Final Events

Into the depths of the night I command my beast,
High on adrenaline and thirsty for power;
This rush from an escalating fear is my feast,
As I see Death’s mammoth approach: I cringe, I cower.
With no human connection to acknowledge me,
I look at a grievance of a life with disdain,
Decayed homes, torn roads, fractured dreams is all I see,
The very existence of my world causes pain.
I speed ‘till skyline turns to streak, ‘till woods to haze,
For a split second I see a black mass come near –
Next I know a strong grip wrench me out of a maze,
My sight fades as my bleeding eye sheds one last tear.
Suicide, my one way trip to eternal bliss –
Death, only too eager, sets me free with a kiss.

Gangster's Paradise

Humble beginnings with sticks and stones,
We worked for food just like stray dogs.
Now we’re older and are breaking bones;
Thereafter tossing bodies in thick bogs.

Raised by the street, had only each other,
With joint efforts we made our claim to fame.
She would have been proud, had we a mother,
For it provoked fear in circles - our name.

In our turf better make sure you lie low:
Keep your big mouth shut; watch where you walk,
Or else on the footpath, your blood will flow -
The next day your “dead weight”, lined in chalk.

Living in a gangster’s paradise is fine,
If like a cat your lives start with nine.

Spring Break

Green slips out from under the White –
Its prolonged captivity led to frustration and rage.
The homecoming of Helios is a welcome respite;
And with due grandeur he ascends the stage.
Multicolored birds deck the air:
A proudly cooing dove,
Sexual selection: the affair,
Flies stoned in love.
Touch.
See.
Much,
For glee.
Amid no obligations for a week,
For all you know, a kiss might grace your cheek!

And they lived happily ever after...

This is where most fairy tales end. The prince and princess marry and ride off into the sunset to begin their new life together as husband and wife, a life full of promise, romance, and above all, love.


For all of us who watch enough bollywood movies, or television for that matter will know how after a morbid start, an adrenaline-pumped showdown, a happy ending really completes the tale of heroics.


As the cursor invitingly blinks, I try to concote one such brilliant tale of courage and dead-on decisions. Funnily enough, I can picture innumerable flashes such as the knight slaying a dragon, the prisoner-of-war rebelling against the victor, the prince wooing his would-be soulmate. On the other hand, I don't ever recall seeing one in sooth.


Why is a daughter, who's been living with just childhood memories of her mother, when actually gets to meet her, is labelled as a false claim just because her mother is rich and famous? Why is she offered money to not go public? This had a morbid start, had an epic struggle going on for years, had all her fingers crossed when she but as much as hinted at the truth.


Why is a boy, who's been sitting, waiting and wishing, constantly re-thinking his every word before he as much as speaks to the girl he's in love with, not taken taken seriously? Must he always be waiting on her? This had an awkward start, took quite some time before one had the courage to put one's feelings on the line here.


Why is a photographer, who's been honest and hard-working all his life, who's phenomenal, be denied a job on grounds of unreliability, just because he has had a durg problem? Must he waste his gift, all over again? This had a humble beginning, takes an eternity to get "clean", and he definitely wants to be a lawful citizen now.


Is fantasy the only means to get a truly happy ending? Agreed, things don't always turn out as expected, but I am tired of living in this uncertainty.


I want my happy ending, what about you?

Getting pushed off of life's little edge..

His nights are spent in an invigorating blend of cacophony and blinding glares, that pour in through his decaying walls, crumbling to dirt in places or stained with damp. His abode was centrally located amongst a seamless maze of alleys.

His beauty sleep is oblivious to the jarring of the machinery in the distance. His source of music, the periodic whirring of engines accompanied by the clanking of metal on stone. The heat of the day was a memory; the air was chill. Above, a cold round moon shone down, slathering silver across the roofs and courtyards. He spends his days in the city, watching the stars on the big screen.

At night he lies awake and he wonders, "Why can't that be me?"

In his life, he is filled with all these good intentions.He's left a lot of things, he'd rather not get nostalgic. Just before he says "goodnight", he looks at the fleeting night sky and says, "If I could be like that, I would give anything, just to live for a day, in those shoes." Then he'd lose himself into thinking of the limitless possibilities, as consciousness turned to slumber. His dreams were vivid, marked by a palette of assorted hues and concurring notes of music. Strangely, he never recalled having one that had anything to do with his half-dead world.

