Parting in Love

Feel the music. Shall we? The light tune playing in the background while we sit beside each other. Neither holding hands, nor speaking to each other. Just sitting.

I feel like cutting off my legs. So that you will weep and kiss. No, not the hands. They should be there to comfort you, and make you feel I will be there. Without legs. Weird thought, isn’t it? I know it is weird but what can I do; I just go weird with weird thoughts thinking about us in a weird way sitting beside you. I love you.

From where have you come? Which city will you go? I think this, and a lot more, astonished. A face so moon like. Hairs so night like. I feel dizzy. You are so mesmerizing. I want to spend my death with you. I don’t want to spend my life with you and then die someplace else. I want to die in front of you. Close my eyes with my last sight being your eyes.

Why am I crying? I don’t want to cry. What will they think. I am crying because I am with you? This is true but what is not true is their interpretation. Yes, you make me cry. Yes, I would have been laughing had I not been here. You are so pathetic. My heart is crying its heart out. I feel like cutting my right hand too in which, once I had held a bunch of green grass, kneeling down, and had asked you to accept me. There were no flowers in the vicinity. Not my fault. Flowers. Why are girls attracted to flowers? They are the most repulsive things on earth. Especially that red thorny foul smelling piece of shit which feels as if various thin layers of the internal part of someone’s cheek has been peeled off, colored red with blood and bunched together. I like your cheeks. They are so smooth and kissable. I have never kissed on lips. Lips of Angelina Jolie. Haah. Angelina Jolie was out there to kill people, and her husband. Mr. Smith. Mr. Smith, a very Jewish one, planned to kill Hitler. Nazis. They made so many people cry. They burnt them. Cut them. I feel like cutting my left hand. Or is it right? Whatever. I regret the day I proposed you. Had that not occurred, I would not have loved you to the extent I do now. And I would have been smiling. I say smiling and not happy. Because.. you know what, you cutie-beauty, you little fluffy chocolate-pie, you moon-baby.. that I cannot ever again in my life time or till endless eternity be ever as happy as you make me. Chorus had once blathered, no man can be called happy until he dies happily. But I contradict them. I am happy, you sophoclical oedipal morons! And even if I cut all my body parts. And die. I will be called happy because in my lifetime, I got loved by this piece of moon. And, its so terrible but yes, loved her too.

We are parting baby. I cannot bear this. Please speak something. I know all the fear-of-suffering-is-worse-than-the-suffering-itself stuff, but I suffer now. I don’t know if I’ll suffer in the future but I suffer now. Please, let’s never part. Never. Never. Never. Never. Never. I will give you all my hands and legs and hats and books. But don’t go away sweetheart. We’ll meet. Right? Will we meet again baby? Haan? Tell me. Tell me. Tell me. Please speak something. Something. Something. Please.

‘I Love You. Be there for me always.’

She said. Guys she said something. Please speak again. Once again please let the stream of musical words flow out of the shining glacier of that hell-of-a face. I can die thousand times to hear that, whatever you said.

‘Let’s Go. You will miss your rickety bus.’

Oh. “Let’s Go!”

Love on Grave

She smiled. I laughed. Hysterically. It seems awesome to be in between two women. Wait. Was she a woman?

M-A-R-G-A-R-E-T

Yes. Margaret is usually the name of a girl. She was a woman. So, here I am, sandwiched between two women. And then she, with her fingers, and bloody sharp nails, circles on my chest, diverting my attention from the stone that was behind. Just lie down and try to watch what’s behind your head. It’s difficult. But then I am here doing this. And much more. But then she scratches with her claws.

I scream.

She shouts.

We laugh.

Rain Falls.

It’s black. No living soul in the vicinity. Eerie. What's even more eerie is the fact that below MARGARET is engraved her Date of Birth. People take birth. Pee and Poo in pants. And then they grow. Create Familiar Enemies. Create Unfamiliar Friends. Have Sex. Reproduce. Die. Become MARGARET.

