Wooman's day!

Having had the social media scene in my virtual vicinity erupt with endless articles, voices and opinions about rape culture, women’s safety, the polemic against the recent documentary and the government, has confused & worried me in the last few days a lot more than it does usually. A chronic helplessness has begun to take over upon realising just how incredibly far away we are from being civilised members of a society that actually understand ‘freedom’. 

Almost 57 years ago, this country achieved independence. I sometimes wonder what that really means outside of the ritualistic patriotism and lip-service-love for the country that becomes available on two days of the year. Have we released ourselves from the desire to oppress others? have we even tried to define what it means to be free of ideas that used the narrative of inequality to oppress us? The end of imperialism as we knew it also meant that to some extent even those in power had realized what was wrong with the ideology of supremacism or the ideology of inequality. (or so we hope)

However, we do not yet understand equality - neither in terms of gender nor in terms of wealth. Lets start with gender identity. Your identity is seemingly codified by your sex organs at birth, this method is not correct, but until the collective consciousness doesn’t accept it as erroneous, we will be doomed to continue living in a world of stereotypes far far away from the truth. This is dangerous because often stereotypes become the code on which culture is built. A culture built on exaggerated generalizations and offensive over-simplifications is not a rich culture, in fact it is a culture that is weak at its seams, that will most definitely find its downfall after its short sighted goals have been fulfilled.

But even so, we continue with the false ideas of what it means to be a certain gender. Choosing to override individuality from the fear of missing a particular gender boat. Of course, Biology has pre defined certain physical roles mostly in terms of reproduction and physicality. But what of the realm of identity - how many of our beliefs and inclinations are the result of social conditioning? 

One might argue that one shouldn’t go against nature, but haven’t we already done that with modern medicine extending life spans, indulgent lifestyles encroaching upon and destroying what is in fact the sacred cycle of nature, unearthing dangerous and poisonous substances to make life on this planet more ‘successful’? Then why are we so uncomfortable about changing the status quo when it comes to gender?

When equality precedes gender based identification then, who we are as individuals becomes more worthy an idea than being the embodiment of masculinity or femininity. That is when we will learn to engage with each other in a truly cognizant or productive manner. It will be a time when body language that is unconstrained will not be categorized, habits formed, would be the result of the individuals thought process and not by the the influences of product selling ads that are very happy to maintain the gender divide because its easier to sell cars that way; Some people will be from mars, some from venus, some from jupiter and so on.. Perhaps all bodies will be equally sexualised or maybe we’d have had enough of unnatural sexualisation anyway. Maybe the connection between pre ordained genetic make up resulting in a certain kind of beauty/strength/intelligence will be more visible and we’d be less likely to care about the results of competitions that are basically just judging what your genetic code has to offer (...even though there is unmistakably a lot of hard work that goes into these as well)

But its important to remember that this is not a dream about utopia, because people will still be patronising, there will still be crime, bigotry, fanaticism, greed & pestilence. It’s more like a silver lining. Humans unencumbered by gender stylings and stereotypes, thinking up new insults because calling someone a ‘girl’ or ‘gay’ would just not be insulting anymore.

Having just one day of the year dedicated to women centric marketing strategies is just not enough. Not that an ‘International Men’s Day’ would help balancing things out. But maybe if we can all learn to figure out who we are outside the lines of gender, then maybe just maybe we can one day having marketing strategies that capitalise on our universal insecurities and not just the gender based ones, to sell us stuff that falsely cajole us into the delusional stereotypes of success and happiness.

Oh wait. That part is already happening!

Filled

Figure fighter forlorn finch, fickle feather feeling plot, pleading pickle puckered mouth, pretty putty perforated crap

The Cure

All the orchards bloomed with innocuous parties, there loomed a large and unfriendly table cloth above their freshly opened eyes. They had expected a wild night of fun & frolic, but none dared open their eyes to this large table cloth that loomed. They were under its translucent magnitude, green, blue and black eyes all blinded by its soporific brilliance. Saved only by the deep sea under their feet they stumbled in cryptic circles holding bum cheeks and what not to preserve their mental calculations. The eerie orchard air expected a yield from these poor stumbling fools, who you might say were no more important than flatulent fruits that have gone off sailing into idyllic horizons.

Those fruits labored intentionally towards becoming light and frothy. A heady mix of sweet odors and mulch, to be frowned upon from lofty pulpits. Long tunneling visions, the prevailing darkness filling up tooth cavities and hollows of the body. Sweat clinging to musty walls and air unmoved for time unknown. Voices speak too loudly in this echo well. Wide wisdom bells clanging in the distance, some people know what time it is. Your vision never clogs up or dries, like they say, festoons and ribbons in your mouth little girl. Why do you beat me with that stick?

Speaking in bird voices. Is it a last resort for the lost voice, rejected and thrown into its dream bed, left to float on endlessly, looking and hoping for material transactions that will bring it back to life. Each nectar filled kernel despises the tool used for grinding out treaties of justice spells.

