Monthly Archives: November 2012

Missing Eyebrows

Let me

paint a new poem

with a brush

made from

the hair of my

missing eyebrows

..the melancholy of

stark colors

magnified by

disturbing alacrity

of my

enormous voracious depraved illiterate sorrowful verbosity


The canvas is the carcass

of some thoughtless circus

where I am the acrobat

.. my thoughts

dangling on the ropes

made of

dead snakes and white wet tongues

..leaping from one word to some unknown expression

with proud and hauntingly confused face

from surprising tumultuous applause


CLAP CLAP and do some more CLAPPING

I am here for relentless never-ending  flaking


moistness all gone, look at my paintings now

all my hair have been torn

all my teeth have been pawned

now when I laugh

my uvula comes out of my callow mouth

like some carelessly severed umbilical noose

but still tied from one end

still not free

still unhappy

and my alligator jaw(s) with dreams of seesaws

my coruscating cracked lips

stitched to hips of

prisoners of abject protrusion


..I smell smoke now

I think I lit the fire

in the crotch of this poem..un-poetic flames are gorgeous though




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Liebster Award: —-

Liebster Award, given by a lovely blogger friend Purnimodo

Thank you so much for this Liebster Award, I love this ‘token of appreciation (which is apparently German)’, I am much obliged. And like her I am going to break/make some of the rules.

a) there are no rules (yeah give me that special smirk now,……nice)

b) I am a big big big ignoramus so I am not mentioning the 11 other bloggers

c) I am going to tell ONLY HARMLESS UNTRUTHS as A’s.

The Q & A’s

What’s the craziest thing you did for love? Do you regret it? 

Love is either for GROWN UPs or UN-GROWN DOWNs, they both have not accepted me so I regret living in a world where pigs can’t fly if they start eating dead fallen hawks, I mean there is no link but link is the ink which is there on your white shirt and that shirt is oversized and over priced

Have you ever stolen something as a child? If so what was it.

Stolen, no no when I was a child I was in jail, and my crime was…I stole someone’s eyebrows.

If you wake up as the opposite sex, what will be the first thing you’ll do? Why? 

If that happens with me, I will punch myself on my nose. No sane reason.

What is your favorite season?

Winter, Winter Only Winter

Do you have multiple blogs? 

no no no…. no no

From where did you get your idea in naming your blog? 

Le means ‘the’ or something like that in French may be and Taalib is ‘Seeker’ and I forgot which language was that.

One thing that most people don’t know about you? 

I think that most people don’t know about me is that I used to be a terrific torturer.

What is the nickname your family used to call you when you are a child which you hate the most? 

My family used to call me RASCAL-NIKOV, but I dont remember .

Do you prefer hot chocolate or eggnog? Why?

hot chocolate in Winter

How do you like your readers to call you?

Call me A(dot)

Is there any project you would like to bring alive in the real world through blogging?

I am pretty much on the black clouds now, wait I will get back to this question some other day my be

now my hands are freezing…..

my body is numb, I can’t write anything today, some other day may be

(thank you purni again)


tête-à-tête with Jealousy

Stocky fingers

Up your


Oh jealousy

That finger is coming

From a carelessly brought drought

Of vague synchronized humping sounds

Of vaporous thoughts rejected by broca’s area

Of scrutinized bowel movements peppered with an almost tactile memory

As tactless as the placement of your strap-on phalluses fellaas


Bleeders always beat the count

They always climb the mounds of slippery surfaces

Mounds made of shapeless shoulders of slaves

Mounds made of broken burned glasses from obscure dark windows

Mounds made of vasopressin, of rugged tarpaulin, of worn out over-sized under garments


Overdosed on quinine, Jealousy, being eaten alive by persistent percussionists

By random jaywalkers straddling on the wet sidewalks

By evil prognosticators of the picaresque futures


Jealousy being sodomized by limbless octopuses from Sahara

By extinct depressed Rhinoceroses

By races of all the forbidden traces of humanity

By tufts of metallic hair of all the closet henchmen




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Q & A with an Egotistical writer.. A.


