Anarchy For Dummies

Smash TV screens

One million pieces

Spread to the wind at dawn

Douse radio speakers in ice water

(snap crackle *POP*)

Firebomb roadside billboards

Torch cubicles, and a lamp

Shred a few shoes

Topple satellite dishes

Call in bomb threats

To foreign dreamshops

Abduct politics at gunpoint, then

Mail  it back to the fan clubs

In a thousand more pieces

Take out hits on Bollywood actors:

"Terminate with extreme prejudice"

Hook fashion models on heroin

(if they aren't already)

Reduce flashbulb icons

To street walking struts

In the dead of winter

Make it all into

a web based reality TV show

(we love watching

people suffer on-screen)

Shave the skulls of newscasters

At the hook of a torchblade

Assorted talking heads

Force them to read aloud

passages from the Anarcho-Gita

Liven up their shit eating grin

Plastered to their plastic kin

Scrap up the peddler to sing out 

Hedonism/apathy soundtracks

Flood grocery aisles, mall outlets

Stalled elevators, phone lines

Reception rooms, garage pits

Theater lobbies; bomb 

Public arenas

With soothing ambient loops

Of tonal cues

Positive affirmations aplenty, 

Instead restore reading room

To padlocked souls

Through intricate terrorist network 

Of merry fire-poppin' pranksters

('Turn that frown level down, infidel!')

Subvert entire mind control apparatus

Bring neon Leviathan crashing down

Their shiny bloody driveway

Don't let them in your head, don't let

Them in your head, don't

Let them in your -

*BOOM*

Moon-voyager

21st July, 1969

The figure loomed bigger and bigger in the sky, a speckled ivory sphere. It slowly was descending on to the Earth. We always hoped that it'd be something bigger. Grander. Might I even say, more luminous. But the moon looked just like the way it used to, in the sky. A mere dreamy globe of chalkdust and finely powdered seashell, and thousands of years of mythical dreams stored inside all that. Something which had made the cavewoman croon out, the pagan worship, the soldier homesick, the voyager backtrack, and the sniper find his target. It was the very cosmic representation of womanhood to me, personally. And I had convinced myself that I'd doubt my belief one day. But that day wasn't today, the day we were the closest to the jewel of the sky. Infact, the jewel itself was hovering above our existence at present, almost like an offering, to explore her virginity. The moon was almost touching the ground below our feet, an orb the size of a double storeyd house. It stopped.

"Get ready guys! Neil, you go first."

That was an order, an order I had dreamed to obey for so long. I approached steadily. My hands were now in the shape of a fist. The shape of the moon, of the Earth. A part of me was all of the whole celestial history.

"This is one small step for a man, one giant leap for mankind."

I was now standing on the moon.

And swiftly, the moon started to rise up again, following its vertical path up into its astral abode. I could hear shouting and cries, some urging me to jump back into the world I lived, someone asking someone else to bring a lasso to tie down the moon. But both of us had left this world forever, and my journey had finally started.

                              ...................................................................................................

That's the last time we saw Neil. He went away into his own world, maybe. We did hear him once more though, the last time, before he deactivated his transmitter. It went something like this -

"It suddenly strikes me that that tiny pea, pretty and blue, is the Earth. I put up my thumb and shut one eye, and my thumb blots out the planet Earth. I don't feel like a giant. I feel very, very small."

In celebration of the 43rd year of first man landing in moon (even if it may be a hoax).

Random Chatter

Death, is but just a door to the second part of our conjoined lives,

And birth is but just the pause to our eternal existence in a world wide web of the single mind of some non-cosmic being.

It makes me think at times if we are actually anything but the imagination of someone else, or maybe someone's dream.

What if we are just chitterlings of some giant octopus, or maybe we are cheese nuggets of some super-celestial cream?

I'd love life to be that stupid. But it ain't so. And that's where I want to really scream.

Grammatical Errors.

