logikal’s blog

It began decades back between the explicit songs in those way side tavern radios and clandestine searches for Lady Chatterley’s Lover. A brazen classmate, who targeted the English teacher confided… with tall stories!

We were gangling kids, black tufts on faces and places, we bargained for introductions to the skirted things, there were fights, we made up and hung around… hounding in packs and trying to run ahead of the pack too simultaneously. We were wolverine.

Soon the songs stole our hearts- college examinations, athletics and sports took over- we became ascetics and yearned till they gave in, bit by bit- they too had fights, and surrendered.

We found girls, those succulent fruit shops, the deodorants and the divas merged at times in limited edition explorations, or at the indoor courts games and late night candle lights… we became Spielberg fans in midnight séances, seldom caught in our compensating acts, counterfeiting love since the majority of our souls lay submerged in fudge.

We slowly cancelled our pledges- we found with alacrity, methods of giving up, moving on, gathering no dust, no moss, unopposed, we found intimacy, bodies hardened, the beard now bristled.

License!

The old man stood amid a dog, his grandson and the cat mewing at the kitchen window.
The canine was at the wrong side of the door and was letting off sporadic barks.
The dog was 16 plus years of canine glory- a white Pomeranian, now grey with neglect. He had loved that pet once. He had loved his wife once. He hated both now… perhaps both hated him now.
The cat appeared once in a while. Each appearance was laced with hunger and genuine need of a touch. The old man was allergic to animals- though his fondness knew no bounds.
The child hogged all his attention.
The old man was a born child sitter.
Unknown to all!

The old man was aware of something. A tingling in his toes and jaws- he reached for that aspirin, hoping that would go away. And it did.
The child reached upwards with his hands. Take me into your lap he seemed to be saying. He picked up the child and kissed him.
The lights changed. There was a red flare. Like the avalanche that came without warning- there was a crushing pressure on his chest. The child continued.
His daughter came out. She screamed…
The child, barely a year old, kept caressing his grandpa. Grandpa just stared. And stared! Forever?

This poem was written on 8 July, on hearing that Germany had lost to Spain. I had posted in Sulekha- where it got featured too! And I put it here because Dilip Krishnan had asked me.

The Strange Case of Paul the Octopus, a pretender or a soothsayer sans voice, has taken the world by a storm. To predict one thing out of two in 13 out of 14 cases in a row is a mathematician’s delight- better than 1 in 1000, and it rarely happens. Now that Spain has won the FIFA WC 2010, as predicted by Paul, it increasingly looks like a bookie’s wet dream, where all the matches involving Germany were fixed- by placing the favorite food for the octopus in the box they wanted to the octopus to choose. Anyway it is a thing past gone. People are now betting on Paul, the poor cephalopod’s survival on a day to day basis. Soon, the Oberhausen sea life home may be bereft of an aquatic marvel- that was manipulated by human greed. Some say that the naturalized German must be an Oriental seer Octopus! Paul the Octopus the seer is very much the talk of the town everywhere. May be political parties can try him before fielding candidates-

Sie können nicht rauben Peter Paul zu zahlen
Für arme Peter, ist die Astrologie nicht seinen Ruf
 
You cannot rob Peter to pay Paul
For poor Rob, astrology is not his call
While Paul gets candies, Peter starves
And stares at the knife that carves
In a glass cage, as the killer roams about
He sharpens his knife, lets off his shout-
“Paul, try to predict the day I would
Get your neck, once for all, pretty good!”
Sometimes from the next cell,
You can hear the cries, it is the death knell
This waiting game, the killer, his knife
Takes prisoners away, then their life
 
But Paul lives on, every day he has two crates
Of succulent cooked meat, and he decides the fate
Of Fußball, his captors way, and they clap
Paul is good, but the killer says astrology is crap!
Soon it was the day, the guys came and saw
In no mood to predict, he bit his own claw
Death perhaps or worse, Peter would be free
From the aquarium, and the killer in glee
Would walk to his glass wall and say
Paul it is time to pray, your last day
You have let the German’s lose to Spain
My dear Octopus Astrologer Insane
Astrology was right, never in your oversight
Could you imagine, octopus soup is a German delight…
 
So while Peter was set free by the PETA,
German fans sipped the soup, and said, Das ist besser
For an octopus in the aquarium is a pain in the ass
Astrology ist nicht gut, that Paul was a lot of gas!
 
