I have - effectively - left the buildings.

For all those who really do care,
and those who want to read random poetry from a rather random person,
I have shifted to tumblr.

arbitrarystrokes.tumblr.com

:)

Around the moon and back there.

Hello World.

Here we meet again. Confused and retarded as ever, aren't we? As lost at the little yellow sun in a multitude of stars.
The world's in my palm, only till I gobble it up, to let it be lost again.
The world, is what it is. And it really isn't what we think it is.
It is smaller. More compact. Full of shadows and games and smiles. And a few lies.

The world's in my palm. And I want to lose it. Just lose the world in myself. Because I don't care what they seem they are.
Layers of skin attached to layers of hair to the worldly-ness of the world they live in.
And thus, I just want to gobble it up.

Get lost, world.
Lose yourself. Lose me. Lose whatever holds you back. And start another fucking day.
Walking on the moon!
=)

-

The influence of drama.
The change of thought.
The exasperation of being.
The hidden sigh.
The overburdened sight.
The world and its ways.
The confusion.
The influence.
The conflict.
And the resolution.
It's life.
It's just another movie.

No Revolution This

This is not a Bloody Revolution.
That's what this is not. Our words, our pens, our swords, our paint, our typefaces, our weed, our cigarettes, our wisdom. It's not a bloody revolution.
It is just a way of being. Of defending. Of living. Of being. Of letting be. Of just what we need.

The world is not ending in 2012. It's not ending anytime soon. The apocalypse is long gone. It's long past. Long felt.
We are the result.
Our machines are the result.
Our diluted intellect is a result.
Our heightened senses is a result.
The world we built is a result.

It is all together yet apart. It is in confusion. It is in a constant struggle. It is at peace with it itself.
Let it be.

That is what we are.
A conversation.
Words. Pens. Swords. Paints. Typefaces. Weed. Cigarettes.
Wisdom.

It is not a bloody revolution.

Face It?

In all its beauty, and all its pain
Noah captured them,
A step at a time he took
And he caught one and one more,
In the flooding rain.

He walked past the Reaper
And he caught him.
He walked past the Twisted
Retracing, he caught them all.

He walked past the Mindless
And he caught her.
He walked past the Sins,
He wedded them,
And kept them for us.

He walked past the Angry,
And closed them in one room
He walked past us all
To be caught, flies to glue.

The Timid, the Wasted, and it all.

But when he crossed the Soul,
He waved and he walked past.

Now, here we are.

The Timid, The Wasted and it all.

In the arms of the angel,
They will carry you.
In the arms of this angel,
You will meet your end.

But fret not, little child,
Let the tears dry
And the hope awaken.
Fret not, little child,
She will carry you forward.

A Revolution, they say?
In the arms of another
We will suffer.
With the arms of others
We will penetrate.

This child, but, let it be gone
It's only cried to your sounds
Only laughed with all the smoke.
Carry it, my angel.
Another will come, to save us,
Someday.

--
Inspired by: Turtle Can Fly

Rot and Clay

The air has a presence today.
It's just time in a vacuum.
World's we couldn't face.
Inhuman and stupid;
Under the spell of the Warlord.
Unable and unwilling,

Commander of the Third Reich in our head,
Was a march,
The Army of the Whispering Stars
Uncaring and unwilling.
Relentless and hopeless,
Unable to hide in their deaths
They marched.

The air has a presence today, they say.
It smells of rot and clay.
I wish the dead would hurry
Mixing astray, for lives would be easier.
Just if we'd sit and peacefully stare.

The world's stooping with the few behind,
The others just stand ahead and lead.
Commanders in their head.
Unable and careless,
They stand, they pretend.
They pretend to lead.

I said, the air has a presence today.
One could only hope for the future's best.
But today, today, it is lowly and smothered,
Like a child adorned on a mother's breast.

The air has a presence today.

An Everyday Story

A wanderer has awoken,
Speaketh in tongues unknown
Through the mystery of his shroud.

Clouded by thunder, his eyes
In search of her.
Bolt in hand,
Hair un-tightening to the air.

The lover's bogle awoke him
And now, she's in hiding.
Laughing, glinty treacherous eyes,
Under, now, the moonlit sky.

He, unknown, roams the length of Earth
Calling, pleading, unaccustomed
To the ways of this new turf.

She; she is in hiding,
Playing her dog to his bone
Her smile, unaware of her lover's lust.

Zeus, thus awoke,
A pain now runs through him.
Unable to stroke the thigh
Of his beloved Aphrodite's call.

Sitting down he howls unheard.
For these are the sounds making the rounds;
While two lovers sleep,
Alone and in despair.

History

He looked at me.

