Justice…!

“The night will end soon

And the day would announce its triumph

Upon the crawling shadows

Who are still in hangover

of

The intimacy of the darkness

In the arms of solitude

Warmth of the orgasm

Drunk upon sweat and cum

A rather poor choice of opponent

To fight with,

yet

The day would lay siege

Through their broken fleshes

Drag them through their slumber

And hang them upside down

Upon the fire of wrath

Justice must be served

Wicked must be punished

An act of love must be dreaded

They dared practice art of self-love

A sin worse of all,

Thus

The brightness of day carries its own rule-book

You must wear yourself such as such

To hide away your scars

Drench yourself in the shades of dawn,

such as such

To wipe away those droplets of twilight

And let it suffocate through the corners of your eyes

Where the day would cook shreds of dream, fragments of rotten hope

And watch it burn in pieces

In utmost silence

Through the tranquil hours

Of sunrise and sunset…”

Praveen Parasar

29/12/2016

Tragedy of Wanderer

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“The road less traveled often leads to the other side, where you are either the god or the devil, for you must suffer violently yet in silence, just like they suffer in heaven or hell, suffer for the deeds of your own so called intellectual enlightenment, for you claimed to feel what other choose not to, for you appeared to be content in your shadow – an act destined to be punished, for they could allow you everything but not your own company. Society is a unique judge which judges solely based on its own level of comfort in the face of any act of blasphemy (defined strictly in their terms). For the web of moral and ethical laws are tools of their own making, a tool made for their secret pleasure and you simply fell in their trap. Now you must let them reach their orgasm while you suffocate. You are bound to be played in their hands like all the other gods and devils that history carries around like a monkey on the shoulders of a juggler, and you cry foul. You better learn to show them a trickery or two, for that is the only way you could let them let you trick them in believing what they always wanted to believe.  Welcome to the circus. 

Scribbling

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“While falling through abyss of day and night

Sooner or later we pass through a moment

Where gravity of our individuality

Overshadows our indulgence

Only to turn us into a sort of black hole

Where the world appears as if a naught

And we appear to hold onto everything, yet nothing…”

Scribbling

“Solitude and the words

Like love at first sight

Wearing Venetian mask

A tale of sadistic lust -

to masochistic romance

Only the night knows

One forlorn witness…”

Carpe Noctem!

"Raped conscience

Trampled solitude

In wilderness, Alone and aloof

Stumbling shadows

Muted cries

Scars ajar

Salvation?

Here is dusk

So near yet so far

carries

Goblet of sin

Flames of angst

Warmth of guilt

Screaming silence

Silent chaos

The night sails past

Acquaintance?

Bright angel

Face of death

Mocks

Passes by

Abstract glance

Dead eyes

Magical melancholia

Where art thou? Hold me thus

Evil hope

Infects forever

Kiss of rabies

Lingers

Dirty worm

Hovers, crumbles

Delirious rumblings of

Untouchable corpse

Inside

Forbidden castle of what-ifs

A theatrical extravaganza

Carpe noctem!"

Praveen Parasar

03/12/2016

Sickness…!

"There’s a sickness growing within

As if worms grow upon leftover corpse

For the life in you must be punished

And the dead inside must be annihilated

As the night consumes solitude

Or the day slaughters silence

You shall watch yourself being spilled over

Of your weathered veins, in awe and fear

while your fascination takes turns

to rape your vigor

you shall bear the burnt

for playing deaf and dumb

for rather too long, and

now when you seek to scream aloud

there’s only hollow noise

that fills your lungs and drowns you

deep down abyss of shallow life

after all

what else makes a life life?

if not for the misery it inflicts

if not for the lies it offers

and pieces of naked hope

which scares more than comforts…”

Praveen Parasar

24/11/2016

Passion...

Scribbling:

“You offer me yourself drenched in blood and ask me to drink as if wine. let me assure you my dear I could taste you without tearing you in pieces, I could just swallow you whole as if you were an exotic delicacy and feel you lingering all night in my mouth. My passion is delicate like the moon and it could well eclipse your Sun-like blazing romance.”

Tragedy of Wanderer

Scribbling

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“In the guise of sacred sermons, you let your dirty fantasies grow abound. You feast upon the fire of vice while lecturing about the greatness of virtue. Alas! Only if it could have been so easy to change the day into night or the sun to the moon; you could only put a veil and declare boastfully your shadows have no face, but remember when one is to witness himself in the darkest of hours of twilight, one is often too vulnerable to be protected by their fictitious charm. it is often those same faceless shadows one enjoys displaying in large frames laden with gems on the walls of fabricated dreams which turns out to be cold-blooded killers and strangle oneself in hollow silence. Tragedy or mockery, who knows?”

