Factory Girl

She walked over to the bar,

A Vodka - tonic please,

Make it large and no ice disguised,

Say words out loud for frustration,

What is this sunshine?

And where is the rain?

Where is my private poison?

 

The drug store turned her out, said she had no prescription.

These Insults of a higher colour,

Faiths in looser hues,

Oh! How she struggled to stay afloat.

 

She always found that place,

She always heard the voice

Those words of yearning and listening

Compounding without loss

All in the songs of a travelling minstrel

She saw it all.

 

The past was like the cold in night time,

Seeping in through the covers, oh so slow,

Inches in time, inches in rhyme

Day by night and night by day,

The cold stole it all away.

 

All she had were words,

These words so silent in its turmoil,

Never reached the gulf of solidarity,

Never bridged these gaps of dreams' past,

Never beyond the summers did last.

 

Here's you poison honey,

Drink it slow,

Let it grow,

Let the smoke rings halo

Remind you of that other fellow

Let it in slow.

 

The days of gleeful siding,

Remember sweetheart

That day in October,

Those sly dances

The burning cold

And escapist dreams of problems old.

 

Drink it slow, let the warmth grow

I'm the bartender and

I'm your friend.

Tell me your secrets,

Your foes; your woes

Here's to another vodka tonic.

 

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Musings…

We are a race consumed by the virility of life. Constantly Consumed, Devoid of, yet races for meaningful signs and naked Gods with naked engravings. Pillars and post have proven to be a failed protest. Running in solitary circles, dooms day advocates predict a dark tomorrow. But most know better. Most believe in faith and reason. We live for it all, the days and nights, the moments and silences, hearts and beats, the virility, the weird and the perfect.

It might be a moot point of action, but I seem to have hit the main responsibility of truthfulness. It's the way ahead, the reason to fight, war worthy. It is the climax of an institution we lovingly refer to as humanity. So what is this great discovery? Why should one commit suicide and not let death consume the body in its natural progression? Why am I going against thousands of years of human experience, norms and mores? The reason is simple. It's all about control. Our frail sense of happiness positively depends on inner and outer, micro and macro control. To control what we do and more importantly what is done to us.

Without these feelings of need and questing jest, the institution is futile. We need to control how we die. Most importantly understand why we die. The only plausible way to do that is death in accordance with our own boundaries. Don't get me wrong here, I do not advocate a repeat of the Cobain's or such like, I am not advocating shot gun in the mouth and bang! All I'm saying is death, as we know it may or may not be the ultimate end. There is really no way to be absolutely positive, so why take chances. We have one birth and sure one limited death. So die a martyr, die for a cause, and die for reason. Death often achieves as much as life, at times even more. So commit suicide, for the cause. Once you have spoken to creator's evil twin, riding the forsaken horse with an empty saddle only for you, die. Don't resist or desist, assist.

I wonder how I ever got to this place. Talking of death in a manner befitting mayhems' sole survivor. How did I get here? What were the turns that betrayed my way? Was I led or mislead? If so, then who do I blame for the recent developments?

Barrages of questions bombard my feeble mind. It troubles me and frustrates my feeling and knowledge of myself. I knew this day was not too distant, but still, fear and disgust over the actual event is deeper than I anticipated. It caught me positively off guard. Knowledge is what is killing me here. Failure looms high and looking ahead is tugging me down. Revelation is not to be sought, reasons I get aren't the ones I expected. So why now, why here and why at all?

Does it all end some day. Will people understand my life and how I lead it? Is wastage acceptable and if so how do I sell it? How do I justify my reasons for not doing what I didn't do? An elegant suicide is of utmost importance. But the first one must not include death. It must not be gruesome and it definitely must not be now. The time will come. Or has it come?

Deeper the deliberatation, louder the questions, softer are the answers. Whispers on time are floating by so harmlessly it causes jealousy in harms eyes. Aspirations are born off it. We are cleared of all doubt. It brings me up to date, holds my hand in an angelic way, caresses my lips and flows into my eyes. It makes me see that the time for beatification is now. To revive, to die, to rise.

 

The War.

The Part of Weapons.

Oh- run, run, from the burning sun!

Feel the light on your back,

Bristling, falling like water...

Over the infested seas.

 

Run, run – run for shelter,

The sun is rising; it might well burn your eyes!

Some feel the moon light,

Soothing the wounds of the sun's light,

Over ages of laughing,

At all mans' brave mistakes!

 

The angels came from the loose ground,

Clutching in their hands dirty brown,

Flying over my head, screaming,

Flying around in their golden gowns,

Beaming...

 

I waved goodbye, and

They slid their way into my mind!

 

Through the wafers of the living

And the distance of the deaf

The kingdoms of broken verses

And the leaflets of the bereft

The foot soldiers trample slowly

And the generals follow suit

In armoured cars with a machine guns

And cigarettes burning where their minds begun!

 

Travel long. Travel hard!

Travel- travel- travel

Where the Bombs have fallen

To the lands of loosed gravel

Where the rivers turned still

And silence is a nail screech

Travel towards the blooming poppies,

Into valleys of the bomb breach.

 

Part of understanding.

 

Berlin, where are your men

And Himmler- is the sky green?

Who gassed the masses?

Was it the guilty brasses?

What lies you ensured,

To de-corrupt the men ununiformed.

 

Summon your men to the magic mountain,

And ask them to kneel

Is it the fathers they fear?

Or the touch of their mothers heal?

 

Are there no flags too high?

Or submarines too deep?

To be hidden from plain sight

Unlike the secrets you asked smoke to keep.

 

Will all be revealed?

Like some magic trick

In an amateur magician's chamber,

Where the milk maid is the queen

And the lovers, into the rooms lean

No sleight of hand, or moonlight sonatas

To teach treachery's lessons,

Will all be reaveled?

 

A little longer

A little while longer...

 

 

The Part of Fear

 

Someone whispered in fright,

Of the truths that gossip bring,

The Russians! The Russians!

All pray the power of red!

Tanks with stars and planes with stripes,

Referred to the senders of might,

Creepy feelings, with musty ceilings,

The end begets the peace pipes.

 

Shanti – shanti – shanti –

The last words of poets' great,

The chants of an uncanny peace,

Pieces of hope that cease,

As the levels are grounded

For the walled lease, surrounded

Founded on victories

Pyrrhic and majestic.