Haverford

[Another 10 minute poem written in Zurich. This one after a short nap and quick meal (also directly on the computer).]

Here I sit at the edge of Haverford

Watching the younger scuttle by

They brush past, they shrink on.

A wide gale of laughter,

My soft whimper of woe

Some boisterous, others unheard.

A hand whisks above the golden grain

Feeling wisps down below,

A tickling tendril totters up

Gushing giggles guffaw out.

The soil takes me in from the toes

I battle and win, but who’s to show?

They plunge down with sudden force,

The stabbing frost grasps me, clenched.

Such a feeling I have often known

Since the days of graying cold.

Now I court chirping birds

No longer being the one in Haverford.

[I came up with this while reading Beowulf. Go figure...]

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Undersaturated Overtones

[It’s been a while since I wrote something in under 10 minutes, sleep deprivation was the cure to that. Here’s a poem I wrote at the Zurich airport after the first leg of the journey to Chicago. (This is one of the few things I’ve ever written directly onto the computer).]

In a rush we scuttle and scamper,

Teetering from one end to another

A delicate feel of movement

But not much else.

Here we are, confined,

With no place to go.

It mushrooms within

Regurgitates itself time again.

You wonder at it,

Stare at its

Strange balmy pleasantness.

This is the end, here we go.

A feeble fluttering,

A sweet sensation,

An indication of final presence

Suffuses when surrounded.

Thinking of the inevitable

Just as we go.

Now we meet,

You and I.

After weeks of rumination,

Reflecting the inexorable

A breathless sigh in satisfaction,

Alas! we can go.

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NovelRace

[Here's a tiny extract from what I've written for the NovelRace. I've hit a colossal writer's block and might just drop out.]

It's a stale, permeating taste. Sucks you dry of all senses besides the light buoyancy of your stomach and the levitating tendency of your chronically lightened head. Wait fourteen hours for you next meal and you'll know the banal rotting feel of your tongue with its gossamer like dry surface. A certain peevishness seeps out from your choleric palate to everything around. Your eyes remain utterly focused, and your brows furrowed until the final sigh.

After removing myself from that familiar cesspool, I headed to yet another so as to play away my senses. A well-lit, unobtrusive corner in a large, labyrinth of a room is ideal for draining sensation. For company, a small cup with its inadequate handle, holding a strong brew and light froth arrived on a tiny saucer. A single sip diffused across the appeased muscle, delicately spreading its wily harshness to the extremities of taste.

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Grimly Fluff

[A future classmate complimented my blog by calling it friggin awesome and strangely adorable (I'm quite grateful that the adorable is at least modified with a strangely). This reminded me that I have a blog and so, thought to update.]

Vasudha recently wrote about her unfortunate but delayed realization that everyone is dead. Whether it be Feynman, Dirac and Fermi or Wilde, Hemingway and Buchwald or just your good ol' crazies like Vincent and Dali.

Doughlas Admas died. As did George Carlin. Michael Jackson died and discovered normality. While Brunetto Latini died and met a Minotaur in a fiery desert. My grandfather died at the wheel. My great-grandfather, in his sleep. All passed away, passed on, expired, departed, gone, no more, late, lost, perished, deceased, with God, asleep, slain, slaughtered, murdered, killed. In addition, this past fortnight saw the death of Eunice Kennedy and Edward Kennedy. Les Paul's dead as well.

I'm not really going anywhere with this since death is not much of a topic for debate. Nothing unexpected, just quite wretched. This was just a handy excuse, if ever you need one, to get the blues.

An explanation- the reason this is yet another fluff post about the on goings of life (or death, as it may be) rather than progresses in writing, is because I haven't written a damn thing of interest in a long while. Though, three weeks ago, I did join the NovelRace! But, in following the visible trend of disappointment, I haven't added a single word to the "novel" in a week. Instead, I picked up a different genre, mystery. Vicariously living fantasies of gruesome torture and butchery through writing may sound disturbing to some, but I found it cathartic. That too, should sound disturbing.

That's all for now.

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Careful

The clock showing 3 AM inspired me to write something, anything rather. I tried a new tack, I failed but the rubble is below..

Here I am seated-

In the silent corner,

Atop a minor dent.

Soughing breath,

Fitful hands,

Restive lids.

Careful, though.

Melancholy music

Of coloured song

Shuffles through,

Chances brick walls.

Notes whisk back,

Tousled and turned,

Ephemeral and ebbing.

Foot grazes carpet

With periodic tap.

Fingers itch

With tedious plan.

A bead trickles,

Diverging from a mass

Ending desiccated, defeated.

Darkness impregnates:

Crescent unseen.

Searching for abyss

Facing banal grey,

Philosophy forsaken.

Focus closer

Upon lined sheets,

Imagination mislaid.

Three assemble

In gradual procession,

Stare in silent pause.

Song fades,

Foot follows,

Eyes sigh.

Careful, though.

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Vengeance

God takes revenge. Evidence of fact:-

My IP address has been blocked from his site.

A few days ago, I wrote the first draft of a story on my laptop (up until now, I always wrote first drafts on paper). Before I could save it, my Mac decided to have its own first by crashing.

A day later, my Twitter account was hacked into and now it's been suspended.

The very next day, I was savoring the flavour of bile the entire night.

And today, my iPod died on me taking with it 20 gigs of my music and some great lectures, none of which I had backed up.

Here's some sage advice for you lot, never piss off old, bearded, sadomasochistic, egomaniacal men who only worked for 6 days in all of eternity. It could come back to bite you in the ass.

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