Decency transmutated into lust, glutton, & passion.

A banana with purple seeds. A pink apple. A coloured shadow.

Do you know me? Do I know you? Do you know I? Do I know I?

See me on the street, and you'll brand me a slut. I know it. Why? The sensual scent of my hair? The feminity of my physical appearance? The milky colour of my skin? The hourglass?

I know it.

Give me a title. I'm dying for it. After all, we all have our place in the world. Give me mine now! NOW!

My title! I want it. I like it. Whatever it is. It surrounds me like a warm orange glow. It looks over me when I sleep at night.

I'll just go back to sleep. Sleep. Into my inner world.
Inner sanctum? No. Too cheesy.

No. My inner world. Controlled by the miles of micoscopic threads running inside me.

I like it.

I Forgot To Title This

2008-11-19T22:09:00.001+05:00

Take a stone. Any stone. Round. Red. Sharp. Brown. White. Sandy.
Add into its existence an irradiated molecule of human emotion.
Watch the nucleus melt into the stone, like some gluttonous queen being sucked into the depth of a hundred mattress bed, by her organic companions.
Neon blue pulses I see. Do you see? I see.
Snaking into the core.
Neon blue pulses I see. Around a globe of yellow.
Or is it some far away neighbour of orange.
War, I see.
Neon blue. Orange. Yellow. Blue. Yellow. Yellow. Orange. Pink. Blue. Blue. Blue.
Watch the stone.
Does it move when you look into its eyes?
Does it jolt when you touch it?
Do you see tears when you scream at it?

Take a stone. Add into its existence an irradiated molecule of human emotion. Watch it become I.

TOTD #1

2008-07-11T13:45:00.004+06:00

How many musicians does it take to screw a lightbulb?

1 to do it, and 7 to say they can do it better.

Freud said,“...The ego is that part of the id which has been modified by the direct influence of the external world ... The ego represents what may be called reason and common sense, in contrast to the id, which contains the passions ... in its relation to the id it is like a man on horseback, who has to hold in check the superior strength of the horse; with this difference, that the rider tries to do so with his own strength, while the ego uses borrowed forces [Freud, The Ego and the Id (1923)]”

In modern-day society, ego has many meanings. It could mean one’s self-esteem; an inflated sense of self-worth; or, in philosophical terms, one’s self.

Enough of the psychology lesson, on with the actual meaning of the post.

Those of you, who have had the opportunity to mingle with musicians, will have noticed on phenomenon common to most. Their behemoth, and leviathan -like ego. Each musicians tries to bash, and out-do, the other (who plays the same instrument as them) with relentless energy. I, myself, not so long ago, was one of these. Whenever I heard my friends talk about X's guitar playing, or Y's fluidity, I would feel a violent eruption inside me, and spit out venom-filled lines, such as, "That wanker has no idea what he's doing!" or, "Please, I could beat him, and beat my meat at the same time!"

However, with the never-pausing progression of time, I realized how flawed my ways were. Some of the players, most of whom I still don't share common ground on music with, after conversing, showed a unique sense of music, which helped me grow musically. That's when I accepted my position as a musician, and reality struck. Although I threw their asses into the pit with knowledge of music theory, and techniques, there was a reason these people had more mass-appeal than myself. Experience. While I had it all in my head, these people had done it practically. Whether they possessed the same knowledge as myself, or had just grown aurally, I don't know. They were better than me, and I had to accept it. The more the denied the facts, like a stringy little nihil, the more I was deceiving myself.

Upon acceptance, I felt an increased dedication to the art, and practiced harder. Became better.

I believe that, one of the reasons for the musician's ego is the subconscious, or sometimes conscious, belief that no one has put as much dedication, time, sweat, tears, and energy into their art as you. This distorts one's understanding of oneself's actual ability, and there you go, your head in the skies. Believe me, some of the top musicians of the world, who seem to be at eternal One with their instrument, and seem to possess a natural ability for it, have been quoted to practice "25 hours a day"=P.

So, tell me, what are your 4-5 practice segments in front of that.

The reason for the existence of such people, in my opinion, is to minimize the musician's ego, wrap it up, and ship it off to Deadegoland.

