Leaky Boat

So here you are, of a certain age, at a certain place, having attained certain things, not having attained most of what you had anticipated, but why be gloomy? Life isn’t always as miraculous as discovering gravity when the accidental apple hits you on the head (just to clarity, Sir Newton never said the apple hit his head, he said he saw it falling and that inspired him, but let’s go with the apple hitting the head). I once wondered what if it wasn’t an apple tree? What if it was a coconut tree? Well that would just mean gravity was a hell lotta stronger now wouldn’t it? Yes yes I am aware the latter statement is quite nonsensical, the poor guy would probably have had his head split in two! (maybe there would be some other Newton or maybe Fewton who would stumble upon this life altering revelation later), but I like being nonsensical. Do you ever sneak a little taste of what it’s like to be a little insane? Have you ever said something obnoxious in public, greeted by some awkward laughter and a lot of judgment? O yes the judgment. Shouldn’t that word be restricted in a court room, never to set foot outside? Maybe curbed by an electrical fence or even those nasty dogs that can rip one’s head off in the split of a second. That would serve ‘judgment’ right. Or are you one of those who never, God forbid and the Heavens come crashing down, NEVER, utter a single word of disgrace? You strictly recommend entertaining yourself for hours on end in your bed room, with a little assistance from your hand, feasting your eyes on beautiful people engaging in the spectacular baby making process. You are quite the saint.

Wait I wasn’t speaking of judgment I think, no I am quite sure I had something of utmost importance to unveil to the world, and no it wasn’t the fact that I must rest my bottom on one of those devices which so competently vanishes my excretions, but does leave the occasional odor lingering around like a street child next to a white boy in the streets of Dhaka. I should also admit that the odor isn’t always kind to the senses, just like the child who having lost his patience, yells out something obscene or better yet, spats for a lack of attention from the alien. There is nothing tantalizing about the odor, like the boy, its mostly repulsive, but see I am not to be blamed for the odor, let alone the boy. I try to be a tranquil human being (the operative word here being ‘try’), but my stomach - my stomach is a whole other story. My stomach has a life of its own – ‘her’ own. I say her, because I don’t think any man, homosexual or not, could possibly have obtained the intense PMS syndromes that my stomach so benevolently exhibits. There is no way of calming her down; give her some milk she throws up, give her booze she goes bonkers and give her coffee and you would be very very sorry. She is like a tempestuous termagant whose only reason for living is to torment those unlucky enough to be around her, but what do you do when she is inside you? Yes, what do “I” do?

I am a tad bitter today I must admit. It would have been quite amusing if moods could be altered like food recopies. Too bitter? Add sugar! No, I won’t ramble on about why I am bitter, we have the television channels for that, and I still find it hilarious to the point of obnoxiousness how they have to telecast the news on every channel, every hour. Yes we get it, we are in quite a bit of a mess, we had been sodomized time and again, but need we be reminded of that every hour? How a son slit his dad’s throat, how people are starving, how our Prime Minister changed the name of the airport? – the last one is actually healthy for us, it is hilarious as hell! The two leaders of our nation are immensely humorous, we just don’t get their sense of humor. Ignorant, arrogant us! But getting back to the news, it would be good to air more TV shows that entertain people, not make them more morbid.

Wait I think I missed something of importance here, now what was it? Why Ofcourse! What could be of more importance than the USA? And how they want us to send troops over to Afghanistan to help people, you know like assist the elderly to cross the street, help kids learn the alphabets, feed the poor, basically everything humanitarian, which Emrika (I like it spelt like that, suck it!) does better than none other. But I say NO! We are a people that kill parents for land, beat our wives, throw acid on lovers when the ‘love’ goes bad, and we basically survive and thrive on corruption! How could Emrika possibly think we would want to aid them in their mission to harmony? I say we stand our ground and be belligerent selves! We are not the people who help assist the elderly cross the road, we throw them under buses! But Emrika, wonderful Emrika, with their compassion and words of wisdom may actually lead us to a better path, the path to Afghanistan because there is almost none who can refuse the helping hand of the God of this Earth. Emrika.

