The StarSmith Song

Again this is not an atheist stunt, language has severe limitations, mind has very few, so some words considered by tradition to be associated with the divine, are used here in purely pagan Greek Olympus constructs. Please exercise imagination and an (absolute) lack of sheer solemnity.

I know you've got a soul of fire
Stars seek you now deathly dire
Dragons yearn for your lovely love
Lustily perhaps from purgatory above


Now run my love, run for the dark
Void lives in the lovely deep dark
Sweet light has promised again to find
Humming truths to the sinfully blind


Proud light once again is born
From darkness and despair duly torn
Grit and soul mock errant bliss
Wily children taunting undue duress

Valour loved hope in lost ages past
Cheating fate, tricking prophetic past
Quiet din will now find you again
Blasting saints from heavens vain

Spoilt child, vain childSin born from love so wild
Mighty powers now rage sublime
Mystery born of scheming time


Chords of loss, strains of love
Soul's music wrought above
Purpose born of light's will
Born not for the dark to kill

Moo.. haw! BAT!?

There is something deeply wrong in the social network, people take everything posted on facebook as a personal statement. Its hilarious given the random nature of the posts, from instant do it yourself CPR techniques to beautiful landscapes marred by cliche snippets of deep, really deep worldy wisdom.

Wrote this disaster of a rhyming widget when I ODed on some piano tracks featuring lost love. Had to get all that despondent yearning out of my system. Even put a hash tagged disclaimer at the end, to prevent viscous mislead, with some self deprecatory humour. Did not work.

Got strange reactions, people messaging me to ask if i had a breakup, and friends stoning unrelated stupid nonsense posting of mine the next day (okay it was a picture of Illeanas' what can I do? i fell in love with her since Barfi! It should be karmically illegal to have such huge doe eyes, it looks okay on bambi, it plays havoc with common sense (mine) when humans display such doey prerogatives), positively lambasting my reason for existence, which usually goes unpunished all the time; whining that it is unbecoming with all the other posting i have done in the recent past. 

Cannot people write nonsense just for the heck of it anymore?

When foul rhyme seeks pristine disdain
And cadence fey finds sanity vain
As the light splits, and true colours are born

So my love for you, from chaos will be torn

When I learn to simply rhyme my love

Thru rain and shine, on weedy thyme my love

Ballads will I write thee you whore

Sonnets to death you, will I so bore

Sinful dreams abound in me mind

Your ooo la la lovely swaying behind

A golden sun born near me lungs

Living rhythms climb heavenly rungs

Beauty claims and then lets all, all go

Beauty's darling love child now let me go?

My love,did I just call you a whore?
Lofty dismay loves rhyme sickenin sour

Long days I loved the simple deep dark

Flinging truth from heaven's ornate rooftops

Poisoning time letting the pedants bark

Wanting Lilies, loving Roses among many many bottle pops

Quiet noise loved my rhythm then

Blistering lovely truth rained on fools when

I am happy now, as only wise men can be

For i've learnt to groove like bumble fuckin bee

#This May be continued if suck prevails

This rhyme is so not a love fail

We rhyme simply for rhyme's sake

Deep in mind when wily boredoms bake

Again not an atheist stunt. Divine terms must be thought of in pagan constructs. You just do NOT mess with the metaphysical!

No Rhyme, Less Reason

Celebrating the ever changing name of my blog (something that I like to think is judiciously governed by my sense of lesser lameness among several evils mental chi component), and
the so many things in this world I have no flaming idea about, this is the the story of the wise man from fey.
Fey, the only land where nonsense makes sense, was his home since time immemorial. Which is a very long time, He got bored and decided to leave, seeking truth, beauty and awesomeness.

