A curated cellar of musings.
It’s all a postureBy Kannan BaskarIt’s all a postureNot a languageNot an alphabetNot a soundIt’s all smokeNo heavinessNo sadness, nor joyNot even contemptLies, yes,Empty, shapelessFumes. All a murk, News, manufacturedCustomised To suit; to suit yourEyes, ears and nosesSplendidThy colourless ignoranceYou don’t know my dears that you don’t know.A jolly good stateRemember—It’s all a posture.
Kindly, fade into this world. A vertical year had passed, digitally. With his conflicts—balanced out, purposes—irrelevant, and the audience taken away he was but a brooding mold contained in the mugginess of a nook. Addicts of the right angle were interpreting circles, on the telly; while the room, his abode, smelt of turpentine: new paint. The…
Read More "The paint’s turpentine and a walled-in afternoon"
Lyrics from the song “Chiragugal Njan nee dhooramay” by Anwar Ali, from the film: Njan Steve Lopez and photography by me😬.
A receding brightness lingers in the crevices, defining and demarcating an otherwise diffuse existence.
The feminine in the divine Divine in the feminine The rebel in the oppressed The Feared within the fear The maternal asserts: Like the puja’s flame—heft in the immaterial, Brilliance in red—powdery Vermilion, bedaubed Omniscient thunder buried in the Holy drum The petty wither— Falsehood dismembered Ignorance convolutes Purged, cleansed, disentangled I stand delivered Delivered…
Left at my doorstep—A Mirror,Wrapped in needless layers of cheap bubble wrap,Sans a sender’s name; smelt of burning embersA script, indecipherable, carved onto its wooden frame(My maid said, “language of the poor, Sir”):It left permanent red marks on anyone who touched it, for the frame was Daubed in a wet Vermilion—never driedI put it up…
He had left the room; but, his echoes prevailed, reflecting and re-reflecting from every bit of live surface. The physical vacancy never felt empty, rather, felt like a celebration of memories. His songs, like my childhood's lingering scent, are inescapable; they are within me and not stored remotely in some static binary form. Each Pallavi…
Ain't it all an assembly of straight lines?The boring roads, Narcissistic walls, even the telling inclines and declinesMaths will even have you believe there are a million tangents in a circleLinear, purposeful, but tedious But, look closely my friendDon’t you see the zillion curves in each circle’s tangent?All seemingly straight borders hide many a pervious…
If to quell were an outlawed act To win a mocked at indulgence To surpass a useless gratification To covet a visible crime “I’ll carpet”, He said, “Your abode with a giving greenery” “I’ll mutate thy existence to a walk on silky sands,” He promised “There’ll be no bad, or good, just the right…
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