When did you first know that you wanted to write?


It‘s a long story, when I was in high school, a friend of mine wanted me to write his application for sick-leave, I wrote it and he got expelled from school because I made a lot of grammatical errors and it contained a lot of cuss words too. Later he beat me up and that day I seriously thought about ‘writing’ as a career option after pizza delivery boy.


So you mean you went home that day and wrote your first short story?


No.. No.. That day I went home and ate a lot of food and did hulla hoop with my papa.


When did you write your first short story then?


 I am sorry, no personal questions please, I mean I can tell you that I have never written a short story, according to me what you all call ‘short stories’, should be called ‘novels’ but that’s altogether a different subject of discussion but I am not going to tell you that… Okay I can’t keep secrets, I wrote my first short story when I was in my late teens in my first asylum.


Did your parents read books?


No my parents were in scrap business so they never read books, they dumped them like corpses. And I remember we used to make bonfires of books and we had so many books sometimes my mother used to put books in dishes whenever we were out of chicken.


You painted in your teens. What did you paint?


Yeah I used to paint a lot of things but mostly I used to paint pictures of garbage bins, they attracted me a lot. That smell of garbage bins was so hypnotic that I used to stand inside the garbage bin and then paint the other garbage bin. That was the reason all my paintings contained that beautiful foul smell. Later I felt that painting was making me eclectic so I burned all my paintings and fed the ashes to the street dogs and five days later all the dogs died, not because of my paintings ashes but the food I had fed them the night before.


At what age did you become a writer? Was it a surprise to you?


I think I was 25 and suddenly I heard a girl screaming down the window, she was crying ‘writer writer’. It was a big surprise because I was not expecting her to be fully dressed, I knew that she was an active member of the ‘nudist’s welfare society’ but still she was fully dressed, it was a big surprise. But I think yeah that was the age.


What attracted you to writing?


Here let me quote Italo Calvino, he said “The satirist is prevented by repulsion from gaining a better knowledge of the world he is attracted to, yet he is forced by attraction to concern himself with the world that repels him” Umm….I am sorry I don’t get what he tried saying with that quote, I am attracted to writing because it’s nice to do something while sitting, I mean it’s least taxing and I can eat, listen to music and still I can say that I am doing something constructive, I love being pretentious.


Your first book, The disgusting wart and miraculous start, was a collection of stories and a novella. Why haven’t you returned to the short-story form?


Nobody read that book, I remember even my editor, after paying a big sum of money, couldn’t read that book, the publisher who published that book had to bear a big loss and he died because of a shocking heart attack. All the publishers then ganged-up on me and threatened me to stop writing but I negotiated and told them that I will only write novels, no more short-stories.


How tied are your books to the time in which you wrote them?


They were never tied to anything, what does your question mean, who made you an interviewer? My books are free and they can be placed in any era. That’s my speciality, I write something and it depends on readers to decide my setting of my books. My books have never had plots or genres or characters, they should be considered immoral dialogues on the hypocrisy of social inequities. I am sure that you also have not read a single book of mine. Do you even know about the premise of my next book which I have just decided, let me tell you it’s about a writer and a dumb interviewer interviewing him in this dark grey walled room, then at the end of the interview the writer kills the interviewer and cooks him with soy sauce and ate him with mustard and tomato ketchup and a little bit of cheese as well.


Where..Where does.. the comedy.. in your work come from?


I think your voice is breaking, come again..


Where does the comedy in your work come from?


I think all the comedy which oozes out of my spunk has something to do with my genes. My parents were very funny. They were this funny that they ate my youngest brother because he had red hair and he looked the oddest one out among us, me and my seven other siblings. So what they did was, they first shaved his head and made a rope out of his long red hair and painted his whole body with yellow paint and then they hanged him on the mango tree till he took his last breath. He looked like a big mango on that mango tree. We all laughed, including Roooshame (my youngest brother) and later my mom made Rooshame curry which was delicious. And my granddad was also very funny, he used to play football with severed heads of his factory workers. I am telling you my whole family is a big comedy.