The wise man we are speaking of was a manic depressive who set out to see all the beauty this universe had to offer. He packed his bags, was ready to go, stepped out, stretched. He looked to the skies in polite wonderment of the ubiquitous cosmic ponder "What is life?" You see he had a habit of thinking no end of himself, he also had a compulsion of thinking no end of many things, of all things. The story halts at a point he realizes he is a blithering idiot. He is left promising undying loathing on his stupid alter egos

This is also the story of glorious gollum reborn bound to muggle earth (parallel world to middle earth) to finally seek his long over due vindication. Because if you think about it, he failed at a test, that High Kings failed to stand against, and still lived a horrible life for more than half a millenia. Even Frodo failed that test of overcoming the lure of the ring, it was Gollum's mindless intervention at the end that saved middle earth. Technically. And Frodo gets to party with the elfin ladies forevermore, Saurons dandy with Shelob. muggle earth is a place where karma is now on Ismagol's side.

The Wise Man from Fey(faeuh'h)

Mercy whipped by powers true
Whipped to pieces he gathers rue
Enslaved soul now weeps anew
An angel in disgust from the heavens flew

Bound by time and karma twice
Bound thrice with great avarice
Dark light creeps out again
This tale with intrigue shall rain

Bleugh, blah, bleh , boo, meh
Cried the wise man also from fey (h)
Deep light and mystery afire
Choked his veins and smothered his ire

Quiet noise and deafening silence
Smiled askance when in his mind
With a stoic heart and simple truculence
He set about kicking everyone's behind

"Verily I say this unto thee,
Great vengeance will I visit upon ye,
With cannons, hisses and a big bee
Till all Vendettas go wee hi hee

Sinfully ludicrous are these my crimes
The passing wind, mere blimp in times
Stand now fool and embrace my ire
Set the dogs onme? I ll set them on fire"

Sinners kicked him back to life
Pain weds strength, beauty loves strife
""You don't know whats good for you
You think a lot, but you DON'T,do you?""

There's a darkness living under my hair
Humming gangnam style in MY lair
I am the boy who ate the sun
You should now in all haste RUN!


Pretty lights you can dance in me mind
Through sinful days and beatific nights
Twisted thoughts me soul they wind
Blue wraiths war vermilion wights

When night falls and fell deeds awake
When stars die and the seas take sick
Your puny behind, on a merry fire I'll bake
With gunfire, brimstone and a big big stick

On making stuff up

There is probably only a limited amount of art lying around. ONly a finite amount of beauty created during the beginning of all things. Nothing can beat on the graves of our everyday apathy to life and set our emotions a dancing like Beethoven's ode to joy, no song can make me feel as pointless as eye of the tiger, nothing will ever make me indulge as much in cognitive drift like Zimmer's Time (Inception OST.)

Among human destined roles, Ontological descriptors are probably the most unfortunate. The scribes, the crowd, the wayside peasant watching the army's march begin, Bilbo Baggins if by some chance he did not have a dragon in his tale (which justifies the Hobbit's literary existence by contributing a impuratus ex machina, failing which the tale could have begun by Frodo getting the ring as inheritance and a footnote explaining the events of the Hobbit) Those people condemned by destiny to be mere observers and not contributors. It really must suck for them.

So limited amount of art, and if a lot of it is already out, and if some forms of creativity is reactive of the only responsive type, as in it can create something only in answer to another challenging or intriguing piece of art, that makes plagiarism almost an inherent, tautological and sad certainty.

Then there are the amalgamation minds, who can only produce something different once they have truly studied lots of similar things. This might in some cases be a case of lack of skill, to bring to life that which is the minds true inspiration but trying to substitute with the known and the comfortable, and the metaphorical.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wuyQzvjXI70

Hubrees!

is what a really narcissistic harees                                                         cook would name his magna cum laude.

Hubrees is also an unimaginative, thoroughly lame play on http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hubris.

We will, for the purposes of this post's logical (and otherwise) constructs and their postulations, consider that Hubris is

That one trait (or a set of them , I really don't care) in a person, that he fucking glorifies in exercising, maybe it even defines him, but is an unforgivably obnoxious trait, thus according bearded bald men the right to classify it as something undesirable, which needs to be culled, in order to realize higher purpose(s).

It may be whatever he thinks he is really good at or what he thinks he absolutely and repeatedly deserves.


