2012

Take the time, make sense
of everything that is not
the way it should be

Half a page of scribbled lines

Who you gonna call?

There's a song, one of my all time favorites, called "Chingari koi bhadke". Musically brilliant, but what makes it special are the lyrics. It talks about the little moments of irony in life that leave you helpless.

Chingari koi bhadke, to saawan use bujhaye
saawan jo agan lagaye, use kaun bujhaye?

The rain will put out the fire that a spark ignites. But what of the fire that the rain awakens?

What do you do when you feel lonely in a crowd?

Where's my Vicodin?

Pain comes in all forms. The small twinge, a bit of soreness, the random pain. The normal pains we live with everyday. Then there's the kind of pain you can't ignore. A level of pain so great that it blocks out everything else... Makes the rest of your world fade away, until all we can think about is how much we hurt. How we manage our pain is up to us. Pain. We anesthetize , ride it out, embrace it, ignore it, and for some of us the best way to manage pain is to just push through it.
Pain. You just have to ride it out, hope it goes away on its on. Hope the wound that caused it heals. There are no solutions, no easy answers. You just breath deep and wait for it subside. Most of the time pain can be managed, but sometimes the pain gets you when you least expect it, hits way below the belt and doesn't let up. Pain. You just have to fight through, because the truth is you can't outrun it... And life always makes more.

When you burn enough bridges
its hard to find, among the charcoal and ruin
the trail of breadcrumbs you left behind
now just pieces of blackened toast.

When you flip from the A to Z's
of your phonebook, till the numbers are a blur
and all that remain are pitiful stories of loved and lost
and sadder still, of never loved at all.

When you fix the squeaky fan, the leaky drain
the lingering doubt, the flimsy self worth
When you fixed it all, do you see the cracks
in your dreams and in your world?

Do you smile then, and breathe smoke?
and run and scream and push closer.
So close to the edge that you're blind
to the futility and the fear, to everything but the moment.

Reach for me in the dark. Set me free.
Hold me closer so I have naught to fear.
Fight for me as I did for you, but if you cannot,
don't ask me again how I am.

Falling Awake

Eagle in the dark
Feathers in the pages.
Monkeys in my heart
Are rattling their cages.

Found a way to blue
And another ghost to follow
Said "it's only up to you"
And that's the hardest pill to swallow.

You never get to choose
You live on what they sent you
And you know they're gonna use
The things you love against you

One foot in the grave
One foot in the shower
There's never time to save
You're paying by the hour

Slipping through the bars

Aware of the danger

Of riding in the cars 

Taking candy from strangers

And it's never out of hand

Never out of pocket

I'm supersonic man

Do you wanna buy a rocket?

