Exit.

-- I --

She stood at the door,

Her silver stance glazed to the floor,

Staring at the distant waves,

Staring at the shore,

She starts to walk out the framed picture door,

Her hands held up to a gentle wave,

The Lapping oceans,

Solemn glimpses,

Kissed teardrops,

All waving back to an addiction,

Born within the gates

Of love and sedition,

The departure of a borrowed time,

Gone, gone forever,

With its solitary ravages and its sun lit fires,

She stood and waved a final sigh,

She waved good-bye.

--II--

There was sand at her feet,

Flight in her eyes,

Within her sights was the frozen beach,

Within her sights lay cities seized,

Within her eyes swam pink rabbits and honey bees,

Run stains scattered across wonton seas,

Still she waves standing at my door,

My eyes are glued to the floor.

There is a soft water that does flow,

From the ducts emerge a hollow glow,

Watching a drop as it falls

To the carpet on the floor,

She still stands there waving, at my door.

So cruel- so cruel- a maiden of ice,

A time- a life- lived full to its size,

Into the oceans, droplets a dime,

Giving birth to the now and now of time,

The lucid halo of a sun that is a rising,

The golden brew in the golden light is shining,

And as she walks out her steps

Steps that are rhyming.

Why do you continue to be gone?

Did you not hear?

The beach is back!

A start has begun,

A river with its hosts,

Icy maidens and their sand driven ghosts,

You and me ,

Silently,

Observing weirdly,

What we could have been,

Our weakness in our words,

The demons in these worlds,

The distance in these clouds,

All silver trinkets,

All silver moons and silver Junes,

And I’ll be back soons’.

The car door shuts,

The engine growls,

A black puff and a floating sound,

I see my feet turning around.

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The Whistling.

Part I: Dropping.

 

We were songbirds in a lost dream,

Somewhere on a beach, between the icy glades,

Siphoning off minute bits of reasoned time,

For the lewd battles that lay ahead,

With sand beneath our feet,

And Sand in our hair,

Sand in our teeth,

Sands' light reflections

Suddenly laid bare.

 

We were drinking and sinking

Into a silver oceanic chalice,

There was wet sunlight everywhere,

Wet sunlight glazing off our skins,

Falling into our eyes,

Dropping onto our tongues,

We could taste it

The sunshine and cyan,

We could surf the paved liquid tunes,

But nothing mattered, not in least

As we walked towards the beast,

Hand In hand and shrinking

All our sensations blinking,

It was our overtime.

 

 

Part II : Floating .

 

There was quiet under the water,

Safety and subtly,

Like in the womb of the sea goddess

We were worshipping then,

While we lay afloat,

Under the blue crush,

The steel rush,

The moon flashing us

Its sensation staligtile visions,

Shooting white arrows at us under the bubbles,

Arrows of light and pastel shine,

Arrows, electric.

 

We were floating,

On currents,

Floating nowhere,

Floating everywhere,

Floating together.

 

 

Part III: Descending

 

There was snow beneath our feet,

Scratching us in recognition,

Of the cold that seeped

Into our minds and sides,

In recognition of the thawing,

Of the descending,

Of the de-peaking.

 

White from below, white from above,

White from the sides, white from the rides,

White forms,

White foams,

White devils and white Gods,

White clouds frothing

Into the white snow,

The light was white,

The light was flying beneath us,

Into a kaleidoscope of colours,

Some dirty, some clean,

Some shimmered,

While some gleamed,

All victims of an

Inverted white magic,

We were preying on the whistling.

 

Part IV : Awakening

 

I heard you take out your wings,

I heard you flutter,

I heard the whistling,

I heard the sizzling.

I heard us sail

Through the moon light,

Through the laced liquid dynamite,

I heard me take out my wings,

I heard me flutter,

I heard the whistling.

I heard us whistling…

 

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.