The stern face with those stern eyes behind those heavy deep-set glasses. He was talking. I might have called it blabbering at another point of time.
He addressed me. From behind those eyes, he looked at me, accusing like.

Like I had done something. Killed him or something like that. I don’t know. I was rolling my eyes. But I was staring at him. Right back at him. He was talking.

Yeah, this man, sitting there was babbling some shit about how life was 35 years ago. I couldn’t care. But then I was listening. I was trying, okay. So he was talking and I think he kept getting lost.
He talked about all of it. How life’s changed. About people changing. He tried telling me about the world and how he paid 7 bucks to get through his school.

I looked at him straight.

He told me about why he is sitting in a chair as an optician. He told me why he wasn’t another guy with a doctorate ripping me off my money. I was still staring at him. He was making sense.
He opened his mouth again. He muttered something about the world with its sins and how everything falls into place.
He closed his mouth. And then opened it again. It was replaying in my head, in slow motion. 30 frames per second. He was doing it again. Saying some godforsaken thing. I was listening. I was. It was making sense finally. I was listening.
And then it stopped. It went back to normalcy.

He talked. I thought he was talking to me.
But I got it this time. He was trying to address a whole generation. Tell them all about what’s going on in his futile life.
I was Generation X. He was the one gone by. Representatives of ourselves and others.

I looked at him. I had a few words to say.
I looked at him again. I noticed the harsh light around his rounded wrinkled face. I stopped myself.
I couldn’t tell him.

He was living in his past.
All I could hope for was he liked it.

Soledad

In the land of the Boulevard
And with it, its setting sun,
Arose this man.

A chance was all he hoped,
a moment in god's forsaken time.
Lost in a chance he forgot to store,
This maniac of the wild.

Screams, shouts and screams!
Yelping to the grave, ran did he.
Twas his story, twas his name;
He cared not to say or be.

A single line did he sing,
This simple melody.
He knew not of winters,
Nor rabbit holes for hidding did he seek.

He came out and forever
Sang this song of misery.

Complexity

The mirror reflected me perfectly. Me, alone, in its path. Unaware of the rest of the world.

There was no paper. No pen. No leaves. Nothing. It didn't reflect moments. No birth. No crisis. No work of art. It was me. Simply, me and the mirror.

And the distance between us.
Separated by a few inches. A 5'5'' figure was all the world was, at this point.
Separated by a silver lining. No clouds. No sky. No horizon. Just a vertical silver lining.
Separating this existence from the rest.

Yes, even behind this mirror was a world. A world as complex as my inner being. As your inner self. As this world. Inside us.

The skin of this mirror was all there was. A simple brown layer against a complex silver one. There were two worlds.

Here, itself. In a moment, the truth dawned on me. Of aliens and their existence. Of me and my own being. Of the world; irrelevant but now; hidden behind mirrors. Of faces, of expressions. Of nothing but what is not here. Hidden. Away. Unknown.

Unaware, of the rest and of what lies inside, there was nothing. I could learn now. I turned.

The other direction led me back. To my world.
And what was left to see.

The stones. The pen. The paper. And the clouds.
I looked at the birds. I smiled. And art.
Birth. Mid-life crisis. And a pen and a paper.

There was so much left to learn.

Cosmos

A slow moment,
Rush of blood.
The veins underneath;
Complexity, hiding;
Under your skin.

Look. It's a whole new world.
Your inner cosmos.
Unaccustomed of being stared at.

Colors in m Head

So, I am sitting here.
In the midst of absolute nothingness.
Just sitting here.
The feeling, however, is engulfing me. Trying oh so hard to complete me.
But I am left blank. Staring into oblivion.

Now my hand rises. Voluntarily, involuntarily; it doesn't matter. It rises to the beat of the symphony. There's a background score. The music stops. My hand grabs my dream. It is wrappeed in gift paper. I start untying the nots. My veins pop out.It goes popety pop-pop. I don't know what to do. So, I continue untying. There's still no music. I untie it the whole way.There is a small blue circular object polka dotted by brown; inside. It's very small. Very thin. Very.

I bring my left most finger near it, hoping it won't burst. A grin appears on my face, my heart starts beating faster. Every minute, it skips a beat. But it felt extremely fast eitherway. Anyway, so my heart's skipping a beat, my hand's approaching the blue-brown thing, my mouth is opening wider with each movement of my limb. The tension is building. There's still no music, however. The tension is building. There's still no music, however. The tensions's building again. My heart beat's racing. I am touching it.

I touched it.
The music came back for a second.
Then it stopped.
The bluebrown vanished. It went 'clasp!' in my hand.
My idea vanished.
The dream went to the shit-hole.
I felt wastet yet again.
I had gotten up by now.
I sat down again.
Looked at the space in front of me and stared into oblivion, yet again.