Life, is what you make out of it. Yet the ingredients are the biggest mystery. What can we, and what should we add, that is the question. I have read over and over again the rantings of many a poor soul, how they have had a tough life, how they have been raped by their uncle, how their mommies have been drug abusers, how they want to end their lie. But the fact is, none really leaves a mark on me. Apathy? Insensitivity? Cynicism? Or detecting a sense of poor grammar in the sufferers? None of the reasons really seem to compensate my indifference. But I must say, the last one is the most dangerous of all the faults. Am I that great a stuck up grammar faggot, who'd just ignore the help cry [maybe(skepticism again)] of someone 4,000 miles away from me? Guess what, yes. I adorn myself with the "faggot" term, because I am no great Shakespeare.

Life goes on, and grammar is nowhere near to being the last coach of the train. I should stop being an unindistrious lad and really check out the whole train. For my own safety.

A Comparative Report On Friendship

I like sitting beside a sea, contemplating. Most think I'm a man of the mountains, and I claim myself to be one. But I like sea too. I especially like the waves, the one which are washing my feet over and over like a broken record. They're mostly phosphorus, but at this time, with the sky a pale, chalky blue, the inner light of every wave is breaking down. I'm sitting here, near a harbour. The giant Ferris wheel in the background makes an inappropriate wheel of shadow on the pale sky. It disrupts the harmony of the sky and sea and their endless conversations. It is 4 in the morning, and sunlight is near. I sit down, the waves polishing my trousers into a darker shade of what they are.
 I like ships. I like boats too. Just like the ones resting on the sand-bed beside me. In a few minutes, the first voyagers of dawn will roll them out and sail out in search. Of food, mostly.
 I can see a ship leaving the harbour, a giant demagogue like figure. Just that, there is no more rationality left in it, just ration. And the boats leave too, one by one. All my life, I've sat here and seen them go away. I wish I was a boat. I could leave too then. I could leave and not look back. It's nice not to be rooted, I feel nowadays. A strange indifference creeps inside me, creeping me. I wish I was a boat.
 Boats are a lot similar to people. Especially the ones which leave never to come back. They get lost in the sea, they crash into shallow sea beds in the middle of nowhere, they fall apart, broken. And sometimes, they just leave to reach a new destination. And start a new career in being the same old carrier, carrying a hundred new faces maybe, or just a few everyday newbies. I like those boats. They never come back, and eventually, I forget them. I forget those coveted yet tattered sails. I forget those wooden planks with dried salts making a hard, dry cover in their undersides. I like boats which never come back. I miss them, yes. But I still love them.
 It is the boats which will always come back that I'm scared of. They always end up near my feet in the evening, after I've tired my eyes and my soul seeking out a new boat to seek shelter in for the night that'll never come. Every morning, I beg them silently not to leave me behind, but no, they must go on. They are but a boat. And I'm just a boy who wants to be a boat.
 The sea calls away the boats, but why doesn't it ever call me? Is it because I'm not a boat? Is it because I can't swim? I hate the sea at certain times of each day. When it takes all the boats and ships away. And when it brings some of them back. You can ask me, some boats do come back, why do I still prefer to be angry at the sea then? Because once you go out there, you never come back as the one I loved. Your mast break, your sail peel away, your wooden planks smell of fish. You're not the same boat anymore. You're just a scribbled on and dirty rendition of something under which I decided  to lose my shadow one day.
 I do love those boats again, eventually. But as days pass, the boats get stronger, sailing hours after hours on cold water, and I become stronger. I become colder, like the sea. So one day, when a boat never comes back, I decide to be happy, though somewhere deep inside, I know that boat sank with a bit of me in it, in it's every plank, every inch of cloth, of dirty plastic and linen, every bit of rope, and every bit of hope. The hope that it'd see me sail one day beside it. But that's just my imagination. Boats don't feel anything. I shouldn't too, should I?
 The sky is turning orange. The sea, imitating the sky. I remember I read somewhere, waves are but like love, they always come back to wash you and all your grief away. They eventually withdraw, but that's temporary. I think I'll give more importance to the coming back, than the leaving part. Maybe I should stop seeking shelter under boats. Maybe I should stop seeking out new boats. Maybe, just maybe, will then I become a boat.
 But I think I'd then want to be the sea. I'd like to wash the feet of another me, soothing his cathartic soul. I think I'll become the sea. And let the boats sail. And help all those who want to be a boat, I'll help them sail away too.
 But then again, I am but just a boy wants to be a boat.