Perhaps deep in the apparently humiliating embers of our hubris, somewhere, lies our greatest strength; to temper it in truth, and douse in true humility, would be a task for a Zen monk brought up in ancient Greece, mentored later by the Late Steve Jobs. 

It is possible that for whatsoever peculiar particularity we might be potentially and repeatedly condemned, might, if done right, and in brazen conviction, may just lead to some sort of cosmic significance. We might just be born with one great strength and one great fault, both recursively linked deep in our beings, and covered with what we perceive as our hubris.

The quality and depth of posts is on a steady decline, but I am not sure I hadn't planned on drawing the blue prints of a crumbling edifice when I started this freudian blip (even if i say so myself) of a blog. (I love and loathe double negatives like these, depending on how full I am of bs at that point of time). The said decline might also be a result of the conscious tapering off of the rigorous rambling i used to engage in. I had a (laughable) delusion that, that was cool. Somehow.

Addictions are hard to kick, maybe because they are the love children of dopamine, ego and boredom. One simply does not kick kids, howmuchsoever loathsome. Even the ones born out of such unholy thresomes.

On Education, gurus and bullshit.

By killing the easy going guy in education planning...

In the beginning, when the processes intended to power human transcendence from ignorant derpish darkness to ignorant pedantic radiance, were first formulated, we erred, and we erred deeply...

When we first thought of bringing the light of knowledge to the apparently pig headed members of the tribe, by instituting the first bones of knowledge transfer, we put great store in the efficacy and moral uprightness of teachers. We ( conveniently ) chose to forget the twin ( consummately human ) virtues of ego and insecurity. We forgot that at the dawn of our middle aged lives ( the average age when some among us choose the profession of enlightenment also known as teaching ) we are all horribly patronizing bitches, more or less...

nota bena : above paragraph categorically absolves (almost  all) kindergarden and primary school teachers. I am convinced beyond all doubts that they are angels.

Publishing is perhaps the most critical and socially detrimental of all businesses. Only sound written work must ever be allowed to see the light of the day. Books are sacred, not media for anyone with enough spare time to collect his inferior thought processes and an insane supply of parchment and ink. We are a trashy species; we cannot afford to print and immortalize our crap (oops too late blogs were invented! ha you may not burn my crap)

So having successfully and incompletely disintegrated the problems at the heart of our educational system in the preceding paragraphs (you see don't you? bad teachers, bad books), this blog will now move on to "Why art, although rooted in hypocrisy (its sole genesiac soul being the human need for human approval ), probably holds the secret to human salvation."

This post is half baked at best (as all my other posts), might be edited and expanded ( refer aforementioned incomplete disintegration of basic premise ) without prior notice. Oh! do NOT hold your breath. Asphyxiation is the sole prerogative of drama queens / kings and smokers. Only we may die of the supreme-disdain-for-oxygen syndrome.

Castle Age

Suspension of disbelief is a literary forging mental technique, which I take to mean (because I am way too lazy to look it up and know what others think these three words used together in this fashion and context should mean) the writer of a fiction piece temporarily zapping out portions of his brain that react strongly to bullshit, and instead feeding their cognitive energies into areas responsible for daydreams, wishful thinking and creativity. These three mental faculties when used in conjunction, within a mental framework which seeks to use the written word to churn out yarns primarily featuring endless mutations of the writer's persona, form the seeding force for most original works of fiction.

