All the paths to you are known
To lie through the city.
But I beat out my path
Through pits of snakes,
Through the mouths of man-eaters,
Under the skies of green leaves
and yellow teeth and gums splashing with blood.
I will come with
death in my steps
and life in my eyes.
What night it will be when we meet?
Like the mountain finally touching the sky with its fingers.
Like a sun blazing with life in the middle of deep dark forest.
I, who heard the murmur of your voice
a thousand miles away
over the din of the streets.
You, who pour life into stones by touching them with your feet.
In the end the only difference between someone who writes and someone who doesn’t is that the man who doesn’t write has one less regret. (Or one more. We can’t be sure.)
Porn deaddiction is the theme today and Rajesh holds forth to his Youtube followers who number in the tens today(not many want to be de-addicted of porn) while away from the camera I am reading The rise and fall of the third reich. He put what in the shower lines?
“What an epic asshole,” I surrender but the one dozen online followers jump at the sound of epic…
Buford, Bill’s brother had sprained his ankle. He had actually overdosed on cocaine. Overamping it is called. It is also called being afraid of losing your job. So it could not have been a week of partying and free-market debauchery, snorting line after line of white powder, waking up in a haze in the oddest corners of the house with women he had never seen before fondling Tyrion. (He called his unit Tyrion. Make what you will of that.)
“He sprained his ankle,” Bill explained into the phone to Buford’s boss who sounded considerably concerned.
“Can I talk to him?”
Two happy dogs
try to smell each other’s necks
And circle each other
With wagging tails
Under the dome of the sky,
On the floor of sand.
When fishermen’s rafts emerge from hilly clouds.
They were never moved by the manifestoes of the infra realists.
Anarchist poets do not scare them in their dreams.
They dig their feet into the sand
And jump on each other
while a fisherman urinates
On a pole hoisting a party flag.
I want to put these dogs
on the boats of these courageous fishermen.
I want them to have adventures
With evil pirates and swords.
But the fishermen understand only the boats
And the sea as whatever floats their boats
and the dogs will keep jumping
into the sea.
Humanity’s last ship, Our Finest Moment, began burning less than twenty minutes after leaving the port. We all knew we were dead meat when we boarded the ship, but we were expecting to at least get a little sea-sick before being massacred. The end began when the Captain announced that the island paradise he had been promising to take us to over the duration of the last six months, through the radio, and thousands of thirty second video clips on tiktok, and millions of one-sixty-character tweets, did not in reality exist. He added that he had done what he had…
I read The last voyage of the ghost-ship for the first time at midnight at Thrissur bus stand, as mosquitoes buzzed around me, and someone new in town struggled to make the bus-stand ATM work to the amusement of the tea-stall ghedi(dude). Looking back now, the story wasn’t particularly great. But newly in love, the story which wove together the mystery of the ocean with the mystery of literature seemed to be saying something deep which I have to admit I still haven’t figured out. After that, the sight of an ocean would always make me think of Gabriel Garcia…
In the town that I live in, where cars routinely screech to a halt next to pedestrians on zebra crossings almost as if sending a message, where twenty-year-olds put up posters of pale-faced podcasters to stand guard over their sleep, where streets, buildings, corridors, and intersections can disappear overnight, my place of solace is the Kerala Hotel, owned by the enterprising Baby chettan. It’s a home far away from home, a Kerala far away from Kerala. Every Malayalee, unable to take any more of the local sugar-rich sambar, appears at the threshold of Kerala hotel and Baby chettan recites the…
(#Experiments in absurdity)
We are all blind. Visibility is a myth — Ardh said to us. Must be true if Ardh said it. Ardh can’t lie. If he says three billion people in this country are actually blind, and are pretending to see things, then that is the truth. This is the new world. A world full of possibilities.
The honesty of Ardh is the bedrock on which our country stands. It’s even in our constitution. It’s not Ardh can’t lie. If it had been that and if it had been printed as a footnote of a boring sub-amendment, we…
What lessons does Frank Underwood, who was declined a ministerial post and was made a majority whip, have for Shailaja teacher suffering the exact same fate? Let’s see.
One of the hardest things for you to get is the guy who will kill the object of his love and bury her in a desert to further your career. So if Shailaja teacher has one of these guys in the kennel, this would be time to take the muzzle off his mouth and let him cut out a path for her to Niymasabha Mandiram.