'ODYSSEY'.

Couldn't help but feel there was something stellar about this. One of the most accidental of things, though, I don't remember, I don't even know if I intended to write anything on these lines, and the beginning hardly seems to be a 'beginning', or so I think, but I love the way it shaped up. Not like 'self love', I see it through entirely different eyes, a sort of self to non-self admiration, which would mean it's only true that I consider myself the creator solely when I create and I'm just another person when reviewing what's been created. Same crazy fan, same ruthless critic. But only saner, I suppose.

"Shuttle to that forlorn star,
in gases, through,
in void be caught;
paying heed to hasty hit,
plastic sheet on cosmic drip,
frosted in, from fall to fall,
when in her heart,
would warmth embalm...

A thousand miles in years,
in trance,
from stagger-through
to float, enhanced;
in tranquil rid, this siege reside,
in dream, in dream,
in dream, no sight...

A flash, a burn, a shattered vibe,
of blindness fee
for truth imbibed;
her eyes, her eyes, for self abscond,
for fear and doubt,
in hope be gone..."

To you. I see no other place where this could possibly come from. I don't see where else this could go, either. A picture to adorn what's yours: Your name. Enough said.

ANTI-THESIS

It's not out of frustration that I've finalized, it's because I thought it was a wrap and that the only reason I flicker so frequently, is because it's the sort of thing one flickers about: It's an outlook. And what occurred to me as really pensive, really thought-out thought now sounds (not absurd) but a little depressing, you know. Maybe it was a whole different scenario back then, and maybe right now I can't afford to be as depressed as I was then, like I have this new cue to life that I didn't, back then. But what matters is that I wrote it out and it's the same as what I posted yesterday, you'd know if you visited back then and you're dropping by again, you'd see the change. I've only added a little more, and touched a little.

"Always, always looking
for a half a mind over the other half,
always looking for the second laugh;
ever dying, for the name in your name,
and you never know
that you're only as close
as you're far from it..."

Half in tune with 'Wheel' by John Mayer, 'Heavier Things'. Half in tune with who knows what, the above lines have nothing to do with John. I only didn't want to taint that song, I couldn't bring myself to write something else for something perfect, it seemed criminal. But then again, something happened, something changed, made me understand that what moved won't move without what moved it in the first place. All the time that I thought that I was right, only to realize that I've been a little off-course. 'Anti-thesis' hardly seemed to be the 'deconstructive' title, and I guess that was what I intended before. To be deconstructive, to totally deconstruct an outlook to life and name it my 'Anti-thesis', and in that I was to advocate how we all 'long' for things, when we could actually live with what's in hand, because 'more' is just more than less and less is a little lesser than most 'more'. That could possibly shrink one's state of mind, extinguish desire, maybe even bring about world peace. But I don't think I need that: Can't say the same about the world, though.

So I stuck to what comes naturally to me: Cynicism. And in case you get it wrong, I need to clarify that my 'cynicism' isn't about scoffing at stuff, maybe it is but that's not the whole point. It's the 'dying want to be disproved', that's how I define it. Eighth prospective addition to 'My Book of Rhymes', after a long time. I need a party.

VERSE.

I wasn't sure of anything when I wrote this. Thought I had it done when I rode back to my room, wishing to flush it off my mind, onto here and for all I know, I might as well have stopped with the whole thing, deeming final that which didn't even make it to here, but something didn't feel right and I couldn't possibly have gone ahead with what didn't appeal even to me, that's a disqualification at first level, a debar. And then this came along, unintentional. Iced-punch over a furnace, and I thought I'd take it, for I'm burning already.

Inspire within, an inside sight
from myself to myself, a window:
an 'inside in' for outside view,
an orphan gift of escape route,
of citizenship of world bereft,
of sunshine, oceans and buckets in red,
dripping of this melon slice,
on featherbed tongue
with my nose on my eyes.

I was delighted when I was done. It's the sort of delight that engulfs when you had no idea as to what you were doing when you were doing it, and when you liked what you got when you thought you were 'done' (although you would have had no clue as to whether you were really 'done' when you thought so). If you do not empathize with this scenario, then find and replace 'you' with 'I' in your mental word processor. I'm sure it takes lesser time.

On shallow convention, and law abide,
'unrest' is my word, whilst you belong
to dream, to sleep in world of song,
where rugs are warm, rags in knit,
thirsts all quenched, of fires unlit.

This fits too, strangely, and this is officially what missed out, being an entire mismatch in intention and purpose, it was an aberration for sure. I wanted this out of that document.

