im not accustomed to standing here
telling my piece of the truth
that piece
that truth
that can't keep pace
with the thought
the lie
the death
in each of us
you
me
its never about us
the you and i
and the him & her
the it of it all is that we never
need
to see the
things we know
to believe
in a river, that flows.

down, down
to that place
im going
down
where the devil doesn't bother to hide
and where an angel won't tap
tap
tap me
on the shoulder asking me to be brand A
and not C.

to a city where the day isn't day
night doesn't mean the moon,
its a frame of mind,
a point of view,
a perspective
directive
im being constructive
defective.

and im standing
here
tell
tell
telling my piece,
of the truth
whether or not it suits
your passion
your place
your faith,
your
indefinable
quantities of yes and no.

im not a hero
no
hell
no.
don't look at me
that way
that look
that face
im not
the end of the world.
the death of the soul
the fall of control.

im not going to be
your bulletproof
baby.
your heartstopping
deathdefying
unrelenting
runner
im going to be mine
because,
well
because im here.

take my hand
ill take you
down to that place
you want to come?
that city
that light
that dark
you probably won't see it
at
all
stop following me.

and im going to take over the world
and give it to you
on a silver platter
not because i want
it
but because its something to do.

flowing
down,
drown in my words
mine
im going down
and when the winds rushing
and the pace is hurting
and the fall is coming
and the end
is
there
im going to turn around
and do it again.

gushing
lying
dying. you talk to me
as if
i were leaving
but im already gone
left through the back door
all you've got now
is the words
in a place where you can visit
them
if you want
to see the truth
the lies
the death
and the little bit of the end of the world
that i carry around with me
in my back pocket.

- write your own damn disclaimer -

winter's child was
always
discontent.
wrapped in fingers
and words (s)he
never let be
hers.

don't want
them,
to go away
(tell them)

- the most romantic song of the decade -

gotta leave town
got another appointment
spent all my rent
girl you know i enjoyed it

ain't gonna hang around till there's nobody dancing
i don't wanna hold hands and talk about our little plans,
alright

cold hard bitch
just a kiss on the lips
and i was on my knees
i'm waiting, give me
cold hard bitch
she was shakin' her hips
that's all that I need

gonna check her out
she's my latest attraction
gonna hang around
wanna get a reaction

gonna take her home cause she's over romancing
don't wanna hold hands and talk about our little plans
alright

cold hard bitch
just a kiss on the lips
and i was on my knees
i'm waiting give me
cold hard bitch
she was shakin' her hips
and i that was all that I need

cold hard bitch
jet

[dedicated to all the beautiful people]

our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. our greatest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. it is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. we ask ourselves, who am i to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? actually, who are you not to be? you are a child of god. your playing small does not serve the world. there is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. we are all meant to shine, as children do. we are born to make manifest the glory of god that is within us. it is not in just some of us; it is in everyone. and as we let our light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. as we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

-Marianne Williamson

(now if you insert a few nuances about god into the spoken word, and if you take out that rubbish about being enlightened (some of us are not striving to be enlightened, we are simply trying to live), you may have something. never take anything at face value, just because it reads well. because it's beautiful. you have a truth. find it.)

- morning -

it's almost impossible,
like the rain,
or daisies
(do you remember?),
like our hands (tracing
invisible lines on each other).
i know your secrets
(they are mine),
and there is fear,
in our voices,
when we touch,
but we will not stop,
(because it is like the rain).

there are times (i admit
everything),
when i want to keep you in a little box,
with me,
but then i realize,
that i already do.

