Where I Am.

Lying on patchy carpets of sandy green,
The day-kissed sky enfolds existence,
In breezes of willowy white fingers,
As for that moment, I live and write.

Reverie broken by mulling disbelief,
I turn my face to the gathering milieau,
Of bellowing seagulls, that clamour to seek,
The cause for my reticient positivity.

The world's orchestra, it's unseen maestro,
Sibilantly provide the fuel and purpose.
Or so they caim, and secure a herd hold
Over sodden skies, flying under the horizon.

The seaspray drives me to different currents,
That lead me through riptides to darkest abyss.
My sea floor is fathoms deeper, it's surface
Scattered with far older thoughts.

The happiness of sheep, in itself,
Contends contentedly with chewing cud.
My happiness is a many wondered thing,
Bright sides offset by darker understanding.

Innocence intrinsic in a baby's smile,
Enters the world to faith's benediction, and
Fundamentalism's twnty-one gun salute,
That slowly seep into that ideal, in stacatto.

Progress is a feverish snail crossing quagmire,
Of blotchy indistinct tragedies, that ferment
On certain curtains that conceal, the world,
The end. So the politicians mote it be.

The dead's bodies have become horses,
That causes whip the mileage out of.
Love is now neatly shelved, orderly labelled,
By the middle-age virgin librarian that is society.

Rebels without cause strive for resonance,
Floundering in individual meaning's deep pond.
Those who come after, looking at us through glass,
Are future's illusions regarding dead pasts.

That which lies beyond a grasping mind,
Further hindered by self's choking smog,
Is relegated to the gates of nothingness,
Which are thought to open, but never do.

So smile, laugh and love, in ignorance-
We are the punchline of a cosmic joke.
And yet, I am Jonathan Livingstone,
Seagull, and so much more.

*----------------------------------------------*

Deceptively Good Roads

Back when we yet haunted caves,
huddling around meagre fires,
Peering past the mouth of security,
Didn't we wonder what was beyond?

Seeing mountains, didn't we wish bigger?
Hearing bird song, didn't we fantasize better?
Sensing an end, didn't we hop faster?
Tasting failiure bemoaning we weren't stronger?

When the night's quiet was eviscerated,
By some jungle's feral manifestation,
Feeling an almost tangible caress over our jugular,
Didn't we pray for four walls?

Wrapped in pallid straw, straining to ignore
The garrulous meetings of stomach lining,
Crawling to escape the world's accusing glare,
Didn't we beg for deliverance, even a mirage?

But as Time sashayed through history,
The road improved. With only the rare
Pothole to cross, we put down the pedal,
Ignoring damage to chassis and soul.

Civilization's girders lined the roadsides,
Along our fast lane. We laughed,
Accepting and ignoring the illusuion of others,
We sang a myriad groaning tone.

The drunken sun had staggered west,
Shadows kept gettting darker and deeper,
The further we ventured into Civilization,
The sketchy horizon barrenly stretched.

An inherant sense warily perused our direction,
Disturbed, we paused to confirm our bearing.
Pointing bent sextants at daylit skies,
Hope becomes a wet finger waiting for fair wind.

Turning to a broken billboard for relief,
We pee on tattered corroded paper that
Show helping hands being viciously spurned,
Could we concieve, that we took a wrong turn?


*--------------------------------------------*

Prelude

The wily blank page almost took me
But let go, and bested me in disdain.
Dissonantly, I retreat to the yawning trenches,
Sliding, into that grim muted throb.

Inside, the ones wear matte grey gas masks.
Festering wounds and twisted bones
Ignored, as a field of eyes swings towards me,
A bulb flashed, and in every eye I saw me.

Peering past ghostly smoke, I turn to tread
Over pulsing embers, alongst gutted corridors.
Through holes above, the broken hulk of edifice looms,
As footsteps in ashes of hubris mark my path.

In grimy half darkness I grope my way,
Past littered broken things and jagged edges,
Stumbling through the clawing pregnant vacuum
Until I reach the end, that thrice-damned wall!

Sickened by complacent defeat, lethargic spirit,
With last vestige of breath, I beat against
The iron vileness that chokes the multitude of words,
They who create and people my world.

