Longing

loonybird:

Longing

Sometimes curls 

Like a scaly black

Snake

Rising rising

From the bottom of walled lines

Of an acid stomach

Knotting agonising

Anticipating waiting

Over and over…

And then withers

Into ashes, laughter

Of a self audience

Boom! fizzzz

Like Diwali firecrackers. 

-loonybird

Disillusions

loonybird:

Then she said,

You’re a commodity

Now sell yourself

Show them you are

Everything they scour

Beg them to ravage

Your dignity and dreams

For that is the path

To the life you seek.

And I was so digusted

With images and words

My laughter a cry

I could stand it no more

So I took a bow

See you never, bye-bye

Then walked out and puked

Like a gentleman true.

-loonybird

tracktrack:

Contentment [Sulk Station]

Mocking chorus plays in the background. Do you dare?, the voices of a woman call out as she bends her waist like a broken biscuit.

The room is dark. Curtains shut against the bright yellow outside. Like a lazy summer her voice drawls out in the cool of the dark afternoon. A created reality. A mountain of smoke and silk rises gray, muffling the mockery. Another enters and shouts to be redeemed. Then fades and static rain. Encircling her mountain and evaporating it.

The mocking woman is back. But sad now. Cautious. Full of warnings.

A song echoes against the rain. Rain which falls clear against asphalt. Tin roofs. The bed is soaked and bouncy. Fluffed up from the dampness. Empty metal photo frames dance and smash.

Rain rain more rain. A rain from the beginnning of the universe. Rain of static electricity. Rain of alacrity. Wind whooshes turning the pages of an ancient book. Beginning a new story. 

The scene dissolves. 

It is an empty road bathed in yellow light. Yellow light from the streetlamps. Quiet rain grows louder. Someone hits the road in the distance. It is moving now. On a motorbike. And now four of them. Throttling, threatening. Encircling like rapists. Mechanical monsters. The road becomes a whirlpool. A black hole. Sucking everything in as her voice tries to escape. Like a Siren luring innocent shipmen to wreck.

And then nothing. Except the fading memory of a maelstorm. Punctuated by the stray sound of an occasional throttle. Which then flees into the minute cracks in front of it, to another dimension. Rain is gone, leaving behind the hint of static in the air that tastes like salt on the tongue. White noise, they call it.

A Birthday poem for Pluto

a little cottage on the bay
where you and i both stay
breathless, yet wanting more
taking in the morning sway
i prefer a hat round the clock
you draw the walls with a rock
the days are new as mornin’ dew
about us the people talk
what are we? they can not say
sneer, jeer, envy they may
cares who what they rear
we are happy in our way
love if they want to
hate if they dare to
ignore they cannot; bet?
suffer if they need to
talk if they have to
we do exist mate.

-Stella.

an alluring hand that waves

distracts the weakest of men

promises love

i failed like the others

at the battle gates of siraz

straight through

the bloodied throat

a dagger

she waved and called me closer

it’s a game of dice

six sides of terror

six feet screams

candicelizabeth:

i wonder if they would get new clothes
for my funeral
forgotten pricetags at the black burial
it’s only ever a wonder
i’ve never gone all the way under
planned from start to end
laid out the where and when
the weight of their sadness pulls me
back, drags me down 
hard to catch my breath in this town 

gestalt

candicelizabeth:

if i draw the boundaries of you
will you color inside the lines
because i only know your edges
sharp and round by turns, by mood
even now i’m second guessing
should this be a stick or a circle
i’m no artist and you never sat still
long enough to be painted

wandering getting lost

Interestingly “Ghumna”, the Hindi word for ‘wandering’ is the same for getting lost. Wandering then is the process of getting lost perpetually. Trying to look at the map from this lost position. spinning. moving into the world. Establishing a sense of place from within. A forever act of submerging oneself in a milieu. The one where you are. you are the place you lost forever. It is not the path but the direction. like the bird lost in the sky.

Bitter roses

loonybird:

The lay there, downtrodden

Bitter roses which

Once woke up to the morning sun

Now on a dark grave

Under a cracked moon

Harmonies for an abandoned dirge.

-loonybird

tracktrack:

Wait [Sulk Station]

She is dead, doped. In an abandoned cave which has long forgotten the sun. She moves about not floating, but dragging her feet, which are an ugly mass of thick, entangled creepers, dark green. They are rotten from being too long in the black pool of water from which the caves glows green. Stray pink and purple beams of light flash upon her violet lips which burn iridescent for a moment and then disappear.

She gestures to me to wait but I want to run away. Everything about her sticks, a heaviness hangs in the air. Dark green muck slowly drips to the ground as she moves her hand. Plop, plop, plop. She is too hideous. Hideous enough to be riveting and I cannot move. I am trapped in that green-blue cave with the black pool and her creeper feet.

Then she becomes green fluid, slithering on the stony cave floor in a sudden movement unexpected of her and reappearing right in front of me. Inches away from my face. I know it is a trap and I should not look. Intent looking yellow eyes which blink and disappear when she moves try to warn me, and I know I should run away. Get out. But I cannot. I am rooted at the spot, her face inches away from mine, looking at every drop of her viscous, green muck falling. Plop, plop, plop. The sound echoes in the stillness of the cave. The only sound in the world. Till out of the blue, the world turns into a wail. 

Her voice is everywhere and splits into four. Any direction I turn, I know she is there. Shrouding everything. So I dare not move, and instead brace myself against the force of her hateful and eerie obsession blowing into my face. Twelve of her dance to my left, leaving shadows on the wall. Greenish-yellow. Swaying lifeless.

Slowly she recedes, the sticky green liquid which is her flowing easily over the floor, the bubbles quietening. A lingering silence tenderly envelopes as she constrains herself back into the crevices of the cave. The lights are gone. It’s all dark again. 

flying car

talking without

pocket knives

can definitely kill people

travelling car

up the flyover

just for the while you escape

the rotting debilitating ground

people walk still

how easily can the world perish 

by. people slouching on bus stops

of no consequence at all

they pass by. they pass away

forgotten even before meeting

the cusp of refracting vortex

the mirror turned 

             inside out

6:00 pm in a cab

with three friends

from Dwarka to Lajpat Nagar

Adi is playing cards with the phone

Gokul is staring straight ahead

into the collapsing traffic;

listening to music

Kay sleeps

-Pluto.

mad girl cooking weed

a puppet made of skin and bones
bounces its way to and fro
like stones
knocking down the shore
whispering and whining
of visible prints on invisible walls
and footsteps that went deep down
got lost an echo; a vibrant sound
broken green glass
a night that lasts
a generation long
shadows that fire made
a growing resemblance
to sand grains
and glimmering rivulets of smothering crops
buried brown far from now
it was foreign land; a broken bridge

did you bounce up there and broke a stick?
did you find red riding hood hiding under the wolf skin?

and mice that ate up your dwindling dreams
it was now and we lived then
within the shadows of forsaken tents


-Repeating Ravens (a collaboration between Pluto and kay )

word

pulchritudinous

is such an ugly name

for beauty

-Pluto.

bombshell

candicelizabeth:

is it murder if you kill a dying man
if you kiss him and you hold his hand
feed him his forty pills, forty winks
tilt the cup so he can drink
is it wrong to wish that it was you
to wish that you were dying too
vera, love, hold on tight
say goodbye to him tonight
and sometime soon your turn will come
to leave this world as he’s done

travelling north

drunken roads,
scattered buildings

the road sign
proclaims distance

the train ignores

sunflower fields
and red soil

the peeping uglyness
of the indestructable
industrial age

skeletons of
manageable progress
the white smoke
followers

-Pluto.