Thursday, December 15, 2011


How we are unbelievable
Lunging for more before we finish our portion
Hunting and swirling playing with mouth
By and large all set
Upset in the corner
Seated on the stone parapet
In the afternoon sunshine
Telling tales of night
yet more on our plate
Intimate glances
Hungry dance for long
Young and sober please
Now the afternoon ends
Pass the tea-cup
Rays blemish me
Barefoot charm of a second
Mosquitoes bite
Get up off the parapet
Brush your hair aside
Chilled air between
The past and the present.

Make choice of music
and enter kitchen
Tinkering fingers
strong smells are there
Cook before sleeping
Hunger in the large bedroom
painting of old times
as happy as you are now
Dried walls
a modern look into
the drawing room
where dust gathers
sit in the fine evening
playing by room
raucous in a minute
wet dread
someone will smile
a new coat
cherry cakes
nibbling on two
can’t tolerate cold
come back na
before you leave
guest in my house
just stay and see.

Monday, November 21, 2011

The Path

Sometimes while strolling along little paths,
I lose my way into sideways.
There they tell me I am in a wrong kind of situation
Behind schedule on a rainy day
Wasting everybody’s time and mine
And gnawing at all the sights and sounds
Slowly giving them a bad name
Placing huge castles in little bottles of glass
Perhaps I should leave or lie down
And wait until I am punished enough.

Some of those strangers call me
They call me “Oh boy”
Maybe you forgot your name
Where did you come from, and where do you

Sunday, November 20, 2011

Little Thing

Every little thing is looping anyway
Going round and coming around
And resting for some time while
It watches your movements
With jealous eyes, noting
Your breath, playing against you
But then it returns
And melds into the unknown,
Building what it forgot
Because of you.

Thursday, November 3, 2011


you are an artist
afraid of life

and bust goes your rhythm
shards bouncing on the pavement

the sun very bright and hot

Wednesday, October 26, 2011

Pair of eyes

Are you doing this,
Or are you really doing this?

You know what you have taken up,
You silently watch and understand
What is happening, and what is hidden
You choose between your inner eyes
And your outer eyesight.
For a better vision, it’s good to have
A clear pair of eyes.

Monday, October 24, 2011

Can We?

Is it not possible that you stand in front of me
And I stand and dance in front of you
We stand each other for a long time
We move from room to room, into the light
And we glide back into the dark
Is it possible to talk and laugh and buckle
Pickle, tickle and to lift our sides in awe
Can we rest this moment and wait for the next
Preparing our early smiles and toothy grins
Building up a huge barricade of magic
And move from room to room, run down the stairs
And run and catch our breaths away, and cast
Cast our bodies away, our useless bodies away,
Touching where we never went alone,
Hunting where we never played, played like
Two lost children with nobody
And waiting for nobody.