Meltdown

  The signs began in a small manner. Hardcore sweating, numbness, constant laxness. I couldn't concentrate on being an artist anymore. There was no more inspiration. The world was turning into a giant jelly jar, and I was simply surviving in it. I could feel myself slowly dissolving into that jelly. I thought it must have been too much pressure to meet the due dates. Donna thought otherwise. Sweating like pig wasn't a good sign to her, even though I tried to convince her. Pigs don't sweat, horses do.

  We visited the doctor. Dozens of test, autopsies, rest of the crap. He said he'd contact me once he got the reports. He did. Me and Donna visited him one fine evening. And that's when I got to know, I was suffering from a critical case of meltdown. I was melting away. And there was nothing anyone could do about it anymore. We were too late, it was the last stage.

  We came back home. That night, there was no dinner. From the next day, Donna took a leave. Atleast that's what she said. I think she left her job. There was no more showers for me. No more sponges. No more soap. No more soggy soups. Just hard boiled veg and eggs. Donna wanted me to stay solid. Stick to my ground. Stay there, beside her, standing.

  But nothing stopped the melting. Everyday, the bed would be mucky in the morning. I insisted her to not sleep with me. She didn't listen. There was no more daily activities like peeing, shitting, brushing, bathing. She made me suckle onto ice cubes. And I was okay. I was to become one with the universal jelly. The all encompassing slimy muck which I'd see around me everywhere nowadays.

  Then one fine morning, I realised I couldn't creep out of the bed anymore. I shouted for Donna. She came, she picked me up. I was now the size of a 5 year old. She placed me in a bucket. The same bucket in which I'd once puke when I got too drunk to boost my artistic frenzy. I was okay with it I suppose. The whole day, I watched the television, peeking out from the inside of the bucket.

  The next day, I was liquid. I was disappointed, I thought I'd be jelly, colourful, wobbly, fun to play with. I'd just turned out to be a bucketful of creamy mud. Donna cried when she saw me. I asked her to take a sip from the bucket. I really wanted to know how I tasted. She cried louder. A bit too morbid request for her, I guessed. Finally she transferred me into a mug, and we headed towards the hospital.

  The doctor saw me. He said he was sorry. He also offered me to stay over in the hospital. They'd wanted to do some studies on me. I wasn't sure about it. I couldn't speak. I was just a mug full of mud. Donna refused to let me go. The doctor offered money. Donna was stubborn. So he offered her to stay with me in the hospital. I guess she reconsidered. We needed the money. She did.

  They transferred me to a nice, cozy room, a nice, cozy bed. A nice, cozy mug. I was under observation. Donna was sitting beside me. She sat there for a full day. Then she lost consciousness suddenly while trying to check me out inside the mug. She had refused to eat. She had become weak. So she fainted. I saw them taking her away, while I lay there in the floor.

  Donna had knocked over the mug when she fell. I was on the floor mostly, and a bit of me was in the bed. I could hear the nurses screaming, I saw the doctor panicking.

  The cleaner came. He moped me up, put me in a rusty bucket, and finally flushed me down the toilet bowl. I could finally feel a oneness with the universal jelly. It and I were finally becoming one. I rushed down the sewers.

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  When Donna came back to the room the next day, she found a new mug. Suddenly, she skipped a heartbeat. What if Eric wasn't there inside the mug? What if he'd left, angry with her leaving him all alone? She paced up to the mug, and there was Eric in it. Eric was there, in his full, slimy glory, almost basking in his victory over mankind.

  She cuddled the mug. She'd live the rest of her life with this mug full of Eric. She was decided on that. She had Eric with her, there, in that mug. She'd always have him.

