Forgotten Skies (Reminiscence of a Trippy Young Man)

Forgotten Skies (Reminiscence of a Trippy Young Man)

Old friend, sweet friend,
You might remember those sunny afternoons
After having our chicken rolls,
Laced with egg and ketchup
We lay in that old famed tropical garden,
Smoking things that made us remember
Of fantasy, and lost angels, and genetic memories
How we looked into the endless expanse of blue,
And wondered of nothing, and everything

While men were titrating acid in large halls,
We were drinking it and pressing buttons on the sky
Revealing to ourselves stories of the moon,
In the shapes of clouds
We saw the clouds for what they really were,
Story tellers, painted by someone we never met
Maybe, it was us who painted those clouds,
Who forged the figures that told our minds,
Stories and histories of things,
Most people would seldom care to care for

While men read and wrote about the Earth’s endless green,
We smoked it and sat in wonderment
Speaking of things we never understood,
And laughing for things the world cared a little too less for
Do you remember, my old funny friend?
Of those summer skies we painted,
Sitting on that elevated terrace tank,
Smoking and joking, drinking and winking,
At the fact that we were alive, that we are alive

I’ve learnt so much and yet it feels like I know nothing
Memory is a cruel thing, a vile thing,
And yet, it makes me smile,
And drink

I wonder if those buttons in the sky still lurk about,
Waiting for us to explore,
To open our wanderings to unexplored meanderings
The world is a large place, and the universe larger
And yet we only think of what lies at the edge of it, and beyond
And much too less for what lies within it
I can’t care much for aliens and spaceships,
I’m a color man, a painter man

My wanderings always sought mystery,
In the beauty of little things
In the movement of ants, that trippy old fool,
The moon. In little words and pointless poetry,
I’m a color man, a painter man

Do you remember old friend?
Of how we tasted the sweet delights of teenage women
In our minds and much too less in our flesh
Dancing to the curly departures of our common sense,
Selling our souls to the breasts of young girls
Leaving our wisdom to be absorbed,
In the moisture of their lips
But you know what old buddy, you know what I learned?
I learned that the heated pleasure of a sweet damsel’s legs,
Give you heaven and sweetness in a simple moment
But the weary sting of her sudden departure,
Gives wisdom, that lasts eternity

Do you remember, bro, do you remember?
The songs we sang in the long summers of May,
With the produce of the short winter,
Green, smelling like mango,
Cherishing true comradeship in the blaze of our youth
I remember, but it’s true that sometimes I wish to forget,
For these things were beyond ecstasy
And to carry memories that have such goodness in them,
Is heavier than carrying those that foster sadness

Together we treaded the edges of the world’s finest music,
Wizards who forged sounds that nobody heard before
And dam, sweet brother, that music was good,
And it still is, and it’s been the greatest discovery,
We ever made.

Gandalf told me,
The grey rain curtain of this world rolls back and all turns to silver glass.
He was a teacher to me more than anything this world could offer
And hey, as funny as it is,
The teachers of our imagination,
Do us an ample more good,
Than the folk who teach us,
The ways of this world

But old friend, this will all be gone
You me, the endless summers with green and gold
They will be gone, the gifts of the prophets,
That sobered our violent minds,
And gave us wisdom incomprehensible
We will become memories, but memories to whom?
Without us, without me, without I,
Is there a world?
Is there this life at all?
This summer of ecstasy, this winter of agony?
Will it last?
Who’s to know?
That’s why I choose to listen to the wisdom of the rain,
The whispers of monsoon’s drizzle,
They tell me tales of myself, and make me smile
And I think of you old friend,
And how we smoked the finest green,
In that lovely young summer,
So many years ago

Tears are Real

Tears are Real

Erasmus looked through the silken glass at the best seller’s shelf, ‘The Dreamer’s Stagnant Poise’, a new book by Dr. Randall Bay. There was something about it that called him to it, asking him to give it a read, to stroke and feel each page, and swallow every word and make it a part of him. Another side of him taunted him strongly, to leave it and just walk off, it wouldn’t make much of a difference.

