Published: ‘Six by Eight Feet’

Published

Recumbent…asthenic…
Still as beauteous as vernal willow,

In the kaleidoscopic gossamers of light
Streaming from her corner
Winded by the contiguous timber
That had been her comrade
For half a century past…

She looked as young as the day she had come in,
As blazing as the skies
As sweltering as the aureole
As fervent as the storms
As fiery as the orange she donned…

As unwonted, as vehement, unequalled, an intrepid
As… as
Still, tranquil…
As pleasant as she was ole…

Impetuousness…brawn
And the strength of a stalwart equine,

Dwarfed by the inflexible darkness
Screaming from right down the core
Of the unceasing march of stone walls
Silent in progression
But spry to house her soul…

First day in, she had looked as stripped as a newborn
As harried as the dusty lands
As ravaged as carrion
As broken as a dream
As lost as a letter on silent grounds…

As stark, as scourge, bleak, astray
As…as
Disrobed, barren
As fragmented as her impending dawn…

The rambunctious shrieks
And the unruly brawls

Blatant rape of her space
And being
Raucous ordains and
The arduous inane labor
Reeking of the melancholy of trapped demons

At the end of their game.
The black bile
Consuming the hallways,
Each solitary cell,
Their sanity and resolve…

Vacuous words
From people who had once been
But now were as lost
As they were around…
Reposed…sang-froid…
As empty as the night

Spilt of all juices, thoughts, dreams
Poured out like black blood
From a wound;
She felt whole
Her being now hard bound and delivered…

It lay on the rack as sacred as her first words
As hallow as her fatuous sins
Filled with tales of purple trees
And talking breeze
And ALL the splendor her life had not seen…

Her beautifully unveiled imagination
As bound as she had been
Inside these walls for 56 years
Back at 18, she finally felt free…

Recumbent…asthenic…
Still as beauteous as vernal willow,

In the kaleidoscopic gossamers of light
Streaming from her corner
Winded by the contiguous timber
Of the dark forest
Outside her prison walls…

As she lay breathing her last,
The guards queried
What kept her going that long
She lifted her eyes
And looked one last time

Across the dark room
And the cold stone walls
Out her crooked little window
She was at peace

Six by eight feet
That was her swansong.

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Stage Act: Catch 22

“All the worlds’ a stage”

No truer words were ever spoken…Do I have the freedom to make my own choices…at all levels…conscious, subconscious and unconscious? Or am I driven by this mysterious force, the parasite housing some corner of my brain feeding on my memories and thoughts and the undercurrents of history, the collective unconscious, if there ever was such a thing…Sucking out my sanity and individual standing a little bit each passing day…Will I ever be freed from the clutches of history and those rotten piles on piles on piles on piles of methods and being and thinking and existence…Freedom from the roots of decaying masses grabbing at my feet, those old men, their scars and their existences, the fact that they once walked the same lands as I do, dominating my every move…bulge out from their graves, hold tight at the bottom of my feet in the name of gravity and constantly pull me down to Netherlands…Stopping me from growing, reaching higher…thwarting the birth of my distinctiveness…singularity…My universe…the scope of something new…for better or for worse, but scope of change…scope of discovery….self-discovery…No masters, no guides, no Lords, no Gods, no light…Just me and the untouched, unsullied stretch of endless land…No dead men directing me from below, no God’s from above…!!!
It looks so distant now, I think determinism might actually have been crowned the new Idol…King of the lands of zombies who walk the country, walk around in different combination of quirks and qualities all pre-set to proportion carefully calculating each move they will make till the end of time…like programmed chips functioning on orders and scripts…scripts created by an unseen creator…Meet somebody on the street, stop and say with an almost genuine-looking smile, ‘Hello! How you doing” irrespective of whether you give a damn…Say ‘ It’s going to be okay’ when someone’s upset even though you have no goddamn idea why they are so morose…You are better than somebody, feel guilty, worse than somebody feel shame, younger- listen, older-understand, teenager- oh! This one’s the worst, listen AND understand…Years after years, generations after generations, moons after moons, universes after universes…guided by things you OUGHT to do, people you OUGHT to be…
We have different ways of dealing with this absurdity…all of us do…our own way to deal with distress….but is it our own…Maybe not…Some of us withdraw, some of us try extra hard to go with the flow and some of us say, ‘What the fuck, bro! This shit is not for me” and try to defy, rebel and quit…But apparently there are no exits…do you see them…I don’t…it’s a game…a sick game…once you enter it, you can’t get out till you cross the finish line…till the curtains are down, the lights are out and he says, ‘Shows over’…Nothing is in our control…nada…no control, no escape…just a bunch of marionettes dancing around and groping for a pair of scissors to cut loose in the dark, but he was smart…No sharp objects on stage…everything is meticulously planned, diligently organized and calculated and placed…He is quite a chess player, you gotta hand him that…
Catch 22

The Recluse, the Squire and the Junkie!

One gray, one leaden, Marionette,
Monstrous, mellow and grotesque,
Get on stage with lines abreast,
With lanky, crippled, tawny zest…
Wander east and tumble west,
With no valleys, and no crest,
It was a dull and plebeian fest,
No exits; no cracks and no egress…

She walked atop a wooden stilt,
There wasn’t a folk right of her ilk,
And so she abandoned, so she jilt,
Both the masses and her quilt…
Choked her marvel with heavy silt
Veiled her shiny sparkling gilt,
With abashing and with guilt,
Of a bloody, wilt, and puffing hilt…

Out comes leaden in their color,
The heavy metal and shiny armor,
Dazed at the slimmest, slenderest stir,
Fetter the bugger; bind him and mure…
All the edges, they were a blur,
A giant trooping cloud of azure,
No scope for chafing, none for jar,
“Would you die for this grime” “Oh! Why not, Sure!”…

Stringed, in their corners they stood,
Strutting past, along came a brute,
Unkempt, shabby and somewhat crude
With a glitzy colored suit…
Curled up hair like strings of jute,
Smoking weed and dreary moot,
Gray and leaden thought, ‘Oh! Shoot!,
Where be his strings, there be none by his glute. Hoot Hoot Hoot

The strings to honor or to lose,
Reckoned they, is for them to choose,
In a bucket of paint they dip and douse,
To free themselves of the louse…
The roles, the acts and the engineered joust,
They yank and tug and it wouldn’t come out
How then did that carefree lout,
Was freed without a holler, short of a shout…

Self- abandoned, on the fringe,
Fighting fire, water and winds
No cords, no ties, no kilt or kin,
No virtues, vices, or dirty sins,
No peasants, warriors and no kings…
Off to the beautiful land of glen,
Out of bounds; here and then,
Away from the stage and the ugly masks,
He walked to the lush and fertile Grass…
But that too, wasn’t a lonely land,
Not a place where he could stand,
Alone; without all new strings and all that jazz…!!!!!!

They had only watched him, watched him pass!!!

-Neeti