I Seek…

I seek

Everything but life

What else but death

Monsters seek solitude

Monks seek peace

For days seek to hide

Nights crave to reveal

Redemption seeks pride

Yet, fails to conceal

Nothing but the sin

Anything but evil

flesh seeks words

Words seek poetry

Curse hails to heaven

Prayers must trail

Life seeks hope

Hope sneaks away

An ever growing abyss

beliefs made to sway

I seek

Everything but light

What else but darkness…

Praveen Parasar

5/11/2016

Tragedy of wanderer

Scribbling:

Tragedy of wanderer:

“As he wondered what his hearts seeks, his spirits sank and a state of despair held him high and low, for the day and night were dreading enough to witness, he could not imagine what conspiracy of time will bring if he were to confront his heart’s treasure if it ever comes to find it. They say, ‘Men can never love beauty, for men loves to pursue only to kill it in the end.’ Oh and having being accused of being a murderer the mere thought of holding a knife drenched in the blood of his own heart made his nerves numb, how distressful! Sipping his glass of scotch till the last drop in one breath he comforted himself, for at-least he had his unknown void to jump into and be lost and merry, as if a mermaid is lost in the depths of the sea, or those millions of stars lost in the abyss of space, he wished to remain adrift in his voyage to land of forgotten dreams, or nightmare as if to say in worldly term.”

Tragedy of Wanderer

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“Insecurities, they kill you slowly, at their ease, but a sure death and even before you know. You could self-sabotage yourself with words but being a coward you had no faith in them, for you thought words weren’t as lethal as to kill you but probably would cripple you instead, you didn’t want to be crippled but a glorious death, where you could see and feel yourself being dead, death of an iconic character. Truth is words could strangle you and save you from the silence of the light though at the cost of chaos of the night, but your perverse mind had become greedy and you wanted to rob the shadows passing by prostituting of your intellectual garbage. You knew you were at risk of falling to a void you would not even be able to regret but such is the temptation of being labeled an icon you didn’t stop, and now while you are dumped in the abyss of self-loathing filled with days bright and young, you could do nothing but weep and pray for the darkness to visit you, asking for forgiveness, just like those thousands others in line you always hated to go near to. This is your hell and you must decorate it with your own nightmares.” 

Scribbling

“Soon the words would die

And the pages would become an orphan

Soon the darkness would be convicted

For prostituting itself

And the night will be left out in street

Soon the days would rape it in all its vigour

Soon the solitude would be a mere smudge upon the eyes

And the world would wash it off with their indifference…”

A Plea…!

I always trusted you

Thought you could convey what I have kept hidden

Underneath my skin for years now

For you have done so time and again

Poets have written their saga nonchalantly

As if you were their own creation

Oh dear! But why me, what did I do

That you abandon me in high sea

Of turmoil and wrecking emotions

While you could put me bare open and let the world read

What I have scribbled upon my flesh

As I did always, while getting high upon smell of

Yellowed pages of old books, how magical they used to be, Oh!

And as last drop of blood dries

Upon the nib of pen, I still await

For you to consider my mercy plea

And turn my life-imprisonment

At-least to death penalty

For may be scribbling upon my dead body

Would be able to draw your attention

May be one day you would find my scribbling

And give them your shape and soul

And they would turn into words too

I shall wait, until the night comes

When my fate would be sealed

And I would be asked to rest my pen

Upon my coffin, this shall bear no name

And I shall rest beneath an unmarked grave

Only to be lost beneath the world of words

Deprived of poetry and tales

In perfect oblivion of a life it could have

Upon a blank paper once, alas!

Praveen Parasar

03/10/2016

Ritual!

“And all the while I thought about you

There was a sense of chaotic calm

It screamed to me to devour you

A recipe of sin and lust, irresistible night

Just the old darkness growing around

And I chose to plunge in depths of your desire

For you seemed to me to be made of fire

What else could burn our shadows abound

Yet soon the night ceased to grow

And warmth of air suffocated

For once the flames start to die

It burns one with an agony and more

And all the while I thought it was over

I craved for you as an addicted insomniac

Such is the habit of night my dear

One is bound to suffer yet waits

Until solitude is withered and trampled

Once again, alas!”

