bobby mcgee

Fight in the bar

2010-05-15T08:56:00.000-07:00

Light on feet

Spite on lips

Lit up a bored room

Spit bubble bath

Hit the nail

A little beside the head

And the glass

Coy as spring kissed girls

Tinkled before shattering

On the floor

Encore

Sozzled men

Sizzled for a second

Then lights out

Saturday Night

2010-05-15T08:55:00.000-07:00

A Chicken flight

To the ceiling and back

Next week will be better

Next life will be eagle

Higher on crack.

Tom and Jerry

2010-03-30T13:15:00.000-07:00

Grimacing Jerry
Had a beer belly
Since taciturn Tom
Left the slapstick home
And lost his way
Among
The alley cats who think
All day of ways
To win
The whole world back.

A Three Liner

2010-03-28T11:56:00.000-07:00

This insanity shuts me up
And me makes me worth
The silence

2008-04-21T09:07:00.000-07:00

Today:

Ran a miracle mile, a song of hope, extracted from the poverty of pop, I want to write my hand in to your glove, to fit and then unwrap, kicked in the gut, birthday party from tomorrow, without the sound I cannot unwind, yeah, one two three, this is not my tongue, this my forked tongue, true to love, so true lip bitten blue, one face to another , yo-yo, crashed in style, no no you cannot ask me to be special, or the other way around, electric, electric evening, sparks of boredom, short circuit to endless nights, sleep in the morning, now I must rest, reset and relax, fax resignations, meet with quizzical greetings during lunch, ask me how I m, I have learnt to smile, just like a photograph.

Tomorrow:

Aged fourteen, jerking off in pretty teacher panties, heard the warm hiss, snakes surprised morning university, I want to dream, into sneak peaks, seven thirty dates with censored Bollywood, Manisha Koirala a princess in need, be good, be good please, don’t disappoint a multitude of one, two or three, count like king with pocketful of sixpence, bite of the bit, that he or she won’t chew, lining up a shot in pleasant dark, elsie whimpers and dies, a pair of spikes, dirt cheap, on the sidelines for ever, then burst open for fifteen minutes, hello son can you speak in English? Nahi, the north now has conquered me, come tomorrow, come quickly.

Yesterday:

Cloud cover, every night we smash a mercedez benz, Joplin laughter in choppy waters, I m coming home baby, following a tune, no pied piper shit, rats scurry over my feet, with no respect for rabies, or plague, create a commandment, tattooed on the forehead, just above the cut on the eye lid, will let things slide off, will learn the secret of the electric eel. Will start a forest fire at the first opportunity, and then run, taking queue yesterday will turn into today, fritter away, fritter away, chirping peacocks, thank you for the world and everything. Morning prayer , our father the earliest riser in the prettiest heaven, have mercy.

Fictionesque

2008-01-23T08:53:00.000-08:00

Should I keep it short, or stretch it to the elastic limit of possibilities? When one writes one opens up too many doors, of redemption, perdition and little gigs in between.
A little story to keep you engaged then.
A narrow lane carved up to its innards leads one to a room. The houses on the sides are like sagging flesh, one fold flowing neatly into another. Only women with brightly lit stars in their eyes, and no memories in the morning decorate the entrances. She spits without spite. The white inside the mouth mixed with liquor and lust is cleansed with the froth of the toothpaste. Nevertheless she is not our story. Little necessary digressions. For you reader I’m being inordinately magnanimous. Take note.

So we are still walking if you remember. Just turned the corner and not blindly mind you. We do have somewhere to go. The man we will meet is called the bone. Bone lives at the end of the lane where it splits into two. A possibility that you wouldn’t have considered, but then be patient, there are many things you and I don’t know.
We are still walking and you tell me, “man how long will this take? I’ve to go home, I’ve to meet someone, I cant loiter around here for the rest of my life.”
If I start taking you seriously enough, soon it will spill over to me. Then we will be friends and take note of the time strapped on our wrists and I’ll ask you questions of comfort and despicably we will start talking about home. Style my friend is my essence. For the reader and you I cant be so magnanimous. A man should know when he is conquered.

