“I have lived on the lip of insanity, wanting to know reasons, knocking on a door. It opens. I've been knocking from the inside.” ― Rumi


I confess. I can’t take it anymore, for more would simply fester deeper into my mind. Behind every action, the causation causes more caustic erosion into the little bits that I have left. Have heart, they all say, the voices in my head. But no more, please make it stop. As much as this may sound like a cry it is not, for it is a proclamation. Today, I stop. There were always people around, and people about. Daily life hand in hand with knives of excitement. But the day when one realizes that it was all for nought, that one sacrificed the pure and that which loved one, for that which was nought more, no more. My life could be that of folklore. But I confess, that I gave up which was given me; love and devotion, for a tug of war fought in a tub of lard. Bards might sing my ballad but it would diminish quickly into that of the mendacity of the ordinary. Ordinarily double metaphors and mixed imagery aren’t a forte, but forts are sand castles made in the ebbing tide of mead and its similes. Not only must it suffice to have knowledge, but also in that I know why it exists, why I subsist. As day ends and moon rises, no amounts of swing can rope in the twinging heartthrobs which is the heart; and the mind simply oozes understandably dense secretions that clog the airwaves. Let’s wave a last hello to those that gave us all, gave us much. Such fear only exists in novels, yet we grovel at the ends of pixilations saying a nana nan a. Laudably, there is a moment of confession, for father, the world has sinned. Oh, not I but eyes turning, gyrating round and round around me, see you can’t feel them, but they gaze as you realize the mistakes, the double takes that you wish you could still undertake. Underestimated, ignored and chewed out, all the platonic kisses on the cheek, all the confessions of unreasonable – tum mujhe bahut pasand ho – unconditional love that a simple friend would amass. Now I sit amongst animals, dogs and such, those eyes that know not past the pure thought of peace and lease us some temporary innocence. If I could, I would. But so long, and so much, so long my try again’s – no Monopoly cards – for we are done. One, one moment, sing and ferment my thoughts, sweet lament. I confess, I knew nothing too early, now I know too much, too late. It’s not hate, it’s not blatant profess, but the slow turning, ever churning: the seconds-hand preparing the final drink as our minds fleet.

It’s seethingly neat.

Hereon forth, I shall Mr St Peter, try my best, to profess.


Listen close now kids,
here’s a little riddle,
it might just blow your lids.

Answer it, and you’ll truly impress:

Unravel the gravel that plagues your mind,
Look at yourself, the stuff that goes on behind,
Up and around in your little head,
We might just leave you, feeling heavy as lead.

Who’s the sucker, and who’s truly mad
if there was just one pill of sanity,
and that’s the one he had?


What was I and what have I become,
I’ll be blind, till kingdom come.
So lend a hand to the weak,
Seemingly, it pays to be meek.

Slip one, on the sly,
Breathe out, live and cry.
The birds might need to fly,
Don’t hide, but please do lie.

Holes in our hands, can’t wait to stand,
Alone together, dark in my land.
Bland plans, grand scams,
Clam together, she’s a brand.

The skies are a red,
He’s probably dead,
Can’t hear babies laugh,
Bravely lays his staff.

Truthfully, I’ll tell you,
This lie, I’m going to sew;
Wolves howl, moonlit skies,
We run, danger smiles.

In this last hour,
Time’s to devour.
So many hands,
it made me yelp.


“Maintain stability. The human wreck which is my mind, our world, inhibits me from entering orbit. Why must I perpetually strive to find the loop and intricate myself within it? I give up, livin’ it up from within, without. Mundane movement one after the other, black and white, gold and brown and then there’s nothing. Sounds merge to make one band of such madness, I die; then comes that one note, then rhythm and finally rhyme. Beat, fleet from France facing fearlessly the contrast growing gingerly gardening in Germany.
Can no one see the musicality of the flowers that grow on the side of the mountain, this simplicity innate in the gargantuaness of the bustling life around it. What else is there, what is left to ponder upon, to study? Observe, mates, and listen to that flower, hear it dance so peacefully amongst the insanity that is the city, the men the women the dogs the children”.

Words (Censored)

“To enable one’s mind to roam unhindered under the canopy of servitude would surmount to true freedom; however, to break through the canopy, considered an impossibility, is true transcendence. Be born and live on in the house that is ours, but stepping out the front door would be the perfect and boldest act in revolt there was to god. After all, what must we live for but to shun the one and to show that we were able. Capable of doing what most wouldn’t dare. I’d want insurance, a car and a stable life with a wife, someone to take care of the inane insanity that we call life…sure, I’d want that…but that’s just living. Shouldn’t it be worth living for? And that’s the conundrum we find ourselves in, to take a piece of dead, grey stone which is the Universe and make it worthwhile for ourselves. To live and die is like urinating and eating, but to actually show oneself that addiction isn’t the driving factor in life, to throw away the syringe after a month of using it; heroine hell, is to live for what it’s worth. Shun what you must have, have what you mustn’t, come to realize the banality of your existence, die and live and die again till that door opens wide open and you see the light. You must define the might with which you hinder yourself down those steps, dare not look up for fear of spontaneous combustion, but keep your head down and trod along till you come by the blue oak tree, where you weep for weeks till you realize, “I’m still trippin’”. Escape is imagining the non-existent, living in the root of a carrot. A speck, or a giant. Your voice, an explosion or a whisper? Quiver not as the quiver draws faster, and forget there were ever words, forget language. Lost are the colours in the images we define as ours, the definitions must cease to exist, and you must awaken out of your dreary dreams about the green, blue and free yourself from form and other minds. Control, it isn’t worth having, she’s like the most eligible girl who wants her perfect prince charming. Cease to seize the day and let it be. Let it slip away, give back its beauty”.