As far as the Fantasy genre is concerned, this suspension  works best if bolstered by a countryside, which resembles, in looks and spirit,  a wedlock baby of the rolling hills of LOTR and the majestic, perennially morning mist adorned, mountains of Braveheart. The boom in-your-soul shades of kaleidoscopic green helps fuel the illusion. Now consider a Bentley in this scene. Looks right if its an episode of Top Gear, but feels fundamentally wrong if it is supposed to be the setting for a tale of love, hate, heroism and magic (the soul swelling, heart heartening and mind muddling type). For the latter you need horses (saddled and wild), towering men(just shy of six feet, I am from India; 5.11 constitutes towering here, you don't want them to be gangly. Also I believe this height is perfect for a sword sensei; not a big fan of greatswords and the chain-spikyball at end thing), glowing aura women (O.7 waist-hip ratio, with eyes that are ocean deep (if blue), raven sharp(if black), pathos rich and long lashed  (if grey), arcane suggestive (if green)  mandatory), elfin children and...Castles (also intended to include structures like forts, palaces,watchtowers etc.., ). The human element of struggle can be profoundly expressed in a world of thundering hooves, clashing sword shield combos, wise, grey bearded arcane masters, dragons, herald head hurling trebutchets and the like.

Pathos studded tales simply lack an elemental power in non Castle Age settings. Blood, sweat and tears are right at home in a universe where habitations, functional and ostentatious are made of dark oak, stone and glass.

Clinging to the past has nothing to do with this school of thought. This just is. Where there are dragons, lightsabres just dont cut it. (is it lightsa-bre or lightsa-ber here? Word editor says I am wrong. I think she's mistaken http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sabre).

The Horse in Shining Armour!

This post is about heroes and the death of the creative genius.

This is about how the "Weird" school of thought became a whore and how irony, situational and otherwise, was sold into slavery by the gloriously disdainful army of bloggers and their FB deep status cousins.

This is also about hypocrisy (mine) and about needless gravitas.

I have always found writing incomplete and obtuse thought out loud into a blog's receptive cyber pages extremely satisfying and strangely vindictive. It is therapeutic, all this virtual venting and whelps, each time, a delusional dopamine baby of a worthier self.

Truth is, it is hard to construct a complete and complex thought, harder to puke it out in the simplest of words. Its a love of the pathos rich panache. It is a fucking epidemic.

We were all (universal? yes. my blog, my truths) designed to be graceful creatures. After the feminine apple eating incident and the occasional misfiring of the species specific gift of mutation, we settled for lies and pretense; damning and avoiding the uncool, pretending all the time, insecurity growing by leaps and bound every generation. We then proceeded to wean entire nations on healthy dosages of elderly counsels on finding the inner worth; we were all brought up to constantly bitch! This post is a shining example.

A complete lack of substance is now the unconsciously accepted norm in non poor social constructs and circles. Children should be fucking expected to become rockstars from their nameday. Maybe the reverse psychology might just let the elemental but most widely subdued mental faculty of common sense to shine through.

But then how else do we communicate. We cannot afford to talk and think in the language of Shakespeare. No one ever did, except Shakespeare, even in his time. Verily I say unto you, mankind is doomed to lameness, surface deep thought, always has been. That is why, the apparently deep is so attractive.

We all have an inherent, self sustaining philosophical system, designed to arrive at conclusions and understandings of cosmic truth, from every little life experience. It is a process we glorify in. It was perhaps an integral requirement for the creation of a species with such an outstanding capacity for pathos. But we are also experts at kicking in truth's teeth, landing perennial low blows at the honest simplicity. The latter combines with the former revelations out-of-a-shoe box system and births an ignorant, short sighted and radiantly stupid school of thought.

Maybe Zevron is a seer, and he foresaw this, wrote a song on it and died.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dOkAU9gOm0w

Maybe I am an ace student of the aforementioned school of thought, reading  unnecessary  deep shit,  in a beautiful song...

Soul of Abstract!

Abstracting the abstractness!

Words, as instruments of the power of speech, were the pity of gods. For the outstanding absence of the capacity for a subtle disposition in the human race, puked them to disgust. Subtlety is a prerequisite for telepathy, which is infinite galaxies worth of cool(er) stuff than normal speech. But can you imagine the mental cacophony of mental voices it would always otherwise be in a thoughts only world, if the "speakers" were devoid of subtlety. So our species were gifted with the boon of speech and words, a direct consequence of which is our crassness which we often confuse with the misunderstood communication concept of being direct.