I could learn to play the game

I could learn to run the hustle

If I only had the brains

The money or the muscle

In the name of my

There are many sorts of outlaws, just as there are many sorts of birds. A sandpiper and a sea eagle both have wings, but they are not the same. The singers love to sing of good men forced to go outside the law to fight some wicked lord, but most outlaws are more like this ravening Hound than they are the lightning lord. They are evil men, driven by greed, soured by malice, despising the gods and caring only for themselves. Broken men are more deserving of our pity, though they may be just as dangerous. Almost all are common-born, simple folk who had never been more than a mile from the house where they were born until the day some lord came round to take them off to war. Poorly shod and poorly clad, they march away beneath his banners, oft times with no better arms than a sickle or a sharpened hoc, or a maul they made themselves by lashing a stone to a stick with strips of hide. Brothers march with brothers, sons with fathers, friends with friends. They've heard the songs and stories, so they go off with eager hearts, dreaming of the wonders they will see. Of the wealth and glory they will win. War seems a fine adventure, the greatest most of them will ever know.
Then they get a taste of battle.
For some, that one taste is enough to break them. Others go on for years, until they lose count of all the battles they have fought in. but even a man who has survived a hundred fights can break in his hundred-and-first. Brothers watch their brothers die. Fathers lose their sons, friends see their friends trying to hold their entrails in after they've been gutted by an axe.
They see the lord who led them there cut down, and some other lord shouts that they are his now. They take a wound, and when that's still half-healed they take another. There is never enough to eat. Their shoes fall to pieces from the marching, their clothes are torn and rotting, and half of them are shitting in their breeches from drinking bad water.
If they want new boots or a warmer cloak or maybe a rusted iron halfhelm, they need to take them from a corpse, and before long they are stealing from the living too, from the smallfolk whose lands they're fighting in, men very like the men they used to be. They slaughter their goats and steal their chickens, and from there it's just a short step to earning off their daughters too. And one day they look around and realize all their friends and kin are gone, that they are fighting beside strangers beneath a banner that they hardly recognize.
They don’t know where they are or how to get back home and the lord they're fighting for does not know their names, yet here he comes, shouting for them to form up, to make a line with their spears and scythes and sharpened hoes, to stand their ground. And the knights come down on them, faceless men clad all in steel, and the iron thunder of their charge seems to fill the world...
And the man breaks.
He turns and runs, or crawls off afterward over the corpses of the slain, or steals away in the black of night, and he finds someplace to hide. All thought of home is gone by then, and kings and lords and gods mean less to him than a haunch of spoiled meat that will let him live another day, or a skin of bad wine that might drown his fear for a few hours. The broken man lives from day to day, from meal to meal, more beast than man.
Beware of broken men, and fear them . . . but we should pity them as well.

Mothers don't let your babies grow up to be Cowboys..

Its surreal (and upsetting) for me that most women I know; acquaintances, friends or lovers; are overwhelmed by the most elementary of courtesy, civility and chivalry. Things that come naturally to me are considered old fashioned, often extraordinary, making me feel like I've been transported to some distant and bizarre future where nice guys have been extinct for so long that they are now stuff of fairy tales.

Sigh.. why must I feel like a relic?

Hypocrisy, thy name is Government!

If this lands a guy in prison u/s 124A for disrespecting a national symbol.

What about this?

Against all odds

How can I just let you walk away - just let you leave without a trace?
When I stand here taking every breath with you,
You're the only one who really knew me at all

How can you just walk away from me when all I can do is watch you leave?
'cause we've shared the laughter and the pain, and even shared the tears
You're the only one who really knew me at all
So, take a look at me now - well, there's just an empty space
And there's nothing left here to remind me - just the memory of your face
Take a look at me now, well, there's just an empty space
And you coming back to me is against the odds and that's what I've got to face

I wish I could just make you turn around - turn around and see me cry
There's so much I need to say to you - so many reasons why
You're the only one who really knew me at all

So take a look at me now, well, there's just an empty space
And there's nothing left here to remind me - just the memory of your face
Now, take a look at me now 'cause there's just an empty space
But to wait for you is all I can do and that's what I've got to face
Take a good look at me now 'cause I'll still be standing here
And you coming back to me is against all odds - it's the chance I've got to take

Take a look at me, now

Come loving black-browed night

Yes passion does make
fools of us all
we fly in its wake
and falter and fall

Though carnal sin
seems deadlier still
than greed or wrath
or envy will

Yet I deliver
vile deeds sans thought
and the preacher's admonition
does come to naught

Let me be damned
ne'er was I free
and burn though I may
for eternity

My sin is purged
from my lips, by yours
let paradise close
its golden doors

I will endure,
with joy, this pain
Sin from thy lips?
Give me my sin again.

Rebirth

This was written a very long time ago, in a different lifetime, one could say. A little cheesy, but it was nice to be reminded of the whimsical, wishfully optimistic way I think of love. Think. Present tense.

I know that it has been a while
but every time I see you smile
still feels like the first time.

And every look from your eyes to mine
it still sends shivers down my spine
just like the first time.

