Cotton

Sex is more exciting on the screen and between the pages than between the sheets.
Andy Warhol

And in dreams.

Crank calls galore. I gave you away this morning. To an unknown voice.

"Why are you so quiet?"
Silence

"Won't you say something?"
Silence

"Am I bothering you?"
Silence

"I am slipping away."
Silence. Ultrasonic Boom. Reverberations. Bat on a witch hunt. Dog whistles. I hear more than you say.

Trial Jittery Shutterbugs

Look ahead. Danger lurks. Shadows scream. Lonesome, abandoned: the civilization prays for extinction. The vultures swoop down. Snatch the last flesh of human pride, still clinging on to the bones of history. Genocide never looked any better. Mass graves unmarked. Skeletons abhor. Waiting for an autopsy. Post millennia.


All allusive. Boundaries blurred. Waiting for the words. Homicidal tendencies for friends. Left all alone. Fear. Of forgetting yourself. Silence. Not golden.


Nuremberg, 1945. Terror simply exchanged hands.
Jonestown, 1978. 900 cyanide angels. Hysteria. Suicide cry. Injections sans needle. Babies breast fed poison.

Sleep satisfied. Everything in control. The world is in motion. Everything is alive. Flowers bloom faster than babies. Sleep satisfied. Find yourself. Cheap self-help books. Strength of soul. Power of mind. Compete. Watch your step. Calculate. Cold. Die.

Ram Misunderstood

You look hot. Like the tip of a burning joint.
My fingers singe when I lay them upon your skin. But I am glad they didn’t when I lay four of them upon your forehead, looking for traces of a fever.
No it wasn’t burning. You were fine. I was glad.

Each finger is a flame. Wings scorched – the mynah flees the ancient Lankan flames which still licks the skies. It sits on a mangled branch of the seething trunk. The mynah watches its own pyre in its own eyes.
They mistook bloody bronze for gold. I mistook gold for bloody bronze.

“It is intentions, it is fucking intentions I tell ya.”
It is intention that gets it all wrong. Intention catches hold of life the wrong way. No intention – whether good or bad holds any water. As soon as intention creeps in – take my word – consider life dead.

True or False?

Sometimes I can hold my trip still. Not letting it ride over, not letting it slip away. I balance my trip on a certain plane. Between Level X and Level Y. And those are the times when I keep awake. Awake for the chewing gum nights.

And in one of those nights - I've found you. Curled like a forgotten necklace.



"You mean to say I am lying?"
"Exactly so. I woke up at 4. I woke up at 5. I woke up at 6. And there, Mr. You - snoring away peacefully. Not a stir. All that shit about holding your trip and bla bla bla."
"You woke-up?" I asked. "You opened your eyes and saw me?”
“Yeah. I did."


Now the truth-finder points at you. “Did you open your eyes for me?”

If the cat wasn't dead, the cat wasn't curious

I curiously scanned across the panorama. I thought I was walking alone. But I turned my head to find you by my side. You were catching up.


Curiously though, you walked on the sand without leaving any footprints behind. Will you do that to me? Walk over my soul without leaving a trace behind. I am sure you can't. There is no way. You are maybe lighter than the air, but my soul is lighter than you.


"Exactly. That is the whole problem. Why don't you add up some weight?"
"Hah. So that I be like lead. Grounded, dead. No babe, no way. You flutter around like a dead leaf in the desert storm. I want to be like you."
"No way Mr. You can't be like me. Can't you see?"
"Why can't I be like you?"
"Because you are already like yourself. You can't change the basic constitution. If you suck, you suck. Simple."


"Curious Cantabili. Will you be my friend? I am sorry and I am wasted. I need some place to sleep tonight."
"Crash in Cantata Canister. Lets have some Molotov Cocktails before we sleep. You can be here. Right next to be. I wouldn't mind."



We'll sometimes open our eyes and stare into the dark ceiling. The fan would dream in a rotational trance. In a trance. The fan on a groove. Ready to drop over us. But hanging on, still.


"Curious Cantabili, I would like to inspire a revolution."
“Fuck off Cantata Canister. We'll talk tomorrow morning."

Scabstraction

“Why do you keep shredding them into pieces?” I asked.
“Do you need a reason for everything?” You asked back.
I kept silent. I keep silent.

“But our brains keep talking all the time. Non-stop. And if I could shut my ears from my brain, I would’ve.” Added the man with incredibly small ears and abnormally big head.
“So the ear works backwards too. There must be earholes inside our faces. And then, it’s the same with our nose, isn’t it?” Continued the big-headed man.
“What about our eyes?” I have asked you that question many a times before.
“We are blind” – you stated nonchalantly. Still wielding a pair of scissors, legs folded, body rocking back and forth. You looked up, without lifting your head.
“Stop observing me.”
I did but I didn’t mean to.

Amused as you suddenly were, you looked up into the skies.
Alas! There isn’t a speck to be seen. The sky wears an overcoat tonight. Opaque and furry, like the Russians.
Slight irritation encroached upon your eyes.

It’s itchy in here. It’s the humidity. It’s the sunken wall. It’s the shredded roof. It’s the wet trousseau.
It’s nothing.

Eyelids heavy. Anklet feet move no more. Drifting away...you smiled. I kept waiting...awake.

The withdrawal

You may wonder, “Hey what’s it that he’s saying.” And it may spell genuine concern. Because it’s not everyday that someone uses words like ‘inebriant’.
“Was he high”, asked the lady with a long nose which cringed when she caught his eye. No one answered. High for the long nosed lady would only mean heels. I noticed how quietly you placed the half-smoked cigarette, dropping 2 gms of charred tobacco on the crime thriller cover. I blew the ashes. You still were in doubt. “Is this what he means?” A ball of muck on his fingertip underwent close scrutiny. Eyeballs rolled from head to toe. “Are we here to sit and stare,” he asked. No one spoke. They all stared.

“His sense of tense is terrible,” said the lady with the long nose. “That writer who has an obscure past,” she continues.

I am glad you didn’t mind my inadequacies. I couldn’t have covered them. The corner at which the two lips joined, there was a small drop of saliva. You cleaned it with your left thumb. “Are you always vague,” uttered from the now dry lips.

Two archs in your body faced each other. One curve at your navel, another at your knees. Like a perfect S. Like a perfect serpent.

“Why did you call me an ophidian?” Remember how you’d squeal?

“I didn’t,” there was remorse in my eyes. I did call you names.

“Can you pass me the ashtray?”

“There is no ashtray.”

“There it is. Right there.” You pointed out.

I still couldn’t see it. I was unsure. Whether to believe in your eyes or mine?