A moral here- never speak the truth, better
Love Octo-Paul soup, das perfect to the letter!
Never tell the Fußball fan his team is a loser
And never believe a to-be-dead-soon-astrologer!
 
Poor Paul- he is buried in soup cans!

I reiterate that I am really and sincerely worried about the likely fate of the errant octopus- who predicted correctly, 13 out of 13! Some hungry fan must have conspired to add green chili in the German flag covered box- and that led to yet another correct prediction!

Life is rather cruel for the soothsayer- it is paradigm well established in matters of soothsaying that to open one’s mouth is to invite the hangman… only the Octopus Vulgaris chose to sit upon its prediction disguised as its box of food! The poor cephalopod has jeopardized his existence further by prediction of third spot for Germany. Now Uruguayans too have acquired a taste for octopus soup. He was beloved by German media the World Cup until he correctly chose Spain to beat Germany on Wednesday night, but most Germans today imagine fried in garlic butter. They may however change the name of the octopus to Grunter Gassen, for the Pope is against killing any Paul, and then will be the octopus’s end!

Although, octopus meat is like snail’s meat- it is awfully yucky to our general taste, but with garlic and ginger paste, it may become a sushi… and there are people hungry enough- they are whetting their appetite with schnapps! Soup, astrology soup, would follow soon! Personally I am happy as long I get to eat fish finger deep fried with mustard. No octopus soup for me…

The lesser octopods- the arachnid variety, are in peaceful co-existence in my house… but I have to feed my hungry vacuum cleaner with the somewhat stale tasting spider meat and cobweb spaghetti at regular intervals!

TOMORROW IT WILL BE ALISHA

I was smoking the peace pipe some days ago, when things began to happen on my writing table… a cockroach began to speak…
Psssssst! I have superstitions black cats and voodoo dolls on sale, in that little dark corner, in my stall, in the premonitions mall. I have drugs and more that can blow your mind, walking or should I put a gun to your head?
I have a babe who can make you strip- if you like dancing in the rain, and she’ll make scream- she is touched in her head, and quite a lot insane. Come On!

Man, you want a lesson in psychology- I can see I drive you crazy!
And the cockroach began laughing and waved its antennas at me- and said hey, I am a female- I can change into everything with six legs, but not less!
She then changed, into a female flea, the size of a cockroach, and jumped/flew into my nose… it tickled, and then she punched me hard!
And popped out… ahem! She said it is a warm place to be, rather hairy, and cozy with watery mucosa but I would starve, there is hardly any bacteria in there…
And she began a dance!

I felt that the cockroach flea was making a fool of me, she was just giving a run for my money- I thought of an anti-cockroach spray…
And the female squirmed- Oooooh! She said, and flipped, into a spider, and I wondered- she lost count of her legs, a spider has eight of those… leg, leg, leg, leg, leg, leg, leg, leg, she had eight! Whee!
Interesting she changed again into a sexy tarantula, with lipstick and eight legged lingerie.
And she said- I spy! With her four eyes I bet! I looked into her eyes, all four of those, and she waved her left foreleg, walking with me- and I crawled the table top- and the mirror showed a pair of tarantulas, I lifted my left foreleg and touched my face- I felt alive!

Ah, I was upside down, living dangerously and inside out with a Tarantula bride, and we began a tug of war, in the light of the night the table lamp glow, we were war dancing to a twisty beat. I now began admiring the Lady’s torso, eight legs, devil red lips and coca cola skin and boy she was screaming a song and dancing! I wonder what next… and the tarantula grinned- I mean both of us, it was in our mind, love and lust, and we broke into a jive…
And the Tarantula dame said hell, let me teach you some psychology- Lesson One, Psyche, Id and Ego…
I was really enjoying the dance, I said no, but she did not hear me, Tarantulas are deaf, except me, and they talk to the mind directly, she said Psyche! She spoke to my Conscious, let us go!