- revised, but only slightly. it's older than you think. -


He carefully placed (not dropped) two cubes of sugar in the coffee, and stirred it until the swirls of white disappeared into monotonous, deep brown. Presently, he allowed a laugh to escape him.
"What's so funny?" Kamil asked.
"Oh nothing. Nothing terribly interesting, anyway."
"Enlighten me - I was always interested by the mundane, remember?"
"It's just funny. You, me, us - I haven't seen you for years, but here we are. And I can't help but thinking: what's the protocol?"
"Protocol?"
And Kamil laughed, too, because he realized the ridiculousness that distances create.
"You see what I mean? I don't get it. Everywhere we go, everything we do, there's some sort of order, some sort of prescribed rubric to fall back on. But where do we begin?"
"The issue here is your apparent dependence on what society thinks you should say, Ali. It isn't society's fault that it didn't equip you for this conversation."
"Oh come on, it can equip me on how to deal with the highly unlikely scenario of a sinking ship with only one more berth on it's lifeboats, and myself and a pregnant lady the only ones still on board, but it can't tell me how to talk to someone I was great friends with once upon a time?"
"You give the woman the place on the lifeboat, and wait for the water to swallow you. Ofcourse."
"What if I don't want to die?"
"Completely besides the point. The rubric you so seem to desire demands it. Now shut up and die with some grace, damn it."
A smile arched across Ali's face, again.
"Always with the grace, Ka - always with the grace."
"Ofcourse 'Always with the grace.' Take that away, and what've we left?"
"On the one hand its extraordinary how much you've changed, and on the other its incredible how much you remain the same below your skin."
"I'll take that as a compliment," Kamil said, his own smile widening.

*

"Give it back!"
"No..calm down. I just want to look at it!"
"I don't care, it's mine! You'll break it!!"
"I will not, for Gods sake."
"ALI!!"
"Oops..."

*

"I have a cunning plan."
"Do you really?"
"Ok, so it's not very cunning, but it's a start."
"Let's hear it, then."
"You desire a rubric. Here it is: tell me a story."
"A story? Will any story do, or does it have to have a certain number of dragons and maidens in it?"
"Your story - the number of dragons and maidens is wholly dependent on your experience," Kamil said,"Though I warn you that I'm not apt to believe them if they do make an appearance. Based on my experience."
"My story? You know me, dude - no story. Very uninteresting life. We went to college, I got a degree, got a job, a fucking big television and lived the trainspotting dream," said Ali, laughing.
"You're telling me we've got nothing at all to catch up on? Yes, that makes perfect sense.."
"Nothing significant."
"You didn't get married, did you?"
"Shakal dekhi he meri?"
"That not withstanding. What happened between you and Sana?"
"We broke up."
"Ha! So we do have something to catch up on. I didn't know that, and therefore there is a discrepancy between who you were and who you are."
"No...Really? You expected us to be trapped in stasis, perhaps."
"You know what I mean..get on with it."
"With what?"
"With what we've been talking about....you. Your story."
"What is it with your insistence on my 'story'? I don't know - I lived, I worked, I studied, I partied. I partied alot, actually. Drank a bit, smoked alot, and then not at all. Got a job, lost a job, got another job, and now I'm here. Happy?"
"Point taken. It just seems that it would be...simpler."
"What? To have stories?"
"Yes."
"Yes..I suppose it would. But I'm afraid I've got nothing for you - you'll have to worm it out of me," he said, eyes twinkling.

*

"Are you crazy?!"
"Are you crazy?! Saeed Anwar is ten thousand times better than Tendulkar!!"
"No man...have you seen Tendulkar play? That guy is amazing."
"You're just an indian-lover, that's your problem."
"What?! Don't you dare.."
"Indian-lover, Indian-lover!!"

*

They stared at the table for a good bit. It was getting to be dinner time, and Kamil broke the silence.
"You want to grab a bite to eat?"
"What time is it?"
Glancing at the clock above Ali's shoulder, "About ten."
"Shit..yea, no wonder I was getting so hungry. Kidhar jaana he?"
"I don't know. Does it matter?"
"Ofcourse it matters. Everything matters."
"Really?"
"Not really. But it should."
"Yea. Probably."
"Kamil..we are desperate need of sustenance, and I vote rolls."
"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
"My mind is nowhere near that filthy, Ka.."
"Abey ulloo ke pathe. Jafri's chalein?"
"Jafri's? Is that place even still open?"
"I have no idea, but there's just one way to find out."
"Man, that's on the other side of town. Tumhe pata he kitni der lagge gi?"
"Have you no sense of history? No sense of occasion? Look at us...the great Ali and Kamil reunited, and you're quibbling about distance to get to eat the food of the Gods."
"I don't recall ever seeing any Gods eating there."
"It was a figure of speech."
"Must have been rather dirty, unemployed type Gods.." he muttered, as they made their way to the car.