Days or months or years may pass
draining the sands of the hourglass
but the stranger in your looking glass
shall be my love forever.
And though it seems so far away
I swear that I am here to stay.
That fateful kiss we'll have someday
will feel like the first time.

The stolen kisses in forbidden lands
and everytime that we hold hands
feels like the first time

Your vaguely gazing into space,
your warm breath upon my face
still feels like the first time.

These dreams you hold inside your heart
shall come to pass, just play your part.
Wish I could say I knew from the start
that we'd last forever.
Its hard sometimes, dont give up the fight.
How could it be wrong if it feels so right?
Still dream about us every night,
just like the first time.

Life's Worth Losing..

I’m a modern man, a man for the millennium. Digital and smoke-free. A diversified multi-cultural, post-modern deconstructionist; politically, anatomically and ecologically incorrect. I’ve been uplinked and downloaded, I’ve been inputted and outsourced, I know the upside of downsizing, I know the downside of upgrading. I’m a high-tech low-life. A cutting edge, state-of-the-art bicoastal multitasker and I can give you a gigabyte in a nanosecond!
I’m new wave, but I’m old school and my inner child is outward bound. I’m a hot-wired, heat seeking, warm-hearted cool customer, voice activated and bio-degradable. I interface with my database, my database is in cyberspace, so I’m interactive, I’m hyperactive and from time to time I’m radioactive.
Behind the eight ball, ahead of the curve, riding the wave, dodging the bullet and pushing the envelope. I’m on-point, on-task, on-message and off drugs. I’ve got no need for coke and speed. I’ve got no urge to binge and purge. I’m in-the-moment, on-the-edge, over-the-top but under-the-radar. A high-concept, low-profile, medium-range ballistic missionary. A street-wise smart bomb. A top-gun bottom feeder. I wear power ties, I tell power lies, I take power naps and run victory laps. I’m a totally ongoing big-foot, slam-dunk, rainmaker with a pro-active outreach. A raging workaholic. A working rageaholic. Out of rehab and in denial!
I’ve got a personal trainer, a personal shopper, a personal assistant and a personal agenda. You can’t shut me up. You can’t dumb me down because I’m tireless and I’m wireless. I’m an alpha male on beta-blockers.
I’m a non-believer and an over-achiever, laid-back but fashion-forward. Up-front, down-home, low-rent, high-maintenance. Super-sized, long-lasting, high-definition, fast-acting, oven-ready and built-to-last! I’m a hands-on, foot-loose, knee-jerk head case, pre-maturely post-traumatic and I’ve got a love-child that sends me hate mail.
But, I’m feeling, I’m caring, I’m healing, I’m sharing – a supportive, bonding, nurturing primary care-giver. My output is down, but my income is up. I take a short position on the long bond and my revenue stream has its own cash-flow. I read junk mail, I eat junk food, I buy junk bonds and I watch trash sports! I’m gender specific, capital intensive, user-friendly and lactose intolerant.
I like rough sex. I like tough love. I use the “F” word in my emails and the software on my hard-drive is hardcore – no soft porn. I bought a microwave at a mini-mall; I bought a mini-van at a mega-store. I eat fast-food in the slow lane. I’m toll-free, bite-sized, ready-to-wear and I come in all sizes. A fully-equipped, factory-authorized, hospital-tested, clinically-proven, scientifically- formulated medical miracle. I’ve been pre-washed, pre-cooked, pre-heated, pre-screened, pre-approved, pre-packaged, post-dated, freeze-dried, double-wrapped, vacuum-packed and, I have an unlimited broadband capacity.
I’m a rude dude, but I’m the real deal. Lean and mean. Cocked, locked and ready-to-rock. Rough, tough and hard to bluff. I take it slow, I go with the flow, I ride with the tide. I’ve got glide in my stride. Driving and moving, sailing and spinning, jiving and grooving, wailing and winning. I don’t snooze, so I don’t lose. I keep the pedal to the metal and the rubber on the road. I party hearty and lunch time is crunch time. I’m hanging in, there ain’t no doubt and I’m hanging tough, over and out!