Dear Reader

Dear Reader,

To profess and rant about Existentialism and the advent of the vehemently claimed ‘Hipster’ would be very far from new; however, the connection between those two creates a system of machinery which is the truest reflection of inane human shenanigans shown to us thus far. One could either beat a tube of glue with a baby’s toy hammer coloured red, green and pink, or simply look for existentialism in Indie-rock in order to finally delineate him/herself with respect to the physical and mental capacity that society has defined for them – this capacity being what in turn defines them, labels, etc. – and transcend to a certain selflessness. Musicality flows easily and freely through every person, putting thought to words, i.e. lyrics is what makes a Jim Morrison. Of all the music out there, it is the Indie music – those which are propagated by Hipsters who look up MySpace pages with a maximum of 5 followers – that bring the sobbing mother, the tiring father and the angst-full teenager to our ears. Tales of the day, things you go through: the narrative of my mind. Not the stuff you’d talk about at the laundry, but those moments of deep insight and curiosity that one dives into, surfacing seconds later in fear of brain freeze. Why was that guy frowning at the curb? Why was she smiling at green zombie monkey toy…why is the sky bluer than the ocean, or visa versa. We all have answers and insights, but they never leave our world. The construct that keeps us sane and is the blueprint to our intellect, the self, never sees the light of day. To be high on music and love and air in this sad world and still be alone, to exist beyond this realm, it is Sartre’s hell, Camus’ heaven. We were once alone in that when we shut our eyes the world we lived in was beyond the purview of any other human being, and now we are not, for that world is merging slowly but surely through the simplistic lyrics of the modern song writers, reaching us “On the Radio”, winning the fight against propaganda, media and the chains of society, merely because “the DJ is sleeping” at the station, and you are up late, as are we all.
“Truth is an amalgam of earthly elements”, said some Greek philosopher, Plato, Socrates, someone…. “Truth is an amalgam of inane snippets of my life that I alone give a shit about” says I. Who am I? I am that question which is of little importance. Soon, due to the hated existential hipster, the world will know that they wake up together, breathe, and die alone…that the inane snippets that are so dear to us are endearing agents of unity, inflicting us all with thunderous ferocity and urgency.

Yours Truly.

The Unwavering Sinusoid

It all stops here,
Keep your head up dear,
Its up.

why wont the merry-go-round go round
why does the door squeal?
particles implode,
colours mosey, heavy as Lead,
is it Me or is shape
really just

Well why don’t you ferry out?
Go play in the fields?
The frolicking fields burnt down to ground grey.
The ecstatic sea wasted away.

It all starts…..


Bored of life,
he sleeps in a bed,
has water to drink,
then fate throws him
into the
of poverty.

God changes his
and he dies of misery.

And yet,
when he awakes,
he awakes to the darkness that he now sees,
he knows not where
he might be,
but can’t see through
the cloud in his mind,
the cloud that has been created
by the essence of death,
the cloud of thought.

He tries too hard,
to see,
to be.
The cloud,
too meek,
too weak,
for his concentration,
for his will.

He wields the pen, as a sword,
Carves his destiny
into the creators chest,
never to forget the hurdles
he surpassed,

He awakes, from a bed, warmth.
He gets up, picks up a glass,
and has water to drink.


A cool breeze, soothing his face,
bent down to upon green grass full of wet dew,
bent down, looked over.

Looked down into the deathly cliff,
Black, jagged rocks, passively waiting…
gets up, braces himself.

then screams, and feeds the rocks,
what a wife had married,
feeds the rocks,
what had fathered a loving son.
the black, jagged rocks, waiting,
water gushing, smack their lips,


Baby crying,
Sweep fast, tea’s on the stove, DO THE BED WILL YA?
Turning, running to the kitchen,


that tea again and I swear I’ll kill you.

Mop, baby is still crying,
Crying, screeching louder like metal nails squealing across screechy glass scratching the innermost depths of ear brain squirming twirling crying dieing grinding teeth; bleeding tongue; sounds are shattering clattering metal flashing cups burning with the wetness of the mop which is mopping tears onions baby tea father? Mother, shower sweat dripping with heat stove burning food baby crying stabbing tearing the sanity

Thump silence.

Open, turn key; turn key, start.

The trunk of the car submits as the monotonous road offers its sanity and the bushes invite the blood off my hands.

No more does the world grind on its axis; it runs smoothly, soundless without a cry.