Sunday, October 9, 2011

The Genealogy of Truth

Maybe I am an actor, a sycophant, somebody who conjures a fake reality in front of his eyes because there is not already a satisfying reality in my holding. I cannot perceive a reality which I can be sure of, and therefore I create these illusions. Language is another illusion, because words don’t really mean anything, they are just placeholders, empty on the inside with beautiful faces, and maybe there is really no within, no deep, there is just an artifice. At least that is how I feel right now, there is only fashion, and all work consists in fashioning, rearranging, gathering, distributing, demarcating. When language enters the human person, there is a beginning of interpretative ability. For without language, things are what they are. They are incomprehensible, without meaning, without reason, but they are really what they are. Their identity is indivisible from them, and they hold a unique place in reality, and this uniqueness is not abstracted from them, and innately resides in them. When we start using language, words begin to proliferate. Suddenly, words are taking places in our minds as objects or experiences do. Language is the basis of organized knowledge. Only through language can I understand in some sense what you feel and or have felt. Language mediates our experiences and our minds in a unique event, where we exchange what we only have for our own selves. We share that which innately defies sharing through language. The signs put down in a system of language are fragile and always mutable, no doubt. But they are there, they are firm in the present, available for discourse. These signs are then, objects or images in themselves. Language facilitates the creation of alternate identities for things which already had an identity, but these identities had no relation to language. These identities were innate in the true sense, free from derivation or interpretation. Language entered and disturbed this perfection of existence. Language supplied several alternate meanings for the objects and weaved several stories around the things we experienced only in a unique fashion before. Language thus becomes a truly human creation. And it is not a mere tool in the hand of man, it is a lens through which reality will forever be seen henceforth. As time goes on and language facilitates more interaction and gives birth to more meaning, there begins a seduction. The newly-found meaning of things and experiences seduces man into creating a world of illusion relating entirely to this meaning, and existing solely for the reasonable and moral completion of this meaning, which is a child of language. Man believes in the exchange and storage of experiences with a moral sense. Thus is born morality itself. Because morality is not possible without a social scene or without a common pool of human experience. The dawn of language creates a new passion in man, the passion of moral definition of all experience. The will to morality takes birth in the human mind, and makes him a thinking animal. This moral drive will give birth to religion and civilization. Since there is language, experience can be divided into meaningful sub-parts and be identified as such, as appearing in a logical order, and being subordinated to some larger experience. And there is now possible a contemplation of experience separate from that experience. This contemplation is what we call thinking. Thought now becomes the new master of human will, replacing a tactile will to experience which is now forever lost. Thought mediates all experience and becomes more and more important. The will towards a more rational and organized thought begins now. Since language is now wholly obvious and indistinguishably permeating all experience now, it can be used to build a separate image-world on the plane of thought, separate from the real world. Man now works and builds his world of thought. The will towards this huge change is supplied by the moral seduction of language – the previously unknown beauty of things and experiences. Beauty is the experience of seduction, where man is captured in a moral womb, surrounded by meanings and signs supplied by a language of his own construction. Thus beauty is truly a human creation – a shelter he created as he created mud-huts and houses. The experience of beauty is a moral event, disturbing and playing with man’s moral identity, not with his pre-existing identity. This is why the beauty of things grows on you, and becomes more and more evident as time passes. Subjective experience is possible only after the creation of language. Experience was unique and pre-provided before language. It is only in the shelter of language that a multitude of meanings take birth. Thus began a subjugation of human will to subjectivity. Experience could no longer be firm and taut, but was standing only in the service of human morality and thought. Now, experiences were not lived, but created with a fabric of life. Life mutated from itself and became a grand experiment in morality, a continuously subjective work of art. At this stage, life was art, and art was life. Life was experienced through faithful signs and images. This was the perfection of civilization. Civilization was a human creation, the complete human sanctuary with free-play of moral signs and life lived with a meaningful plan.

What is truth?

Truth is the true experience lost in the creation of language. Truth is what disappeared when symbols were born, and the shadow of truth was subjectivity, blurred at the edges and enlarged for dramatic effect. Truth is sleeping inside human minds, and we get reminded of it in frantic dreams during sleep, where we revisit the lost time with again, a moral and nostalgic longing.

Thursday, October 6, 2011


Written for a certain
The answer comes at the very end
But it’s available in your sign language
And sung on the garden swing
And all the questions are remaining
Are swimming on the true colours
Every mist is coming back in time
And all clouds are floating further away
Doubt is hung in the middle
Closing in on a very easy secret.

Time is gaining on us
and time is waiting for us
And time is playing into us
And time leaves us behind

Events learnt to memorize
In history class two nights ago
The wait is longer today

As you and me sit
And prepare our case
We are delivered from reality
We jiggle a little
Settle on a couch and laugh
Reality is posing for a photograph.

Monday, October 3, 2011

There is music

Oh there is music
There is still music
Gorgeous music
And now
It goes on
I am crying
Music is watching
There is music
Sweet thing
I go with music
I leave
music leads
shutting eyes
I am dying.

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

Free Verse

In anticipation you stand, your breath in your pocket, your eyes strained and clouded from sleep and your mountain of faith shaking beneath. You are in a dreamland of spectacles where you don’t need your own body, your soul is spinning in the wind, taking dizzy circles and spouting colour, puncturing the heavy smoke of existence. Can you picture what will be, so limitless and free? You are in stranger’s hand, in a desperate land far from your home, just hanging hanging hanging soaking and wetting then drying pulsating gathering dust and mud and wondering and singing endlessly. Lost in the wild within your brain and stomping a landscape outside your imagination, playing the images back and again forwards into the future, where your dreams inhabit a charmed train of thoughts, where the sea rises and falls, where the beach house is full of light, where the wind is welcome and where the sun is highest in the sky, where the sand is sparkling every moment and never stopping and where the water is very quiet and very strong, where the fibre is included in the colour, where the clouds are moving in ink, where your skin is cold, where you are shivering, where you can’t feel your bones, where you are looking towards the west, and where you are thinking of the lost bells of the east, where the road calls you and you are stranded, where the bus stops once and takes away your freedom, where you are the only loner, where there are crowds of people in tantrums and carnivals and where they can’t see you, where you are not going back home, never to see your mother’s inner face and smell her hand, where you give and take and play and spill, where you running now and stopping too soon, where you know little and do much without much, where the world is new again and again and again, where you forget, where they tie their ribbons straight and where the feet are swollen, where pride is coming back, where there is a chance, there is a golden chance, there is yet more to go, there is person and devil and god, where there is spirit and swoon, there is music on the green leaf, where there is sweat, and sneeze and skin and sex and severity.

