Krishna and the snake

I drew this picture when I chanced upon the poem by Narsinh Mehta that captures the confrontation of Krishna and the snake in the water.

Momentary betrayal

What does a mass of eels copulating and growing into a grayer, bigger ball, levitating, floating in the middle of a hollow skull feel? All violating images of you with magnified eyes through bottle glass and fleeing tired eyes that just rest on me. I bite my lips off there.

From the bureau of my very very infected dreamy buns,like an almost ecstatic moan of my very very rabied heart, I love the idea of violating you, an act in untying and denying, as you inch wider and the gaps grow, into the far reaching abyss of your speaking flower, the shrieking invitation from the moist 'u' pockets between your thumping rubber stamp toes.

After feeling so foolish, I sometimes wish there was a bag called universe/space/whatever and while I speak things that I know just before speaking should not be spoken, I could say them inside that bag. They are said, yet not. That would save me a lot of betraying emotions and further shame.

Once you leave, this is how I recuperate.

Experience and time

Experience is temporal. So is growth. To grow, is to bathe in time, ceremoniously. Let stream, drop, mugs and froth, all pour gradually, slide down and once gone, you know what growing means. Similar is experience, to throw yourself into something that you already know is not going to be extremely enjoyable or pleasant, for instance, to cheat on someone, or to wake up in all consciousness to keep an appointment; all are experiences that one must, while in their temporal space, endure. Look around while you inhabit them because that makes you a mere experience-r, not the inflicted/victim/perpetrator. Why do people find it so difficult to tone down their emotional responses to situations? I can almost 'ask' myself not to feel excited or disappointed. Performance, the more subtly you accept, the better it feels. Of course, for death, love, poetry and other such huge gusts of demanding impulses, one may give away a moment or so, but otherwise, in retrospect, to feel the untainted emotion in an experience is boring. Simply tedious and boring. Can't possibly go back to fall in unconditional, exciting love. So much energy and so many gestures.
And, then while swinging such in an empty park on a not-so-important sunny day with no one around, one may not feel the need and the consequent lack of anything at all.

In buckets, a dozen by the port

The fish that stays suspended in water,
Opened in the middle like your coral powder box,
The fish onomatopoeic, resounds like the slap on your rounded buttock,
The fish ever emerging and dipping in, disappearing, like the splattering saliva
from the peaks of your excitement;
The fish when I rub it to the cheek,
Like your bony hands greased by caressing machines day long,
Is the so edible love letter that I write and eat away and bite and eat away,
Make another,
End up buying a fine one and in the honor of your ordinary, naive, not sufficiently emotive self,
My fantasies of you and the fish make the romance worthwhile.

The good God' man

Dear offliner, the dramatic offliner to the grey disappeared imaginary soul mate on the other end, white lining the irony of my unfinished sensitive message:
Something tragic is about to happen, or maybe it won't. The way my mother described, he might just die. There is this good God's man, who is lying in the government hospital's common ward with a wired liver and failing organs, spitting blood all the time. It sounds extremely melodramatic until I reveal that he is mother's related brother of distant times. But, the rest is perfectly sad, the wired liver, blood vomits, no money and poor connections. Mother's incessant monologue wouldn't have moved me if she hadn't mentioned his desperate bitterness against life. How bitter the good God's man felt towards something that no one could replace for him. No one could live his life for him, it wasn't a full time occupation or a long, tedious cricket match. You simply get no substitute here. He was ready to call quits, that is all he wishes for, in the energy he could summon to speak. Every joke he makes lying on the bed, falls flat on his nose, as if his only entertainment was also the same life's cruel ironies that seem to fatigue him now.
What is tragic is to see the mess you've made of yourself. And, the worst of it is when you can't stop feeling sorry for what you've made and you have to live with it. Live in that bed, motionless, recounting every time someone cheated you, every time you started something new and it failed, flopped, all the internal failures that you lived a thousand times more than you could afford to show. To think you'd live your last few moments so bitter, melts me in agony.
I could live for you, die in stead, or mend every misery, but how am I to make all that bitterness and failure go especially when all you've been is a good God's man?

Just ageing

Thus spake banter girl.

On growth and reading:

As I lay reading Saul Bellow's 'The victim' in the cradling train's upper berth, my legs stretched far wide, out of the little cushion plank and my hands spilled out from the other edges. I realized I had long overgrown the most pertinent measure of Indian common size. At this exact moment of discomforting over growth I also realized the truth of vegetarian living: Grass eaters eat mushrooms only out of sheer miserable abstinence and replacement for lamb feet and cow tails and goat balls. I could be wrong but mushrooms, really? Gross little brown buttons.

On loving and leaving:

When we keep ending love notes in 'love', we realize the effort it takes to keep the almost natural yet terrifying 'I' in the beginning and 'You' in the end from spilling in. You have to restrain, keep it real. Keep it sober.
And, that I'd keep loving many men but just two before one of them dies and they make an exemplary loner of me.

Conclusions make good paragraphs:

Isn't life in all twenty six dimensions in all the parallel universes, including the one inside, only defined apt by one, paradox?