The vendor of flowers

The vendor of flowers lay on the wayside pavement
his flowers strewn about him
they adorned his lowly bed and each night transported him
to a land where metal lacked worth
at the altar of Marigolds and Roses
where sleep was slept under an aromatic jasmine moon
and days spent in meadows of Lavender
to a land where counting petals was occupation
and impregnating the earth, worship
Where buzzing messengers from above
came seeking the sweet Manna of His


The vendor of flowers sleeps alone tonight
his flowers strewn about him
as the wayside pavement, his beloved’s bosom, lovingly cradles him
The stars tonight shall take him away from this wicked Nadir of Noise
Far away to his cradle land to her honey- sweetened voice
Away from this abyss where pieces of metal bought dreams
away to her address in the clouds where tender love held supreme


Tonight in the Nadir of Noise as the living dead bustled in haste
The vendor of flowers slept in silence, redolent and chaste

The Lulling Last Tune

The Pianist’s fingers waltzed daintily on the black and white keys of his Steinway and out came tumbling the lilting, honey drunken notes. Clear as crystalline dew drops, warm as dreams of loved ones, grey as monsoon clouds, now fast and confident, now shy and reticent, now slow, now breathless, now angry and gurgling, they told his story to the looming dark clouds, they sang his lore to the crying winds outside. From the stream of whiskey that snaked from the bottle that lay on the carpet, to the revolver that lay by his side, his material and immaterial audiences sighed and listened intently to his lulling last tune, their tune, swaying violently to the turbulent winds that rocked his little dwelling by the brook.

He played for her tonight, he played to her shadows, he let his fingers translate the dictate of his heart as the notes searched for her in the empty, desolate corners of his existence, searched for her beautiful voice in the dark, dusty air of his dwelling. They wanted to reach out to her, to tell her of his dark madness, to remind her, that one last touch of remembrance, of a loving kiss kissed, of a once earnest promise promised, of love that had once been and of a fragile mind that has lost to the heart in the race.

Elsewhere, she knotted her rich finery, bejeweled with her present and future with someone else’s. Yet, as she rose, a listless swan, to walk after him, around the fiery, holy, flame, an inadvertent song sprang in her heart and sweetly, she sang with him his lulling last tune.
His one hand rose from the keys and groped for his gun. Still playing with the other hand, he picked it up and rested his forefinger on the cold metallic crescent inside the ring.

As a thumb bloodied itself with vermillion, her song reached it’s coda, she knew she loved him, and for this folly she’d die anew everyday. Oh what a colossal folly. The time was now to act, to undo what was being done…
Two clear shots rang out amidst the windy carousel that night and her breasts exploded in a burst of red. Amidst all the hell breaking loose around her she fell in a flurry of flowers and jewels, her knot broke with a snap. The retreating, panicking well-wishers split to reveal the Pianist in the crowd. The silvery, wispy smoke from his gun coiled and hung low in the night air as he strode up to where she lay.
Her forehead bore no sign of red, the thick garlands, she had broken and the sacred, nuptial necklace followed a snaking, winding course of gold and black beads over the flowing red river.

“She was on her way back to you, you fool, on her way back to YOU…” cried someone.

For a split moment a crimson, ruby spangled crown formed on the fluvial stream of blood and disappeared immediately as a salty drop dissolved in it.

The air was split by another deafening report.

Beams of light from an early morning sun ushered in numerous tiny, illuminated particles of dust that seemed to come dancing all the way from the skies above like little blessings. In his bright, little chamber the Pianist cradled her in his arms lovingly and gazed into her auburn eyes as little songbirds chirped heartily at his windowsill. The little dwelling overlooked a luscious, green meadow by a busy, bubbling brook whose cool waters cascaded onto little terraces of moss covered rocks and formed playful concentric currents in the soft shadow of ferns growing on the edges of the water.
A pair of hands descended gently upon the old Steinway’s keys and drummed out a familiar allegro. At length, they were joined by another pair, dainty and small. Her demure fingers almost instinctively trailed his tune and played a subtler melodic progression to it and suddenly, they felt, they had known this intro. This faintly sweet melody, now fast and confident, now shy and reticent, now slow, now breathless, now angry and gurgling, a lulling last tune… their lulling last tune?

In some past life, perhaps, in another earthly existence.

And so sat the Pianist and his love painting the air with a lovely sonata, now fast and confident, now shy and reticent, now slow, now breathless, now angry and gurgling, a lulling last tune, their lulling last tune!

What a fucking travesty albums can be, you stick memory onto them...

My mind's an album too but with a difference. One day it captured eyes, her eyes...the one memory I could do without but no, it wouldn't go away, just wouldn't go away, especially when I am in the higher rungs of my consciousness, her eyes would stick there. Even if someday I went insane, they'd fucking stick there, fucking annoying.

The hearts a picture book of images one doesn't need, burn it

Its only alcohol baby, wouldnt kill me
although I wish it did
....sometimes, not always though
they say it benumbs you to your pains...


bullshit


you cant feel your limbs, your face or your eyes...
cause it leaves you alone...
isolated with a buzz in your ears and an ache in your heart
it leaves you alone
you and your heart, alone
you and your mind, alone

Alcohol is your estranged love, another bottle please.

As he soared skywards, strains of his mother’s voice surrounded him, her sonorous voice echoed in every unit of his physical being and he for the first time felt safe, safe in the cradle of her voice.

His heart, which had drummed ceaselessly inside him ever since the attack was announced, was allayed now.

His mother was there, with him, right by his side, as he, gripping the throttle, pushed it forward.

As his battle chariot took to the skies, he briefly shut his eyes.

“Ma, shed not your tears? Rejoice, as I shall soon return to you, as the bright rays of the sun that shine on your beautiful face every dawn when you rise, as the young flower that you tend to in the garden, in the sweet waft of your puja incense, I shall visit you as heaven’s drops that sweeten the wet earth, you shall find me in the cool morning air, ma, you shall find me in your arms every time you think of me, crying, bundled in white, you shall find me sitting by your bedside every night as you shut your eyes, you shall, find me in the eyes of my brothers who fly today with me.”

As he fell, fell from an alien sky far away, his mother arose and smelled the morning air as golden rays from the sun washed her beautiful face.

I felt what an explosion, what a bomb blowing up on my face would feel like. It’s fucking painful!

Now there’s peace, there’s music playing at the back of my head and my feet are rising up in the air, whatever I am thinking, is all in singsong, first the thought then the same, very same words in singsong…fucking singsong.

And then you appear, a drop of the Sun, a radiant drop of the Sun (fucking singsong!) and a faint but haunting pain burns my stomach and chokes my throat (fucking singsong!) and I wish God hadn’t given me the heart (fucking singsong!) and you, those eyes.