Respawn

  It was getting dark. The room was getting dark. There were too many people. And the windows were all closed. He tried to look around, but these hospital beds, they don't let you move. Or maybe it was because of that cringey neck of his. Whatever it was, he knew he didn't have much time left. All these people who had gathered around, they were here because he was about to die. And so they could mourn his passing away, and yet breath easily as they themselves had now more space to occupy in this cosmic circus. He could feel it inside, like a push was being exerted on him, as if someone was just knocking on incessantly on the door, and he had to go and attend to it. Forceful, yet gracious. That push was urging him to let go of whatever worldly ties he had left, atleast the ones he could still feel.
  He knew he wouldn't be seeing the sun shine again over the sea, which was just a few feets away from his home near that posh sea town, or hear birds coo in a spring night making sweet, sweet love. He knew life was just about to jump out of his infinity bound roof. The push was getting stronger, the urge, stronger.
  Had he spent a good life? Well, he raised his kids well, he never really cheated, that is, he didn't have any coital relationships out of his marriage bonds, anything below that doesn't count. He always had had friends, friends who loved him, laughed along with him, and even cried a few times when he tried to make them laugh too hard. He had worked faithfully, he never really bitched about his boss, he accepted whatever salary he was paid, never accepted bribes, in cash. He had sent his son abroad, he had married off his daughter, his wife was dead already. What else could he have asked for before death? A last bite of that amazing shorshe ilish his mother used cooked once, that maybe. And suddenly food reminded him of his mother, his father, and all those long deceased, and long left behind images of men and women. He wanted a mother again, a father again, he wanted a new home, a new life, a new chance again. Suddenly, the life he had lived didn't seem satisfactory enough anymore. He had survived a world war, a division of his mother land, multiple wars across the world, multiple ups and downs in the economic chart. He had survived labour strikes, student agitations, police brutality, mob madness, he had survived history. He was mankind itself. Suddenly he felt he had seen so much, felt so much, yearned so much, dreamed so much, yet he was just about to die in a crummy hospital room which smelled of that clean, hygienic death.
  He deserved more, his kind deserved more. He felt the whole mankind, the whole history of it, all the billion and zillion figures, all the achievements well up in him. He was about to burst open in a prudent atomic explosion, and if he did, this world, and all its revelers would see the history enacted before them, and they'd be so lucky to shake hands with so many great footsoldiers of a vast civilisation. He felt the push, he just wished this push to open him up before the world and show them what they have forgotten and buried in their civic closets, all the brutality, all the crudity, and yet all the beauty in between those vulgar fluid, wasted in time.
  He once saw in a movie that when you're about to die, all your ancestors gather around you to take you back to your cradle. But he couldn't see anyone of them around. He had seen his parents alive, his grandparents too. And even the great-grandparents, he had seen their hazed out photos. But no one had come to receive him. Did it mean he wouldn't be dying this time? But the doc had given his words, he had assured his children that they can shed a few tears now, finally. He had seen the whole of it enacted before him, so that surely means he's about to die. Then, why haven't they come to receive him? Are they all too inside him, this tiny cage of his, were they pushing him too? Pushing him towards a final resting place? Or maybe were they waiting just on the other side of the frail veil he could see form before him, waiting to receive him in open arms?
  His eyes were clouding up, he felt confused. Was he happy he was about to die, or did he still want a little bit more taste of the worldly boundaries. He couldn't understand, he couldn't understand himself, or his emotions, or this world anymore. Was he to die a bitter old man, or a satisfied human being who had found his answers among the wordless scribbles behind the math book of destiny itself?
  He didn't know. And he didn't want to anymore. He could see the light outside the tunnel. He knew his end bound chariot had arrived. And he could feel himself being pushed towards the light. It was getting brighter, brighter by every eternity long nanosecond. He wanted to wave a last goodbye, give a last kiss to this world of his, this beloved world, but it was too late already. He was boarding his chariot, the light was blinding around him, the light, oh the sweet, warm light, the sweet sunshi...

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  The about-to-be-a-first-time-father was pacing around tensely, when the doctor shot out of the labour him, bouncing towards him, his own brother he felt

"Dada, it's a girl, it's a girl, dada!" shot out the young man. The now-definitely-a-father stood perplexed for a moment or two, and then dashed towards the labour room then and there, rightfully followed by his elders, and her elders now. They all were eager to welcome the new sunshine, like a new dew drop to soothe, however temporarily, their worn out souls into this worldly abode. 

  The wait, was over. The new one, had arrived