Residue

From everything a little remained.
From my fear. From your disgust.
From stifled cries. From the rose
a little remained.

A little remained of light
caught inside the hat.
In the eyes of the pimp
a little remained of tenderness,
very little.

A little remained of the dust
that covered your white shoes.
Of your clothes a little remained,
a few velvet rags, very
very few.

From everything a little remained.
From the bombed-out bridge,
from the two blades of grass,
from the empty pack
of cigarettes a little remained.

So from everything a little remains.
A little remains of your chin
in the chin of your daughter.

A little remained of your
blunt silence, a little
in the angry wall,
in the mute rising leaves.

A little remained from everything
in porcelain saucers,
in the broken dragon, in the white flowers,
in the creases of your brow,
in the portrait.

Since from everything a little remains,
why won't a little
of me remain? In the train
travelling north, in the ship,
in newspaper ads,
why not a little of me in London,
a little of me somewhere?
In a consonant?
In a well?

A little remains dangling
in the mouths of rivers,
just a little, and the fish
don't avoid it, which is very unusual.

From everything a little remains.
Not much: this absurd drop
dripping from the faucet,
half salt and half alcohol,
this frog leg jumping,
this watch crystal
broken into a thousand wishes,
this swan's neck,
this childhood secret...
From everything a little remained:
from me; from you; from Abelard.
Hair on my sleeve,
from everything a little remained;
wind in my ears,
burbing, rumbling
from an upset stomach,
and small artifacts:
bell jar, honeycomb, revolver
cartridge, aspirin tablet.

From everything a little remained.

And from everything a little remains.
Oh, open the bottles of lotion
and smoother
the cruel, unbearable odor of memory.

Still, horribly, from everything a little remains,
under the rhythmic waves
under the clouds and the wind
under the bridges and under the tunnels
under the flames and under the sarcasm
under the phlegm and under the vomit
under the cry from the dungeon, the guy they forgot
under the spectacle and under the scarlet death
under the libraries, asylums, victorious churches
under yourself and under your feet already hard
under the ties of family, the ties of class,
from everything a little always remains.
Sometimes a button. Sometimes a rat.

Untitled

Goodbye.
Goodbye my lover,
my foe, my friend.
As we discover
when stories end,
that love and loss
is bittersweet.
When fates do cross
and strangers meet,
we're living all
on borrowed time.
A funeral toll
or wedding chime
is all the same,
if you think it through.
You call my name,
I reach for you
in this long
and lonely night.
We both were wrong.
We both were right.
So let me be
my joy, my pain.
And cry for me
and love again.
We'll soon discover
broken hearts do mend
Goodbye my lover,
my foe, my friend.

The Play is Over..

(With due credit and apologies to Bertolt Brecht)

The play is over, the performance committed, slowly
The theatre, a sagging intestine, empties. In the dressing rooms
The nimble salesman of hotchpotch mimicry, a rancid rhetoric
Wash off make up and sweat. At last
The lights go down which showed up the miserable
Botched job; twilight falls on the
Lovely nothingness of the misused stage. In the empty
Still mildly smelly lights room sits the honest
lights guy, unappeased, and does his best
To remember.

Keep me in your heart..

