Dust in a cloud, blinding weather,
Drums that rattle and roar!
A mother and daughter stood together
Beside their cottage door.
“Mother, the heavens are bright like brass,
The dust is shaken high,
With labouring breath the soldiers pass,
Their lips are cracked and dry.”
In some time I am up in the air
Signal to noise
Radio waves
Human distortions
Voice connections
the free form 2 hour slot has been accepted
my ears are bleeding
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Because your voice was at my side
I gave him pain,
Because within my hand I held
Your hand again.
Chapter 1: Watermelon
Sickening sweet taste of my childhood, bottled up, in peaches, white grape, and vanilla. Smooth but sour. Childhood, my land of enchantment, life, my ever lasting childhood. To write is to step onto a magic carpet and fly off into endless trips of nostalgia. Despair tastes sweet, like peaches, and white grapes, and the smell of vanilla. Personalities contained in bottles of scent, fragrances defying analysis. I am passionate about the sense of smell, taste, touch. Vision—the looking at the surface, it eludes me, it leaves me utterly befooled. Nothing is to be trusted except the most banal sentimentalism. I form my conclusions only through pure, heart wrenching emotion. And that’s where it all begins.
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Phyllis is my only joy,
Faithless as the winds or seas;
Sometimes coming, sometimes coy,
Yet she never fails to please;
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It always ends in the same manner. The flickering flame that dies just before it reaches to it’s most glorious moment. I wonder how long does it take to tire of something that never came to you easily in the first place.
Not long, I presume. People of tragedies can never become fairy tales. Their endings are always tragic. And sometimes, hope that came in bits and pieces, chokes off and dies. More
The third valentine handwritten scrap for Huma
I read this and it really shook me
Sometimes it’s the hardest bit to do stuff on your own
You know
The next time I am in your city, I would love to go and meet your mom with you.
Hold my hand if it gets hard
That’s what hands are for
His hair went silver while mine just went.
-Stephen King -Dolan’s Cadillac
Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn,
Grew lean while he assailed the seasons;
He wept that he was ever born,
And he had reasons.
Miniver loved the days of old
When swords were bright and steeds were prancing;
The vision of a warrior bold
Would set him dancing.
Major Major Major Major had had a difficult time from the start.
Last week the Sentinel Bonny Baby Competition was held at Prince’s Building. And late last night the body of a dead male baby was found, neatly wrapped in a brown paper parcel, on the rubbish dump at Cocorite.
I have seen the baby and I am in a position to say that it did not win a prize in our Bonny Baby Competition.
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Wanted a dog to pass the time.
-James Joyce -Ulysses
Today, I have decided
to read every poem ever written
in the short history of our civilization.
I know it is a selfish thing
(12:93) Go with this shirt of mine and lay it on my father’s face, he will become a seer
My bed is shaking. I open my eyes, my bed sheet is soaked with sweat and nothing is moving. It is said that when you experience trauma, when something bad happens, when a train hits you, it takes time for its after affects to show their face.
It’s been a week since I came back from volunteer work and Farhan has had the same experience.
Late at night, when everything is silent and the streets smell of the dead, our bodies start shaking and it seems that another earthquake is coming and death is sliding through the floors.
