Oh prancing letters!

Saturday, April 30, 2011 by B.H.

Oh prancing letters! – aggrieving the mind,

Waltzing upon the – bending stream,

Meaning – ivory tippet of that lady kind –

Nor the zilch essence of a forgotten dream.

All the letters –– I can remember

Are not as fine as this ––

Musings of plush ––

Velvet-textured –– square paragraphs,

Profundity –– as deep –– as dying crimson ––

Scattered on the canvas ––

Hid in the magic box ––

And in the splashes of mincing bucketfuls ––

And sometime –– when thou playest a tune ––

With that buzzing bee of Potwar

In sleep

Yet upon thy golden palms ma’am ––

Each dawn is last, thou dost say.


Wednesday, April 20, 2011 by B.H.

Like, when lilac-colored cotton curtains sway to and fro – and the moves are contemporized with the western winds. When strands of light leak through the gilded rifts from behind the curtains magnifying the aura. It is queasy, strangely, when the eyes are fixed on the rotted posy of endearing flowers – lying on the checkered floor.
Feeling nothing but numbness – standing alone…surrounded by the countless mirrors – reflecting countless sickish dark shapes and shadows squeaking something God knows what over and over again. Countless hairy clawed fangs filled with poisonous hatred. And on my right hand, they reflect the unorganized modern furniture covered with the off-white sheets paled by the dirt in a mellowly lit room and different scattered shades of inkiness and decorated with poison ivy in numerous strange looking pots. Thinking…about the pictures of us while passing beneath the ebonies, about the secrets that fled the hearts and wiggled freely with the winds and vanished inside them.
There’s too much anger in the winds tonight, beating back everything, papers squirming violently, trees flickering back and forth as if to grasp something other than the darkness. Trying to haze over my thinking. It is not merry because, merry it is not. Hands of the clock are speeding – until the moment that is supposed to absorb everything inside it, from the largest piece of the furniture to an empty packet of chocolate chip cookies lying on the floor.


Railroad Tracks

Tuesday, April 12, 2011 by B.H.
I’m kind of boring, aren’t I? I don’t make sense and it occurred to me recently that I don’t have much to say most of the times I just let people carry the conversation and chip in a little bit here and there. I can’t figure out where the offset is and where the end. Neither can I slow it down like motion picture so that I can pinpoint something from it and make an opinion about it or tell myself that this is where the problem lies. I did not know how’s it like having a head filled with air, now I know.

Frankly, I’m just a silly boy who pretends to be genuinely smart and thinks he knows everything but in reality he knows nothing about anything. I make mistakes everyday and now it appears I have started a series of mistakes linked to each other like a railroad of hassles that does not end ever, like a yon structure made out of lego-set that you can’t help rebuilding again and again. Daisy chain of mistakes that I can’t, just can’t stop building. My railroad is deceiving me this time, it looks the same old rusty and drear something – wherever I look at it from. Like every daisy looks alike, innocently alike. Arousing smiles. Ingenuously deceiving.

So help me Lord, I beg.