Vanish below and come back, the sun is waiting forever, the sounds are hanging still.

Wednesday, September 14, 2011


Oonchi haryali pahadi pe rehta hai woh parwana
Bandish se ooncha

Thandi gufa aur aisa mausam ka ruk jana
Uski oonchi manzil

Jahan basera nahi insaan ka
Parindo ka bolbala

Kaisa begana who lawaris woh deewana
Layak nahi pyar ke

Girti ho baarish maidan mein agar
To peeyega, jeeyega

Khali aasmaan ka nazrana
Aur chamkeeli raatein lambi.

Aur pathreeli haryali karvaan ooncha chauda
Nigah mein naa aaya

Phir usne kiya rukh neeche aur seedhe
Utra dheere dheere

Bhoola oonchi saari tasveerein
Mitti mein shamil hua

Woh gir gaya masti mein susti mein
Khaakh kha ke das pal khoya

Aashiq sab ne use bataya
Khuda se aaya bataya

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

Love Poem

She sits and glows
Shines and kills me
Booming on my nerve
She is plasticine.

Mindless mad mad twice.
Juice class and vice.
Tartar and she is just so simple
And we were set around in motion
We land on the ground
Playing with our knees down

Oh she coughed and bent herself over
She lowered her single back and flew
Outdoor she went to see
For her dusty thin fingernails
And she grew you out

Pee her in grip her skull
Now she is feeling full
Bills from her very early past
Mouthing my mother.

Never sex.
Flow and float and blink

Wednesday, August 17, 2011


There he was, my sweet warrior, my savior, residing inside the electronic speaker. He sat there with a weird smile on his face, awaiting some calamity, showing the way to millions of lost children like me, he was the philosopher of the moment, the painter of minds, the painter. He just sat there, and his voice reached me flying on the wind, with evergreen shades of love, with hope, with sanity. He sat there in some distant, dusty American town, with his guitar and his harmonica, and he sang to me little crystal lullabies of eternal belief. He was a true magician, an authentic trickster of destiny, of my destiny.

Thursday, August 11, 2011


Bawdry of the little dog
Over kissing on the moonlight ramp
Jam ma’am on a secret sign of two
Wilderness passing plies to the west
Sucking into the owner’s lips
Kilter on me, mill beside we.
Tinker finger onto caustic bee
Number two is greater free.
Free all past and passé see
Seizure listening to me.

Monday, August 8, 2011


Anna was already 29 years old when her boyfriend told her he wanted to marry her. She could not say she had expected it, but she wasn’t surprised. She liked him, he was earning well, they would be happy.

He was a little stupid. He did not take any pains to arrange an occasion or anything. He just told her one dry evening, when they were sitting in the corner of their park.

“Look… look, Anna.”

He leaned on her. She looked straight as he bent and put his head on her lap, between her knees. She couldn’t say what he wanted her to look at, but she was looking all the same.

“Anna,” he hesitated. “You know I love you? Huh?”

She was disgusted now, why he kept asking these things. And he hesitated with these things, this made her furious. Where was his confidence, and where was his decision? He was lying so comfortably, the bastard. She did not smile.

“What?” she said.

He looked up at her, mustering his courage and his sheepishness he hid behind his mask, but could not hide it, and it showed. He grinned now.

“I want to marry you.”

He laughed lightly, giving his joke away. Did he want to marry her? Did he want to have kids, these were important questions, at least for her. He should answer. He could make up his mind, if he wanted to. But he didn’t.

“I want to marry you.”

What did he know?

Anna moved his head out of her knees, got up from the bench, and started walking without considering. She would get away a few feet, and she would think alone. He needed his moment, and he should learn. Now, she could not bear.

She kept walking away. But now, she had to look back. Once, is he still there?
She looked back towards him, and he was lying on the bench with his eyes closed, his feet stretched out to a full. Oh, he’s dreaming. Behind him, there was an old woman going away. She was walking with a limp on her left foot. Anna looked up towards the sky, maybe I want to marry somebody.