And she entered my mind, it was dark, somewhere there was a voice singing eh, get her out, and the scream echoed- out, out, out! The Lessons began, she wrote on the wall with her web spit-

Psyche: The mind or self as a functional entity

Id: primitive instincts and energies underlying all psychic activity

I turned away, I looked sideways and still the Tarantula attack was on…

Ego: The self, especially as distinct from the world and other selves. In psychoanalysis, the division of the psyche that is conscious, most immediately controls thought and behavior, and is most in touch with external reality.

The lesson continued, I yawned and slept off. Alicia smelt nice!

And woke up, the Tarantula was gone. The stark light in the ceiling said my mind was gone too- I had been psyched out- and found myself in a cheap funky hotel I fancied down town- she had taken my heart and she took my money. The Tarantula spoke in my mind- she was eating my heart with bread and honey- and that when the drug wears out, I would die, and in the meanwhile- there was scotch spilling out of a small rock, and a sleeping pill- she yelled, never drinks water and made me ring up, bring French Champagne. I was going insane!

Life would not be sane, I felt cold, I looked at myself- I was wow- human again!

I picked up the phone, and dialed 100, and said Hi Tarantula Woman, come in! And she had a skirt and top on, the red lipstick and coca cola hair in braid, red lipsticks and wow, spidery hips, and a grin, we can begin, let the waiter come it with champagne, and dance in the rain!

As we smoked the peace pipe again- she changed into an Amazonian Anaconda now, and she looked into my eyes… I got it! She was Mad Alicia the Temptress- python with a flicking, lip-smacking forked tongue and a scaled polka dot tiger-all-over-skin-wear, and she let go a split tongued whistle that sounded like a hiss!
I was mesmerized! It felt nice!
Peace!
Two puffs later there was a knock- a poisoned soul slithered in.  And he or she settled himself or herself, whatever, on a stool that appeared suddenly whatever, and grinned.  It was time for the pipe again.

I came to a little or ages later again.
Alicia was screaming! She had freaked out again. And I was walking the roof lizard like, or whichever place was made of antigravity waves! Alicia continued screaming as I began the walk. A kaleidoscope of colors light sprayed the room…
The roof was rough. The floor was sandy, and the flowers were red- poppy like. The room had given way to a vast field, and Alicia was walking towards me, her hip swiveling walk, and the sun glaring at me with a white fiery face…

Alicia talked to my mind again- she loved open spaces and always grew chatty in the sun! I picked the giant lotus from the pond, where I was standing! Alicia popped out of the water, a mermaid now! I held out the flower that had changed into a bluebell, and Alicia was a gargoyle ogress grinning at the edge of nowhere! And she had wine flowing out her mouth, and she thought into my mind, sip this for an ever after!
I took a sip, rather a puff of the hookah! Peace, and there was Alicia, with gossamer wings- a Bird of Paradise, with a small spider in her beak… she dropped it in my hand, and the spider changed into my black dream, a dream where I see nothing…

The ground shook- the Hell Bound Express was coming into the Eternity Railway Depot- and it slowed down and came to a stop! Alicia peeped out from the third door and yelled all aboard! I hopped in!
I took the seat next to her, and she spoke into my mind, I wondered if her voice was velvet or satin but it had waves, not words, folded, wrapped, wrinkled, inviting like a stream of piano notes plucked slowly- the notes, and the words running in or out, a standstill tableau, in gypsy style and put my head on her lap! She crooned a song silently!
We peeped at each other- from two holes, we were worms in love in a tunnel in an apple and our apple was shriveling, the world shaking, and there was the smoke, peace again! Peace to our souls! Alicia grinned…
The lamp on the table was raining dust light, monsoon insects were dancing in the rain and the hazy smoke appeared Alicia. She was the seeping image of salt on the wall, a cloud and a face and a tarantula walking back home, and a child by her side holding her hands, and she waved at me!
Peace, my love! She often comes to me in my dreams, with my peace smoke- tomorrow perhaps she would hide!
I had smoked Alicia- Alicia the hashish is good! The best indeed! Alisha, in the brave new world of tomorrow! Smoking hot Alisha with the blazing blue eyes…
Peace!

