Patti Smith and the fear of … letting go.

On nights like these, with my fairy lights blinking bare, I listen to Patti Smith croon turbulent verses of despair. Hair disheveled, bedraggled with a T-shirt spelling “Fuck the clock”, in the wee hours. I listen with time measured in noughts, a book on Bezos and bots. A ratty old speaker and a warm blanket, the pit in my stomach is a gorge of mutated madness. I heed to it, I inch closer to the arch. I want to dive headfirst but I fear the fall. This idea that tendrils of control escape me is a mortal folly. That I would lose some vestiges of the sanity I had expended on collecting garbage. I don’t know if my convinction stands true..Patti croons one of her blues. Ironically, it’s Cobain’s ode to some wild teen spirit that manifested. It sounds melancholy, it sounds hollow..The gorge widens.

What Failures Teach Me

Like the scalding morning brew sipped too hot.

My failures reduce my ego to noughts. And leave miles between a frivolous dream. My will to function, caustic, mocks. With signs of upheaval closer than before, not a viewing mirror thus labelled so.

My failures have taught me to bite the dust, chew it until you draw blood. Then spit it out, cast the doubt. Simmer, scald, but don’t combust.

They teach me to seek spirituality, while lurking across a church in a ghost town. They demand, you answer, there isn’t reason for a devout.

My failures consume me. They define me at times. They pillory the essence of the person I was, then step back to align.

To the person you should become. From a spurious genius to maybe..really one.

Isn’t failure a test of patience?

I don’t know about you, on limited fuel it runs.

That about sums it up. It’s a temporary gateway to hell. A Chekovian dysphoric spell.

Or an Orwellian truth? Robotic domination is closer. Might as well bask in the truth.

People..Help The People?

Caress the strings of a harp perched on heaven’s pearly gates. Or caress the earth upon which treads the love of a man called…stranger.

Worship the altar upon which stands the holy mother, the orphan boy prays, incandescent flame flickers all the same.

Find the sound of morning azaan piercing the fog in foamy winter spray. Or the bells of a temple pealing in the devout redemption of a mortal led astray.

And we stumble through the rituals as if they are meant to be. Unasked, unfettered. Perplexing regardless

How strange it is, the agnostic believes when brevity knocks on his door offering flowers

Time is measured in teacups of carefully concocted draught

And we are nothing but mere extras with a walk-on part in a play. Who’s the protagonist you’ll ask? And he’ll smile upon you with amusement alive in his eyes turned grey.

What’s the point of this desire? The conflagration of a funeral pyre? what’s the point at all.?

Of a war declaring supremacy. Or territories annexed in cruel disbelief. What’s the point of anything if we are devices created by deceit?

what’s the time constraint of human life created by human myths. people wearing disguises, shadows with pale figures and icy fingers


the cold ones. The dead  and gone. People. Help. People.

what a forlorn song.





to those on whom calamities befell. I mourn for you.

Curse, echoes, reveberates and comes back. Perchance,perforce. And the cloud of smoke.

dissipates and the blur remains, we are doomed, a stormy spell of rain

wrecks havoc, frozen bodies churn black gold. Where, where is the sense in this impending war? But you’ve taken, and taken, and hence now forsaken

By a mother, who weeps in this outpour. By a foamy shore, with a monstrous roar

Uproots the foilage, bends and shakens. The earth beneath my feet, had I worshipped it’s grains

The leveller, reduced to mortal shame. lies dispersed in ashes and dust,

Weary bones simmer and combust. The leveller ploughs the soil anew, tragedies passed on the land that once bloomed.

Freesias, my bouquet of sepia

Rest, for you found your doom.


Frost says the world shall end in fire or be frozen in time. Nostradamus begged to differ, and some 500 odd years ago. Decided that human decadence reached its prime.

Though you shall not agree, his beliefs were inclined. Physician turned seer, the man donned many hats. Suffice to say for this prophecy, he needed no lab rats. And declared the apocalypse is near, the Great Waltz shall end with one last dance. Even if you pick a partner, the music will fade per chance, and thus, you’ll linger on shaken grounds, flooded ballrooms. And the starlit night shall betoken your doom

And you’ll just stand and stare, the world you once knew blares,

Alarms, drum beats, warning signs with no thought to spare.

The words left unsaid, shall remain so. As Nostradamus claimed, if not of proverbial end.