Scribbling

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“I am love and you must love me. You should let me put all of me upon you and make you feel loved; you should not put yourself in between asking for yourself. I love you and I shall decide how would you feel better, you should not put any protest all the while I grow upon you and suffocate your breath and choke your words, for love may be painful at times but it is love and you must not stop it, you must allow me to steal you from yourself and leave you empty handed but you must not feel cheated as if you have been robbed and stabbed in your back, for I am love and you must allow me to kill you bit by bit, for it makes me feel better and you must feel better too, for love is supposed to be a mutual feeling and you must not let me feel better alone. I am love and you must not hate me, for you might be held guilty of a love long lost and a sense of regret only if you had loved me, alas!”

Scribbling

Scribbling:

"I feared being trapped

Dreaded it and more

Chocked upon tears

Clinged upon wings

Till the moment i realized

I was a guest in the cellar

With a crown to celebrate

To ensure my happiness

I was offered

A little extra space

And this I must appreciate..."

Sin…!

We crave and more for

The glory unknown

Beyond the mud-laden paths

And what not

For perversities of our fancy

For a life too bright

Kills an infant dream

Where cruelty belies

A tale of liberty

That died alone

Unable to understand

Why did it seek

An escape from its cocoon

Oh! The temptation

To know or not to know

For knowing is a sin

One must commit

At the cost of being expelled

Of its roots, alas!

Praveen Parasar

25/08/2016

Scribbling:

Scribbling:

"I feared being trapped

Dreaded it and more

Chocked upon tears

Clinged upon wings

Till the moment i realized

I was a guest in the cellar

With a crown to celebrate

To ensure my happiness

I was offered

A little extra space

a generosity not seen often 

And this I must appreciate..."

Dear You…

“You want love at your own convenience

As one does their daily chore

Of cooking, washing and cleaning

For you consider like any other feeling

You say you don’t want to eat when you don’t feel hungry

And so you say of love, probably you are right

What right one has to force themselves over you

You must choose when you want to love one and when you do not

If one cries foul, you must shunt them away and close them behind

For you cannot entertain intruders

They are dangerous, addicts

Who would trap you in their lizard like faces

And crocodile tears, only to

Suffocate you beneath their false tales

You must not listen to them

You are right, for you choose to listen to yourself

You must not give way to anyone

Who tries to deceive you with an idea

‘Love is different - you must carry a mutual feeling’ hell no!

Beware of such evil eyes, save yourself

Let the world burn if it must

Sleep well dear you, you must be tired. Remember

Love will come to you if it needs you

Love will come to you if you demand it

You must own love as one owns a puppet

And put it on display; with all your affection, for the world to see

You are kind-hearted after-all…”

Praveen Parasar

13/08/2016

Tragedy of Wanderer

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“Our life revolves around moment where we do not mean what we say, what we do, what we hear, or what we tend to crave for. And then there are moments when suddenly adjectives change their meaning and our lives turn upside down, only for us to carry corpse of our heart in a body made to stand strong - pretend even stronger. Emotions have purpose and we have mastered the art of displaying it deceivingly.

Forget and forgive; now he understood its meaning, something we end up applying upon self more than anyone else. We scream for light as darkness would leave ourselves on display naked and it is never going to be easy to confront. We are fragile where we expect to draw strength from, we could hide ourselves all day, yet the night would know. 

Life…!

"I am life

Your master, who you owe

Your flesh and bones

Your truth and lies

Your filth and plight

Your pain and cries

Who did you think

Owns you and your shadow

I will rob you of your tears

And put you on display

I will sell your dreams

And nightmares alike,

For you cannot distinguish anyway

I will drink your blood, which

You have diluted off your pretensions

And get high listening to your screams

While you will be deprived of sleep

For they are my lullaby

You must entertain me the way

I wish, what else but an act

You have practiced all these years and still,

You fear being given

Your soul on platter

For you must taste how does it feel

To eat yourself,

Self, which you sold a long time back

To me, I am your life

And I promise to keep you dead

Until you realize you cannot escape

For you have lost your right to die

And death has refused

To carry you away

For I am your life

And I enjoy watching you suffer

You must enjoy it too..."

Praveen Parasar

31/07/2016

Tragedy of Wanderer

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“You never know what is at stake until you are on your knees looking at the fag end, where lies nothing but ruins of your past, laughing at you for your own ignorance which you chose, for you decided rather to have faith, faith! When did you having faith in faith anyway? This is your crime, you must embrace the punishment. You chose the wrong start, now you chose your own wrong end. 

Falling in the abyss is not so bad when you know where you are falling, when you know it is an abyss and you would be falling for ever; until there’s nothing left of you but a fading shadow which vanishes in thin air like you never existed, just like memories. Was it a mistake, was it an adventure, was it right gone wrong, who knows, for life enjoys watching one suffer in chaos, for death relishes in watching one sleep in silence. Who knows what one has asked for until it is served?