Enough with Emrika, Heart has a new album, and to all those who don’t know who they are, you should still have enough working brain cells to realize that when I say new ‘album’, they must be a band. If it hadn’t occurred to you before, then I am sorry to be the one to inform you that you are an imbecile and a bloody good one at that. Ok I surmise I took it too far; there, that exemplifies that I am bitter. Anyway getting back to Heart, I was never an ardent fan of Heart but there is this particular song called ‘Queen City’ which I had been constantly listening to for two days straight now. It could be the vocals, the melody, the guitar, but I am certain it has something to do with the lyrics at the chorus –

Yo-ho, yo-ho, gotta keep afloat
Crazy cradle in my leaky boat
Yo-ho, yo-ho, gotta keep afloat
Crazy cradle in my leaky boat

Leaky boat, tell you mine is as leaky as a 1 year old’s bladder. But now that you are no longer one, you get no diaper! I am as ignorant about boats as I am about Star Wars (yes, I haven’t watched it, sue me!), I can’t mend the damn leak. The shore is in the distant, and in the undulating waters, the damn meat eating monsters are floating in harmonious vice with their jaws wide gaping, staring, waiting; the taste of blood is too intoxicating. I look around and see pairs of eyes silently observe. The shore is far. I am afraid, very afraid. Gotta keep afloat my friend, gotta keep afloat.

I Am Not A Poet

I am not a poet. The illusion of it seemed too appealing to discard and hence along came some words, lines, even poems, but I am certain now they couldn’t have been poetry for I am not a poet; not even close to a drop of ink that some god awful poet used to draw monsters with.

A reporter maybe, but as my eyes feast on the horror that were my glorious published words, I reckon I am far from it. There is a rush about being a reporter, something exhilarating, orgasmic even, and once you’ve reached it you don’t want it to end. But as I read more and more of what I had been so proud of, I find the void in them deepening. Some lack life, others lack a proper choice of words (quite assured I haven’t learned that prowess yet) and some are just plain dumb, like the boring, abysmal concert review I once wrote; the only console being the concert itself, which made my review look like a little ecstasy pill.

A writer? I don’t know. What is a writer? Someone who belts out words and puts them down on paper? (wait, I shouldn’t let my mind wander into thinking that people still write on paper especially when I am typing this out in the magical Microsoft Word (all hail Bill Gates)), or is it someone who belts out his emotions, his heart, maybe a bit of his gut too in his words and splatters them all over paper for the world to read? What is the difference really? Words are just words, yet somehow there exists a discrepancy that is almost as vast as life and death. Am I a writer? I don’t know, but here I am writing.

I have always wanted to be a singer. It has proved to be quite an ambition now with my dying lungs and off beat vocals, but there is something about it that pleases me. No I don’t need a critic, I am my own worst critic and can tell when my rendition of a Black Sabbath song scares the dogs away, but I don’t want to sing Sabbath. I don’t want to sing about the devil and satan, or the intricate bonds between them, or how both are just as ludicrous as the idea of me winning in a fist fight with a grown man (wait correct that, a grown boy). I want to sing because I want to, just like I colored my hair blue because I wanted to. The grotesque part about this is how I never opt to do the things I want to do, it’s almost like the universe has me on a leash. Or maybe it’s my mind.

I don’t like conformity. I am however honest and will not dare to say I am the biggest non-conformist there ever lived, I am the furthest from it; but no not proud, the furthest from it. Conformity, it’s laughable. Conformity acts as a haven for all the chaos, injustice and malice there is. Conformity, it’s a bit like cancer, it multiplies and then slowly kills you.

Sleep and I have the oddest relationship. I want it when I can’t have it, and when I have it, I throw stones at it and scare it away like a stray dog. It’s here but I refuse to acknowledge its presence, I don’t have my stones, not even pebbles, but I wish to drive it away. I don’t need solace in sleep, I don’t get it. I have nightmares and not the kindest ones. It’s ironic how I drive sleep away and still crave for eternal sleep. The Gods are probably hysterical with laughter; I can be quite the comic.

Note Book

I look for an outlet
For my anger
My fear
My desire
My tear;
I float quietly
Gravity can’t contain me
But these strings I can’t cut off;
One day I will get a knife
Put a hole in your balloon
You will fall
You have no strings
You were so proud
Now you fall;
I won’t look down
I will laugh,
I will wait to hear you hit the ground
I will laugh again;
I didn’t get my outlet
But I got you
You are my outlet
My torn empty note book

Proud

I may have stolen a line
Maybe even a note or two
But the song I sing is true
One day I will make you proud

All That I Wish For, I Don’t Want To Wish For

Sometimes I wonder
If you really are all that I think you are,
But you are merely the silhouette
Of the tainted perfection I crave for

Sometimes my mind plays tricks on me
Makes me believe in them again
In the cruel hollows I thought I once overcame
Walking backwards was never fun,
But I find it hard to stop

Sometimes I wonder whether I am stupid
Now I am certain I am
But your clever eyes knew all along
The pleasures of your disguise,
Sicken me to my core

Sometimes I think I can be strong
My strength is evanescent
Like your promises;
I am a hypocrite
A creep with obscure musings
Maybe even a liar too,
Yet I could never be you

Sometimes I think I will have you
Just the way I want to
My mind mocks my ambition;
You can never be what I want you to be
No one can, but I cling to a bare hope