Then perhaps an implied acceptance to one. That time, shall die in it’s own time, and thus has no beginning if I don’t take into account the big bang or its vast application, but, I have never been good with theory of everything since there is none to chaos…I seek reason in the vaccum, truths without cause. And so did a crazy prophecy, that hyped what was, bound to take place.

And hence, Nostradamus lives on. For when the day comes, no one will know, so shall you reap, is what you sow.

Subtle Subterfuges

“She walks in beauty”, Byron’s never been more astute. She walks in and time stops. Tick, Tock, goes the mundane clock, brick by brick the facade of control. Contorts.

She wrestles out of the garb of routine, slips into my arms. The scent of vanilla as she hums Delilah, an ode to lover’s tumultous yarn. I smile into her hair, stop then stare. She looks up, false alarm. The wrinkles wane, in my desire or want. And neither moves, in pulsating calm.

Without wasting much breath, I pull her lips to mine. The world dissolves in passions, sublime. And her eyes close, she’s gone and lost. Lost before her time.

The caress of a lover, as she pulls her sheets and tucks herself in. And forgets the world, lights dim.

It’s us against the world, always. Or the wretched clock perched on the bedside, so says. It blares every morning, much to her dismay.

Her romance with the duvet, ends bleak. She gulps cup after cup of liquid brew, willing against sleep. Before grabbing her keys, looks at me with longing.

“Long day darling, don’t wait up” walks away, smiling.


I throw caution at the wind, suffice to say, I haven’t sinned. I grit my teeth, grind my feet on a steep decline.

Fidget, falter, fumble, in laughter, yet water soaks my spine. I weigh the odds against no cause, of feeble noughts.

I stretch miles, jumble the signs and weep with the lost. Take no pride, as you walk beside, chimneys unfurl the cloud of smoke. And a quaint hut perched on hilly suburbs, is my humble abode.

Cautions are statutory warnings on a box of cigar, you’ll smoke. And thence be told, it never gets old.

Your age outnumbers your loss.


I wear your signs like a necklace. Traces of you cling to the heart like knives cut skin. It’s a penance perhaps, since holding on is a shot in the dark. I shall wear it, until my skin burns. Poisoned and green, suffice to say. I shall wear it like a bad omen, reminding me of all the hate. I shall wear it and the silver will corrode. Just like blind passions run amok. 

I don’t wear it to remember. I wear to forget. Once surrendered. Twice a reminder of the bitterness.


My friend was a Pandora box of warmth

So careful with words, a box of old world charms

Let me confide my deepest fears, gently dried my tears.

My friend is a page turned, dog eared. Ink smeared. My musings scribbled in periphery.

My friend is an old book. All yellow pages, crinkly.


Singularity, the concept of space and time that has never found its feet firmly in science. A continuous spectrum where two related yet distant waves shall converge. And thus, you find abyss. And plunge deeper until your freefall comes to a standstill. By the one who pushed you in the first place.

Whose papery smiles fed your ink. Whose viridian orbs, pulsed blood in your veins.

With whom you had your first drink, now drink to submerge in swirls of pink.

One. Is so overrated. Romantic ideals that poets drew their art from. One. Is sometimes a fantasy cleverly shrouded by storm.

One. Is earth. The lunar and the solar. One is heart. One mind that channels all this singularity on two hands subject to gravity yet fall on frictionless paths of tragedy

One was you. One was I. One was also a reason we wonder why.

One is a charade for the naive and pitiless descent to a crevice

One was a once upon a time turned to happily ever afters but one. Was also a sweet disaster and your wish upon a star, or a meteor shower. You’ll never know.

One blow was all it takes for a somnambulist to fall asleep, and one was also a heart broken piece by piece.

One was you, one was I. One was also the law of gravity we defied.

We fell, we fell. Incantations and spells. Sprinkle pixie dust, in either my desire or your lust. We fell. From the edge of precipice. Science’s cruel device. Gravity, yes. It held too tight.

But one, was all it took to come undone.

I’d laugh in your face now if you ask. my maths is limited knowledge. I’ll start my countdown from 9. Skip the one, erase, distort, smudge from the lines of my fate and give you a zero. How’s that for a sign?

But one still lies, with no axiomatic ties and we believe. Simply, because passions a dying breed and one, leaves with a thud, basks in grief