Just because you've reached a certain pinnacle of playing doesn't mean that you go around boasting, like a pretencious little prick. Do you want someone to melt your face infront of hundreds of people? No. If you're good, good! People will realize it on their own. If you go around little a little, pricky fairy, "So, can anyone of you play in G# minor, modulate to the Locrian, and use the plagal cadence to end the piece?"

Yes. Someone can. And he/she will throw you on your ass.

To sum up, enjoy music, respect other musicians, and see how they'll respect you back. It is a nice feeling. It really is. =P

Polar Warning

2008-07-08T22:02:00.011+06:00

Misty mist.
Grey eyes from century-old funeral portraits.
Left to rot & reek, in the corner of some dead cobblestone house.
Gripping firmly a radioactive nucleus of passion, and lust,
Trotting away on a mighty steed, towards a lost kingdom of fantasy.
A heart stained with year old November rain, and skin gently paling into the last, fading call for nevermore.
Comfort me, lurking shadows of fallen knights.
I wait in bleak anguish.
Lest you choose to abandon - leave behind your ruby eyed friend.
Scare not the girl child cowering under the tree of poison apples.

''Man is free at the instant he wants to be. ''
-Voltaire [Source Brutus, act II, scene I (1730)]

The sky - blue, grey, black, as it pleases - is mankind's greatest deceiver, for it is not what we take it as. The sky is an ever-revolving carpet wrapped around this spherical mass of water, and land we call Earth. The stars we see are molecular holes in the Carpet, hinting at what lies beyond the Carpet. But Beyond is a fiesty little bastard. It hides under the rocks of Deception, until Curiosity bores itself to an untimely, yet predictable, death.

The Circle [Part I] - The Khabba Chronicles

2008-03-18T23:34:00.005+05:00

Aik thee larki, us ka naam tha Khabba,
Pyar sai loog usai pukartai thai Bubba.
Dil kee thee to ache,
Lekin batoon ke kachi.
Hansti thee martai kutai kee tarhan,
Aur poochti thee, 'Oi, tu kithay mara parhan?!'

Khabba khate chaaklate,
Aur poochti, 'Oi, have I gained weight?'
Thee wo pathan,
Us ka asal naam Gulli Khan!
Wo thee sachi bay-eman.

Khabba ka dil tha naram,
Lekin us ka mazaj garam.
Dil ke achi,
Lekin kanjoosi ke paki.

Parthi thee Khabba Bio,
Aur ho gaye thee wo psycho.
Us ke aik doost thee Iqrisha,
Wo paisoon kai liyai chalati thee rickshaw.
Jana chatee thee LACAS,
Lekin us ke aqal charnai gaye thee ghaas.

Thee wo chooti,
Khatee thee tikka boti!
bananai ke koshish jaan,
Lekin kyun keh wo thee pathan,
Wo thee naa insaan.

Wo kehtee, 'Naheen hoon pathan!'
Lekin us kai naam kai akhir mein lagta Khan.
Us ka rand chitta,
Us ka demagh phitta, aur muun mein sitta,
Yeah hai Khabba Jee ke kahani,
Jo thee aik sachi Pathani.

Khabba Jee atee thee LLC,
Parthee thee kuch nheen,
Dekhti rehti thee ustad kee shakal,
Lekin thori see bhee naa aye us mein aqal.

Larki thee Khabba,
Khandaan kai naam per Dhabba!
Nikaltee thee subha saath bajai,
Wapis tashreef lati raat aath bajai!

Dosroon sai doroon ka poochti thee,
Apnai upar ghaur nheen kerti thee.
Us ka demagh tha kacha,
Aur dil mein choota sa bacha.

Kehtee thee, 'Pagal ho jaon gee!'
Aur khatee rehtee thee ghee.
Us ko pasnad aa gaya aik haathi,
Us ko is nai kahan, 'Tu hai mera jivan saathe!'

Number tha us ka forty-eighty-seven-thirtythree,
Wadha kerti thee keh mein chaaklate doon gee - woo bhee free!
Denai ka waqt aya, to muun morh gaye,
Aur dil ko tukroon tukroon mein chor gaye!

The Field Below, The Sky Above

2008-02-04T20:01:00.000+05:00

"A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world."
Oscar Wilde

It's cold. Snow. Flakes shaped like cross-turned daggers fall quietly. Neatly. The night is tongue-tied, and has a heavy, rusted chain around it's throat - just in case - with a pointed spear pointed at its head - just in case. Pale, frozen-white ears ransack the silence for sound - a whisper, a howl, a cry, a moan, a shriek, a crackle. There is sonic nothingness, nullity, and an unbridgeable chasm of pretermission. The moon speaks. Does it? Maybe it's just an apposite body for the congregation of effete dreams, and refractory voices in my head.