*

"Ka, uth."
"Kyun? Kya masla he?"
"Dinner scene. Get some clothes on."
"Raat ke do baj rahe hein, yeh koi waqt he dinner scene ka?"
He shrugged, "Call it spontaneous. Asif ne call kiya, abhi. Kapre pehno, we're leaving in five."
"Is my mother asleep?"
"Yea."
"Acha. Get the car, mein aata hoon."

*

"Atif Aslam?! Man Ali, I'm disowning you. Tumhe ho kya gaya he?"
"Oh shut up - you still haven't lost your sound snobbishness?"
"Sound snobbishness nothing. This is Atif, for God's sake..what happened to the days of knowing keh Ali ki gari mein Doors sunein ge?"
Ali shrugged, "Times change."
"Apparently."
"Acha don't sulk."
"Sulk? I never sulked a day in my life."
"Right..right. Not even that time when I beat you on Sports Day?"
"Man.."
"You didn't talk to me for a week...I couldn't believe it," Ali said, not bothering to control his laughter.
"Yea well..it was important to me, for some reason."
"Yea."

Silence for a while, as the lights flew by and familiar roads swept into distances known once.
They turned left.

"Oye, isn't that Basit's old house?"
"Yea..I think it might be."
"Kya huwa uss bunde ka?"
"I don't know...last I heard his family shifted to the States."
"You remember that night of double-sarri?"
"What night?"
"Man, how can you forget? The night we played from six in the evening till six in the morning. Yaad aaya?"
"Arey haan - kitni chai pi thi humne? There was supposed to be dinner, at some point..we just kept playing till the sun was suddenly, inexplicably, in the sky."
"Yea man...what a night. What I wouldn't give to be back, sometimes," Kamil said.
"Back?"
"Yea. Young...free and reckless. Those were the days, man..we were dreamers. This city was our canvas, and we painted our stories on it. Everywhere. People see schon circle, and they think of directions, but I think of the time we hid in the fountain from the tullas."
"Correction, people do not see schon circle any longer."
"That's right...bastards..how could they tear it down? The thing's a landmark, its a part of my life. Yet, with the flourish of some civil planner's pen, it now has ceased to exist. Everything's changing."

Silence at a traffic light, another mangled soul clawing at the window.

"Have you ever felt disconnected, Ali?"
"How do you mean?"
"I'm not sure - but life is so fluid, so fleeting. You and I, we're just here for a blink of an eye in the cosmic scale of things, our place here is really rather insignficant."
"And your point is..?"
"My point, Ali, is that all of this manifests itself in a distinct disconnection of the soul with life."
"Hum khaane keh liyay ja rahe the, aur tum 'soul' aur 'life' pe aa gayay ho.."
"Don't you see?" Kamil said, turning from the passenger seat, his voice more vehement, almost violent with meaning. "None of this matters...I mean we're just here for a short, short time and we make what we can of it before everything moves on, cleans up, shifts forward, and some of us are left sitting back here in a city that does not exist any longer, trying to live a fools life. It doesn't matter."
"Tumne kya socha tha keh yeh shehr humara intezaar karre ga, Ka?"
"Mein sirf shehr ki baat nahin kar raha."
"Tou phir?"
"Zindagi - have you ever felt lost in memory? It's harder and harder to come back, each time, until you find that you're returning to a present you don't even belong in. "
"Is this about coming back home?"
"Partly. But partly it's just about home being a state of mind."

*

"So."
"Yea."
"Here we are."
"Yea."
"If you say 'yea' again, I'm going to smack you."
"Yea."
*smack*
"I'm a man of my word."
"Yea," Kamil said, grinning.
"This is wonderful. You're leaving in the morning, and we're going to sit here saying 'yea' to each other all night."
"You expected something more dramatic? A speech, a heart-rending sonnet, perhaps?"
"Indeed."
"Time's up. Got to go. You take care of yourself. And always remember: Don't Inhale."
"Yea. When do I see you next?"
"I don't know..let's say never."
"Never it is."