Do you have sympathy for the characters you create?


Sympathy is very expensive and I am a cheap writer, I am only sympathetic to things which are more powerful than me and something which I create can never be powerful enough to destroy me and if you count on stupid probabilities, trust me I will be the first person to destroy the creatures from my works. Writing in itself is sadistic, I am fascinated with the immense fictional power writing embodies. So in all my books, characters die the worst death and face the worst tortures which one can imagine in the worst nightmare.


How did you make the shift from reading voraciously to thinking that you could do this yourself?


Writing for me is a reflex action, born out of avid reading, a kind of metaphorical fist-fight where first my competitor cuts my limp hands and gives me a pair of strong hands, then starts punching me till the time I start using those borrowed strong hands on him. And plus I have been in and out of asylums a lot and that’s only  because whenever I read a lot I have to take admission in some asylum then in few days I write and then I kick out every consumed word from my system and spew on the torn pages of my new book and then I come out of the asylum for some days to read.


How did you discover your own voice? Did it happen gradually?


You only discover what you never had. Next question you dumbfool.


How do you write when you’re under the influence (substance influence to be precise)?


I only get sober when I am under the so-called influence which you are talking about. I am dangerous when I am my normal self, that’s the time I am able to write easily with a smooth flow.


Who are the philosophers that matter to you? In many of your reviews you mention Nietzsche.


I only mentioned Nietzsche because he said cool things which never made any real sense, atleast to me they didn’t, I don’t like philosophers, they all are a drag, they waste a lot of time in thinking senseless things which might be useful in some other world. They are harmful as well because they sometime reform societies. Infact, if you ask me all the novelists are liars and fools, they try to imitate the thoughts of poets and philosophers.


It makes you sound arrogant to call novelists liars and fools.


Arrogant, hell yeah, but I like liars and fools they make me feel that I am an undisputed genius.


To this day, you have no friends who are writers, why?


I hate writers, that’s why. They all are lazy and pretentious and polished. I am crass and crude.


Do you have any friends?


Another stupid question from you, well to your surprise all my pens and chairs and lamps are my friends. We are constantly in touch with each other. We exchange literary notes and help each other but we are very critical of each other’s life styles but still we get along fine


When do you write?


Generally I write only on public holidays and universally accepted festivals but I really love writing on funerals.


Do you prepare for a book before you begin writing it—or do you just plunge in?


A book is not a breakfast, I start writing and it takes shape by itself. It’s all there in my head, plus I hate narrative structural forms so I just start writing and finish when I start writing another book.


If there’s no strong visual image, where do you begin?


Which school did you go to, who told you that strong visual images are prerequisites? I am sad that people have so many misconceptions about writing.


You mentioned being addicted to the “dangers and pleasures” of writing a novel. What are they, exactly?


Dangers – I hate it when what I write happens to me the same evening.

Pleasure – when I have written about bald fat girls with big upper lip is the protagonist of the novel and she bumps into me in the bar and tells me that she loves the way my novel is treating her.


Your ten books have been published,  but you had never won a single prize? What motivates you?


I never write to win. I told you I just write because it gives me an excuse to spend some time amongst the so-called-normal society people. I am always de-motivated for everything.


Is there no one you show your work to when it’s in progress?


I sometimes feed the crumbs of pages to cockroaches and ants, if I find them dead the next morning, I carry on with my work, otherwise I change the tone of my narrative structure.


Is there also a sense of not wanting to explain your books, in the way a dream loses its power when it comes under analysis?


Have you ever asked this question to Van Gogh? Or Kafka? My work is like quick-sand, the moment you will try to dig your finger in it, you will lose your toe.


Did you think about giving up writing since all the publishers….


I will give up only when everyone starts reading whatever I have written.

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