Spring she dances upon snow
Silence she wears like mini skirts
Manalo Blahnick’s for magic wands!!
Blistering barnacles her favourite words…
The armadillo does the fiddle
And batman’s there to answer the riddle
Conversations with Moses
With Gucci glances for pauses
Slowly she slithers down the corridor
Glancing through the window at the distant horizon!
Sun’s getting ready to violate the line
That is getting ready with pelvic thrusts.
Prada watches her every move
With the evil eye of Armani watching her drooling following
Is she a walking talking fashion house?
Maybe all she wants is to sit in her doll house!!
With the loo full of channel 5
And the aroma room smelling like a toddler’s burp
She’s flicking her cig. With the hair down with the rain
She can see Marc Jacobs in the window, bobbing to Johny cash on her fingertip.
A sudden rush of blood surging rite through to her brain..
Is it time already? She thinks all but in vain.
Sunlight bursts through the Johny Cash in her ears
And memories gather in a musty corridor of the years
Weird shaped lamp shades dance on her face
As the smoke swirls…
She watches the sunrise
Rhythm can be dangerous, this feeling sets her free
This feeling takes the lead and controls her fears
What’s there being poor with no cash?
As long as there is an endless supply of Johny Cash!!
Rhymes without reason
Bind them like shackles in the hunting season.
Black hounds & Axwell; fruit flies & gold striped ducks
For all that she could imagine, from her ----------------
Why fill the missing blanks. When everything is ready on the plank
Deathly sorrow seems to be the order of the hour,
She suddenly remembered the curd has gone sour.
Summer she dances with the bad milk
Making coffees that are too bitter to look.
July 25, 2007
July 16, 2007
An evening....
The Time: 22:45
The Location: STONES – B’lore
The Scene: A single guy sitting alone and observing.
The Weapon: A mug of beer, a pack of smokes, a pen and a scribbling pad.
“Shine on you crazy diamond”, a song I grew up listening to, thanks to an older brother and his collection of audio cassettes. The speakers are blaring and I guess songs like this are composed keeping in mind the growing number of pubs around the world and people who always manage to find each and every one of them and flock into them. Change the bloody CD, a voice screams out. Popcorn flies in the air towards the counter where a short but plump man with an expression that only he can pull off on a Sunday evening stands meekly pouring beer into the empty pitchers and mugs in front of him.
The activity is slow today, not a typical Sunday evening crowd, this I know since am a regular here. The man at the counter waves a gentle hello to me, when I lift my head between my writing. I smile at him and signal for a refill of my beer. He is disappointed today. Disappointed that am sitting there alone and ordering for a mug and not a pitcher. The waiters and the other bartenders decked in a pale red shirt and black trousers seem to walk up and down the entire length and breadth of the pub. They seem pensive; they seem buried in their own world. They are working, occasionally stopping at tables where they see a known face. Am sure they know more about the people than some of the friends who sit in the same table. The favorite drink of one guy, the amount of spice in the egg burji of another, the capacity to drink of one gang and the amount of money another group would tip always. They know everything.
The song changes, “Where were you”… it says. I stare into the plasma screen above my head and smile. Feel like the song is directed rite at me. Where was I? Where am I? I really wonder. The sheer fact of me probably sitting alone in a pub and writing is a sign that I really don’t know where I am. A tap on the shoulder breaks my thought process. A guy in his late 20’s or even early 30’s holding a mug of beer looks at me, curiously. The mug is almost empty and am sure there has been a few down already. He was in this phase that I define as the “pleasantly high” phase. ‘Hey, what are you doing man?’ he enquires. Quietly I look at him, obviously a little upset with the fact that I was disturbed from my writing process. He peeks into my scribble pad and takes another drag from his ciggy. The smoke covers my face. I move away from the smoke blanket and smile at him. Gently closing my book, I tell him am working on a story. With a slight tilt of his head, he starts, ‘Oh, what story? Like a book or something?’ I take a sip from my drink and tell him, ‘No, not really. This is just some random ramblings’. I could see that he was disappointed about something. He turned back to the bar and ordered for another drink. I continued to look around, carefully observing the sights and sounds of the place that night. A group of adolescent kids were all sitting in a semi circle and raising a toast to this one extremely cute girl who was with them. I could see in their eyes and everyone wanted to make a toast and say something special. She was more engrossed with her mobile phone, smiling to herself and messaging someone. A tall and leathery young man walks in through the door and searches frantically for someone. He walks a few steps check the watch and then continues to look further. Is he late? Is he early? Is he alone? Or is he with a group? His expression doesn’t give me much scope on anything. He looks at the corner table right next to mine and smiles. Walking in a brisk pace he approaches my table and gently moves my chair aside to make way to sit with someone who was already there on the table. I turn around to see this person, whose hair was long and curly, covering her face. Her thin fingers pop up from under the table to clear the hair from her face. I could see a faint smile when the hair is cleared. I look at her as she goes around filling the empty beer mugs on the table and then takes a sip of her fresh lime.