Bone was style.

When I met him he was dressed impeccably in a rainbow shorts. Bringing up the rear was this solid yellow shirt that would shine from the moon or mars.

At the end of the lane, at the root of the split, on the uninitiated left hand corner there is a curtain. A monolithic monster. Now, stripped of its powers, it falls limp.

Should I make this a little dramatic for we are about to enter. In the heart of the boneland.

Since you keep silent, I’ll not ask again. What are you thinking of?

Bone as I pull the curtains slightly apart, asks me in. We have enough money to let him know that we are significant.

Meanwhile the Auto we rode to come to the mouth of the lane had another story to tell. He asked me how I was. I was taken aback slightly. I hadn’t had anyone asking me that for a while so I muttered something about my general well being. . He was to the point and direct and asked me if I could buy him a bottle. I told him that I was constrained and had only this bit to spend on myself. From then he kept quiet.
Only strangers can be so kind.
The curtain after we entered slipped into its impotent monstrosity.
Bone asked us if wanted to chase here or go into our little hideouts.
I said maybe here.

Only then smoke rings made sense.

You talked about your uncle who would search the nights with his pipe gun and scribbled things on the walls. Paintings like that could be maintained and understood by blood. And what I once knew to be politics.

Don’t get me wrong , there was no sweetened nostalgia that was suddenly let loose.
Your uncle had a woman he loved.
She now teaches economics in California.

Bone I don’t know, he had too much, to love, or to sell.

Whatever.

Someone who probably doesn’t even know what it means told me, that this is a word that describes a generation.

Bone had a pair of shades precariously balanced on the edge of his battered nose. He looked at you as if the world was on even keel on the bridge of his shapeless nose. I think he knew that he sold dreams that wound up like hour clocks. That you and I would come to him even if he didn’t call.

How can I tell you about his arrogance? Shahrukh Khan with his dimples can probably replicate.

We were then ordinary mortals.

So there was this circle where what we were chasing had to be shared. After a point of time people were tired.
You and I had to leave in different directions. For we were not brothers.
Bone had his shades off

Even if it did not fit into your calculations, you must pretend to be kind.

See. Bone still dressed in his exquisite best had things to offer.

I do have the time,
But i m sure that you have somewhere else to go.

So that is a story I told you before I found her on the tree house. Right.

What tree house?
The one on the Peepal tree.

Yes that was a palace. There was a television set in one of the rooms. It buzzed and burped throughout the day. Sometimes it had pictures too. Very happy people on it became quickly sad and exploded into laughter the very next moment. Sometimes they also exploded to bits. There was something about the nature of electricity. How it moved with the speed of thought.

At least that was her explanation for the intermittent images on the television set. She told me that when she had come down one afternoon. She had to buy shells.

Sometimes I went up and found her sleeping. And I wondered what she dreamt.

She told me that too once when she had come down in the evening. She had to buy beads.

I dream of question marks. They are arranged like dominoes. They move like ballet. Other times they crash into each other and become skeleton keys. All the doorknobs are broken. Then it is an exercise in excesses. Surplus.

I told her that it sounded more like a batman flick.

She was a little annoyed.

On a stormy night the sound of the creaking wood would wake me up.
I would wonder how she was and if there was any help I could bring.

It was easily decided that there was none.

This was all before they came for the little piece of land where the peepal tree stood.
On the tree as you will remember, was the tree house. That was where I found her.

There was to be a car factory. They would build cars that would be extremely inexpensive. Then everyone would have cars. Everyone would zip in and out, go to wherever and whomever they would want to, meet friends, who would introduce them to their friends, who would then shake hands with their other friends and everyone would thank the cute little cars that made all this possible. Happy people then wouldn’t become quickly sad. Anymore.

But small steps of prosperity first. The tree was diced. The house came crashing down and split open without grace.