*

"Don't you think it's time you got over that, Ka? I mean all night we've been talking about the past. Which is great..was great, whatever. We had some great times, and I'm not taking away from that - but you've got to live the life you've got, right?"
"Yeah, I know..its nothing serious, just leave it."
"No, somehow I get the feeling that it really is."
"I don't know man...sometimes I just get the feeling that we've lived the greatest moments of our lives already, that it's all downhill from here. What's the point of going gently into that good night?"
"The whole 'live-fast-die-young' thing..you're not serious? I mean yea..we've got lives now, we've got stuff to do, and hell..yea, it isn't as much fun as it used to be, but it's still life, right?"
"Life in a box-"
"-is better than no life at all."
"Sometimes I think that without Stoppard your conversation would wither away."
"Perhaps."
"I'm just...not all here, anymore. I mean, I came back here...I made a conscious effort to come back, because I love this. But I get the distinct feeling that it isn't even love, anymore. You can't love something that's forgotten your name. Everything's...just memories. Tainted. The people have moved on, the lights have moved on, and I'm standing here thinking whether the life I'd come back for never really existed in the first place."
"Nothing stops, Ka. Nothing."
"Yea. It's a shame."
"Oh well."
"Yea."
"Yea."
"Yea."
"So what now?"
"Dinner."
"Sounds like a plan. Next left."
"I remember! I'm not that old. Yet."

The road was just as crowded and the sign said Jafri's, just the same way as in memories of late nights and unauthorized escapades. They drove right by - the unlit neon and dusty, fallen shutter shaking lightly in the wind.

- new pictures on flickr -

- tell me, when will the river run green? -

a, exasperated: who are these people?
b: ordinary people under extraordinary pressure, a. what the hell do you expect? Grace and Consistency?

the insider

notes, the second

young writers face a particularly nasty predicament - they can neither afford to sound jaded and staid, for there they lose their 'edge' (as if we're all somehow hewn from rough rock. which we may be, if it comes to that), nor can they ever slip into childishness. and the trick is in finding your own niche without caring a damn whether some other young writer somewhere thinks 'what is that? he sounds fifty..', or if some old hand throws the paper away muttering 'kids...they haven't seen anything, don't know anything.'

the tragedy is that they are both right. we've seen just enough to begin our sentences, but not enough to end them - and there we lose ourselves in the space between letters.

there is no period at the end of this sentence

-

to those who look to the stars, and find salvation in their enormity and the self's own minute-ness in the 'general scheme of things', to those who fly at night when no-one is watching, and who fall only when the sun rises, i have words. they tell stories of daring, and they speak of not falling back on the sky as an excuse, but holding yourself to it's standard. there is so much beauty.

you're beautiful.

-

even broken glass shines.

-

sometimes it's alright to test yourself by fire - but there'll always be someone waiting on the crest of the hill, wishing you didn't have to. love is when they let you hurt yourself a little bit, if only so you can trust yourself a little bit more.

we're all in a cycle. hold yourself to the sky.

i have trouble believing that i exist for others when i'm not in their immediate universe. when i am not speaking to them or standing in front of them, i can not believe that they think about me. i am in denial about my own existence - i don't think you have a mental picture of me. i can't picture it. i wouldn't have one. not of me. i can't imagine i exist for anyone who i'm not conversing with.i am skeptical when people tell me they were thinking about me. 'really?', i ask. my eyebrow lifts, slightly. i couldn't always do that. but i can, now. i can do many things, but really nothing that amounts to very much. never could, never will. turned around words are sometimes more meaningful than what we say. celebrate opposite day. assume everything is backwards, down to up. see where it gets you.
you see the words, they form a train that flows through your brain, a river of thought that is either a trickle or a rage, but never nothing. everything is something. Crash.
i am worried. about many things. do you know that? did you know the number of the house was written in white? did you notice the red? probably not. i did. i always do. the inconsequential fascinates me. it is so forgotten, so pushed aside that i can't help but believe that there is a secret hidden within it somewhere where no-one bothers to look. in my universe the unexpected carries salvation, and the real punch line is that it's not even hiding, you just don't know how to look. they say that seeing is an instinct, you cannot explain sight to the blind. but it isn't - because you see only those things that you're used to seeing. the challenge is seeing things that you would not.

is that so difficult to believe? that we're wrong? we're young, or so they say. isn't everyone old?