ANGRY CAT

I don't know when exactly this happened, or maybe I do. Wait, yes I do. It was when I was making this right turn on my cycle, inside campus (I'm sticking to just this detail, because people outside might not connect right if I got down to particulars) and I thought, "and so, the angry cat said 'I'm on fire.'". I guess it had something to do with state of mind (as if it it's not, any time!) because I remember that I was being rather 'angry', because I know I was angry the whole of last week and it was only the night of Friday, the nineteenth that was an exception (not to mention the early morning hours of the twentieth) and I didn't develop on that, I merely had this idea where a cat gets set on fire (an outside act) and it sets itself on fire (an inside, personal act) just to counter the fire that's been set on it. Like, fighting fire with fire.

Collar tight,
whiskers spewed,
a sunset stare
with frisks of fuel;
an arched stance
to face her tired,
the angry cat said
"I'm on fire."

It's not unexplainable that everything I conceive always makes this shift of perspective... no, not of perspective, but of subjectivity, from me to 'her', and I guess it's always something about her and it's like I cannot do anything about it. Because that's 'her', you know. That's you: Someone this poem wouldn't exist without? Yes, pretty much.

I made a document called 'LITTLE RHYMES' and I added this to it, along with my previous one. That means I'm sticking to my word, with PVA glue. (No idea as to what that expands to)

BEWAILING YOU.

Little thoughts that come and go, and I usually let them go, always hoping for the really big ones to come, or else stretch the little ones to something big, perhaps so much that it ends up sounding odd than convincing. I guess that's what a 'mismatch' or 'inappropriate' means. So, as a new resolution, I had decided to not let the little affectations leave unseen, and I have resolved to not make a mountain out of them either. Let them be the sand dunes they are.

If you are just a wisp of smoke,
that deep inside, my lung behold,
with every gesture,
every quote,
a tenner touch, to thousandfold;
and poles of heat in cold, apart,
my force of say, this wind retards;
in heaven stead,
in hell construed,
struggling for a moment's truth...

But you are just a wisp of smoke,
in daffodils and diamonds, clothed;
no ocean strained,
no feather moved,
as off my chest, to the world I blew.

I wish this comes to be the first of many. It feels bad not doing anything, but it's worse to leave something hanging, I guess. I won't do that.

ANTI-THESIS - DRAFT ONE

A long thought process, this. Started with a death that I felt nothing about, save for fear at a very personal level, not involving the world. Actually, it started pretty much before that, about a week, I guess, and I just had this little thought, a line that bumped into my head:

"existence is but a little more

than the absence of the same"

Fairly deconstructive, if you look deeper than the surface (although, I don't think you'd have to look that deep, really). But on the whole, it's an excuse. To me, 'living' has been but a sort of duel against the odds ('odds' in plural, I'm singular) and this new way of looking at things can mean two things at the same time, to two different people. There'd be the existentialist, who'd like to 'live' and live to the full and he (or she. No gender issue over here, but I'm a boy) would interpret this as a go-ahead and not get obstructed by obstructions because 'obstructions' are only at the other end in the concept of a 'free road', and what's an obstruction today can only become a free road, because that's what it's defined to be. Of course, this is just one party I'm talking about, while the other could take this to be a depressed state of mind that's like, "I'm only an inch from death and I'm feeling happy about it. How's that?!" and it's more like a challenge to oneself to get depressed because that's what one feels he (again, no gender issue) ought to be doing, so I guess you just do what you think you ought to, even the most emotionally constrained.

"Everest:

you're ever so low,

standing upon you, now

there's nothing to score;

filling the seats,

in fighting ignominy,

there's just too much

of being, in being, to be;

I want my house to stand, still:

I go easy on the tilt;

not a sound louder than my mind,

but it's alright, it's alright;

a figment of freedom,

a bit of outside when within,

I know I'm already out, but then

I'd only find my way in, again."

First-up, I think my writing sucks right now and that I shouldn't go ahead with it until I'm sure I'd like it, because hating oneself is not the most desired thing to be doing. At least, to me.

On my part, though, this is pretty much an 'Anti-Thesis', but I do not know to what. Maybe it's a counter to myself, to whatever I've felt and I'm just thwarting the genuinity of feelings, maybe I'm telling myself that this is all there is, like how Matthew Pitt concentrates the universe to a point, with the thought-provoking monologue in Bertolucci's 'Dreamers', and I do not really know what I get to gain or lose from this.

I'd let you know when I'm anywhere closer to sure, but then again, what's 'sure'?

'WHAT IS LITERATURE?'