She removes what was covering her upper half of the body. Physically the upper half of the body. We were making love on a dead body lying six feet below me. So, literally I was sandwiched between MARGARET and She. And then suddenly she jumps and stands. Claws stretched forward. I rise. And then we dance. Circling around MARGARET. With upper halves of the bodies uncovered. She and Me. Me and She. She watches.

Drenched in cold water, we hold hands and merrily dance our way through the foreplay. She bites me. Bitch. I wonder what I would answer the next day to my master. The mistress bit me. Hah. Blue Jeans we have on ourselves. And then again we lie on MARGARET. Graveyard is a silent place. No one comes there in the night. At least no one who can respond to the proceedings. The best place to make love. We do something and then something. I hear music. A Rock version of ‘We Wish You a Merry ’. I don’t know from where. All I can see is She and Raindrops falling straight on my face and then bouncing back. Someone on Top. You know. Woman. We make love. Fall.

And then we circle again and dance around MARGARET. Poor MARGARET. I hope she rises from the grave. And makes love in this graveyard on her grave.

I sing the song
That echoes in the yard
Clutched in claws
I sing ‘We Wish You a Merry’

Listening to a Crow

You know what I feel. I feel the world is bullshit. Bulls shitting all around. Mean bulls with their mean intentions interacting with each other in a tranquil poise of sufferance. Sometimes, I feel like pissing them off. Off to their ridiculous self. Off you go. Off. Because I am not a bull. Don’t ever mistake me for one. Yaa… but you can, because you are a bullshitting bull.

I am a crow sitting on the bulls. Sitting on the shitting bulls. There are many like me, taking free rides from connaughtplace to hauzkhas, pecking them all the way and finding them helpless to get rid of them. Funny thought. Haah! I am crow. Kaaw-Kaaw. But you think connaughtplace is too far from hauzkhas. I say you bulls have metro. Crows are not allowed inside the metro. Aah. There I hear you saying – “No bull can travel from Connaught Place to Hauz Khas and that crows can fly.” So I say, that is all you care about? that no bull can travel from connaughtplace to hauzkhas? that crows can fly? Can’t a crow joke? Or you think only bulls can? Don’t you feel ashamed of yourself?

Bullshitting bulls. You don’t even think what made the bulls, which used to be the Mercedes once, stop travelling a diminutive distance of connaughtplace to hauzkhas. Or soul to heart. You deprived the crows of the free rides. Bloody bullshitting bulls. But I am a crow. Kaaw-Kaaw. I think about this. So I fly. I fly long long long distances. Travel from one settlement to other. Making the bulls afraid of a visiting bull. Pecking the bulls. There are bulls everywhere. Some show their body. Some the shape. I peck at them.

Some travel in their descendant. Mercedes. The pretty ones. The shape. I peck. Some have black skin with a tail from the neck. At them, I peck. Some are tied to a single pole. The foes. The friends. I peck. The licking bull-pairs who reck. I peck. Am I a poet? No, you moron. I am just a pecker. The pecker with straws and not the one with pebbles. Like the ones you suck from like the pretty (really?) ones on the screen.

I am a crow. A black one. I loved free rides on the bulls. But now I have to think otherwise. Maybe, I can float on the smoke. Or on Mercedes with the pretty ones. By the way, the pretty ones have a tendency to hide their shameless eyes and half of the face with black cowdung cakes for reasons beyond comprehension for a crow. They look sexy. The cowdung cakes. I wish to have a pair of them. And peck at the shameless eyes. And the shape. I am a pervert, you say. Yes I am. You are too. We differ because I Kaaw-Kaaw and you ruminate. Ruminate silently. And then shit. Shit about me. Shit about the pretty ones among the foes or friends. But you wouldn’t shit now because you are a gentle-bull. I have made you feel so. Sorry.

I am joking.

I know you have pointed out many grammatical mistakes. But you can’t expect me to know correct Grammar. Bulls know Grammar. I am a crow. And you say all I say is nothing but crap. Well, crows too have a digestive system. Like You.