I wondered how she was and if there was any help that I could bring.
It was easily decided that there was none.

She wasn’t anywhere to be seen.

Someone later told me that when the cars hit the road and brought mirth all over the locality and the world, she was seen driving one through the highway that led to city of lights. The city of lights is another story. If you are patient and willing I’ll tell you about it. Later.
I was also told that it was a stormy night.

If it were you who was to tell the next story, what would you say?
What would I say?
Stay.

It rained. A sign. In the palace at the end of the river the ministers were preparing for battle. The king was yet to wake. The woman wrapped in Venetian silk from the neck to the ankles had left his chamber. She had been called last night before the rain set in. The man who never spoke had come to her with a box. It was a message from the king.
Why didn t he speak?
It was said that on a brilliant afternoon when people scrambled to the shades of their homes he had come across the king standing silently by the river.
From a distance and only from a particular angle it was seen that ‘the man who never spoke’ went unto the king. With only a few short steps left between him and the king the wind began to rustle unnecessarily. Brittle, yellow dry leaves swirled around like inhibited lust. The angle was lost. Nothing could be seen after that.
A group of people (who fiddled with papers from what they called the past and very frequently screamed at each other in shrill of voices of disgust, leaving only torn bits of their hair, beards and their precious papers, on which they would start again, poring over them, setting in motion a chain of events that they tried to break.) would later claim that though the wind disturbed the angle and the visual event was lost, it was immediately replaced with a certain aurality. It was heard, though in indistinct voices stripped of their individualities, someone said, ‘brother’.

Now there are many such groups and they have their own stories. Belief is something that is left to you and most of the times since it is not happening to you or me for that matter, we need not be terribly concerned. Trust is a tricky thing.

However it may be, from that day the man who never spoke discovered the never in his name and has been faithful to that sense of eternity in his christening ever since.

The box he brought to the woman was made of azure glass. It reminded the woman of her eyes, she was used to senseless depth.

The morning when it broke was creeping into vacant spaces of a wet sky. The ministers had their maps on the floor. There was to be battle. The cannons had been lined up, the men dressed to meet or deliver death, looked unusually cheerful. Only the strapped horses, through the shining blinkers seem to read the sign of the rain.

The night rushed in. It hadn t stopped raining. The wet earth on the bank groaned slowly to the weight of the army.

And there was an enemy too.

White as the sinews, these people were traders of the highest order. They traded in tea, cotton and hats but their real business lay elsewhere. They were traders of the soul.

The man who never spoke was feeling a little unwell.

The king charged with disciplined rage. None followed. The king bawled, now indignant with confusion. The cannons remained stealthily silent.

The king turned around and he could only see white. A sickening colour of defeat.

The woman who was no longer wrapped in Venetian silk was informed that the king had drowned while trying to cross the river while fleeing. It was said that he had to swim with one leg and one hand for the others had been cut off. He was doing a good job out of reduced resources but then only laughter could be heard and everything else they said melted into that laughter.

The woman after the informer left ( and someone else had come this time , not the man who never spoke) went upto the window. From here one could see the end of the kingdom and beyond. The woman for a reason unknown to us longed for the man who never spoke. Then the river slipped into her vision. And she thought about the king.

The river reminded her of her eyes.

She was used to senseless depth.

Are you comfortable? Maybe a chair would help. Sit back. Don’t relax. And remember, please, do not enjoy. I m an MTV hybrid walking aimlessly, checking out ipods in the fading evening lights. Somewhere I could also be a Greek or the last letter of the alphabet stream-a Z. I could even become Cyrus and crush you in my fists. What do you want me to be darling? What do you want to see?