I can do with a pair of wings, blowing air towards air, and taking my madman up towards heaven, tying his hands to my feet. We could sail towards our land.

He wasn’t moving at all. He had only said it with half seriousness, he did not mean it at all. I will not walk to him and wake him, we want to go home. There is a home, there is a comfort.

He stood up and Anna gave him a hand.

Thursday, July 28, 2011


Fight alongside the numb seed,
Outside all the lives are changing,
Inside move up and sit down and down,
And now be slowly mad and clearly changed.

You are breaking slightly and wholly alone
You spear time just a little and peer for courage
You are meeting your own self
Just in a day or two weeks later
Somewhere around the bend also is your
Last shred, but unseen before the sunshine.

Every being was bad and cowering
Nobody good outside and inside.

Saturday, July 2, 2011

Into You

Could I get any closer.
I wanted to touch you, we will rest.
I want that we grope into and out of each other,
We will form insides and outsides.

And sway down to your left, I will sway right.
Can you see me?
I am inside my own body, where are you?
Do you feel my presence? I am close.

Just stay for a moment, be simple.
Don’t move, just wait… silently.
Hush… hoo… wave of pain.
Grave my grave.

Saturday, May 28, 2011


And then something else turned his attention back to the stack of books. He looked over his shoulder at the timepiece on the ancient wall with a glance of uncertainty, and plastered on his face was a silly smile. He had been silent all night, the glumness was sticking around his mouth, and abstract feelings got in the way of clear thought. What he thought and what he did on this night had no relation – he glanced again into the air – sniffed it even, and the air was laden with a coming. A sense of chilled abandon, which carried inside a warm and glowing world filled with unending interest. Joy had a price – you hated your life when the glumness stuck in your throat, and you dragged your feet over small cobbled stones, and the sun changed direction and the wind blew east and it was all reported on the evening radio, mother wiped her hair free of sweat and then mother hollered for you and you broke your fingers, and finally then, the grass bloomed. You were happy with irony, it was a gift after everything that you bore. And then the winds blew east and nights were passed and nights were passed and words were simple and convoluted and words bickered in the moonlight over their meanings, whispering what they would do once you set them free, and words and music tumbled laughing in a lonely lane. How does it all fit in? Newly arrived packages and old dust are together for eternal time, and forward motion is guided by bounded tension, and birth to life is permanent – wishing for a future is little free and free from joy and aftermath of bubbled enthusiasm. Joking on a dry afternoon is a gift too, and your cheese is taken from you and you go retrieve it. Just so you can ask for more money and go out riding on a hopeful charmed night of one ended dreams, and after-dreams and further-dreams and guided-dreams and pulsating feather of the infinite soul of the morning afternoon and evening sky with violet strained cloth through the hot burning sunlight is awash with general indignity, discomfort and pain and realization. Mother cleans her clothes and then sets to work on your dirty clothes that you made dirty with perspiration. Whatever claims your position is yourself and gathering stone and firebread, killing joy giving birth to freedom and washing mind – looking for humility in very dark dry corners of a flat afternoon in cruel master land. In whatever pocket your coin lies, it is your own gathering that gives joy peace sleep.

Thursday, May 19, 2011

Erase a word - play on.

Where is the revolution
I let the dirt accumulate on my skin
How do the sounds emerge
I'd rather die.
I lost the naivete
Watch on - it is misty.
Watch on.

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

Adagio molto e cantabile

It never fit together, ever.
Pieces were strewn in a garden, the sun graced them equally.
There was no meaning before, nor there was passion.
My heat and my guile were hollow, my pride was bland.
Flowers were ordinary beings, with small faces.
The procession was empty enough.
There was no magic anywhere, the world was plain.
I was not grateful for my humility, I was not sure.

You walked inside, you touched my eyes.
You tread lightly, once and forever.
You were set in stone, you justified the promises.
You humbled the atonal universe.
You made everything and every being cry with longing.
You have the secrets decorating your hair.
You flushed the jumbles out, you became order.
You mesmerized the pieces, garbled the banal.
You straightened the creases, and poured the ether, from a plastic jug, on my surface.
You likened the hands to the branches of a tree, the feet to the waves of a sea.
You erased the small doubts, prepared the fight, you inspired justice.