He knew what the book was about. It was a novel about a wealthy middle-aged man overflowing with talent who always fell short of complete expression of his innate gifts because of his addiction to dreaming about the future.

‘Sir, why don’t you come on in, it’s getting pretty itchy outside with this heat’, the book store teller urged Erasmus in. There wasn’t much on Erasmus’ schedule for the day anyway, he toddled his way in slowly, a part of him pulling him away, the major part of him submitting to curiosity.

Erasmus thought to himself, book stores smell really good, one of those places you could spend time at even if you didn’t want much to do with books. Erasmus tried his best to stay away from ‘The Dreamer’s Stagnant Poise’, pretending to himself that he could find some other book in the store that would make him forget all about Dr. Bay’s new hit.

He eyed the bookseller with contempt and irritation, wondering why he catered to his welcome.

To add to his battle between curiosity and ignorance, a very unwanted voice came ringing in from behind as Erasmus made his way through the other shelves of fiction. ‘You might want to have a look at this one sir, it’s been selling like mistletoe during Christmas’, the book store owner was now standing near the bestseller shelf, pointing at ‘The Dreamer’s Stagnant Poise’. Erasmus would never understand his weakness to the suggestion of strangers he sincerely wanted to ignore. He walked up to the bestseller shelf and picked up the book of conflict.

Without having a second look at the cover of the book, he paid the man, collected his receipt, and headed off out into the burning sting of summer walking home as quickly as he could.

It didn’t take him much time to finish the first ten chapters. Calvin the protagonist of the book was a gifted pianist who wasted twenty of the best years of his life in doubt, never expressing his skills to properness because of his endless fear of failure. Calvin was now forty, with all the wealth in the world he could imagine, running successful businesses for which he cared too less to hoard or be proud of. Calvin was a broken man, with a wife he dreamed of abandoning every night and a daily routine he loathed as much as his involuntary fear of failure.

The tears rolled all too easily onto the pages of ‘The Dreamer’s Stagnant Poise’. What had Erasmus done wrong? What had he done so wrong that he was left with nothing but an empty hollow within him that filled itself with uncomfortable adrenaline every time he read or heard of the success of his peers?

As he flung his newly purchased book across the floor, he buried his face in his palm and sobbed. What had he done so wrong that he was left looking forward to nothing but the embarrassment and failure of the friends he involuntarily loathed? Randall Bay was nothing at all before the monumental talent that Erasmus was. He was a man who identified perhaps a couple of skills and a few moments from his life that he worked into two of the best-selling novels in the last two years. There was no soul in these novels, but there was enough sweetness, charm, and conflict that would excite a million readers.

Randall was one of Erasmus’ closest friends. He had known him since he was eighteen. And now Erasmus was forty. While Erasmus was ever more skilled and gifted than Randall, Randall wrote, while Erasmus dreamed. He dreamed of what to write, and how to write. He did write, those rare few lines that carried power and magic, but few lines every three months or so. Erasmus dreamed, while Randall wrote. While the world read and entertained themselves to the technically crafted artwork of Randall Bay, the bitter tears that graced the pages of ‘The Dreamer’s Stagnant Poise’ remained to be the only testament to the once possible alternate fate of Erasmus Slade, a gifted writer who dreamed of many words, but wrote too few.