You are never right until they say so, you are never wrong until you say so. Alas! Those moments of vulnerable intimacy, those moments of vigorous confrontation, moments when one is made to fall, moments when one decides to stand up. It just goes one, another continuum, just like that abyss; all he could do is to let himself fall, waiting…”

Seduction!

"While I contemplate invitation of your lips

To taste them

I am mocked by your breasts

For my words seems to drown in their fervent heaviness

While I watch them sink beneath the palpable softness of your skin

As if those cold blooded curves were not enough

To make them scurry up and down, like a little rodent trapped

Between crest of your breasts to tempting mounds of hips

And while they nervously attempt to escape

I see your eyes watching them, as if to quench her thirst

As if delighted, as if mischievous as ever,

Oozing lust, and asking to follow for I must

I sleepwalk to your honey pot

Only to be lost forever in its trails, slave of your dreams…”

Praveen Parasar

05/07/2016

Tragedy of Wanderer

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“When despite knowing the life altering circumstances ahead you cannot stop, for you find no control what so ever upon yourself, as if a wild passionate animal has possessed you and you have no option then to sleepwalk around, watching yourself fall into the flames of your lust, to get yourself destroyed and yet that inglorious moment of flame keeps you hypnotized and stunned to react anyway. This is never about destiny or fate, this is our own postmortem we choose to do upon our wounds hidden too long inside to be operated in silence, re-opening of scars must be celebrated and so is the death such flames bring you, for now there is something beyond night which has taken possession of your essence, such joy of pain…”

Tragedy of Wanderer

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“This isn’t about love, which is caring, loving, soft and cuddly. This is about that wild lust which awaits moment to engulf us as if that absolute darkness which sets the lonely night on fire post twilight, a rare sadistic tale, where lies no scope of compassion but two wild beast ready to take down each other ruthlessly, no emotion but a sheer pleasure of selfish passion, which delights itself watching other being burnt, which cares for none but itself. Where there are no boundaries, no respect, and no accommodation but only to ruin each other as gloriously as possible. This is not about constructing temples of love but about destruction of graveyards where our inner demons spend sleepless nights, looking to make a kill and quench its ever growing thirst…”

Tragedy of Wanderer

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“Failure is a dirty disease, a virus which once infected makes one too shameless to feel any sort of remorse or pity on self. He felt like being addicted to it now. Every small dose of failure gave him a taste of drugs that was too difficult to find these days for people only wanted good fellas in neighborhood, no bad business, sober and clean, ready to say yes and follow the righteous, anything beyond it was considered a bad omen, they rubbed it off clean with holy water and prayed to god to keep them away from any such disease. However he soon realized he was infected by it long ago, and it was this disease that made him feel good being closer to himself, made him intimate with self, he could talk to self and laugh over jokes upon self. It made things much clearer, now he knew why he felt an urge to get high every time he was asked to perform. He had become an addict and such addictions are hard to let go, he did not even want to anyway, though he was sure soon he would be banished off the sights in lost trails of oblivion. He felt a childlike excitement for such somber journey.”

Tragedy of wanderer

Scribbling

Tragedy of wanderer:

“As he watched the rain washing the day off him, as it washed down the light off the night; could it extinguish the fire day sets every dawn, to watch one burn while it carries the flame asking to be seen, to accept its reign, follow its dictate and become alive, alive? Alas! Day’s light being too bright cannot do anymore than to wipe the half-burnt body of him, hiding the scars off the horizon, removing any small signage which could lead the darkness back to the night, where he could make love with self for once which the day considered a crime worse than blasphemy; he carried a little of him in his burnt-out pockets, where he had kept small pebbles of darkness along with few raw words hidden off the day, it was his survival kit…”

Sweet little death…!

“She came with a warning

‘Temptation of love kills’

And yet he chose to taste her

A mouthful, for only if he knew

He would be addicted to such death

As if a beautiful dream broken halfway

For she would linger on his body

As those droplets of sweat on a humid day

As if to realize this penultimate night

Is going to stay alone, as if forever

For he would crave every single touch

Of her lips, only to die and again

And pity a moment, only to exaggerate another,

Of what it means to have such a lover

For only if he knew of her longing

Being such irresistible delicacy

And as precious, as last few drops

Of scotch on a lonely night, and

Holding on to her would only bring a pain

As passionate as a memory

Of that first kiss they had...”

Praveen Parasar

19/06/2016

Nocturne…!

