Friday, April 08, 2005


If I had a million for every perfect tooth that lived in her mouth Id have 31 million. Not enough for the fortune five hundred but enough to roll many joints with having run out of paper or the use for it. There is that one wisdom tooth thats off to the East, beauty is in the mouth of the beholder. None of my wisdom teeth are currently talking to each other and face away in permanent stalemate.

Were these our milk tooth days, i might serenade her with the strange dizzyness of my head and she might respond with tolerance. But now i make desperate advances lest i be left behind. She smiles and im smitten again.

Double guessing hasnt changed. She loves me - she loves me - she loves me- she loves me - she loves me not. Dandelions in a 5 beater taal. I might never get an odd time signature but these are days of miracle and wonder. She loves me not everytime. Were these teeth new, she might have braces and i might be saved the heartache. I might buy her colour co-ordinated rubberbands to complement the hazelnut in her eyes. I could stare at her eyes till the braces come off but time pulls at my pants like a child posessed by candyfloss .

Another wench, another dandelion. She loves me - she loves me - she loves me not. 3 beater - waltz - oom pa pa, oom pa pa. She turns me on so that I might want to eat masala fried peanuts off the ocean of tan that lesser mortals call her navel. But I waltz with precision. I am a snapdragon not a dandelion. While I wear my inner beast on my slleve, i must profess that my snap is worse than my dragon. Masala peanuts roll off my callused hands into my mouth.

I am as tragic in summer as I am in winter. Then i dreamed of pumpkin boiled golden. Now it is masala peanuts. But its summer time and my fish is jumping. The living isnt any easier and my daddy isnt rich. I might spew blue effervescent venom to blind all who even so much as look at it. Her teeth and hazelnut eyes keep me from erupting.

Tuesday, April 05, 2005

3 ages of artistic indulgence

Despite art being indulgence, we ratoinalise our need for it with arguments only rivaled by those offered when picking up a cigarette after having quit. Talking cosmos to justify my scribbling comes easy. Today however I balance drunkenly on the ledge that separates the last two phases of literary art.

Alas all ye wasted MBAs, for there are only 3 phases in my component analysis of literary art. No abbreviations can be used to describe just 3 phases without highlighting deeper desires to sound qualified. I wouldnt know my nuts from my noggin when it comes to the history of literature, but being frivolous leaves me expert enough to make as many phases as I please. Three is my lucky number.

Phase 1. (I read in class 2)

Phase 1 must unfortunately must be the polluting of ones mind wirh other peoples verse. Art dosent come naturally to junta - we must learn to waste time in a truly wasteful manner. I often wondered why there exist no good bookd for adolescent boys. I now realise that for those not indoctrinated early into the arts (like me), Jerking off is a perfectly good alternative. To date, I jerk off better than I read. Alas we must learn to read, appreciate, deconstruct critique and then add write more syllables that time dosent give a flying fig for. I now consider what ive read as achievement, while my seed lies unsown and my selfish genes are fast admitting failure. I read Dr Sseuss after a long time yesterday and am quite convinced that since 400 words communicate more to me than the few thousand of other books ive read, that this phase must necessarily have ended..

Phase 2. (Mai bhi Machiavelli) or Yan can write so can you

Phase 2 "my shit is candy" normally happens when we mature enough to realise that almost everyone is overrated. That Arnold can become senator andRabri devi often adds Habeas Corpus to her cattlefeed. So you write 2 lines and someone says he sees shakespeare in them. Of course he was hinting at plagiarism but jo bhagwan karta hai.... woh theek karta hai. And so of course you begin writing. A different age might have looked upon an artist destroying his creation as dramatic/tragic/poetic in some way. Today we preserve every turd of creativity as bits and bytes that this automatised art arsehole churns out. So bankrupt are we that we expect an organisation to confer awards of creativity on authors even though they couldnt come up with anything better than "the booker prize" themselves.

Phase 3 (Painting is creating but im just erasing, crystal clear canvas is my masterpiece)

Returning a thought to the recesses of your mind where it can take on its original form - not tied down by fancy words and rules of grammar. In my mind there exists no place for full stops - just round and round and round and round - like that. No bachche mustnt cage thoughts, after all they also have feelings. On my birdday i will take all the caged thoughts on my computer and set them free. No more fear of entering 'my documents' for fear that i might encounter my self as other see me. Delete karo. If i need to be poetic, I shall spout Jethro tull for he has paid poetic dues for half of humanity. I shall use my backspace to rewrite many pieces. Its amazing how easy brevity really is. I asked ex girlfriends to return letters so I could incinerate them. For once these women seem to have co-operated - in advance.

Cleaned out shelving on my hard disk makes me wonder what to fill them up with next. I no loger store pornography so filling them up will be tougher. I pick my nose as i wonder. Today id like an e-booger to stick on the underside of my empty writing shelves so i can once again proclaim them to be my own while i think.