Tag Archives: entertainment

First sentence of my Debut Untitled Novel

The cheap brothels, the rich rag-pickers, the intellectual lunatics, the clean-nosed bankers, the poison-spewing journalists, the intrusive housewives, the headless kings of third grade casinos, the skinny spine-less musicians, the weird beard artists, the innocent tit-suckers, the stubborn insurance executives, the wasted junkies of kashmere gate, the dismantled car-mechanics of old-delhi, the money-minded illiterate school teachers, the over-zealous con-men, the cute-faced scamsters, the off-springs of ambitious politicians, the fake historians of non-existing destroyed history, the evil NGO workers, the teenage nymphets of khan market, the mad readers of trash literature, the soggy newspaper columnists, the grounded acrobats, the enthusiasts of love, the naive fitness instructors, the juicy models from fashion streets, the psychopath poets, the uninhabited security guards… I wanted to kill them all.

 

Signed.

A(dot) 

Advertisements
Tagged , , , , , , , , ,

She sniffed my collar bones/Upon further investigation

(Disclaimer: Two poets..over a cup of coffee..threw words at each other..some squinting it took..result..Two freshly baked poems)
(Words given to make a poem:
Cake, brown, clink, bloat, pounding, parade, investigation, bloody, nipple, itch, social, carpet, hugs, cheeky, fog, albumin, hood)

 

—–Upon further investigation—–

There was a clue found
hidden deep within
the smudgy gooey brown cake
recently devoured at a social gathering
where hugs and wine flowed in rivers of giggles
until a cheeky man revealed
from under his fashion street hood
a horrendous sight
an albuminy
bloaty, itchy
ghastly
nipple
pounding with pulses of pleasure
after which the revelers disappeared in to the fog
the kind that descends like a cloak of embarrassment
the rest, was brushed under the carpet
of course it was a great success.
Signed.
Textbubble

 

 

—–She sniffed my collar bones—–

and investigated my flimsy hug
she sensed an itch stitched on my albumin-chest
and our jaws clinked when she tried to
brush the dust off my nose

I swallowed a breath and puked
some dozens of fog-webs

she offered me a piece of
her nipple-shaped cake

she was nice enough to pound
for me
on her brown carpet
but I would have preferred a parapet

A social gesture that was
made her carpet bloat a little
and a parade of red ants
got dismantled & disheartened

my cheeky faith
lost its faith in womanhood that night

 

Signed

A (dot)

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Pontificated Babbling

random babbling about the origins of cravings of the sins related to that One who would never reply you back who would never listen to every word you tried to say or meant to say because all those words carried water and water flows like fire burning that hill of the catharsis like her nape of her neck and she was walking through the blizzard and breathing like ranting that you will never know that that was all just a pack of plastic lies of the majestic and it was carved methodically on her greasy palms by someone who pinched your eyeballs and scratched them and left them to leak blood of cicadas of different colors that reddened and then darkened the path where you perambulated all your life and drank borrowed wine from the broken cups of retarded cheaters and their swines who traded their time to stave off the legal confrontations with the questions of their existence and you thought that they will teach you how to sip all the melancholy from that empty cup of sadness that she broke when she puked her limbs on your shoulders and your shoulders stank of her sweet phlegm which you wished to gulp before it got washed down by the rain of cackles spent by the dealers of smiles and similes involving your nails and their rotten teeth that have bitten every single leaf of serenity in their eyes from where it all started and from there you learned to snort the irregularities of the occurrences of your inner demons who told you to burn all the mannequins down and throw them in the gutter where darkness flowed in harmony of inconsequential quench which you never understood and you never wanted anyone to understand as it creates the hollow complex walls of molten wax which is constantly dribbling but there is no gravity to pull it down so it is dribbling upwards and making a staircase which could have taken you and her in the basement of that haunting castle of your conscience that always pricked your ears to take that you-turn and fall in the swarm of intoxicated spiders who gave up flying because their wings were too heavy but their eyes were also on their wings so now they all are blind and intoxicated and carrying you on their bent backs with circular spinal chords with hairline fractures and their punctured faces reminded you of those raindrops who all looked the same when they fell on her face under that ugly moonlight on which you almost choked yourself to death but you didn’t die as it was not cold enough to glaciate your touch but it left smudges on those sunken cheeks that had barbed wire bruises that looked like wrinkles formed out of hazy dew whose moisture made more sense than any other sensible thing ever walked or crawled in your room of deep green walls with big white flakes and peelings of yellow snakes scattered all over the floor with etchings of her foot marks on which you slept after digesting every skeleton which you defeated with bare hands and scared will that was made of shattered glasses and the echo of empty chambers of corrupt magistrates with dusted files filled with all the obscenities written down neatly with one line spacing and jittered handwriting of the toothless clerk who died virgin but raised four parent less kids with torn history books in their newly bought bags with their obscure curiosity and registered mediocrities embossed on their upper lips and that is where the emotional turbulence of the dejected like yours took its rest and you dreamt of climbing those murky hills of her distraught dreams and that tread uptill her throat was nothing

