Opportunism

Humble self-centered avarice
Excretes through bulging veins
With a grim regret of dependency

Tacit insidious trickster
Greets under the dark sky
Handing time to come in a leaked hourglass

Time is no more ally than
Friends who befriend friendship
Endings drag on and on without assent

In the empty bedroom of stink
Wisdom disturbs regret
Time waits at the door alongside Death, ashamed.

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Pots.

There were pots: Lots and lots of pots. There was water in a tank over the pots; there were wolves and wild buffaloes drinking water in the tank over the pots. There was water in the clouds over the water in the tank over the pots, ready to fall and fill the pots below the tank that had water drank by wolves and wild buffaloes.

A man with a stick approached the pots and smashed all of them. The man with the wooden stick was smashed by wild buffaloes drinking water in the tank. The man with the wooden stick cut away from the burnt oak tree at the end of the road was saved from being dead by water falling on his face from the clouds over the tank with water over the smashed pots when the buffaloes lost their interest in him to the water puddle around his body. A wolf, red in eyes and fur as black as the wooden stick cut away from the burnt oak tree at the end of the road, pounced on the man with the stick in the warmth of the evening sun above the clouds with water falling on the puddle around the man from which wild buffaloes drank water.

The broken pots below the tank with water drank by wolves filled with water from the clouds. Wolves drinking water from the tank over the smashed pots joined the wolf with red eyes and fur as black as the wooden stick cut away from the burnt oak tree at the end of road to maul the man mauled by wild buffaloes. As blood, as red as the eyes of the wolf to first pounce on him, seeped out of his leg like water overflowing out of the smashed pots filled by water from the clouds over the tank with water, he got scared. He got up and ran faster than baboons running away from the fire that caught the oak tree at the end of the road from which a stick was cut away to smash the pots below the tank with water from which wolves and wild buffaloes drank water.

The man with the stick ran into the woods north of the tank with water forgetting the stick cut away from the burnt oak tree at the end of the road and no one cared.

Inspiration: Nano-wrimo is fast approaching and this is a taster for the time to come.  A lot of delightful pulp is going to fill the space with exciting stories, carefully written, after years and years of experimenting and playing with the form. Novels are going to be novel. Or is it?

Letting the Sunday Breathe

Avin was at the window when Sun wished ‘good morning!’ from the horizon. On a breezy day, like the last Tuesday, he may have walked about in the bedroom, catching-up on last night’s events, or sketching a bleak, infant concept for the comic. This morning, the golden rays hiked, as clouds stocked the skies in a dark congregation for a damp afternoon. Nights didn’t matter to him: they are forever gloomy and solitary; forever since last week.

He took his phone out. The screen was off. An urge to poke the metallic Power button prickled his skin, making him shiver and throw it on the bed. A laptop, a PC, and a digital sketchpad slinked on the work table, all dead and gathering dust. Yesterday, a shipment of sketch pens, pencils, blotting papers, drawing sheets, erasers were delivered to the apartment, still closed and wrapped in the closet.

Tania was supposed to meet him last-week: here in the apartment. Since everything changed before that, she never made it and he didn’t bother cycling through the coast, over the backwaters of Paanya, across the village of Chalum, to her house. She would come when she has time; anyway, who wants a friend whose friendship is driven by socializing? That’s too old now, he thought.

Being an artist glitched his social presence from a young age. When parties and dinner invited him, he sat at home doodling and gaping at the screen. Colours were brighter and vibrant inside his dark room. He thought about these times as he prepared scrambled eggs and pancakes for the afternoon. Oh, I need to brush my teeth and take a bath! But, but, Tania will not come, so who cares?

I need to open that package and start a new life. Everyone else is doing something, look at the street! Yet, the old times when current, generators, inverters, emergency lights worked, time passed without a purpose. Now time is slower than a breath, detailed and infinite. Avin’s mind drifted in memories and dreams, saving the images captured in the past as a tape of inspiration. He lit a candle as the sun went down, then blew it off and picked up the package in the dim grey light of the dusk. There were colours inside. Hundreds of untouched green, red, blue which would dance in his hands and sleep by his side, uncomplaining, unlike the phone or laptop that once demanded every wakeful second of his slow existence.

He thought about the time before the Internet. It was a time when Shakespeare, Aristotle, Einstein, Leonardo da Vinci, Nietzsche lived and changed the world. We can live without it, too. I am changing to accept a reality without a screen. Tomorrow, I’ll wake up and paint; I’ll go to Babar’s house by walk and drink the cardamom tea that his mother will make. I’ll read the book grandpa gave when I was fifteen. Now I am tired. The mind is like a cat on the wall: it doesn’t know where to jump; and once I jump, there’s no climbing back again. The new reality will consume me and I will persevere through this change to make a life without hinging on inspirations from random forces in the world like electricity and the internet. Ridiculously random forces.

Avin’s final thoughts for the night contemplated tomorrow – like every other night. This chant brought him satisfaction in a reality where family, friendship, passion, love, money, and happiness were being reformed after the incident. His fingers slapped an invisible keyboard beside his bed, typing a to-do list and saving it in a folder called “Monday.” He searched for “Weekend Timetable” and deleted it. He shivered as he shook away these scenes in his head, mumbling, “Not from tomorrow, not from tomorrow!” before shutting down for the night and restarting on the next day – with Hope.

Urban Heat

Buzzy glares and blinding horns paint
A scrawled caricature in charcoal
Wax buildings fuse people and street
Blending hustle with quiet of the night
Past blankets weary bodies in warmth as
Intimate gloom of winter sinks through skins
The long cold conquered by drained emotion
Wilts into dreams of tomorrow and morning light.

Haste Hastings

Haste is boring, boring holes for rabbits and owls
To jump and romp in darkness without towels
When by haste she opened the bathroom door,
There was a rabid dog, who was not looking to score,
Had she peered little by little to the room,
Where was the need to run for a katana or a broom?

Haste is current, currently rushing and forcing
A lightning to strike that tramp’s piercing
Who was at his business under the oak tree
Unaware of hasty bolts after his wet laundry
Had he wondered and gone to school at twelve
Would he not have placed the science of haste on top of his wooden shelve?

Haste is a pale, craggy, bald, midget bitch
Which strays babies, adults, Gods, you, me to glitch.
Haste and Patience divorced long ago at the First Fire
To nest in fears with inextinguishable desire.  

Some goodbyes aren’t meant to be

That night in winter,
When you walked away
With swivelling anger,
I changed.

Like a fading photograph
You ebbed in my conscience,
Promising not to rise.

When, four winters after
You burst through the doors
Begging some emotion, any
I changed.

Again the drama
Of lies and confusion
Left me gashed, disabled.

One promise lasts, that
Which was not made.
I wait in patience through the agony,
To get you back again.