untitled (verity)

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where do truths come from and where do they go to die?

in this dreary consolation of time, I can see the whirl
of their wheels, and banished desires living on scraps.

if you’d told me of this night two nights back, I’d have believed
but never more.
who’s to say when the flowers droop and colors fall off of the sky?

it’s an inlaid embroidery; intricacy paves the way for simplicity –
I see babies cooing to each other, and people fucking their lives up
in search of one consoling hand. I see men showing junk, and women
trying to hide their breasts, both from an obsolete sense of loss.

where do lives begin and where do they fall over?

in this nest of living and unliving, dying and undying,
I carve lines into the air, of desire, of an unintended mirth
and we laugh. We laugh, we weep, but we just can’t hold each other.

we just can’t hold each other up anymore.

things fall apart.
my lips bleed, my body’s sore and the sour taste lingers in my mouth.
things fall apart.

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For “A Skyflower Friday” writing prompt at With Real Toads.

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Repository

Within the twisted lanes of insanity, there exist such wide and glorious fields of understanding and clarity, which are but a product of a resounding confusion clouding the eyes, shattering the peace of the mind, almost killing normalcy. Almost.

You feel most alive when you are nearest to death. Similarly, you are most sane when you are close to insanity.

tilting sideways
the glorious fields of gold-
like his mind

I remember standing close to a mustard field, inhaling pollen and exhaling my last attempt at keeping myself sane. I had this desire to fish. To capture a fish from somewhere in that river of yellow and gold. The sun burnt my left cheek and I kept on waiting for someone to bring me a fishing rod.

No one ever came. I am still waiting. In some alternative world. I know that I am still waiting there after these four long years. Because I still want that fish in this world. I lost everything because I never captured that fish. And thus, things can never be right.

I caress the burnt mark on my left cheek.

remembering-
calm of mustard fields before
the onslaught of frost

Within the twisted lanes of insanity, I exist. I am a smiling figure atop that beautiful building you see from afar and you miss out on the spectacle as your line of sight changes. You miss out on the spectacle of how that smiling figure takes a leap from that beautiful building, burdening the air with all his weight.

You do feel that weight with every breath you take.

small buds protrude
out of the damp, heavy soil-
the cold wind picks up speed

~

taking in a whiff
of the remnants of warmth-
I feel cold in my bones

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Inspired from Bjorn’s Haibun Monday prompt at dVerse. I have molded it in my own way.
This is Poem # 2 for my goal/challenge to write and post a poem every day of this month. The painting depicts the wide, sprawling fields of wheat, but somehow, the yellow/gold reminded me of a mustard field sparkling in the winter sunshine.
Image source: View of the Church of Saint-Paul-de-Mausole by Vincent van Gogh.

Liberate me: A 100 Word Story

The train has stopped and I mingle with the crowd coursing out, journeying up to the street where all go their own way. I am on the look out for a library.

I sing:

“Wandering here in the wild
shadowed by the bright day
I look here, there, I’m a child,
liberate me from this dark play”

There is no one I encounter on my path; the sunlight pierces my eyes and I am going blind. The knowledge of truth is out of my reach.

And this is when I touch upon the undeniable sprout of insanity growing in me.

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Written in consideration of Friday Fictioneers’ Weekly Prompt.

Image copyright: Randy Mazie

She

She sneaks behind me,

walking my shadow along incensed path.

She kindles the fiery spirit encompassed in me.

People ask, “Do you see her much?”

I do.

She is before I am.

I am her. My nature she is…

She is me.

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*For Yeah Write Weekly Writing Challenge.

Image source

I think I heard them talking along these lines…

This is one of the two… “J______t”

“My eyes are screened. I had three. I have them still but I can not see. I changed a lot from the colour of sun bathing grass to that of wet sand… and all that I wish now is to see”

“I think you can make up for it by revelling in the benefits of each of your organs.”

“Do you talk about my coarse hair over hard epidermis, those wretched fronds, or my grease; well you sure don’t talk about my milk. Do you? They are not for me. All I have for me are the eyes that I wish I could open and go fish.”

“Ah! You rhyme so that I feel it in my seeds.”

“And do they stick within your fruit and reach those humans when bulbs of your yellow flesh, they do pick?”

“Yes. But they know how to get rid of it.”

“My green, prickly love; how I envy thee and your clinging to the life source, the life-tree. Your heart beats with the earth. I am forlorn having fallen off, sitting atop the sand. I have forgotten the story of my birth.”

“And how I despise the way they stab me and when they wash away my sticky love. I am the pieces in the curry while you form the base of it.”

“How does it matter? We become the food that they eat and into their stomachs we go, giving to the world our last bow.”

“I am rather glad that we are picked off. Wouldn’t it be befouling that despite of our benefits for them, we remain ignored? I say I love those vegetarians.”

“You do. So I do. I feel their arrival. May be they will first remove my blindfold and let my pearl white entrails gaze at the sky so I could cry.”

“And there you go. I shall wait. My turn would come when my entrails would kiss their hands. Goodbye friend.”

~

The spot of the sand where the one who wanted to see rested was left with a hollow, a single long brown dried hair bequeathed by him to the past he left for, for the present, was left in the wake.

“Kalpataru…” A song lasted forever in the wind.

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For Oloriel’s Tale Weaver’s Prompt at MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie. Can you guess the names of the “two people” in conversation here? I have already provided the photo of one.

Image source

A Hot Dare

My father dared me to eat raw green chilli and my mother encouraged me. I playfully took a bite. It wasn’t bad but then, my tongue began to tingle. Ignoring it, I consumed it whole to find my mouth burning by the hotness of the ironically named chill-i. Hiccups followed. I ran to the kitchen to find something sweet to balance the act while at the same time, I kept on gasping for more and more air to soothe the tongue that was painfully revolting against my senses at the time. I eventually found some jaggery and thrust it into my mouth, hurriedly melting it by the combined efforts of my saliva and teeth so that the sweetness could rush forth to procure the territory taken away by the sharp and hostile madness that had made me do what I did.

bit into the veins

ordeals caused by chilli

relieved by sweet gur*

~

playful dare

chilli eaten whole-

a hi-cc-cc-up

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*Gud or gur: Punjabi word for jaggery. It also reminds me of a Punjabi saying, “mar jawan gur kha ke”, which is said when some one comes to know of a grand event/happening, meaning to say that the person is willing to die by eating something as trivial as jaggery(he/she will die off eating jaggery). The jaggery may well be representative of happiness. I will confirm it from my mother.

Image source

The Hero

It was when the hero succumbed to the maenads’ seduction, when Bacchus appeared as the intoxicated child, wearing a tiara of vine leaves; a wine goblet in his hands, pouring the nectar down his throat, aggravating his thirst, as the fluid dripped out simultaneously.

“Uhhh..uhhhppp…” His hiccup resounded across the seven seas. “Come… join me… I have always got a space left beside me for the fools like you.”

The hero, who was still lost in the beehive hair of the maenads, nodded and joined Bacchus.

And this is how the gods took the soul of the last half-man.

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* A 99 word story for Trifecta. The word of my choice for the challenge is Bacchus.

Oil Painting by Guido Reni, titled Drinking Bacchus.