Fools

Tough take on total waste of wine filled wisdom seats caught under the brimming sea made mistakes of fulfillment. Counting the ages since frogs descended from the heavens, who needs to help the crying symptom of total mishap? A swiftly conical projection emanating from his tiny opening that wished to die. Explicit devouring of danger traps devoid of trance whips and cool aid drips. Can you wish away the travails of trees gone grey and sad perspective of collage cream.

A similitude dreamt for figuring out seamless cares. Sentences live and die, unscrupulously driven to change the warp and wharf of reality.

Whose will can that pretty leaf want to destroy? As if it were conceded to defeat’s kiss, in putrid deaf dots connecting unique claims of quiet disdain. A hostility refrain, one you never chance to forget solely on the sight of a deep catch. A vile being, regurgitated from repetitive tales meant to walk below conned division of willing thought osmosis, not meant to be divulged or driven to destructive thought. Definition woes of serial blasts occurring in the right pre-cortex.

Stile

well, seems like a distant growling
the cats stomach that is, growls mysteries to her mind
and she leaps,
afraid of the foretold lightning bolt
assured of the might of witless dreams
she tumbles abundle along solitary roads,
naps and stumbles awake
along the nile.

Allowed Seamlessness

Overused words mouthing final goodbyes,
nonchalant excitement dreamt up on cold mornings,
the joy of finding treasure in someones eyes,
an ugly murmuring under a blue sky.

FO

the fear, the fear, the fool
the fool, the fool, the fire
the fire, the fire, the soothing lie

foiled feeling of festering dreams,
...aren't we all dying of fearful fallings?

she seemed almost insecure, frantic in her movements, the air of an undefined goal. A carnal disposition to dismiss.

The safety of the adjusted and reconciled is a defiant negation to change.

Madness should be about spirited creation, one that elicits rumor and myth.

Treatise

Swallow a sweet sounding salt dressing.
Meandering the wispy wisdom, fully aware of clothed tales of lies.

Lost ladle of affection,
woeful treatise of abysmal truth.

A kindhearted beginning to a collection of injurious self entitlement certificates.
How pitiful when trust runs dry.

Dystopium

red apples in the sun
retreating into infant-hood

grey clouds stand thick in the sky
threatening that cave of mine

baby girl loves the sea

Jumble word stories revisited due to the forceful ambush of sea breeze against the tree leaves. Transported into a medieval past ashore, while staying enveloped in sea.
Juvenile diasporic rituals abound in despair.
Chance upon a wound and numb histories revealed.


Inconspicuous riot of travel germs

unfounded victories

unfounded fetuses

falling fellatious felines and frolicking fruit

A friend tells me, my despair is my own creation…a state I like to be in, something that helps him absolve himself from me, like all the others, I feel silly, I see truth in what he says, it makes me hate him. I see a future of never ending loneliness. Its just me, convulsing at the enormity of what I am convincing myself, that loneliness is my predicament, a punishment, an unjust punishment I have meted out to myself to convulse again sadly at my reflection, there his words speak again in my ear only its my reflection speaking.

What is an artist?

It’s a rare species they agree. Weird kind of humans they say.

They are even rumored to read written text backwards & paint from their assholes.
Apparently, they raise their eyebrows until their forehead merges with their skull, until their tongues are lolling & itching to pry their own eyes open. Their bodies decay faster they say, grow roots into the soil or into coarse gray marble. Sometimes their veins reach out from under their ribs & join the electrical wires of a radio!

Their reflections talk back to them sometimes & sometimes their breaths scorch the paper. Ink runs thick in their quills like blood. In cold winters, they sleep open eyed with their toes in their mouths. Inside their beating hearts is a cold, blue stone that would glisten like a king in the sun, but it hides among tumultuous gray veins that pump sugary molten blood.

Its said that they swallow rude winds & rigid forests. They steal firewood & burn hair in the night-lamp, while they swig bottled blue wine that sparkles in dank cellars. Their words are empty sometimes, their meanings true. As their tails stomp the earth, the dust risen climbs up rusted rails into gloomy golden skies sometimes.

The Immortal One

Time is immortal, impersonal, and harsh. You can never forget time; it keeps ticking away, mocking your righteousness. Then the darkness overwhelms you, strangles your senses while time stays untouched. The nonchalant companion sits guiding the day, as you immerse yourself into the heaviness of the dark cave. The shades of black move in tandem to the loud echoes of the town clock. Entranced & confused, you shudder in that formless manner, evading that feeling of existence & truth.

You hear a sudden intake of breath, but where is this wide open mouth of yours? In the formless black, a gasping mouth stays forever frozen.

The story collector…

When the sky blushes for the dark night, my silent footsteps yearn for light. I tread wispy into houses possessing air that smells faintly of cooked oil. There I, shrouded in whispers, drift around the colossal rooms, with loud triangular symphonies raging within the tunnels of my head.

Everything is dark, papery breaths fill the chests in the sleeping beds. In one room quietly blossom particles of light, their soft laughter dances around the sleepless woman’s grave unrest. She stares wide eyed, frozen in a plane of vision. The bees buzz industriously around her nose, the eyes follow; they enter the nostrils, penetrate the brain, swim in colored matter and come back out, ceaselessly repeating.