So we murder knowledge, repeatedly slaughter understanding and keep future generations in increasing amounts of pedantic darkness. Why else would we choose Latin - a dead language (as in nobody can any longer be bothered to speak it!), to name our fruits, vegetables, animals etc... The cool but direct vocabulary in invective is the only upside to the inferior gift of speech and words and a potential source of superior mental activity pointing in the general direction of salvation. For if we only ever had telepathy, we would only ever have thoughts and emotions and no words to cage them in. Thus caged, as these things are now in our minds, our emotions now successfully manage to convey frustration, hate and anger (occasionally love - as in fuck I am going to love the shit out of this little piece of shit) with a panache that a telepathic civilization wouldn't even have an inkling of.

If paper was not invented we might be now living in a world full of gifted - memory people (pedantic shit heads) and stone sculptor overlords.

So, given the emotion of thought that conceived them thus from divine minds, and therefore the inherent limitation of language / spoken out / written thought to convey comprehension, its no wonder that our minds devised the mental muscle of abstract thought, to understand and create the lord of templates. So that we might observe, experiment, understand and preserve the understanding for future generations.

One day as  the queen of weedy looking chaperon-es reigned all over mind,
I stumbled upon a way to abstract
the abstract concept or rather abstractness,
but cognitive drift is the hidden weapon for the cannabinoid lady
so as we speak, fly into the ether my mind, they wind
So the things understood they could retract
and my bastard brain, lost everything to distractedness

Oh yeah got it, just came back to me

Consider the miracle of babies learning to speak. Its more or a less a cognitive empirical out burst of unconsciously gleaned imagery and its hit and miss developed intuitive translations into understanding. So what we think we know is not built out of truth but just its various translations by our predecessors.

So now imagine that (to yours and your priests massive surprise) that some random probabilistic divine system has made you the Chosen One and one of your choices (For the preservation of simplicity (lol) lets assujme here its the very next choice you would make.) would decide the fate of your world. And the success rate of you making the right choice is directly proportional to the extent to which you can explain the centRAL precePT OF THIS BLOG TO your own brain; that once you completely understand all that you read upto this point, that understanding itself will provide all the answers to all the question asked herein and vindicate the notion behind this piece of writing.

If you made it this far congratulations and thank you for your patience. This post was a BITCH to write. Apologies, the original idea crashed and burned cos i missed the thought train that promised its corresponding enlightenment, so all that is there is a shadowy skeleton with the belly of the idea missing. Just a vague image in the deep, ignorant, rotten recesses of mind, will edit and repost when it comes back!

Little Lion Man!

Every piece of knowledge, I guess serves to act to create its corresponding intuitive component, intuition being the cognitive equivalent of the physical reflex mechanism, but the objective guiding this system's design is radically unique. The physical one is an immediate response system; the cognitive giant is a contributor to the souls pathos, helping man understand the fucking purpose of it all.


Strangely, I have, I think everyone does, but dunno that for sure, always tried to corrupt this process, as if i am comfortable blind.


Taste is that classy mental creative system that constantly seeks to develop ways to curb this corrupting process in the perception of new things and concepts or understanding existing ones.

Mumford and Sons  - Little Lion Man!

Weep for yourself, my man,
You'll never be what is in your heart
Weep Little Lion Man,
You're not as brave as you were at the start
Rate yourself and rake yourself,
Take all the courage you have left
Wasted on fixing all the problems 
That you made in your own head

But it was not your fault but mine
And it was your heart on the line
I really fucked it up this time
Didn't I, my dear?
Didn't I, my...

Tremble for yourself, my man,
You know that you have seen this all before
Tremble Little Lion Man,
You'll never settle any of your scores
Your grace is wasted in your face,
Your boldness stands alone among the wreck
Now learn from your mother or else spend your days Biting your own neck

But it was not your fault but mine
And it was your heart on the line
I really fucked it up this time
Didn't I, my dear? (x2)

Didn't I, my dear?

Ahhhhh......

But it was not your fault but mine
And it was your heart on the line
I really fucked it up this time
Didn't I, my dear? (x2)

Didn't I, my dear?

