It goes: Red Bull and Vodka

Part I:  Attempts…

They can only be referred to as attempts.
Brusque at times, abundant prolixity at others.
To find something which hasn’t come in..
Nothing but a bunch of episodes clutched in a mildly bruised palm.
Tell tale signs from an unmentionable palaver the coltish squad embarked upon a while ago, in lieu of the city exercising its limitations to provide particularly hormonal sort of entertainment.
Then..more attempts to inch towards some sort of a discovery, if not an entire invention.

The literal door in the heathen floor actually opens to a mirror.
Not the glowering face of Today but its the fugitive Past smiling back.
And slowly goes south..
Every journey’s memory escaping with the nip of the morning’s sigh.
Vagabond thumbs in the air. On route 66.
Java mixed with melancholic smirks at crumbling cafes. Hot, black and copious amounts of it. Legalized drugs. Pain and cafeine.
The Leica owning hermit treks to the gelid parts of the globe, even if just to indulge the jackleg, émigré experience.
Peeling the truth off its skin, swift circular motions.
Like clementines handed to a wino on the outskirts of a nowhere town.
The fresh citrus smell of a new something that’s slowly coming in.
Nestled in the warm arms of frozen mountains.
An Amaranthine line defined eternity for as far as her eyes could see.
An immaculate silence draping this stretch of white
Decibels keep their sobriety.
Except..

The occasional cackle of a falling branch in the rising tide.
Fishsbone hangers jostling for space in the 5 am market fight.
Words and wine spilling from a self proclaimed street soubrette’s eponymous act. The earnestness of desire, to rise to Neon in the multitude of Parisian lights.
Belligerent banzai boomerangs from a man-made steel cabin, bookies at a roadside rooster fight. Passion, pride and saved pennies(Angles?) invested in an uncivilized game that you and I’ve been conditioned to scoff at in the Other Part. A civilized sport. The sheer irony. Hah!

A mother’s feeble steps to hold my hand just to relive her motherhood for a while, in the colossal shadow of her newly adopted dottre -” Your smile can light an ocean”- The Unique Indian Smile. To remind the likes of this peripatetic mongrel, years and miles don’t take away from the fact that there always is a mother waiting at the other end.

The busker pays homage to Rafayette Afro Rock Band(the title) and Bach, in equal measures.
Then those cherry lips placed with delicate care on a stunningly blanche face, the mist gives way to raspy vocals that illuminate the barge so well that the city council should pay her for the job. She sings straight to my heart, almost. Belle far niente.

Leica comes to life. The simple and sometimes monotonus act of capturing light becomes a passionate engagement, an exhibitionist-cum-voyeuristic form of lovemaking. It carries the sting of sex, the bite of love, devoid of the carnal captions, of course.
The world closes in on a touch, a toothless grin(at the mahjong tables), a soul song, a war cry in a “crassy” sport and swims in the swirls of Fino that washes down the day’s tiredness and bowls of paella.

The temperate night falls on an unsuspecting ground like the hammer of Thor. The cicadas hold their night court outside my window and the river commences its ritualistic whispering of tales, of the day’s boatmen and rowing competitions, to the rocks lining its path. Sleep’s seraphic eyes look down upon my closing ones.
As the body slips into the requisite comatose state for the next 6 hours, the soul dreams of joining the caravan on the otherside.

And it all comes together. Such simplicity that you’d cringe.
To have found something. Within.

To have become Whole. Without anyone else and still with everyone else.

Part II: I’m psycho like a chopper..

Listen to this
De humani corporis fabrica
The structure of the human body, welcome to Gattaca
Twin girls in the hallway, elevators of blood,
Spin words like spider’s silk burn when the fires built
Doves fly, straight from the hands of a replicant,
Run the blade futuristic cities of the heaven sent
I’m home melted chrome and twisted metal,
Surrealist literature from the seamless vessel
The dark arts, incantations and spell craft
Circles and stars,The same fury that hell hath
Feathers of an Osprey, leather glove of the falconeer,
Treasure chests of gold, tales told then you all come near
Photons and gammas, rays and beams
Sailed with Jason and the Argonauts in ancient leagues
The lords of the hidden world, seance and candlelight,
Connections to spirits that dance in the afterlife

Black Magic, spit life with every breath,
Not likely to forget, its like we never left
Black Magic, the world’s screaming for change
Whos feeling this pain, are we dreaming in vain?
Black Magic, are we dreaming in vain?
Black Magic, you feeling the same pain
Cant fear what we dont understand
Gone back down beneath, heads high, upperhand

First death anniversary. Today.
Dad, you are missed.

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~ by iconoplastic on December 12, 2007.

6 Responses to “It goes: Red Bull and Vodka”

  1. My dear Enfant Terrible – I should’ve called but didn’t. So here’s a note instead.
    If Carlos were here, tonight, he’d be butt-smacking proud of his infant-dribble-dee-dum.
    Your absent-mindedness coupled with dreary puns and a fashion sense to kill for (interspersed with vulgar doses of intellect as a bonus) are a combination potent enough to stop the Pharoahs in their tracks.
    He’s watching over you…should you ever fall. God Bless.

  2. there is a li-young lee poem that reminds of this… cannot for the life of me find it though.
    will try.

    meanwhile if nostalgia bakes your cake, you’ve got taggage 🙂

  3. Ah!@Tag
    I shall strive to complete it!
    and..Happy B’day!
    🙂

  4. Perfection is impossible.
    And like we always tell you that you are extremely impossible.
    So if can do the math yourself now..

    Reading this a little late but wanted to let you know that we are always with you, should you ever need us.
    🙂

  5. Thanks for updating the post. Told you it was great!
    I say….
    Part I – Some of the most gorgeous writing I’ve seen online in a long time. Can I enter you in a writing competition?
    *pretty please*
    Part II – He hasn’t left. You know it.
    Hope the Christmas Aurora was as stunning as possible. See you soon. Love.

  6. This beauty is soft — as if music and wood,
    agate, cloth, wheat, peaches the light shines through
    had made an ephemeral statue.
    And now she sends her freshness out, against the waves.

    The sea dabbles at those tanned feet, repeating
    their shape, just imprinted in the sand.
    And now she is the womanly fire of a rose,
    the only bubble the sun and the sea contend against.

    Oh, may nothing touch you but the chilly salt!
    May not even love disturb that unbroken springtime!
    Beautiful woman, echo of the endless foam

    ..and before you come at me with a polished khukri you should know i wouldn’t actually take the pains to leave you a neruda poem if i didn’t mean it. by the by the first piece reads like a missing chapter from a book. beautiful.also,how d’ya like the noo nick? eh eh?

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