"As the day melted itself drop by drop

All through the evening,

As if makeup of the light was too hard to play

And it must give way to let the darkness sway

For the night will arrive soon, drenched

And there will be no shadows to pay

For the naked embrace of the self

As the day watched itself fall drop by drop

As the night picked its broken pieces

There were reflections at the edges

Glimpse of each other, but un-noticed, often

As if strangers passing by in a rush

For the day must meet the night

The night must meet itself

And there remained an age of separation to cover

Before words arrived, being sadist

To carry the corpse of Desire and passion

Dead of longing, as if that glass

Buried beneath layers of dust

And a few dried stains of scotch..."

Praveen Parasar

13/06/2016

Seek-ness…!

"I shall seek death

As life seeks pleasure

In tempting hours of twilight

In tranquil moments of dawn

In turmoil of evenings

In disguise of a chance

I shall seek death

As life seeks silence

In chaos of troubled heart

In lost trails of unsaid-unheard

In graves of trampled flowers

In temples of conquered thrones

I shall seek death

For I must

For what else could define life

As if to glorify a mud-house

Into a castle of glass

Reflecting of the edges

Shadows, bright and dark

As if flickering star

Gives illusion of a heaven afar

As the seekness comes

In compassion of sorrows

In embrace of the night

While throes of the light

Blinds the sight

I shall seek death

And I shall seek hell

Hell for where else would I see

Myself, as I could be

I shall seek death

For death may seek me too

Paradox of hope

Hope carries life, they say…”

Praveen Parasar

05/06/2016

Tragedy of Wanderer

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“Often it is sadness in quiet cold embrace of which I find solace, rather than warm exhilerance of happiness. For they remind me of cold winter nights when I could hold a glass of scotch whole night and not get drunk, when I could hold a drop of tear in my half numb fingers and watch them melt me bit by bit, when I could have nothing but words for dinner and poetry arrives uninvited to deliver a moment happiness has not known yet.”

The Time!

“As immortal as they say it is

Time appears to have stuck in fourth dimension

Doomed to wander the universe alone

Alike those meteors, awaiting salvation

Falling through the abyss, forever

Whispering silently in the chaos of night

Chocking upon its own screams

As if unable to hold onto those hiccups

They have defined as seconds…”

Scribbling

Scribbling:

“Solitude loved the darkness

Darkness loved the demons

Demons loved the silence

For silence carried the chaos

Drunk upon the darkness

Darkness licked the wounds

For solitude had to have it bleed

To bleed as if to feed the demons

Demons, for who else it could love

Love, as if to hate was not enough…”

Tragedy of Wanderer-IV

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“Startled, he woke up. He was sweating in the cold night. There was no one in the room and the night was as silent as a curious lizard looking at an insect. It must be a nightmare; he could still feel the coldness of metal upon his sweating neck. Such nightmares were not common for him, he considered himself ready to die any moment, he was a hit-man, his job was to kill or to die for nothing, then what scared him of death tonight?

He took a sip of leftover scotch in a left-alone glass on the table. He felt thirsty, he needed to drink some more, there was nothing left in the room, only an empty bottle. He sat back on his chair, lit a cigarette and looked outside. It all seemed so silent, so still, yet so much chaos on offer. Was it she who was playing these tricks in her mind, was she sub-consciously plotting a revenge against him for coming back only to tell her he is here to kill – her. He did not even know here, she did not know him either. All he knew of her was she served in that dim-lit joint and she probably him as a loner who came there once in a while, talked to no one, drank a mouthful of scotch and left with handsome tips after sitting in dark corner for a long while. He had no business knowing why was he sent to kill her, neither he intended to do so, but yet she kept coming back to her mind as if a hidden fear buried deep within layers of nerves and flesh.

Fear is wicked, it loves to play with us and a silent night suits it well. For silence of the night leaves one vulnerable enough to be faced with own shadows, often to end up with bits and pieces of what-how-why-where and so on, questions makes us dizzy and answers makes us sick, one struggles to stay awake even though there’s no sleep, for more the eyes see at the darkened canvas of the roof, more it appears to be falling in abyss and all of sudden fear sneaks in only to make the matters worse. If to examine closely, it is not even the fear of falling but knowing being fallen into self-created hollow, created meticulously over time. It is a deadly combination of shame and guilt, least one is to wear a layer of ignorance at the dawn. One strives to melt in the dusk, but fails miserably, only to be left wondering what next.

Sound of birds chirping woke him up, a pleasant morning this he muttered to self, as he opened his eyes to bright sunrays. Pleasant! He muttered again…

By: Praveen Parasar

Date: 15/05/2016