Battered hands shatter unyielding indifference,
Until it cracks, and expression trickles forth!
My war cry melds with the growing storm of sound,
As the legions of words leap the barricade.

And riding the crest of that omnipotent wave,
Enraptured, I am become a forge!
Flinty ideas become the iron-tipped arrows
Which desecrate the vaunted halls of apathy.

Pages fly, ink spills and broken words die,
Until The page kneels under my bladed nib.
The melody of word song fills the world,
And something new, shoots from the bullet holes.


*-----------------------------------------------*

Hypocrisy of The Ironic Type

Rampant humidity races down spines,
The world is cooking, doused in sweat wine.
Life on the street ignores the life-giver, the life-taker,
an irritation like the lingering words of their maker.

Cars barrel through streets helter-skelter,
People thrum on roadsides seeking sole shelter.
Pushing carts, hawking ware, needs must be met,
In this democratic utopia with no place for the inept.

The good people of society move on with their lives,
Tax-paying beings wallowing in their important lies.
Not terrorists, not rapists, nor hippies still,
Hurting nobody they expect to pay heaven's bill.

Naturally, adhering to the statutes of society,
The best of humanity understands propriety.
And sitting on the corner, used to carrying weight,
Our fit law men police the rules of the state.

But standing forgotten by state and people,
A beggar cries hoarsely under a church steeple.
Calling across lanes of whizzing death, his shaking hand
Cups two rupees, for a samosa garnished with grit and sand.

By him, salary men on bikes laugh and joke,
Ignoring the beggar man as he croaks and chokes.
Loving parents indulge daughters' whims for new dolls,
But still none care to heed the poor old man's calls.

Untill one man, casually clad, stud in one ear,
Crosses the road for him with genuine cheer.
He buys eight and gives the lot, with change,
To a tearful old man, who is misery's sage.

The man blushes with the elder's benediction,
And ponders over the vaunted social condition.
How is it that the good people didn't care to see,
Ignoring the old man in favour of puffs and tea?

When it took a man on the fringes of law,
Possessing illegal green leaves, he still saw
Past the shaking hands, the old man's temerity,
Walking away thinking of man's hypocrisy.

X-------------------------------------------------X

Stirring of Dark Purpose

Awakening light crept into the murky depths,
Wary of the monsters that in the darkness slept.
Every footfall the resounding knell of a church bell,
Ringing into the darkness, stirring things dark and fell.

Glinting eyes open in their sunken depths,
A terrible visage where brooding malevolence slept.
Cold eyes survey their domain, assessing all in sight,
A dark shape shifts in the gloom, a predator steps into the light.

Even a glance or mere glimpse of its hideous features,
Would make stout hearts recoil in mortal dread.
Certainly, this character is unique amongst all creatures,
Laughing, as it rips it's prey to the last stitch and shred.

Ruthless, intelligent, it hungers. To stay above the sordid rest,
Deceit, larceny, murder are child's play, merely a fool's jest.
No mere wolf cub but demon incarnate in sheep's guise,
Amongst flocks Lady Luck did not favour with her dice.

Judge, jury, executioner; if choice were his he would be all,
The World his whore, who he rapes, mashing pretty face into wall.
He would hold sway over the masses of weaker minds,
Equals, if any, would be laid to rest, broken from behind.

Be preacher, sinner, laymen; all clamour to his siren voice,
Mesmerised, instinct lulled by the illusion of choice.
And conquered by the intricacies of his web, they are caught,
Willingly they ignorantly skip to slaughter they unwittingly bought.

Pleasant contemplation fades and reality snaps back in,
If there is need to satiate one's greed, one must wade in sin.
Spirituality is no concern, his black soul already rust stained,
The innocent warm light of the human spirit long long waned.

No qualms, no doubts, no regrets to tell,
The fires of his mind fuelled by the oil-wells of hell.
Wallowing by hedonistic fire, content, the creature basks,
And prepared, ever-ready, the monster dons it's sculptured mask.

And steeped in direst cunning and guile,
He greets the neighbour with a good morning
And a smile...

____________________________________________________________

.... Yes. Fear me.