Cyrus was a great king. Greater than our last one. X was this other smaller ruler of a tinier kingdom. But he had ambitions. Being close to the Greeks and spending enough on their Parthenons this small king thought he could match upto Cyrus. So before battle he went to the oracle of Delphi. Now the oracle was a kind man or a woman. But then she was tired most of the times because here and there without care and only despair people would flock under her wings. She was created for this very purpose, but there is only this much despair that oracles can take. Nevertheless this small king came to her and asked her, if I go into a battle now, what will happen , o great oracle tell me…

There are things that moments don’t take notice of. For example as I told you the oracle was usually tired in the evening with the day’s despair hanging on her without remorse or shame. And she didn’t like the look of the small king. His little moustache stood out like an untamed arrogant forest. He walked with the ignorance of people who do not know that that they know nothing. It usually is very irritating for people who do, and the oracle did.

So the oracle decided upon a game. She said king when you go to battle a great king shall meet his doom. That was that. Visiting hours were over. Being an oracle doesn’t mean that you don’t sleep. Only owls, only owls remember. Also they are not extremely bright let alone wise.

Battle ensued. Cyrus blew away our little king and put him on a pyre with fourteen other pretty boys. In between our little king asked Cyrus for a small favour. He wanted to go to the oracle once and rebuke him or her for her lack of, what shall we call it…..ah .. foresight. You are exceptionally bright my reader. Slog on. I m sure your body is decided to make love tonight. You are on the look out for love. Sharp. Alas our little king was not like you. So he went to the oracle and asked her for an explanation ( should I foot note? Do not forgive my lethargy I ve a right to be lazy, but yes Cyrus was a great king and of course he let our little king visit the oracle, one last time) Hear.

Little king: Oracle (bitch if you are a woman, son of a bitch if you are otherwise) you told me a great king was going to meet his doom in this battle, what happened? Have you lost your soothsayer glasses, or are you just growing old?

Oracle: Son, I m not just a bitch but one in heat and let it remain at that. First query answered. Second son, (pay attention you who read me your lover hasn’t arrived yet, don’t be impatient) you did not ask me

WHICH KING?

2008-01-19T02:03:00.000-08:00

What is the point? Cartographically or otherwise one answers in terms of direction, imagine the usual, crossroads, four way exits, or entry, whichever way one wants to see, usually away, farewell bash? Perhaps. Goldfish sewing forgetful flowers, not quite in full bloom, is interested in the texture of things, will move down south to become hollywood. That then is a point.

2007-12-02T16:01:00.000-08:00

Fish and Bull stories are not always pleasant. Especially when they are precociously gifted. Especially when they can change into each other, where bulls have gills that breathe in the deep and fish has horns that tear apart clumps of hair. But then they switch. Again. Fish jumps back on dry land, no alcohol, arse frozen, museum of cold. Bull flies on an aeroplane, before cribbing around in city by the sea, fat men, hanging tongues, yoko ono shades, ah the electric embrace corrupted by local trains, unwelcome butt cracks of hosts on a two drag high. Fish in the meantime, lags behind late late nights,asks for forgiveness, from the larger gods of Switcheroo, so it can stop taking itself seriously, all the stink of the market,dead eyes bereft of pain, laughter sniggers, haltingly,prepares to move east for warmth. Bull is kind. Bull thinks about turning into twisted cat, white quilts, red in a colour blind world. Bull and fish pump blood to the heart. They are about to meet. Fish and bull decide to be nice to each other. Fish learns to cook and brings breakfast to the bed, buys bull and friends fancy hair gell, vibrating condoms. Happiness in a gas cylinder, grows, till medium gods of accident intervene, rips through the kitchen to leave scattered scales or flakes of horn, which one? i dont know which one blew up, the fish or the bull, for as one already knows they could change into each other..

2007-10-16T10:35:00.000-07:00

Music makes things easy. Bearable sunshine, desired tan, rabid radicals all buried, whilting evening melancholy, pure contagion infecting with happy deaths. A minor third doesn t fit in with some of these things, snap change in wrist psotions to fit into time, tucked inside tuxedos, simple major chord progression, one doesn't know much about these things. Boxed sets blare or soothe without agenda.Depends on how one is feeling. How are you doing? There is a tale about a lyre made up of bones of a musician who lost out in love, crossed out other pockets to delve into depths of invisble flesh, no label to take up a broken heart when it is not prepared to sell, lyre sounds are difficult to hear, music while making things easy washes away history, sparkling, bubble gum teeth, clear like a knopfler note, sound of water on water.

