Scribbling:

"Hated, ill-fated, slated

What else did you expect?

Being dirty, filthy, guilty

Of not having sparkle, 

Bright and glittering, and

Clean and straightened hair with feathers, but

Curls and having dried mud hanging

As if pearls, oh dear

You smelt of hell

Your eyes all swelled

You walked stumbling, and

Fumbling, grumbling

Mumbling curses

As if fighting verses

Poor god..."

Adrift!

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“Overwhelmed, he heard, he wrote, he sang, he danced, he felt lost, and he felt found. There was joy, there was sadness. He could not define it. He was no intellectual, probably too naive to understand even what it played, what was scribbled, what did song say, how to follow steps of dance, still…

He felt floating in that little glass of scotch, floating as if he was a cube of ice, slowly melting, getting submerged in liquor, slowly, as if someone had put a rock, a big one tied to the needle of watch and yet it moved forward, for how could one stop time, at best you could slow it down, but remember it is not as easy as it sounds, for it take efforts, it may require one to put himself upon those blades of watch, hanging by the throat, nerves twitching away, eyes bursting open, yet swinging as if a pendulum going to and fro, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock…

He heard the music, he found himself grooving, he had no control over himself, he felt as if he was lying over keys of piano and was upon mercy of one who played them. Shades of black and white cut him in pieces, and placed it upon keys of piano precisely, for you must match the notes, there should not remain any difference, one must let himself be dissolved in the moment, and his moment was right there. And so he felt the coldness of keys falling upon his flesh in a mystical rhythm, it reminded him or better gave him feeling of sitting in front of a typewriter, putting words upon that blank sheet one by one, tuk-tuk, tuk-tuk, tuk-tuk…  

He felt falling in bit and pieces, he saw words cropping up from layers of skin falling off his body, in great horror and amazement he saw his blood dripping off his flesh and bones, making shapes upon paper, shapes that showed him shades, shades that he had been searching for ever, it showed him through darkness and blinded him in the light, it drew images that were even beyond his imaginations, it threw him off the cliff he were afraid for ages to go even nearby, it gave him wings to fly past sun, though it also did bury him beneath mountain whose wait crushed him, drowned him through salt waters of sea leaving him gasping for air, thirsty he was to bite upon and lick own flesh and bones from which red droplets were dripping still…”

Nightmare!

“For he tried to keep it within, he had eaten those words thoroughly, chewed them without any mercy, as if they were to be crushed and wiped forever. He had hoped he would be able to digest it all. Alas! In the midst of this feast there came a sudden jerk, a sort of choke, holding up his breathe up and down. For words remained stuck in the throat, they refused to go down, they refused to be consumed as if a mere piece of bread. No it wasn't and he knew it, yet being over-confident he had decided to go against it. He knew it might be deadly, it might end up chocking him brutally and there he was now, battling to survive, battling to breathe, for words could not be consumed, could not be digested. He could not even scream, his voice was buried beneath those pile of words stuck inside throat. He must slice his own mouth, must put his hand down his throat and drag those lumps of words sticking to skin making him feel nauseous. He did so, he did not think twice, for there was no time, he might have died another minute thinking. And suddenly he vomited it all. He had thought once out he would eat it again but slowly this time, with all care not to let it stick down his throat. He will pour drops of alcohol along with if needed, for it would help it slide down the liver to be digested. But here it was lying in front of him, making him vomit even more, for it was disgusting, it had all rotten, for he had kept it all within for too long. Words had outlived their life, they were no more a piece of stinking meat that even hyna would refuse to eat. He hated himself for holding that dirty pile deep within himself. But he must clean it all up before it gets worse, before it ends up burying him within like mire inside a damp forest. He put his hand upon his nose, closed his eyes and started licking them back before somebody could discover that pile of stinking garbage.”

~ Praveen Parasar

Us!

Scribbling:

"I have you
You have me
We have us
What joy thus
Being together
Brings
In dream
And thoughts
We carry us
Aloud and
Aloft
We caress us
Through rough
And soft, and
Let heart rejoice
And give voice
To wishes
Unknown, unheard
Songs it sings
Away from fear
Nothing more but
Just to be together
Even if
Here and there."

~ Praveen Parasar

See-Through!

“How good lawn of a house could be
If it does not carry the foot-marks
Left behind of them being walked and along
By dusk, amidst clouds and rain
Holding close, treading slow
For to keep the time from ticking away
One must hold it and fiercely

How good a page of book might be?
If it does not wear marks of finger that held it,
And read it in dark nights, in ghettos of solitude
For to keep the flames of love undiminished,
One must have caressed it and passionately
And yet, how good would it be, if perhaps
It does not carry the scars upon its face
Big and wide, right across one’s existence

How good darkness of night could be
If it does not bring words flowing through dried nibs
Silent screams upon lips, shrill of echoes back
To be killed and brought back to life
Every passing moment, as if heart being tied to tick tock of clock
Hanging by the wall, one that reminds of prison
Prison where one wakes up and slips back to sleep
Unknown of dusk and dawn

How good a silence to one
If it does not scream the cries and angst
One carries buried beneath layers of skin
That one wears around and displays colors, vivid
Only to be left shocked, strange to self
Standing naked in front of mirror, behind closed doors
Haunted by echoes of lies,
For what could scare one more than images several, one sees
In the mirror shattered in pieces, laying beneath feet
Holding drops of blood upon its edge, asking to be licked and wiped clean

How good shadows could be, to one
Alive and buried in darkness
Damp and smelling of wet leaves fallen upon
While sun scares to put one upon display
Even if its warmth could revive
Healed wounds, carries pain more subtle
A little ajar, they could let it bleed and let go
For being a fire-fly must die, burnt by slow-lit lamp
Than to fly around in abyss

By: Praveen Parasar
Date: 5/1/2014