I bend down and continue to write, when the guy taps on my shoulder again and says, ‘Nice crowd eh? Happening chicks’, an follows it up with a chuckle. I choose to ignore the sly comment and continue to write. He says, ‘If you are working on a story about this place, then have me as a character in the story. I would really like that’, saying that he goes back to his tall chair. I close my eyes after he leaves, smell of beer, and smoke is everywhere. People are talking real loud to be audible for the others in the same table because of the loud music. Crash!!! A mug falls flat on the ground and breaks. A girl looks embarrassed and the others from her table point fingers at her and are laughing. A cozy couple sitting next to them look and nod their head like they have just witnessed something completely sinful.
The crowd starts leaving the place. The music is switched off now. I look into my watch and realize that it’s a little past 23:30 rite now and they have already closed the bar and the bills are being cleared. The short man at the counter is counting the amount of money they made that evening and entering it in his little black book. I have always wondered about the numbers in that book. Mathematics was never my favorite subject at school, would have sucked at the job if I was there in his place. I get up and pay my bill, the waiter is obviously disappointed. I tip him an amount that is almost close to my bill. I guess I was there not to drink but to probably feel high on a different level….
The Location: STONES – B’lore
The Scene: A single guy sitting alone and observing.
The Weapon: A mug of beer, a pack of smokes, a pen and a scribbling pad.
“Shine on you crazy diamond”, a song I grew up listening to, thanks to an older brother and his collection of audio cassettes. The speakers are blaring and I guess songs like this are composed keeping in mind the growing number of pubs around the world and people who always manage to find each and every one of them and flock into them. Change the bloody CD, a voice screams out. Popcorn flies in the air towards the counter where a short but plump man with an expression that only he can pull off on a Sunday evening stands meekly pouring beer into the empty pitchers and mugs in front of him.
The activity is slow today, not a typical Sunday evening crowd, this I know since am a regular here. The man at the counter waves a gentle hello to me, when I lift my head between my writing. I smile at him and signal for a refill of my beer. He is disappointed today. Disappointed that am sitting there alone and ordering for a mug and not a pitcher. The waiters and the other bartenders decked in a pale red shirt and black trousers seem to walk up and down the entire length and breadth of the pub. They seem pensive; they seem buried in their own world. They are working, occasionally stopping at tables where they see a known face. Am sure they know more about the people than some of the friends who sit in the same table. The favorite drink of one guy, the amount of spice in the egg burji of another, the capacity to drink of one gang and the amount of money another group would tip always. They know everything.
The song changes, “Where were you”… it says. I stare into the plasma screen above my head and smile. Feel like the song is directed rite at me. Where was I? Where am I? I really wonder. The sheer fact of me probably sitting alone in a pub and writing is a sign that I really don’t know where I am. A tap on the shoulder breaks my thought process. A guy in his late 20’s or even early 30’s holding a mug of beer looks at me, curiously. The mug is almost empty and am sure there has been a few down already. He was in this phase that I define as the “pleasantly high” phase. ‘Hey, what are you doing man?’ he enquires. Quietly I look at him, obviously a little upset with the fact that I was disturbed from my writing process. He peeks into my scribble pad and takes another drag from his ciggy. The smoke covers my face. I move away from the smoke blanket and smile at him. Gently closing my book, I tell him am working on a story. With a slight tilt of his head, he starts, ‘Oh, what story? Like a book or something?’ I take a sip from my drink and tell him, ‘No, not really. This is just some random ramblings’. I could see that he was disappointed about something. He turned back to the bar and ordered for another drink. I continued to look around, carefully observing the sights and sounds of the place that night. A group of adolescent kids were all sitting in a semi circle and raising a toast to this one extremely cute girl who was with them. I could see in their eyes and everyone wanted to make a toast and say something special. She was more engrossed with her mobile phone, smiling to herself and messaging someone. A tall and leathery young man walks in through the door and searches frantically for someone. He walks a few steps check the watch and then continues to look further. Is he late? Is he early? Is he alone? Or is he with a group? His expression doesn’t give me much scope on anything. He looks at the corner table right next to mine and smiles. Walking in a brisk pace he approaches my table and gently moves my chair aside to make way to sit with someone who was already there on the table. I turn around to see this person, whose hair was long and curly, covering her face. Her thin fingers pop up from under the table to clear the hair from her face. I could see a faint smile when the hair is cleared. I look at her as she goes around filling the empty beer mugs on the table and then takes a sip of her fresh lime.
I bend down and continue to write, when the guy taps on my shoulder again and says, ‘Nice crowd eh? Happening chicks’, an follows it up with a chuckle. I choose to ignore the sly comment and continue to write. He says, ‘If you are working on a story about this place, then have me as a character in the story. I would really like that’, saying that he goes back to his tall chair. I close my eyes after he leaves, smell of beer, and smoke is everywhere. People are talking real loud to be audible for the others in the same table because of the loud music. Crash!!! A mug falls flat on the ground and breaks. A girl looks embarrassed and the others from her table point fingers at her and are laughing. A cozy couple sitting next to them look and nod their head like they have just witnessed something completely sinful.
The crowd starts leaving the place. The music is switched off now. I look into my watch and realize that it’s a little past 23:30 rite now and they have already closed the bar and the bills are being cleared. The short man at the counter is counting the amount of money they made that evening and entering it in his little black book. I have always wondered about the numbers in that book. Mathematics was never my favorite subject at school, would have sucked at the job if I was there in his place. I get up and pay my bill, the waiter is obviously disappointed. I tip him an amount that is almost close to my bill. I guess I was there not to drink but to probably feel high on a different level….
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