2007-10-15T14:34:00.000-07:00

Four o clock is a not yet. Like a sleep is a not yet. It will come. The comfort and certainity of futures that remain simple. Motor reaction like, knee jerk, not half as calamitious. Bordering on the banal. The story was on a ship. Sailing across sea, chasm like, vacuum cleaner in suction mode , at night, things remained rudimentary. There was work at day, there was work at night, there was work in between. Like air. Enough for all to breathe in without worrying about greed. The crew couldn t talk. A breed of rats that had bred itself near the hull, brought in a plague once. None died. Only tongues started to rot. Cut off one by one, elements of conversation walked the plank. Silence was established. It was a fair deal. Sea was seldom not in suction mode. It needed things to feed on. Secrets that tongues might have hid fit the bill. Or so it seemed. There was still a treasure to search . As always there is. On better days it was called hope, on nights of lust it turned to gold. Where? On an island with the siren sitting on a tower with fancy flutemen dreesed in suave blue and nude fucked up fallen adams, sometimes eves too. All this magic but rarely any hares running down holes, slight hunger pangs, music from top of the tower, only song allowed to be sung, Ain't no jelly in the jelly fish darling, and doors, all shut with silver locks, a card game on the edge, these everybody wait for the crew to come, seperated by absence ,the two sets, the two thickened spaces, linked by a ship,yearn for the other. Absence sea lit, split wide wide open.

2007-10-10T13:59:00.000-07:00

Only black comedy comes in and leaves without control. No sentries at the gate. Please. You are welcome. Do come in. Share your drink. Remember to be kind.

Monsoon sessions:some sounds beneath some hopes

2007-07-07T07:23:00.000-07:00

The Spin Doctors:

Lets spin.
Wheels turn indiscriminately, this is such a cliché that the circle bends only at places that you and I cannot see
You I cannot see. Nevertheless one is comforted by visions that stretch without paying heed to Euclid.
On the same spot till I m dizzy, Let’s spin
I have too much time
Spent
To spend.

Persistence:
Lets keep at it something usually creeps up beneath the chaos.
What sounds can I hear now?
Can I not write about flowers in full bloom?
Yes, I believe that it isn’t that easy
But one must keep at it, usually lilies creep beneath the dying and the dead.
Without alchohol:
Why do cities conspire?
Dry days in the midst of rain
I can no longer remember people whom I ought to remember,
now, here,
the years haven’t passed me by yet.
Still small tragedies affect
How deeply?
Like dry days in midst of rain and tiny conspiratorial cities sheltering hooded men whispering secretively.

The ride II

2007-06-09T23:17:00.000-07:00

The ride II

Wired sky skin shoots past through the car window,
the eye gets tuned into a sense of distance;
a land conquered by birds floating to and fro.

To begin with

2007-06-05T23:28:00.000-07:00

there was a ride. i was in between, on super fast trains that run three hours late. Only the slight rocking of travel made sense. Policemen high strung with light machine guns moved up and down sometimes. At the end of the door a little man was caught smoking. Small sins magnified in air conditioned tombs. How far do we have to go? Whom do have to meet? And the triad will get completed, wait, what does this restlessness mean?
There is a stop. I step out. Black coat garbed men and truant school children try to remove the sun from their eyes. Deep inhalings of contenment. The morning cracks open like a skull on the edge of the tin station roof. How many hours? These questions disturb the complacency of thoughtlessness.
I m a thoughless man.
The green shines in a distance and things are programmed to leave. Some people are playing ball on a field that runs through i dont know where. A kid skims through two defenders and makes my day.
There is a place where the world is a trampoline.
But in the beginninig there is only the ride.