Friday, June 6, 2008
Monday, May 26, 2008
Order in Chaos???
Post a few joints me and a friend decided to play this game where we take turns and write a line each.
Broken strings attached to a puppet with brains. In my mind there is some thing which hurts. Pain – is it real or just a cloud of words humming on my brain? Should I ever meet her. I can hear someone strumming a guitar so cool that it sounds like from a pair of speakers. Who the fuck do you think you are?” And then I love her. I am a traveller. Lands, cities, towns, villages – just pages of the book that I am. Zero. Yes, that’s how I feel right now, said she. And may be you had lost it by then. I bumped on her people who looked suspiciously at me. Kettles blowing steam. Trucks whizzing by. Whores standing for a daily living. The Bombay outskirts can get dramatic at times. Must be 4 AM now. What do you do for a living? You are kidding me. How does it matter. Questions, answers, one-liners, challenges, flirts, sweet talk – it was a bustling office. But there were so many other questions you didn’t answer. How come that never bothers you? The feeling of freedom from firm strings – psychological and physical takes me to insomnia. It destroys you suddenly. But that kinda sinks in very gradually. And then you go, oh yeah! Destruction – beginning or end? I am waiting for a Big Bang at a Bombay outskirts check point. Father or Mother, who do you like more? Silly I know, but it’ll answer a lot of my questions.Her grey blue eyes looked so deep into mine. Help me! Love me! Is she like my mother? Go home you fucking faggot. And then he killed him. An understatement to cold blooded murder. I flee. I fly. No strings attached – yet with a confident sense of direction. Is this Bombay? Beethoven’s broken guitar. Yes, Beethoven had a guitar. An elec-fucking-tronic one at that. I gotta check my email now and delete the spams, you know those ones that sell you long dicks.
Broken strings attached to a puppet with brains. In my mind there is some thing which hurts. Pain – is it real or just a cloud of words humming on my brain? Should I ever meet her. I can hear someone strumming a guitar so cool that it sounds like from a pair of speakers. Who the fuck do you think you are?” And then I love her. I am a traveller. Lands, cities, towns, villages – just pages of the book that I am. Zero. Yes, that’s how I feel right now, said she. And may be you had lost it by then. I bumped on her people who looked suspiciously at me. Kettles blowing steam. Trucks whizzing by. Whores standing for a daily living. The Bombay outskirts can get dramatic at times. Must be 4 AM now. What do you do for a living? You are kidding me. How does it matter. Questions, answers, one-liners, challenges, flirts, sweet talk – it was a bustling office. But there were so many other questions you didn’t answer. How come that never bothers you? The feeling of freedom from firm strings – psychological and physical takes me to insomnia. It destroys you suddenly. But that kinda sinks in very gradually. And then you go, oh yeah! Destruction – beginning or end? I am waiting for a Big Bang at a Bombay outskirts check point. Father or Mother, who do you like more? Silly I know, but it’ll answer a lot of my questions.Her grey blue eyes looked so deep into mine. Help me! Love me! Is she like my mother? Go home you fucking faggot. And then he killed him. An understatement to cold blooded murder. I flee. I fly. No strings attached – yet with a confident sense of direction. Is this Bombay? Beethoven’s broken guitar. Yes, Beethoven had a guitar. An elec-fucking-tronic one at that. I gotta check my email now and delete the spams, you know those ones that sell you long dicks.
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