Not the question I’ve always asked myself, rather the one I’ve evaded the most because I know that I would come up with a thousand explanations, none close enough to the actual truth, in case I asked myself this. It so happens that I like telling myself that ‘I’ began solely because this girl liked me that way. That I decided to stop killing ideas because she said they sounded fair enough, being alive. It could be the truth, for all I know, and it could be a whole different dimension far from truth, for the same. Of course, it is fanciful, writing to a crowd that you know would read you, or writing for that special person who exists to complement the existence of the writer in you, or some portion of the lot that you would appease in a way that would never happen if you didn’t deviate from being the ‘ordinary you’. And it is an end in itself to assert that you write because it gives you pleasure, or that it puts you out of pain, in which case what’s important is not the effect of the words but the effect of the writing of them, the effect of being rid of what you once felt to be full of – A scratch where it itches, of sorts, while sometimes, I feel that I write just to see how good I sound and it feels good to see the final cut, the last draft, the end result of a process that you tend to forget about once it’s done. Of course, no one would ever dig the source of a song once it’s been sung, for all we know it might as well have been a bunch of jarring melodies, non-sync, but put together, it makes a song. A song that sounds good, that too.

So, why write?

Fell out of the sky. I wasn’t looking for it in the first place, and neither have I kept tabs enough to start a scrutiny on Sartre, it was merely an impulsive reaction to put me out of a present state of chaos, but maybe only to a chaos different from this but a chaos all the same. It’s always reassuring to know that you aren’t the person that you were: makes it sound like progress was an inevitable intermediate even if ‘downhill’ is all you’ve gone. All the same, I like to think that I might and that I would get something out of it.

I need a reason to read. Never had one.

DON'T CRY, CHILD

It's for you, you know. I mean, you drove me insanely crazy when you came up to me and told me you've been crying your eyes out and I don't know if I could stand that, I mean, your eyes are the best part of you and I don't think anyone can ever brace himself enough to stand the fact that you were going to cry them out. And I turned numb, you turned me numb, not knowing what I could do to help, the least I could contribute. I directed you to 'Failure' by Laura Marling, she's a darling of a musician, always manages to charm, with all of the twelve tracks out of her debut album. But something told me you needed more. Meaning you deserve more. Probably more than this poem, but this was what I wanted to administer to you instantly. More like a hasty shot to an impending illness. Here's what I'm proud to have written.

Wither to the world and die,

the leaves that you never touched,

while the ones you did

would stay alive,

for replenishment is but a process

that knows not, a world without you.

Now, you might know

that this world’s a world

that makes clouds out of men,

women no less solid,

no less dense,

and how everyone

must leave the sky, sometime;

when you do is of least concern,

for what matters is where you go,

what matters is who you reach…

Not that you’d ever want it this way,

but to me,

you’re a raincloud in my hair,

would only spread if I scratch,

and I would wish I could grow it more;

that I could grow you more…

Your tears don’t deserve

the prize that you give them;

but then again,

you were always the silly girl

who gave more than she took…

Don't cry. You're worth more than your tears, and you're definitely worth more than this poem. :)

'WHAT DO YOU THINK I AM?'

where aphrodite is

live in los olimpo

I’ve always had this vision for a long-form concert. Goes back to when I was the backdoor anvil boy who dreamt Aulos, and I guess I could dream even now. But music is not a dream, it’s beyond a dream. It’s what’s there, it’s real and it’s all there, except that you don’t hear it because the door’s shut and she’s got the key. Same as the key to poetry: She holds it all.

I took my time. Still didn’t get it, though. She’s just giving me sneak peeks, inches of progress. I’d get full-frontal when I’ve got my foot, but for now, here’s the inch that I managed.

I got half her mind but a zero claim,

‘cause of a distinction of a ‘different lame’,

like I was born to lose and I can’t sustain,

What do you think I am?

A little closer when the day begins,

a look at my mind, you turn your back again,

a shifting road’s the shape you’re in,

What do you think I am?

You have me number but it’s always you it’s for,

What do you think I am?

Am I the fowl you flayed, for a feast that’s on?

“Get us a plate to serve Hephaestus on”,

better be sure before you taste me, son!

What do you think I am?

You have me number but it’s always you it’s for,

What do you think I am?

Burn me some light as you tie to this stake,

the fire could be mine, so see what you take!

Let me wave to my world,

she won’t mind that you’re late:

What do you think I am?

What do you think I am?

No one to listen to the blues anymore. No one to sing the blues, it’s all just ‘I shit you because you’d shit me back sometime’ and it’s sad how people don’t actually get sad and fall into this… moody depression, where you write her to fight her, and that’s what I’d like to be doing, because that’s what I’m all about.

First prospective single from ‘where aphrodite is: live in los olimpo’. Cry with me.