Shadows are falling and I'm running out of breath
Keep me in your heart for awhile

If I leave you it doesn't mean I love you any less
Keep me in your heart for awhile

When you get up in the morning and you see that crazy sun
Keep me in your heart for while

There's a train leaving nightly called when all is said and done
Keep me in your heart for while

Sometimes when you're doing simple things around the house
Maybe you'll think of me and smile

You know I'm tied to you like the buttons on your blouse
Keep me in your heart for while

Hold me in your thoughts, take me to your dreams
Touch me as I fall into view
When the winter comes keep the fires lit
And I will be right next to you

Engine driver's headed north to Pleasant Stream
Keep me in your heart for while

These wheels keep turning but they're running out of steam
Keep me in your heart for while

This Night

There are things
I have done
There's a place
I have gone
There's a beast
And I let it run
Now it's running . . .
My way

There are things
I regret
You can't forgive
You can't forget
There's a gift
That you sent
You sent it . . .
My way

So take this night
Wrap it around me like a sheet
I know I'm not forgiven
But I need a place to sleep
So take this night
And lay me down on the street
I know I'm not forgiven
But I hope that I'll be given . . .
Some peace

There's a game
That I play
There are rules
I had to break
There's mistakes
That I made
But I made them . . .
My way

Wave functions anybody?

Desolation Row

They're selling postcards of the hanging
They're painting the passports brown
The beauty parlor is filled with sailors
The circus is in town
Here comes the blind commissioner
They've got him in a trance
One hand is tied to the tight-rope walker
The other is in his pants
And the riot squad they're restless
They need somewhere to go
As Lady and I look out tonight
From Desolation Row

Cinderella, she seems so easy
'It takes one to know one,' she smiles
And puts her hands in her back pockets
Bette Davis style
And in comes Romeo, he's moaning
'You Belong to Me I Believe'
And someone says, 'You're in the wrong place, my friend
You better leave'
And the only sound that's left
After the ambulances go
Is Cinderella sweeping up
On Desolation Row

Now the moon is almost hidden
The stars are beginning to hide
The fortunetelling lady
Has even taken all her things inside
All except for Cain and Abel
And the hunchback of Notre Dame
Everybody is making love
Or else expecting rain
And the Good Samaritan, he's dressing
He's getting ready for the show
He's going to the carnival tonight
On Desolation Row

Now Ophelia, she's 'neath the window
For her I feel so afraid
On her twenty-second birthday
She already is an old maid
To her, death is quite romantic
She wears an iron vest
Her profession's her religion
Her sin is her lifelessness
And though her eyes are fixed upon
Noah's great rainbow
She spends her time peeking
Into Desolation Row

Einstein, disguised as Robin Hood
With his memories in a trunk
Passed this way an hour ago
With his friend, a jealous monk
He looked so immaculately frightful
As he bummed a cigarette
Then he went off sniffing drainpipes
And reciting the alphabet
You would not think to look at him
But he was famous long ago
For playing the electric violin
On Desolation Row

Dr. Filth, he keeps his world
Inside of a leather cup
But all his sexless patients
They're trying to blow it up
Now his nurse, some local loser
She's in charge of the cyanide hole
And she also keeps the cards that read
"Have mercy on his soul"
They all play on penny whistles
You can hear them blow
If you lean your head out far enough
From Desolation Row

Across the street they've nailed the curtains
They're getting ready for the feast
The Phantom of the Opera
In a perfect image of a priest
They're spoonfeeding Casanova
To get him to feel more assured
Then they'll kill him with self-confidence
After poisoning him with words
And the Phantom's shouting to skinny girls
"Get outta here if you don't know
Casanova is just being punished for going
To Desolation Row"

Now at midnight all the agents
And the superhuman crew
Come out and round up everyone
That knows more than they do
Then they bring them to the factory
Where the heart-attack machine
Is strapped across their shoulders
And then the kerosene
Is brought down from the castles
By insurance men who go
Check to see that nobody is escaping
To Desolation Row

Praise be to Nero's Neptune
The Titanic sails at dawn
And everybody's shouting
"Which side are you on?"
And Ezra Pound and T.S. Eliot
Fighting in the captain's tower
While calypso singers laugh at them
And fisherman hold flowers
Between the windows of the sea
Where lovely mermaids flow
And nobody has to think too much
About Desolation Row

Yes, I received your letter yesterday
About the time the door knob broke
When you asked how I was doing
Was that some kind of joke?
All these people that you mention
Yes, I know them, they're quite lame
I had to rearrange their faces
And give them all another name
Right now I can't read too good
Don't send me no more letters no
Now unless you mail them
From Desolation Row

Happy Happy Joy Joy..

One shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth, I know.. but I cant help but wonder why I've been feeling so gosh darn happy off late.. No particular reason, I assure you.. Job's about the same, no developments on the love-life front, no new toys or new friends.. nothing.. and not just that, things that would ruin my day ordinarily, dont seem to have any effect on me.. I'm just shrugging them off and moving right along..
I'm the proverbial fool on the hill.. and man do I feel fine..
I was riding home from work yesterday.. and it was a tough day at work.. interesting, but tough.. and i was braving 42 deg C heat and smoke and dust and rush hour traffic.. and starting to get a little irritated.. I was riding behind an auto when suddenly i found myself surrounded by a cloud of bubbles..
Two little girls with bubble wands were blowing soap bubbles out the sides of the auto.. and it was delightful.. I was giggling and humming to myself all the way back home..
In other news  I discovered a wonderful new watering hole.. good music, good food, affordable beer and a short drive away.. :)

I feel very Woosteresque.. so I'm gonna leave off with an old favorite..

The year’s at the spring,

And day’s at the morn;

Morning’s at seven;

The hill-side’s dew-pearled;

The lark’s on the wing;

The snail’s on the thorn;

God’s in His heaven—

All’s right with the world!

Angular Momentum

Black

Sheets of empty canvas
Untouched sheets of clay
Were laid spread out before me
As her body once did
All five horizons
Revolved around her soul
As the earth to the sun
Now the air I tasted and breathed
Has taken a turn

Oh and all I taught her was everything
Oh I know she gave me all that she wore
And now my bitter hands
Chafe beneath the clouds
Of what was everything
Oh the pictures have
All been washed in black
Tattooed everything
I take a walk outside
I'm surrounded by
Some kids at play
I can feel their laughter
So why do I sear
Oh, and twisted thoughts that spin
Round my head
I'm spinning
Oh, I'm spinning
How quick the sun can, drop away

And now my bitter hands
Cradle broken glass
Of what was everything
All the pictures had
All been washed in black
Tattooed everything
All the love gone bad
Turned my world to black
Tattooed all I see
All that I am
All I'll be

I know someday you'll have a beautiful life
I know you'll be a star
In somebody else's sky
But why
Why
Why can't it be
Why can't it be mine

Delicate

We might kiss when we are alone
When nobody's watching
We might take it home
We might make out when nobody's there
It's not that we're scared
It's just that it's delicate

So why do you fill my sorrow
With the words you've borrowed
From the only place you've known
And why do you sing Hallelujah
If it means nothing to you
Why do you sing with me at all?

We might live like never before
When there's nothing to give
Well how can we ask for more
We might make love in some sacred place
The look on your face is delicate

So why do you fill my sorrow
With the words you've borrowed
From the only place you've known
And why do you sing Hallelujah
If it means nothing to you
Why do you sing with me at all?

Classic Mild..

Breathe In..
Let the smoke fill you up
Feel the sweet rush of nicotine
soothe your frayed nerves
and pungent tar scrape your throat raw
like the bile you've come to know so well.

Breathe Out..
Watch the soft white vapour trace your breath
and pretend that you are special,
the last of the dragons,
with dragonfire to burn away
the impregnable fortresses of memory.

Breathe In..
Waiting as the soft orange glow
consumes another eighth of an inch
of snowy white paper
and bits of leaf, golden brown
like her hair, when it blocked out the sun.

Breathe Out..
And sigh it all away.
Yourself, the past, half remembered dreams, everything.
Till all that's left
is the next flick of the thumb
that shakes off the smothering ash.

Breathe in.