He worked at North Park, capturing the atingle mood of tourists. His workplace was a granite bench, obliquely established. His supplies-two pencils. He sat there, sketching and watching people as they pass. His social circle consisted of the park janitors and vendors. His idea of partying was sharing a can of beer with his peers. Oh and they had peanuts too.

All he wanted was a little piece of his dream. A safe home, a warm bed, on a quiet little street.
All he wants is something to hold on to. Is that too much to ask?

Vietnam, 1975

Dying was the simple part. Our main problem was making it worthwhile.

Our strength was failing, but resolution undaunted. I could see him summoning his last remaining power. Steadily, calmly, muttering under his breath, he unlocked the safety. There was nothing to do but wait.

According to some heroic deaths are admirable things. (Generally those who don't have to do it. Politicians and writers spring to mind.) I've never been convinced by this argument, mainly because no matter how cool, stylish, composed, unflappable, manly or defiant you are, at the end of the day you're also dead. Which is a price I'm not willing to pay for post mortem popularity.

I've made a long and successful career out of running away at the decisive moment and it was with considerable regret, as the enemy bore down upon us, I realised I didn't have that fallback option. We were going out together.

The nearest I'd ever come to this last standing business before was when I was with General William Westmoreland Jr., we were cornered in a enemy hangar, in fact he only prevented it with his final intervention, running a prototype through the Learjet. Although, I wasn't all that overwhelmed with gratitude, that implosion almost cost me my faithful limbs.

"You've been a good soldier."

"Well, um, you've just been dandy too." I never dared to talk to him like that...

"I didn't say you were perfect."

"WHAT?"

"Far from it. Well lets face it you've generally managed to cock things up."

The bloody cheek! Insults at a time like this! When death bearing down, etc. I ask you.

"Which is why I'm letting you off the nooze. I order you to make an exit. Use this key, take the elevator to the mining shaft, head east."

He activated the defense mechanism. He readied two Gatling guns. A drop of perspiration streamed down his cheek. The enemy was battering its way in.

The ricocheting sound of bullets upon steel. The enemy had forced an entry. He was able to shoot a score of men before he was shot in the thigh. His knees buckled, the guns fell to the floor, his hands unable to support their enormous weight. Several more bullets pierced his being.

Ironically, amongst the cacophony and sparks, he looked serene, something which he never had, not even in the dead of the night. As his vision became a blur, and excruciating pain surging through him like lifeblood, he passed out.

A blinding flash. The parabola grew in size, engulfing the concrete and steel alike. Leaving metallic scraps and foe appendages in its wake. The stronghold had been taken.

A typical leader. Rigid, to the very end, didn't give me a chance to get a word in the edge ways.
Which is a pity, because at the last moment I'd have liked to tell him what I thought of him. Mind you, since in that split second we were, to all intended purposes, one and the same, I rather think he knew anyway.

If tomorrow never comes.

Ask the guy who made elctricity, why do we procrastrinate?

A couple hundred years ago Benjamin Franklin shared with the world the secret of his success “never leave that till tomorrow” he said,”which you can do today” this is the man who discovered the electricity, you think more of us would listen to what he had to say.

I don’t know why we put things off but if I had to guess I’d say it has a lot to do with fear, fear of failure, fear of pain, fear of rejection… sometimes the fear is just of making a decision because what if you’re wrong, what if you’re making a mistake you can’t undo.

"The early bird catches the worm; a stitch in time saves nine."

"He who hesitates is lost."

We can't pretend we haven't been told, we've all heard the proverbs, heard the philosophers, heard our grandparents warning us about wasted time, heard the damn poets urging us to seize the day.

Still sometimes we have to see for ourselves, we have to make our own mistakes, we have to learn our own lessons, we have to sweep today's possibility under tomorrow's rug until we can't anymore, until we finally understand for ourselves what Benjamin Franklin meant, that "knowing is better than wondering", That "waking is better than sleeping" and that even the biggest failure, even the worst most intractable mistakes beats the hell out of never trying.