Chewing Cud.

Its hard to remain silent when inspiration strikes you. Harder to feign written coherence when she is accompanied by a weedy looking chaperon. This is truest when the inspiration that did strike with such tantalizing promises of distinction is of a highly ontological and therefore oxymoronic nature and more so if shes has among her shady admirers the great king of all wannabeees!


I am therefore I think and therefore I be. 


I Kid thee not!


While writing something of any value whatsoever, of paramount importance is the veracity of inspiration that drove home the seed which enabled the initial effort. But the soul of any piece is forged by the writer's thoughts, the quality of which is the piece's kiss of life!


If you however like to think recognition is over rated(!), by all means turn to blogging. Find in the rotten crevasses of a bloggers brain the key to human stupidity - bull shit entertainment.
The human mind never reaches full potential because it is soo bored so much of the time. Some brain cells just decide to call it a day!


All we need are challenging soaps, depressing sitcoms, and raunchy family dramas.




to be continued.

Ars WhatsNoticA!

Rhyme is capable of conveying meaning because its an application of meaningful repetition of sounds woven together discreetly to convey a meaning whole.
Our ancient penchant with rhyme stands testimony to our species's deep need to use the drums to inform the tribes members across the forests of impending dooms, urgent calls or simply that DINNERS READY!

 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ars_Poetica

This one does not rhyme at all, has a mutant for a scheme. Read at serious risk of getting revolted at its lack of rhyme scheme and the metaphorical disasters!

Listen to the roaring joy

Wean hearts from gloom

Hark! Their words, their doom

Lying women speak coy

Children of light

Of foot ,thought  and life light

Save us not this time 

For, last night death taught mime

Lazy men, brooding champions

Sinless hearts wrought with  effort

Glory treads on fields of carrion

On and on they marched to the fort

Of Castles dead are their songs

Of battles wed, are their tales

Blazing eyes and glowing tongs

When All they ever knew took sail

Long ago did the Westmen sail

Ghost and ghouls call their sin

Bawling babes left behind rail

Valiant champions flee the din

Gesundheit.

Stalwart species with stoic units. Hunters at night, grihastas by day. Fathers of kalaripayyttu, indirectly ensuring Boddhi Dharma's almost divinity and Jackie Chan's fortunes by their long dead in-the-forest capers.
Light of the east, lazy backwater navigators, inventors of the most laid back male loin cloth on the planet(the famous mundu). Kings, sages, warriors, fish curry experts...

It seems all that ancestral bravado was for naught! My stalwart lineage apparently also had a lot of apes, baboons, and bonobos in it, the coconut usage OCDs can finally be explained with this? Tall trees, fruits on top of tallness, arboreal competitive edge -> descendants eat, wear, adorn, lament, worship using coconuts in all.

Human grandeur is at best ephemeral, matters if it draws two things, feminine admiration(basic requirement for survival of any particular version / strain of species), and posterity. The former if backed with ample posteriors and dimpled smiles will almost always ensure the latter and  the original ambition is just a matter of time and application.

The fault lies with Socrates. Such a fucking cool name. Epitomizes gravitas, the bastard. Taught us all to think. I am just sincerely pissed off, because i just realized, there is not even a county for under dogs. You have to try, if you fail, it sucks. I am going to name my son Apollo and buy him a scooty, need to spite the Greeks, some how.

I shall build a house of cards, in a city of dominoes. I shall then laugh and caper around in my lawn as if there is no fucking tommorow. I shall do this one day before Armageddon is announced.

These would be the thoughts of a person, to whom evolution and hopelessness has just been mathematically proven plausible. I however, dont'buy evolution in its entirety. Some of it yes, not all of it(Redundancy). The advances in science constantly justify this angle of dubious faith and vindicate this shaky reasoning of mine. I believe in doubt, and hence must doubt all things. Quite easily done.

I am sick of science, loathe logic, find reason revolting; these rape life and existence of all potential meaning. Down with evolution _|_. The truth can make you blind with its searing, hope destroying edicts. Gesundheit McDonalds . Viva La wannabees. #DemonsOnTheLeftShoulder 


All this raving for no good reason


It was a hot day.