 

Signed

A(dot)

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , ,

The man who fell in love with a Bus-stand

Part 1 – The Realization

Let me tell you a story about a boy
who fell in love with a BUS-STAND
All his life, it was in front of his eyes
But he couldn’t see the LOVE
..Until that day..
when he was standing there
waiting for that gloomy bus
which would take him to the mortuary
where he toiled like a dog locked in some ceiling-less building
where he worked with the dead
where his sweat got mixed with the blood
..
blood of the unknown
blood of the rotten life-less-ness
that red blood which smelled like stale mustard sauce
and which turned blue on his white shirt
with blood blotches and blood stains
with livers, kidneys and intestines in his hands
with ashen eyes and dry mouth
he worked
..
..BUS-STAND,
never changed,
always stayed
the same
but still
LOVE had to happen
..
he remembered the first time
when he felt LOVE
..
he was in school
and waiting for the morning bus
to come and pick him up
and suddenly it had started to rain
..
he was wearing the white shirt..
all his life he worn white shirts
he never wore any other color
just those plain white shirts
he didn’t want the rain drops to spoil his spotless white shirt
he took shelter
BUS-STAND gave him the shelter
he stood there
waiting
for that early morning bus to come and pick him up
..
he waited and waited and waited
and it rained and rained and rained
..
he was the only one standing there
in the shed of the BUS-STAND
he smiled with the sky
the sky cried with the rain
that day was the day when he realized
that something out of ordinary had happened..
..
Part 2 – The END
That night
people saw someone
a naked man with blood blotches and bruises all over
some said he had a lot of white shirts in his hands
he was shouting something, almost screaming
some said he was crying and laughing at the same time
some said he had chopped all his fingers and
shaved all his hair from his body
someone saw him hanging his white shirts on the bus stand
he covered the bus stand from his shirts
he kept on wrapping it
till the time it became a big white thing
some said he stood on the roof of the bus stand and slept for sometime
someone saw him spilling petrol on the bus stand
some said he took out a matchbox
and lit it on fire
some said the sight was horrible to look at
a naked man jumping on the roof of a big white thing
in the milky moon light
white cloth started shining when the flames came out of white shirts
soon fire caught the naked man
some said by the morning
there were just ashes of
the white shirts
the bus stand
and
the naked man
some said he burned his love
to live again.
Signed
A (dot)
Tagged , , , , , , , , , , ,
Prosecrastination

humming and hawing with words

culture monks

interdiciplinary arts praxis

Bartholomew The Novella

Bite the apple. Take a risk.

Drew Iaconis

Everything on Mindset, Affiliate Marketing & Blogging

ultimatemindsettoday

A great WordPress.com site

ray shannon spicer

aLL THINGS ARE POSSIBLE

This is not ADVERTISING

Only selected advertising

urduwallahs

Woh kare baat toh har lafz se khushboo aaye, Aisi boli wohi bole jise Urdu aaye. -Poet Ahmed Wasi-

Museum Nerd (>140)

This is where I post when it won't fit in a tweet.

Driven to Verse

Poetry and Prose, by Mark Scherz

Covered in Beer

by Thomas Cochran, Known Moron

Eli Glasman

Site of author Eli Glasman

Gotta Find a Home

Conversations with Street People

Sick and Sick of It

But Still Living The Life

The Indian Express

Latest News, Breaking News Live, Current Headlines, India News Online

Iridescentfox

There are no foxes here

The life of almost every 20 something

This WordPress.com site is the cat’s pajamas