Just Gossip: Re-Mi Mixed

"When can we start chatting?" asked the Wise One to his wiser mate, chewing grass with the utmost concentration. She was attractive and petite, and looked lovely with the saddle on her back! Oh! The clothes she got to carry

The Wise One was intrigued, his Wiser Half was rather pensive, and was concentrating purely on the grass below her, and her grass was indeed greener that his own, which was a shade of faded greenish brown- the bigger pot bellied beings that sported big udders and mooed, had urinated there yesterday, and though it had a pungent smell, the Wise One was content and kept at his meal. He never wondered why the grass below his feet was green, brown, dry or absent- it was not among the Wise Folks to wonder!

The Angry Down Udder Thing

"When can we begin the chatting" asked the Wise One again. The Wiser Half just moved away and chose another patch of greener grass! It seemed that she was being very Wise today and wanted to keep away from Loose Talk, a game she often loved to play.

The Two Legged Fool appeared suddenly, and tied a long rope around the Wiser Half's neck, and tugged. The Wiser Half stared hard at the Two Legged Fool- she would not budge! So the Two Legged Fool stood like the fool that he was and said "chlkh chlkh chlkh".

The Wiser Half knew that it was time to play along. She went along with the Two Legged Fool, swinging her hips and swaying her head, something that the Wise One admired- the Wiser One was indeed ripe for something he could not, in his wisdom, figure out yet a wise un-move!

The Not So Wise One, a young yet-to-be-wise Wise Thing approached him and asked "Shall we chat?" and the Wise One reluctantly began the chatting earnestly. After all, how long can a Wise Thing avoid the Chat? He asked the Not So Wise One, would she begin or would he?

And they began their chat. First it was the Not So Wise One's turn. She first went down on her knees, as it was customary of the younger Wise Things to do and behave! The cloud of dust she raised was intoxicating. The Wise One pondered was it time? The Not So Wise One invited him through her wonderful musical series in various subtonic shades of repeated Re-Mi tones in the equal tempered scale.

Finding re-mi, rather, re-ga!

Time! The Wise One joined in the action. He too went on his knees and then on to his back, just as The Not So Wise One had done. Soon, there was a cloud burst- a cloud of dust worth the attention of young two legged fools who gathered around and made sounds by hitting their hoof-less upper forefeet against each other and yelling "mazaayayyayayayaya!" a sound not tuned to any semi-tone of the equal tempered scale in particular.

Exclusive exotic expressive ecstasy ensued!

So the two Wise Things chatted merrily until they were tired. The sounds of Re-Mi repeated a thousand times had died down when the clapping had stopped. Content, the Wise One momentarily contemplated a procreative union with this young yet-to-be-wise Wise Thing, but stopped this almost wisest joyful thought just in time later, he thought, would be more appropriate! Chatting was heavenly!

Wise One , Not-So-Wise-One

The sun was approaching the zenith.

The Two Legged Fool appeared. He was sweating and appeared to be tired. The Wise One knew that it was his turn to play- he looked at the Two Legged Fool expectantly. Yes, the rope was tied around his neck. Yes, he was saddled now after a merciless scrubbing by the Two Legged Fool. It was time to be led away contently. Yes! Yes! Yes, the Two Legged Fool began dressing him with a wonderful heavy load of wet soft clothes. He closed his eyes in sublime happiness!

Whack! The switch cane thumped his bum! It was time to move from the river bank! He had to lead now it seemed- for the Two Legged Fool did not know the way to the Place-Where-The-Long-Clothes-Lines-Hang!

