Gratitude Under a Red Sky

I walked you through,
The Aisle as it magnified it's reach across,
The vast expanse of Our existence,
Embodied by the subtle radiance the Moon brings.

You smiled in twinkles,
That cascaded through the rippling water,
Under the dreamcast skies,
Studded with Stars that lit up the cobbled stones
Leading to the Sanctity of your arms.

The repetative charade that surrounds this mortality,
So easily broken by a single whiff of your musk,
Akin to the West Wind blowing in another Celtic charm
To appease the torment that seeps through in phases.

Be my Amazonian Grace and fly
Me away to the wonder that lies far.
Far beyond arms' length.
Far beyond human breath.
Far beyond sapien thought,
To immortlise my dream.
--------------------------------------------------------------------


Is it unfortunate that I still yearn?
Or just sick?

The Fall or the Utter Lack of It

With friends on a balmy Saturday afternoon. The clock strikes 12 as we enter the foyer of Koshy's on MG Road. The place has a quaint and laid-back feel to it, something that symbolises the essence of a Saturday afternoon: calm, slow and relaxed, almost disconnected. People of all ages and barriers have converged here. They need their time out - from the routine outside, the traffic, the incessant rantings they receive from their bosses, the constant familial demands that bog them down, from walking their dog just because their wives want them to do so.. and to grab that pint of beer with mates.. It's all there. That aside, there's the prime selection of gorgeous beauties, mildly assorted with freakish wannabes from the neighbouring upmarket colleges; the former basking in the rapt attention that flow their way while the latter try their best and flirt with their eyes to fish for silent compliments. Again, the former are accompanied by handsome men with muscular jaws and in shirts that seem to be tottering on the brink of explosion, while the latter have their own kennel wherein they assiduously maintain a litter of anxious and jerky boys whose jeans barely cling to their waists. Then there are the septuagenarians... trying to forget their miseries for an afternoon with friends. Guess it's all worthwhile.

And then there's us.. three flimsy boys in flimsy T-shirts with flimsy demeanour and flimsy 'attitudes'. We represent the youth gone haywire, ballistic and we remain forgotten.. Because there are a countless number amongst this population who breathe, think and believe the same way we do. And yet are different. And diffident. We're a sombre breed, who take pleasure in remaining anonymous. The things and situations we bear, coupled with the odd directions our lives adhere to, are not the hoi-polloi's cup of tea. We regale in our own brand of sanctimonious black humor. We like our music to be aggressive, mellow and circumstantial. We like our books the be provocative and thought inducing. (Camus, anyone?) We like our coffee black. We like our food clean and devoid of religion. We try to live IN the moment, and not FOR the moment. We try NOT to judge. We like to fondle with imagination. We like to see the world in grey. Black and white is retro. Period. We do not find any holistic pleasure in viewing the world the same way others do.

So we sit and have our food. Our beer. and our talk. Diverse in nature. Music, politics, social and moral apathy, degradation of culture, degradation of imagination. Degradation of human emotions, and the lack thereof. We talk. We feel light. Momentarily. And we move on until the next time we meet and discuss another diverse range of issues that no one would usually think of treading. Therein lies the whole point. Humans are, by nature, and will be, cowards. Sick and nubile cowards. They shy away. They fear themselves. They want to avoid and not confront as they are afraid of retribution. We (three) were too, at one point of time. But life has a subtle and rather sarcastic approach to everything. It exposes you to beliefs and issues just when you don't want them to appear in front of you and scare you out of your wits. It tests you. It wants to see if you're up to the task. If you aren't, you'll put your tail between your legs and cry until a good Samaritan walks in and relieves you of your worldly burden.

And if you are, then you know who you are.

We live in paradox personified. We live in December, perennially. It's always cold, isn't it? It's up to us to find out ways to keep ourselves warm without being too dependent on the thermostat.

I guess.

Skyline

42nd Saturday by Night.
Stars glance through furtive clouds
Against a sky that smells of Dahlias
In the throes of Summer.

79, and one in their heads
Shimmer with delight in the confines
Of the beleagured joint.
Speaking of things lost
Mourning for beliefs unearthed.
Contradiction serves them, dressed in fuchsia.
Appealing. Arrogant. Astounding.

Swallow with a flourish
And get to reside for extended bantering.
Smile.
Please.

42nd Sunday by Morning.
Sun peeks lazily through hazy eyes.
Command. Run.

LUNCH?


The square table sits four this afternoon.
Four from seperate paths.
Aiming to smile with the day.
Unhindered. Unwarranted.

The juices flow.
Creation beckons them with arms stretched across.
Thoughts tumble down like
Cascading white rapids on crack.
Fuelled by the twirling strands of nicotine smoke,
Harking their prescence.

Incidents are exchanged at a feverish pace.
They believe this day shall end with them.
And vice versa.
Yet they conform to the common stand adopted by humanity
To live to see the light of another day.
Another day sang froid.

Dusk sets in as the bubbles in the wine disappear.
Words are spoken without the utterance of a single syllable.
The laughter subsides. Stops short of dying away altogether.
"It's better that way", he said.
"Hope to meet you all next week."
We acknowledge in silence.