Vanity Card

He appeared normal. He spoke and behaved just like anyone else. The fact that he had no heart was very well concealed. Well, that's not entirely true. He did have one. It was just not in his possession at the moment. And this is where the story gets complicated. The woman who had the darn thing was blithely unaware of the fact. Well, that's not entirely true either. She knew that she'd left the relationship with more stuff than when she entered it, she just hadn't bothered to do a proper inventory. (Had she done so, she would have found the heart, as well as a set of balls.) Regardless, his dilemma remained the same. A woman had absconded with a vital organ and the gnawing emptiness he felt was a direct reflection of that vacancy. Well, that's not entirely true either. The gnawing thing had actually been with him since he was a child. He just liked to assign blame for the condition.

The Answer My Friend..

The whispering wind is full of sounds
of storm cloud laden darkened skies.
Of Gods of old, and thunderbolts,
and softly spoken slithering sighs.

The flavoured wind is full of smells
of earth and smoke and splendid blooms.
Of salt and spice, and paradise,
and foul, pervasive, putrid fumes.

The blinding wind is full of sights
that one must close their eyes to see.
Torn up trees and bumblebees
and strong men forced to take the knee.

The gentle wind, its sweet caress,
it stirs up more than memory.
Of a lover's breath, and certain death
and all your life will ever be.
 

Insomnia

I dreamed of you last night.
A dream of what never was
like dreams so often are.
I'd locked myself in,
sealed airtight,
to keep you from creeping in
built walls, dug moats
safe in my castle, I thought.

I dreamed of you last night
for walls cant hold back dreams.
And keeping you out was harder than
I ever thought it could be
So I breathed you in,
choking on the fumes
sickeningly sweet, putrid.
but growing fainter with every halting breath
and fading away with every passing day.

Until it was clear,
like every cloud of smoke
and bad taste in my mouth
this too shall pass

Never..

Woke up this morning..

You woke up this morning
Got yourself a gun,
Mama always said you'd be
The Chosen One. 
She said: You're one in a million
You've got to burn to shine,
But you were born under a bad sign,
With a blue moon in your eyes.

You woke up this morning
All the love has gone,
Your Papa never told you
About right and wrong. 
But you're looking good, baby,
I believe you're feeling fine,
Born under a bad sign
With a blue moon in your eyes. 

You woke up this morning
The world turned upside down,
Thing's ain't been the same
Since the Blues walked into town. 
But you're one in a million
You've got that shotgun shine.
Born under a bad sign,
With a blue moon in your eyes

When you woke up this morning,
You got yourself a gun.

Ironic..

People are strange.
Morrisson sang about it, and we all have raised our hands in exasperation at the utter irrationality and inherent contradiction in someone's behaviour at one point of time or another.
I was stumped by the vastly different standards that a certain person employed towards themselves, others and me. And the bizzare manifestation of said standards in everyday behaviour.
Till it hit me.. I'm the one who's unusual here.. 'Do unto others....' is not a universally accepted way of life for most people.
Morrisson was right..

People are strange, when you're a stranger..

A Walk on Mars..

This very day, Great Mars,
I traverse thy desolate plains.
and wander lonely as a cloud,
bereft of darkened rains.

How many weary steps
upon rusted soil o'ergone.
How far the travels
from Man's first dawn.

If sight could sing,
o what composeth the eyes,
both rejoice the splendor
whence songs arise.

Great Mars, what majestic secrets
unrevealed still,
What mysteries doth
thou shroud yonder hill?

O spark of life that
struggles to be free,
on Earth fertile cresent,
why should this a desert be?

Eclipse

All that you touch
All that you see
All that you taste
All you feel.
All that you love
All that you hate
All you distrust
All you save.
All that you give
All that you deal
All that you buy
Beg borrow or steal.
All you create
All you destroy
All that you do
All that you say.
All that you eat
And everyone you meet
All that you slight
And everyone you fight.
All that is now
All that is gone
All that's to come
And everything under the sun is in tune
But the sun is eclipsed by the moon.