If I don’t become anything, I will be yours truly.
If I become something and if I become somebody, I will be a tiny fold in your large shawl.
I will be your little.
I and you are together in peace. In salvation, we are bundled in joy. In nature we are blue jay calls.
We are in waters together, we are us.

Just for a moment, you bring forth the fantasy, and it is stable on the mantelpiece.
For a moment, you are invisible, and forever I am you.

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

Like Certainly

There are sounds of whose existence
I am certain.
Like I am sure that a rose is red,
and its light goes cleanly and meets
the waiting consciousness,
bathing it in ignorant bliss.

There are other sounds
which are only too present
which are hard and heavy as steel.
These press me and move me,
and cause me to limit my day.

And some aspirations are imaginary.
They never leave their home,
And stay and play,
And limit their day.

And some are sounds.
We hear these, from bees
These are music,

Monday, April 25, 2011

At the end of the day, I check what people have taken from me. How they saw my giving, how they must have felt. I hope with a keen conscience that they did not laugh. They could have laughed at how I am silly, at how I am absurd, clumsy. I hope they understand, sometimes I wish I could explain. But that’s how sadly the day ends, I do not want to sleep. I am afraid of sleeping before I can go back and correct it. But I give up easily, I accept loss forever. I hope again, I age and I change. Maybe I am not doing it right? Nobody even comes and tells me straight. I feel these heavy burdens on myself. But I want to carry on, because I am curious. I might be right, it could be that I get back what I have lost.

Sunday, April 3, 2011

On the deathbed I sleep.
I am happy sometimes, and I sit upright.
I face the light.
But then I flinch, I bow, I scream in pain.
I forget what was before, and I scramble.
I fall down on my bed, and I sleep.
I enter dreams, and in dreams I hear music.
Dreams are made of music.
And then I wake up in the dark.
I scramble for light.

Sunday, March 27, 2011

Here in Goa

Here in Goa,
I am seeing euphoria flying.
People carefree.
Sand particles are small, they fly
Everywhere they come in, gather, they appear, exist.
Particles – every molecule for itself, gigantic things misplaced.
Among talks and flashing bodies, and shiny shins and
Boots – soft plastic slippers, water from the sea
(La mer) on the coast, in the boats. All places, nooks – these split, gather, regather, coagulate and return everywhere they have been before on certain trips from the beach to the country house to blue fishing net, among high palm trees.

So, people find particles of sand in their ears in bed at night.

Makes them forgo the daily little ponder I guess.
Free-flowing – they take up life as a growth – as spontaneous – when linear paths intersect, the roads remain straight – and white metal unstopped.

And on the beaches, the smell of the water blends into your persona – back home inland it retains the bad taste – comes to the fore. Even stale beer smells of fish, at the mouth, at the eye, also winking.

So, shiny bodies intersect in market-place, descending slopes, downwards the midsections loosening, and the feet bouncing – yellow flowing shirt on stomach sweat – and blonde hair let abundant, jeans not there.

And then at night, white metal meets the road, the sand particles are intervening again. Friends lose contact, tired of wandering from one exposition to another spectacle.

We are tourists. Even me – I am a tourist. I have eyes for this place – also graciously I feel its pulse – its life. I dig holes in sand on the beach – hoping to carry collected water – also I smell the special things in the crevices – also I give more money and more than money – Alas! No, I remain a visitor. I somehow miss the soul. The dirt gets in the eyes – I rue the ocean salt – I am wounded – still I miss the soul. Does this air have a soul?

Does it breathe?

Passion drives many things. And earthly passion more. But poetry misses passion – why is there no soul?

Does soul lack grace? Does soul speak through the sand particles? These particles…

The high points are odd. Chapora Fort is no good – just as it functions as memory – sunny highness – no more.

But it remains a touristy flash. No soul. What Goan carries his kids to school? Why is there fish curry?

The people recede. To the service of their tourists. They keep the soul inside – and let the market glow with the transcendent promise. Go Goa! And more trainfuls arrive, and are going to leave – replaced by replacements – properly fit with attentive eyes. Shift gear, let loose – party hardest, cool ocean, hot brown skin – night of spirits and fun. But life is dead – only food remains. And reproduction – of a promise of life.