The sky extends its grey arm forward. Tries to suck me in. Lickety-split, I see cold white blood running through it. Then, where the arm was, there is the spangle of blue again. The sky doesn't want to shake hands any more.

Time Stops

2008-01-16T23:36:00.000+05:00

A pebble in the river,
Thrown by two lovers, who once sat on the banks,
Whispering into each other's ears hyperbole lines of ever-lasting adoration & affaire de coeur,
Golden harps mumble subtle rhythms, and diamond cellos groan in consonant harmony.
A nuclear bomb explodes in the hearts of the asinine & gullible inamorata,
And spaced out butterflies come out, from within.

Photo: Where Time Stops by ~Eskhata

The Four Wonders

2008-01-15T22:17:00.000+05:00

Speak. Speak, dumb one. Say your name out loud, so that the heavens rumble, up above.
See. See, blind one. A star in the sky, burning with all its might.
Hear. Hear, deaf one. The crunching of leaves - fallen to the ground; grey, dead, and grey.
Taste. Taste, senseless one. A pinch of salt on your tongue.

Still Patterns Beneath The Ivy Sun

2007-11-30T12:01:00.000+05:00

Beneath a forgotten sea of blue, there is beauty.
Under the water, there exists a mellifluous melange of seductive symmetry, and pulchritude.
A symphony of destruction plays in the background, as the cataclysmic towers of aqua crash against ever-erect masses of stone.
A mermaid's heart bleeds out the contorted romance of her forlorn soul.
Maelstroms lung at the golden globe that watches them from the skies.
Leaves fall from weeping trees, and land in a concoction that is now red.

There is lightning.
There is rain.
It pours down my back, and my tears - they are lost in vain.
An ebony raven catches my eye.
Its black wings spread, nigh the sky.

For aeons, I have been an explorer of the worlds.
To their corners, I have gone.
Through frosty lands, and scorching sands I have passed.
Garments made from birds of the sun I have donned.
Now, my mind is, at last, at one with my soul.
Finally, I drown alone.

Photo: Meltdown by *Solkku

A Shot In The Dark

2007-04-07T17:54:00.000+05:00

Have you ever made love to a ninja? The girl pulls my shirt up, running her fingers across my torso. I feel her lips on my skin. She's a small woman, probably only ninety pounds of tight ninja muscle, flesh, breasts and lips, and I feel that if I needed to I could throw her off of me without difficulty, but the room is spinning and her lips and hands on me are comforting.
Clothing is pulled off and I belch a disgusting beer and vodka burp as I feel deft fingers working open my belt. I feel the warmth of body against body and I feel lips against mine again and then she is whispering in my ear: I always wanted to meet you and I always thought you were fascinating and I always wanted to make love to you and more and more and more.
I lie on the bed as she works us both free of our clothes. I feel her working me inside of her. She begins grinding up and down and she carries on until we both cry out and I spill, gasping and limp beneath her. There is a long moment when we hold each other and I wonder if she will want my phone number.
She rolls off of me and from a hidden pocket of her ninja clothing she finds an absolute cannon of a joint and lights it on the candle. She smokes and passes it to me. I smoke and the room stops spinning. Instead it starts getting bigger and smaller at the same time.
"You are a very special man," the ninja says, smoking and teasing my nipple idly with her fingertip. "You're going to make all the difference."
There is a crashing noise as the door bursts open. The assassin stands staring at us in righteous fury. "I leave you alone for a ten damn minutes," she says, "and this is what happens?" I look at the ninja next to me, but she is already gone. Her clothes remain, so wherever she managed to escape to quicker than the blink of the fastest eye, I can only assume she is naked.
"Get dressed," the assassin says. "I'm disgusted."
I roll to the edge of the bed and start putting my clothing back on. I spot the huge joint on the floor. The young female ninja must have dropped it while making her escape. I pick it up and sneak drags when the assassin is not looking. Also, I look up at the ceiling and under the bed, inspecting the room for possible escape routes my swift ninja lover may have taken. I can see nothing. She seems to have simply disappeared.