Inspiration, I wish it would strike soon. =)

Beauty and that Regular Beast

The waves calmed me down.
The silence around calmed me a wee bit more.
I smiled inwardly.
Taking out a piece of paper, I tried to soak in the beauty around me. To muse.
And it worked.
I wrote again of a thing called beauty, of the flowers, of love and of course, of her.

I then got up, walked a few kilometers and sat down in another part of the world. Crowds were bustling around me. Running around in circles. Zombie-ish : these walking dead bodies. I wrote again of their beauty.

Then home. The bed. The beauty of sleep. Of home sweet home home.

Beauty in death. In a child. In a tear drop.
Of a smile. Of contradictions. Of love.

Beauty.
Beauty.
BEAUTY.

There's more. I couldn't perceive anymore. I couldn't think.
A thing of beauty is a joy forever? Fuck. What if everything was beautiful? I was dying slowly. Rotting. I could only see beauty. I was sick of it. Sick of the one word vocabulary.
The cynic in me was withering away. But but BUT!
It was beautiful, you know. Like the withering wintery leaves.
Beautiful.

There is too much beauty in my life, I guess Mr. Keats?

That Empty Glass

The glass. Enchanting, really. How it captures motion. Drags it along. Pulls it, stretches it. Smiles at it.

The face opposite, blurred. The smiles, broader. Eyes, wider with horror or contempt, whichever you like. The nose, slide-like, placed arbitrarily above the fat flap of double chin.
The light now, spreading faster, wider, circular. The circle of life. Complete, yet in-complete somehow. Trying to make ends meet?

The smile, the blur, the light, the change, the movement, the build up, the climax,
The end.

Surprising, though, how transparent it is. Vivid. Clear, through this glass of crystal. Surprising, I say.

But weird, how we don't mind. These changes. How we don't shout at it for projecting a fallacious us. How we don't imprison it. How it is. It is just okay.
Fine, really.
It's just glass.

Defence-s

It's time I thought about you. It's been a while now. Some one year, they say.

They'd know best anyway. They did it to us. They climbed up the staircase, they caught us. The buggers. It was my first kiss, you know. I never came around to telling you that, did I? In the boiling passion of that one night we knew each other, we didn't talk too much. Not really, no. It's different now. I can't not talk when I kiss him now. You know, him. He is special. Its like I am living a blurry hallucination. Such a rush. With him, it is. Yes. You know? It's weird though. There's so much of moaning, groaning and sweet talk. But it's all special I guess.

Here's the thing though. These man-whores, they just wont come crawling out now. They won't. They are asleep under my bed, but they just won't come up to the surface and face me. No. While I am lying there, all naked. With him. His arm around me, our fingers entwined. Nothing.

It's strange, really, how they bashed me up the first time. Just when our lips met. Just a kiss, and it was like there was blood all over me. Today, nothing. Not a word. Not a tingling. No fear.
It feels nice though. Yes.

It's real funny.

Who, What, When? An exploration

The day that never was,
Was the one I lived yesterday
Alone, lonely;
Repenting,
My past,
My future,
My yesterday.

The day that never was
Swept me by.
A hailstorm,
Dust in my eyes.
The iris, wider,
The eyelashes, still thin.
The past. Today?

I don't know
What it was.
Where
When
And how?
Those hours
In my dreams
Another world
I don't know.

Was it?
Yesterday
Or today?
Will it be?
Was it?
I don't know.
It never was.
But it will be.
Today. A dream?

(Led on
And left,
Standing.
Under the sun,
Today, this song I sing.

The day that never was.)

The Dying Father and his Daughter

The room
Dense, empty, stark.
A voice echoed. Sudden.

'Pulse?'
'Negative, sir.'

'Love?'
'Was forever.'

'Laugh?'
'In fits.'

The room had lost its charm. She had gone. Was married away. There were no more memories.
Talks. Chatter. Conversations. It was lost. The charm had swept off. Another home, another place.
There was no answer. None to the doorbell too. It was a plain house. With no-one in it.
Except the ghost of some memories.

Sometimes I wonder how she is doing. Is she happy? Content. Does that word apply?
As I stand here, looking at that rickety old armchair, I wonder.

She had stood there, talked to me. Told me her last wish, to get married.
Love, she had whispered to me. The man, she had talked about him.

I had lashed out.

What else could a father do?

It took two minutes. The confrontation.
She walked out.
Independent women, I say.

I am Unique.

Unique?
With two ears,
Two eyes, a nose.
Unique, Okay.
Maybe, later?

Reality

The Clouds, pink,
An Earthy sky,
Walking stick figures.
It was all fine.
I was, blind. By birth.