it's quiet. i love you. but you're always quiet when the world comes crashing down, again.

when you close your eyes, what do you see?

they say its a nervous breakdown, but whats a breakdown? i mean, how do you tell? is there a line crossed, an i left undotted? as we walk, to and from, this way, there, and here - how do you tell? can you magnify my soul, because i think im getting smaller as we get bigger. can you see through my clothes, skin, flesh and bone? and when you do, do you feel, or do you merely see?

everyone's breaking down. we are in a constant state of death. so really, when i say that everytime i talk to you i die a little inside, i'm not lying. is that not comforting? sad. it seems it should be. they always said the truth was important. somehow.

they also insisted on transparency. but can you really make your skin see-through? are you able? i can't move. i am unable. or perhaps just un.

walk, talk, breathe. can't hum, don't have it in me. can't tap because i lost you. can't sing - got no soul. no soul. nosoul. luoson. the words still carry no meaning, even if you twist them and turn them, love them and lose them.

tell me, do your fingers know what it is to have memories? instinctively searching for that hollow, for that sensation. we are all sense-based creatures. we are drawn to things. hot, cold, touch. feel.

somehow from one moment to the next we never seem to realize how much things remain in flux. everything becomes - tainted.

everyone's got a little death inside them.

for psnob.

anarchy says:
for some sonrea
wheres says:
hah, all good things come in disconnected packages?
wheres says:
hah, thats not even backwards
anarchy says:
backwards is cliche
anarchy says:
im not backwards, im broken. not same.
wheres says:
and oddly looks like a cross between that disease and sonic of the supersonic fame

[remember, its all in your head.]

backspace. there were some letters and some words, some spaces and some stops, but they don't live here anymore.
prerogative has always been a word laden with harsh tones, meanings and the unexpected. the unexpected, on the other hand, happens with monotonous regularity so that this and that are almost never what one sees in the here and now, rather one finds oneself quite without words. without denoting absence, but not loss. loss is deeper, more infiltrating into one's insides, when you feel all the cliches about a broken heart actually physically tearing through flesh. which is fallible, really - wounds always heal, but scars leave behind a mental note: don't do that again. is it unwise to find oneself in the same places with different people, to do the same things with different utensils? knives are pointy, but forks will tear you up inside. like cloth, ripped and shred to pieces so that its useless to anyone. why would anyone ever do that?
anyone - you could be anyone.

[its time for a classic..]

f c d b

it must be your skin that i’m sinking in,
must be for real 'cos now i can feel.
and i didn’t mind,
it’s not my kind,
not my time to wonder why.
everything’s gone white,
and everything’s grey.
now you’re here,
now you’re away.
i don’t want this,
remember that.
i’ll never forget where you’re at.

don’t let the days go by
glycerine.

f c b

i’m never alone,
i’m alone all the time.
are you at one,
or do you lie?
we live in a wheel,
where everyone steals,
but when we rise it’s like strwaberry fields.

i treated you bad,
you bruise my face.
couldn’t love you more,
you got a beautiful taste.

don’t let the days go by,
could have been easier on you.
i couldn’t change though i wanted to,
should have been easier by three,
our old friend fear and you and me.
glycerine
glycerine
don’t let the days go by
glycerine
don't let the days go by..

glycerine.
bad moon wine again.

i needed you more
when we wanted us less.
i could not kiss just regress.
it might just be,
clear simple and plain,
that’s just fine,
that’s just one of my names.
don’t let the days go by.
could’ve been easier on you,
glycerine.

Glycerine
Bush

september was when the clouds finally gathered, when the rains finally came. it was when it all hit you, suddenly, like a brick wall, pulling itself up despite your always trying to dislodge each individual piece. september was when we dove off rooftops, dared the sky, lived in the space between the clouds, and let the rain wash us clean.
we were purer, cleaner, more faithful, then. we were never innocent, but have never been quite so guilty.
milk dissolves in slow, twisting spirals, and you suddenly find yourself sinking to the bottom of another mug, another time, another day. things become so much simpler when you reduce them to the you and i, but in the here and now we don't always remember where we've been, where we want to go.

the slow hand quickens..

treetops will watch over you as you argue, as you pull this way and then that. do you realize? do you see? do you even remember september?