Thursday, March 3, 2011

After that Portrait

Lying awake on his back, with the violet strained cloth draped across the side window. The moon has set now. Old cobwebs and little movement, no transformation. Old music filtering through the air, also emanating beneath his ears. Remembrances of a stage play, with actors bowing after their performance, and smiling. His eyes, they were resting after a hard day at work. In the dark cold air, it was a warm feeling. Dropping, dropping, sliding…

And turn the corner, fast! Maybe he is following. No! And the fat biology teacher is sleeping in her chair, her hair in a bum, with her hands resting on her lap, catching sweet music from the air. Walk past, ask for excuse. Also, welcoming me beyond the gallery is her majesty the principal, and passing her I pass into the room. The empty room, full of old promise and love…

I need not look back now to check if somebody is following. Nobody is and nobody can be, this is paradise. I look upon the windows in this room, they are golden. A lot of them are open, and the floor is empty and shining with the sunlight, swinging. Carry my gaze across, and I find that familiar short dark Indian woman. And she has grace, and smiles a lot. She was musically learned and haughty and told me to behave. I stop running.

“Say please. Say.”

Huh? Me? I am ignorant, sorry. But thank you, I will try.

“I have two beautiful children – look at them. Look, they dance, and I have made silk frocks for them. And see how they smile. Say, are they not beautiful?”


The children come up to me, and I bend down, and there is grace. I touch their lips, and finger their hair. They touch my skin, they like me! Just two minutes ago they saw me, and they like me! Happily, I look up at her.

And then the music is dimmed. The light changes colour. The fair children are still dancing.

Friday, February 25, 2011


The music is here only to make me feel
What I want to feel.
I do not let it go, and it needs me.
What are the sounds gonna do, and
Where are the songs gonna go?
They will come back to me.

Thursday, February 24, 2011

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

On Popularity

Whatever is popular and is generally accepted by the public at large is considered good. For example, a piece of music getting airplay on the radio is considered an appropriate representation of good taste. The usual argument given in support of this way of thinking is that popular acceptance ensures a “balancing out” of individual tastes and brings out the inherent “objective” quality to the fore. This is an illusion. What constitutes good music for you is a subject of private contemplation on a personal level, not something to be made out from popular opinion. The fact that many people like the same things at the same time is only a result of all those people being the same, and being directed by the same invisible pressures applied by years of orchestrated “bringing to par”. Everybody loves song X because everybody has been unknowingly taught to like song X, and then when the time was right, administered a metered dose of song X. It is completely the opposite of an active discerning of personal satisfaction derived from listening and upon it forming a personal taste.

Another factor contributing to the deification of popular culture is the increasing trust in external methods as sufficient replacements of internal contemplation. People have come to believe that the mechanics of popular choice can serve the purpose of keeping them satisfied. This is a sort of “outsourcing” of a part of the listening process to the public at large.

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

Take me to an old place

Take me to an old place
Where old buildings tower over me
Where old singers sing.

Show me a wrinkled face
With lines of brown
With spots, smiling.

Also, don’t make it too old.
Something between here
And the beginning of time, just OK.

Sunday, January 30, 2011

The Beginning

A lion is standing there. It has paws, moving them up and down. Next to the lion is a steel pole, clean and shining in the light. Suddenly, a signal zaps into the pole, and there is some smoke.

We just received some information. I am reading a paper, with lines of text and symbols. Alpha for rays, beta for electronic parameters.

I perceive him coming up to me, walking in the dirt. He has two legs. He comes close and I see him grin. Now we are facing each other. The lion is digging up the ground.

I receive an ultimatum. I obey orders. Right now, there are 17 taxis parked in an underground tunnel in Stockholm. They will all back out and driven into the sunshine. Where there is no rain.

The end.

Sunday, January 23, 2011


The truth is always in the minority, and the minority is always stronger than the majority, because as a rule the minority is made up of those who actually have an opinion, while the strength of the majority is illusory, formed of that crowd which has no opinion — and which therefore the next moment (when it becomes clear that the minority is the stronger) adopts the latter's opinion, which now is in the majority, i. e. becomes rubbish by having the whole retinue and numerousness on its side, while the truth is again in a new minority.

- Søren Kierkegaard

Sunday, January 16, 2011

Since there is nothing to be said, I have shut up. But now that a few minutes have passed, I have begun to talk again. Haven’t you noticed?

Friday, January 14, 2011

The Shame

My mind sprouts a thought
It shimmers
I only dream of leaping forth
Over a table or two
and catching the thought, safe-kept henceforth
In a notebook
I, to my surprise, keep walking straight
and no words anymore.

Saturday, January 8, 2011


In it lies much more
Some part Frank Zappa, some part bullcrap
Of prime form.

But need I care? No, brother hell.
Youth is to be wasted, licking undersides, kicking sides.