Chup

Chup ho ja meri jaan.
Bas chup ho ja.
Thodi der ke liye.
Jaan legi kya.
Bas chup ho ja.
Chup.

Since forever

Maybe you were born with it. No that can't be. Nobody is ever born with anything. Maybe it was just crawling like a caterpillar on your brown skin all these years. Made a cut sometime, very small, and just slipped in. Now it moves inside, slowly, quitely. Quite, but always there. You can here it moving sometimes. Nobody else can. You alone can here it, for it moves only for you. The sound is so soft, almost sacred. Can only be heard in silence, like the sound of your eyelashes on the sheet while you're lying down.

The Musician

I had a dream last night. I dreamt that I could make music. I dreamt that I knew how to make music. I dreamt that tunes hit the head just like words do. I dreamt that tunes swam in the head just like words always do. I dreamt that I was a musician. For real.

Ouch... The desire hurts.

I dreamt that I made music with my most favourite men: Noori ofcourse. I dreamt we played every single day. I dreamt we played every single hour of the day. I dreamt I sang all day. Music was salvation. Music was life. It was all. It was all.
I dreamt we sang on stage. And when we did we were flame and fire. We were free. And that was all. That was how we sang. When you sing like that every desire is complete.

This one is fake, it's fraud. I had no such dream last night. I've never had such a dream. Just a piece of ma desire.

Fool

On your way?
Ha ha ha.
Like an ant treading along
a heap of cow dung.
An extra large heap of cow dung.
Very fresh.
Not hardened a bit.
Very, Very fresh.
Pretending that the
heap is everest.
Happily treading along.
Bearing the foul smell,
and humming along.
For the peak of the everest
is worth any price.
Wake up my love.
Cow dung my love,
cow dung it is.

By the river

Roll up your pants.
Walk down the river.
Roll on the sand.
Blow the hair off your face.
And dream.
And live.

The Calm

There was storm. There was thunder and lightning. The sea water screamed and shrieked in fear. There was fear. There was pain. The kind that you can feel in the chest, raw. Storms bring with them the unexpected. Storms bring with them that which is destined. This one led to the discovery of the end of the soul. It led to the discovery of everything there is.

The storm ended and then came the calm. The sea danced in rhythm again. With white sand beneath it. Danced in rhythm under the sun. Danced in rhythm as rain fell. There was magic in existence. There was. Magic, in mere existence.

***

There was storm. There was thunder and lightning. The sea water screamed and shrieked in fear. There was fear. There was pain. The kind that you can feel in the chest, raw. Storms bring with them the unexpected. Storms bring with them that which is destined. This one led to the discovery of the end of the soul. It led to the discovery of everything there is.

The storm ended and then came the calm. The sea danced in rhythm again. With white sand beneath it. Danced in rhythm under the sun. Danced in rhythm as rain fell. There was magic in existence. There was. Magic, in mere existence. But was it really magic or was it the desire for magic, the faith in magic, the passion of living, that made it all seem like magic.

This style of saying things twice differently is a direct adoption of a fellow bloggers style: english-august.

The Whore

There lives a whore. Very pretty. She loves being a whore. For she feeds on beauty, and there is no beauty quite like that of being a whore. You'd see her somewhere, in the crowd or by herself and you'd know that it's her.
She's the prettiest whore in town, easiest to trade with. You never have to say a word, you just have to look at her. Maybe she'd look back at you, maybe she wouldn't. But she'd be yours. Till she wants. When she wants.