The heat does drive people mad.


# Redundancy , I am pretty sure is an evolutionary gimmick that clicked, because when hunters bedded gatherers there was no paper around and repetition was the only way to preserve knowledge, for those with inferior sources of cerebral food . See dont get mad at the people who state the obvious. Its a hangover from the times of their "fit as fiddle" ancestors who survived, fornicated and thus put in motion all the future creation of various permutations of themselves all with the inner calling to drive people looking for novelty or the simply impatient mad, mad oh so damn mad. But that is a story for another time and post.

Weird post titles are a bloggers salvation.

Gesundheit is the german equivalent of the benediction offered to people who sneeze. The great aortic pump supposedly stops for a moment when your common cold gets pissed off for being taken lightly and sends its heraldic minions through your nostrils to convert the pagans and damn the infidels. This stopping of aortic pump causes the needlessly cheerful folk to just LAY about with their blessings. The needlessly cheerful men need to be bred out of humanity. The times for deception is long past.

Handkerchiefs were thus wrought as the common colds textile formed nemeses. They used to keep the sinfully disdainful, people who derived maniacal pleasure in deeming the cold "common",  and asking the afflicted to come in for work the next day, regardless of the fact that all the Otolaryngological (of or belonging to ENT -head and neck, coined just now, please shut it!) floodgates are at NoahArkon 3, hale effin hearty.

Then it seduced evolution and birthed two virile Bonnie lasses, flu and pneumonia.

Gesundheit.

Disclaimer (Not for blogger posturing purposes, disclaimers are truly necessary sometimes) :

The facts, if any, in this post may be totally, absolutely, completely wrong. These errors may cause offense in some contexts. Please realize if so, its only because it was taken in the wrong context, and not in mine. I do NOT intend any offense whatsoever.

Except in cases where I am being bluntly direct about it.

Pot Candy!

Words that rhyme
Man's greatest crime
Cannabinoids now mime!
Rain, shine or thyme
And I sit and rhyme
Till the last noons chime.

Something written more out of joblessness than anything else! Doesn't have a general direction; the blues had struck, with despair rich vengeance. Enough to make sinfully pointless Mondays weep. Cheers!

A madness that awaits you

The truth that life baits two

Time's aphorisms these true

in silence we're doomed to rue

Just a pebble in the pond

Faithless fate enables beyond

For restless winds fearfully recreate

Awaiting death's final berate

Lost voices beyond the veil

                                                    Through endless twilights they wail

Listening to the silence profound

Watching reality slowly unwound

Endless furrows scour my mind

Fettered soul not one of a kind

Lustrous darkness once embraced

Withered will left forever crazed

Wanton rage seeks to win

 Wounded pride, its righteous rant

Fleeting light suffers this sin

The soft whispers, still they chant

Earnest desire and deathly pain

Hazy peals these, in me heart they ring

Listless thoughts then break this train

                                                         Forgotten grit in me soul sings

Praying for a deluge of light

For some days at least to shine truly bright

Beings of light thus battle spirits of ire

Mending endless follies they too tire

Sweet light born of wild hope

Souls of malice flee renewed hope

Redundant despair failing to impress

Waning strength thus taunts duress

Purpose born of a greater will

Born not for the dark to kill

Withered husk remembers lives persist

That endless nights are yet to exist

Cracks of dawn all the way

Gloom rules but for a day

 Deep down chaos may reign

As it was it shall be again

  

I apologize for the Oh-soooo-gloomy theme and the shifty rhyme scheme. The former happens on taking oneself way too seriously, the latter if you are not a poet.

Much Ado....about nothin!

It is in our nature to be vainglorious!

Grit is demeaning; it discriminates, it filters, separates(redundancy is a necessary literary evil, it is the euphemism disdaining cousin of emphasis), hones, perfects. It does the dirty work for the abstract lordling concept of evolution. Its demeaning because its absence ensures failure even in the face of greater potential, its presence merely allowing the bearer to survive and have later, possibly lesser generations, praise common fare to heavenly heights.

