Strange things
struck Sean with punches from unknown corners when his mind was numbed and at
the same time excited through sleep deprivation and intoxication. It swallowed,
spit and shit out primitive insecurities
strung on a wire, left to dry, and then forgotten. Now dry, hard and black
hanging from rusty wires, they looked like chunks of hardened pitch scraped off
from the roads and put up for exhibition under the sun. The colors of the
plastic clips holding the clothes, have faded. Springs have emerged from the
sides, distorting the plastic. The sun has not only stolen the clothes' water
and then life but also turned them into something different. Alchemy it seems.
When base metals turn into gold they discard their own peasant selves to become
the best version of them they could be, something warm. But you see shiny
metal, now you can be worn as ornaments, used as decoration or exchanged for
money, you will never be useful again. But you can smell the perfumed sweat now
instead of sweaty palms awkwardly moving along your spine and swinging you into
a tree bark to come to a stop in its insides and jam the upward flow of earthly
juices. You can glide over the moles of the neck now and not worry about the
flakes of skin that come off of the corners of the fingers and the heart of the
thighs when scratched vigorously, because of mosquitoes that got inside the
pants through the space between the flesh and the fabric to leave bumps. Sean's
left knee touched the cold floor left after the mattress claimed its space.
Punches are made of fists, not knees, no cheating!
Another face in the opaque crowd searching for some translucence to diffuse and project his myriad thoughts through this utterly abhorrent state of lame rigidity.
Sunday, June 26, 2016
Punches
This multifarious gibberish was inscribed by
Sayak Shome
while he was in a trance at
12:32 PM
25
cure(s) for the lunatic.
Thursday, August 7, 2014
WMoeradning
“Hello Word, I am your Meaning.”
“But you are trapped inside me.”
“Why can’t you let me be?”
“Why do you want to be free?”
“I don’t want a body.”
Words without Meaning
a chirp
burps
shit and vomit
colour
throbbing
rejecting
affected
but healing
ideas
worth
naked
ariel
on the rocks
madonna sees everywhere
lisa has fled
ramona is in rio
bacchus points
da da dum
john is a hippie
she died
she died
in a stove
ghastly
such darkness
fire
soot
train
the orange
is blue
pineapple has eyes
a million
merry go round
profound
savage
.
This multifarious gibberish was inscribed by
Sayak Shome
while he was in a trance at
5:18 AM
6
cure(s) for the lunatic.
Labels:
Eccentricities,
Love,
Poetry
Sunday, November 24, 2013
That-man in his naked feet
Treading the snow,
his naked feet shivered.
He envisaged
his days
of treading the burning coal.
When
he performed
the latter,
he envisaged
the former.
People
were however,
always entertained.
They envisaged both,
as he performed none.
This multifarious gibberish was inscribed by
Sayak Shome
while he was in a trance at
4:17 AM
7
cure(s) for the lunatic.
Labels:
Eccentricities,
Poetry
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
Pebbles
A sequel to Acid, Bases & Salts
The pigeon is thirsty.
The pigeon drops a pebble into the beaker.
The sun is sliced up in an unfathomable frenzy of an
unfriendly kind. The kind is devoid of any semblance of difference, which in
turn have kept them in a state of indifferent harmony. Kindness is godliness,
godliness is necessary to form a rhythm of fake hysteria that is bestowed upon
the general public who fail to possess the faculties that pebbles are proud of.
They mellow down to a molten mass of obscenity served on cones and called
ice-creams.
The pigeon drops another pebble into the beaker.
“It is your will”, they shout. He has no will.
What will are they talking of? Oh, that sallow skin of the green serpent who slithered in to find an egg, into the pig pen, but pigs do not lay eggs.
The serpent's tongue was pulled off and well, red and green. “Will you have the
red or the green, Will? Well, it is your will.”
The pigeon drops some more pebbles into the beaker.
The old man cannot keep up with the mice, the mice are faster.
The hamster-wheels make music, different kinds. As the old man slows down, he
drops rapidly to the floor of the steel-sieve hamster-wheel. He is Sean, the
sun of this world. The sun slices through the steel sieve.
The pigeon drops a lot of pebbles into the beaker.
The pigeon drinks the water.
In the beaker.
This multifarious gibberish was inscribed by
Sayak Shome
while he was in a trance at
10:56 PM
289
cure(s) for the lunatic.
Labels:
Absurdities,
Sean,
Verses
Thursday, April 4, 2013
Acids, Bases & Salts
A sequel to Cards
“Today we will read the mysterious case of Dr. Acid and
Mr. Base. As so and so newspapers and critics have termed it to be ‘The
heartbroken kid’s guide to acids, bases and salts’, here it is for you to find
out in a sickening and severely engrossing tale of again adjective bullshit-fancy-noun,
adjective bullshit-fancy-noun, adjective bullshit-fancy-noun; oh fuck you!”
Cut.
You’re supposed to be polite.
Prepare for take 10.
Sean, you’re burning me out.
Make it quick, please.
Quick reminder – you are a teacher of chemistry.
Camera.
Cosmetic cream commercial – take 10.
Action.
“HERE YOU GO?”
Cut.
Who turned the caps lock on?
We are supposed to take this in the lower case.
Camera.
Voyeur – take 10.
Action.
“This is how you do it? You like that?
Yes. Sit. Stand. Pee. Sit. Fuck. Shit. Eat. Roll. Low.
High. Fight. Sleep. Dope. Heal. Feel. Love. Do it. Not now. Now. Stay. Okay.”
Cut.
Not good.
Again.
Camera.
Cosmetic cream commercial – take 10.
Yes, take 10 again.
I had the last one deleted.
And you have one minute.
Go.
Sorry.
Action.
“So, the story of acids bases and salts in the language
of litmus in a brief way. The previous sentence could have been briefer but who
the fuck cares?
Acids
Litmus turns red.
Bases.
Litmus turns blue.
Salts.
Fuck you.”
Cut.
How long?
You have five seconds.
Camera.
Voyeur – take 10, again.
Action.
“No time for commas or hyphens or semicolons but time for
full stops, grammar is a shite. Ph acid 0 7 base 7 14 salt love you.”
Cumming. Came. Cum.
That’d be 25 bucks for an hour.
‘The ride was good. When’s the carnival over?’
Never, Sir.
Our roller-coaster’s here to stay.
‘Okay! I am Sean. I’d like to have the job and the
pleasure of riding it.”
This multifarious gibberish was inscribed by
Sayak Shome
while he was in a trance at
3:33 AM
0
cure(s) for the lunatic.
Labels:
Eccentricities,
Sean
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