I sigh needlessly. She shakes out of her buzzing stupor and turning off the lamp twists into a position that pleads for rest. The covers release the air as they slowly mould themselves around her dreaming body.

The curtains swing up gently and caress the sleeping cat. It wakes up & looks at me keenly, its gaze so penetrating, my inert body trembles sweetly. I tend to some wholesome milk hidden away in the kitchen, unveiling it to the curious cat that spies defiantly.

It rejects my friendly offer; vanity is its jeweled crown, the breezy darkness is my only cloak.

Silence

What do you see in my silence?

Do you not see a rummaging of thoughts? a rearrangement of gestures? the traffic of muted judgments kept aside for they only amuse? Do you not see me take pleasure in the calculated imagery of myself and of you... the slight smirk that suggests presence, the forlorn gaze that belies presence, evoking a mixture of curiosity and defiance?

Confused by the lack of communication, you speak with averted gaze, a harsh and uninviting tone.

I am now cold.
Not a single word has been rescued from the dreamless mist, not like before when they were warmed on a wooden floorboard and they donned an actor’s shoe, to dance the image within that dreamless mist... Only the fire crackles emptily, the red embers, suggest a dreadful reckoning.

Panicked, I pick up a deep crimson ember, twist it into a word and fling it through the mist. The mouth has stayed shut for long; the hinges have forgotten to open. The flung ember hurtles into the unopened mouth, singeing the soft innards of my lips; my mouth opens in a frenzy, the ember shoots out, all the while transforming into a sound. Your eyes react to my blundering voice, as I sit astonished at the timbre and strangeness of my voice. A stranger has spoken and while you wait for my familiar voice, I am lost again in the sea, listening to the thrashing waves on a distant shore.

A prophecy

It had seemed effervescent, the wooden floor squeaking and the squeamish laughter. The boy held the dense sword ready to strike, muscles tensing under a teasing smile. The silver-eyed girl raised an eyebrow at this noisy fly that lurked about her nose. The smile grew wicked and the sword plunged down in mock fight.

The sword had meant to stop inches away from her stomach, yet it thudded down ferociously, as the girl slyly rolled away. The shocked moment turned against the boy, as his leg twisted and he fell heavy onto the planks that murmured slightly in protest. Giddy laughter filled the room as sword boy and silver eyed girl clumsily fought for reprisal.

Nodding affectionately she walked out of the room towards the kitchen, listening to the dry sound of her footsteps, as the two thudded away. She filled the kettle with water and put it to boil. The window spewed cold dewy light. The mist had set herself down pleasingly against distant gray mountains. It was real. This tumbling landscape, the music wafting on the chilly winds, the mock sword fights, the stolen kisses whispered to wet lips, and the breathless climb up beaten paths. This was all true. It had to be true; she was in it all.

She sighed forcefully as the water began to boil and saw herself standing crooked at the window clutching a steaming kettle. Her heart missed a beat, she clung dreadfully to the present, it seemed to be fleeing into a cave smothered with past memories and the sneaking future. Their glow, blinding and alive, bounded her; her leaden legs wouldn’t budge, the molten darkness chanted the melancholic tune of her enslavement. Time silently observed, rigidly unperturbed by her drowning screams. There was no future, no present in this cavernous pit; there were only glimmering, endless echoes of the past.

Butterfly Glee

On days when the sky is a deep happy blue & the wind shivers gently on your skin, fragments of myself emerge before me. I imagine. My hand a crumpled, decaying mess of loose skin, dehydrated & annoyingly eerie in this beautifully radiant weather.

The sweet porcelain tinkling of bells caresses the wind. One must feel compelled to smile. But all I think is of withering, frowning, disheveled skin. The stench is beginning to tickle the fragrant air of butterfly glee.

A large bouquet of deep red roses sits pricked on a bare back. I bend closer, anticipating smell; fetid aroma of blood greets me pungently. My body wretches while the effortless smile paints of me a grotesque picture.

The frustrated baby has cried for long, the unslept mother delirious in her exhaustion stifles a grotesque thought of murder & mishap, “rock-a-by-baby-on-the-tree-top….”
A cold rhyme.

99 86 04 82 77

How my mother remembers my phone number

99 she is the ninth child in her family
86 the year I was born
04 the year this flat where we live, was booked (the exact date was 04/04/04!)
82 the year they (my parents) got married
77 seventh March is my brothers birthday

The Cave

Time is immortal, impersonal, and harsh. You can never forget time; it keeps ticking away, mocking your righteousness. Then the darkness overwhelms you, strangles your senses while time stays untouched. The nonchalant companion sits guiding the day, as you immerse yourself into the heaviness of the dark cave. The shades of black move in tandem to the loud echoes of the town clock. Entranced & confused, you shudder in that formless manner, evading that feeling of existence & truth.

You hear a sudden intake of breath, but where is this wide open mouth of yours? In the formless black, a gasping mouth stays forever frozen.