Rambles and Shambles of an Old Young Man

Rambles and Shambles of an Old Young Man

You can’t say your work defines you,
It doesn’t
The excreta of human imagination is
The foundation of this society,
That is built and breathed,
On the utilities of work and working
Babies don’t like to work,
Hell, I don’t like to work
The whole thing’s a sham,
And we’re on like ants,
Going through it, daytime job,
And dreams at night,
And the same routine,
For years and years and years
And complain at the end of the whole thing,
Saying, dam, I wasted this life
And then you waste the next one,
Strange thing, being human, and worse, being social

Why do you think people write?
Writing doesn’t define you
Nothing does, nothing can
Writing’s just an action, born from inner emptiness,
And people go on and keep telling you,
That the stuff inside’s got to come out
There’s nothing inside, but emptiness
Even the confusion has no stuff to be made up of,
All of its just emptiness
And the words, are little notes of nonsense,
That dance out onto paper
Purposeless, for the entertainment of other people,
Lost like me, lost like the stars

Some people seek nothing,
But I, I want the whole dam world
You see, wanting the whole dam world,
Eventually makes you want none of it

I cannot see if you can see,
The sparkle that dances behind life’s movements
These things, these events, they’re meaningless,
But every woman who clothes herself in fine satin,
Those lovely curved angels in tight denim,
Who turn us on by ignoring us
The old women by the street who sell corn and nuts,
The thing about the weather, how it changes
All these things, there’s so much of it
I wonder if you’re able, to catch the magic in it
Most of it gets routine and rubbles us to boredom,
I guess that’s the challenge,
Seeing the magic, in this rubble of boredom
We can’t see the magic though,
Until we’re dead,
Until who we think we are,
Disappears into the endless void of the jeweled night sky
Until we forget time and reason,
And set our dreams aside to be lost into forgotten nonchalance
The price of wonder is the death of oneself
Or at least what one thinks of oneself

Seek ye not the fetters of time,
In the weary eyes of a beloved friend
Nor seek the dainty corners of nostalgia,
To which the hopes of man are confined
Beside the dreaming corpse of humanity,
Life lays down the norms of her movement
Through which wordless law perhaps we might,
See sensibility worked and showered upon us
No prayer or ritual will save this poet,
From the endless agony of his framed melancholy
All things of pleasure and good will come,
To naught and nothing before the end
Forgotten to words this memory shall,
Be gone and dead to a vainful past
All in vain, great world in vain,
Death brings to us the final holocaust

We don’t know much about time,
Except that it’s wrong, a conjuring,
A wrong conjuring, to understand,
The movement of light,
And the memories of few days,
Upon this green, green Earth
Time destroys us, the ideas of ourselves,
Time does not exist, and neither do we
And it’s funny, how I say that,
And you look on with beady eyes,
Believing me, or not

A thing of wonder cannot have purpose,
Neither can a poem, nor a good song
Anything that’s worth the candle,
Can have no purpose
Purpose destroys, distorts,
The very magic of existence,
Of wonderful things
Purpose, aim, ambition,
Things that point to some other point,
Away from now, behind, or forward
Anything that’s not now,
Is not worth the candle
Is not worth even construing or pondering for,
Life’s now, you see it, or you don’t
It’s all now, it starts off from now, it ends now
You can’t have it any other way,
The things you perceive, the music you dance to,
The women you kiss and make love to,
The dreams you conjure and the philosophies you use,
To understand your own dreams
It’s all now, you see it, or you don’t

Life’s not a gradual movement of meaningful things,
It’s a playful explosion taking form in the mind of a child
Everything honest is child-like, uncaring of perfection
What’s worth in life is what’s worth to children,
The scratches on the floor and the shapes of the clouds

I’m telling you, it’s now,
It’s all now,
You see it, or you don’t,
I can’t care much for that
It won’t matter if you do or don’t anyway,
Just don’t kill the other guy,
And unleash hell on the planet
It’s quite a beautiful place,
And eras older than you
I’d say it’s better if you see it,
Now,
You’d do a whole lot of splendorous magic,
For the whole lot of us all

I’m much for goodness and ecstatic things,
And I’d love to see the world smiling,
Every day, loving and caring
I like that sort of stuff, it feels sensible to me
But it isn’t happening through church charity,
Or faithful prayers, or philanthropy
You need to wake up child,
And understand that there’s no understanding
It’s all you, and you’re doing this thing,
And it’s all such a marvelous drama of magic and misery
And it’s great, you just have to see it,
That it’s all you
Cheers