The Wiser Half was singing!

Re-Mi!

Sublime- time to chat, so soon!

"Arghh!" yelled the Two Legged Fool- "thrgomyfrshliwrshdclthes!"

Notes

Chlkh- the sound that the Two Legged Fool, a washer-man, makes with his tongue to call the Wise Folk in affection.

Mazaayayyayayayaya- a joint yell of joy of the young of the two-legged-kind when they enjoy the joint chat of the wise-ones (means we are enjoying it)

Re-Mi is the musical vocal expression of the Wise Ones, St Francis’s Steed, the Holy Equinus Africanus! With this, the only all encompassing expression, they have managed to sagely express everything life demands to be spoken about!

Chat- a brisk invigorating act involving rolling in a patch of dust with all four limbs held stiffly upright and also brisk rubbing against a kindred wise kind's body while so rolling. Utterance of Re-Mi-So is mandatory.

Thrgomyfrshliwrshdclthes "there go my freshly washed clothes"

Yet-to-be-wise: "an innocent being" in the language of the wise things, what else?

Caution: The wise things have a hearing problem, yet undiagnosed! That prevents them from being Supreme Beings, the Giver of Grass and Wise Thingy Babies!

A Stolen Dream

I had stolen once- only once, in my life, a dream snatched through the neighbor's window. I was then a young man of fifteen. I stared hard for hours at a silken-skinned girl whose face was lit like moonlight- but I was caught red-handed staring at her in greed.

She came in from next door, a thin vermillion line on her forehead- she was just married. She said, 'Come here!' My hands trembled.  My heart dropped like a windfall- she, the forbidden apple smiled.

My sin weighed heavy on my heart- heavier than Adam and Eve’s conscience!

Unexpectedly, the new bride next door planted a kiss on my face and said, 'I'll give you this satin hankie, stitched by hand.'

I stole only that once.

I was a lucky sinner- it is December again and in the mirror I look at my old face with the patience born of my years. In the mirror I see frost and then the night sailing in through the windows, and darkness veiling my eyes. In the courtyard, through the window panes, I see a naked tree shimmering like a ghost, in its perennial wait for the fairy-tale dance of snowflakes in the moonlight.

I am a little crazed. In my ancient distant memories that woman appears to me. At sunset, birds with their violet songs tell me how few the words that one needs in life! I face the wind, and the falling of the leaves, and rain tapping the glass. I want to write a poem the lost Venus, in which my raw words, unadorned, become more beautiful- where I need no metaphors- breasts for instance, do not become hills, a woman's body a sultry landscape or orgasmic heights a roll of soft thunder of raindrops. In the space within me, I would wipe my cache of hypocrisy with a coat of true feeling.

I would steal again, not a silly hankie this time- there would no more be just distant memories of a face- my stolen dream.

I will steal again- this time, it would be I who would plant the kiss of Zeus! I would now sin, knowingly that this is no dream!

But a stolen dream

Plastic Poet

03 Dec 2009

FATE- INCREMENTALLY OBSESSED

A pig loves to be a pig

Nothing, but being a pig

Is an achievement

That many may resent

Some pigs that want it, make it big

In life, they seek the mysteries,

Of the birds and of the bees

Stumbling into other swine

Rolling in the slime

Ignoring the pearl laid out

They just snort and shout

And twist and roll

And sip from the muck bowl

Whew! Life is an excess

Of the cleanliness mess

A pig that makes it big

Has to smell around and bid

Or holler to his mistress

Invitations not to undress

But being a pig with a wing

Can make a sow sing

Arias and orgasmic

Sounds of delightful pig-speak

Oinks and squeals

Sexy it feels

When a pig wants to be

Just a pig

Wallowing in the mudpack

Many a joke can a pig can crack

Mostly to himself and grin

At his delightful Missy Sin

Dreaming in the sty

Is a reason why

Being a porcine, a pig

Is Utopia, unique!

Plastic Poet

10 Nov 2009