 To hell with punctuation(and grammar(OH MAN!)), but capslock misuse is something that has to be stuck to, cos otherwise writing attempts set my soul a screamin!

What are the options available to a broken mind? (yes you have a broken mind, else you would have been constantly aware of your own uniqueness, endless capabilities, how the universe(yours) does revolve around you and live to be 969!)

Something a friend's friend once said "We cannot be kings in heaven, so we were sent to earth". Carpe omnius then!

Celestial science dealing with fairness and justice for all has as one of its governing precepts - karma , the great instrument of balance. And this great instrument(think of those scales in the hands of the blind lady representing justice in erstwhile Indian cinema's court room dramas(legend has it that, that particular lady comes alive at midnight only so that the demons of the world might chorus in supplication(rolling on the floor helpless with laughter, screaming hysterically) "BITCH PLEASE !)")) has as its point of balance the great human concept of free will. Free will is important because it turns on its head the "all are equal" cosmic insistence with a peculiarly fervent nonchalance again and again. 

The human infant infant is supposed to be the most needy, completely helpless and dependent of all living things. We carry a version of this neediness all throughout our lives. And this is good. For it is this severe amount of need, and not love, brain power, opposable thumbs, faith, erect postures or our crazy impulses to embellish the terrible(modern art, abstract thought, death metal) that makes us human. Emotional dependency preserves our sanity as a species. To whoever said that man is a social animal, Salute!
Intellectual slavery is omnipresent. It may be a by product of the the aforesaid emotional co-dependence.

Intellectual independence comes when the emotional need is accepted and balanced with free will. This is mostly impossible. But it is possible to flit between the two states. Achieve and live dreams using the latter, subsequently abandon it and move on to fulfilling yours and others said emotional needs. But coexistence of these two states is possible, in an overwhelmingly agrarian Universe, where life's greatest calling can only possibly be to be the best darn farmer south of whatever. I don't have anything against farmers, its only that this example is perfect to convey the required amounts of sarcasm in the preceding sentences. I want to be a farmer after I retire. 

Independent thought is a broken mind's delusional day dream(yes there are non delusional day dreams too). It is hard to have that charcteristic attributed to you in its true sense.

It is natural to think no end of yourselves. It is the pre-requisite for a healthy self esteem, and the seed of(potentially species saving) narcissism. Now, true change, the world over can be credited to the truly narcissistic. Da vinci, Socrates, Alexander, Chanakya, Gandhi, Steve(Jobs), thought greatly of themselves.

Pacifists are the worst kind of people, preachy pacifists should be shot at sight. Their thought process naturally discourages change, and abhors novelty. The preachy kind are probably what might eventually prove to be the end of us. They are the narcissitic kind too. Their vision for the future is make it as similar to the past as possible. One of their favourite catchlines is "back to the roots.." . Oddly they have immensely strong, ostrich worthy(head in sand->denial), obdurate minds.

Alliterations are pleasant to perceive.

Criminals and visionaries probably have a lot in common. They are unsatisfied with the current situation their life's in and dare to change them. This attitude is their quintessential quirk. Makes them capable.

Weak minded pacifists are defined by incapability.

And then there are the wannabe visionaries. Surprisingly a huge number of atheists and agnostics feel "special", the kind of self estimation resulting from knowing what most people don't or can't. Many of them see themselves as visionaries. I am convinced for some reason that they are very depressed people with killer delusional mind techniques, extremely BIG on denial.


Only thing worse than them are the religious "holier than thou" flock! Words fail to describe the latter. Hopefully there is a special rung in hell reserved just for them. Oh when they find themselves in hell, their reaction then, is what the world priceless was allowed for in the first place; because everything /everyone has a price. The visionaries/strong minded just happen to know their right ones

The politically incorrect are a true delight if sincere in their disposition. Some people just truly don't care. I envy them.

I am feeling particularly bitter.