New Year’s Eve / Time is a lie

Nan-Goldin.-French-Chris-at-the-Drive-in-New-Jersey-1979.-©-Nan-Goldin-courtesy-Matthew-Marks-Gallery-New-York

I hate parties
that end next year
and houses that burn
with promises and
resolutions doused
with cocktails named after
actors and saints or
sex on airplanes
I’m laughing in a corner
fighting my way through
slithering bodies / snake charmers
embraces that seem invincible
kisses that seem infinite
I’m laughing on the ledge
looking at the fireworks
If only they knew
Time is a lie
I was sent here by a friend
who’s drowning in somebody’s face now
their tongues swirling like a cyclone
that is now complete
I get up for a refill
trying to keep the chicken in
that god set free in my intestines
(Hallelujah!)
Mary pours me a double
says Jesus is away
It’s been a busy night
for gods and monsters
I know better so I walk away
If only she knew
It’s a thin line
between gods and monsters
plus i’ve done this way too many times
life conversations with the girl at the bar
the shine in her eyes, the broken star
all she wants is a girl
and a house in green park
And she promises she has a plan
this year she’s done with falling apart
if only she knew by now its too late
for a house, a conversation or a new start
Anyway, eventually, midnight crawls in
like a man that’s impossible to surprise
and the crowd screams
and the bottles pop
some skirts were torn
some fingers were locked
now I’m drunk in a crowd of vampires
and fake fin mermaids
and it’s hard to remember
which year I am in
and it’s hard to remember
if time is a li(n)e

photograph – New York by Nan Goldin

Remembering, Remembering.

IMG-20150819-WA0027 (1)  IMG-20150819-WA0007 (1)

What becomes of youth? Where does it go? I can’t stand to look at old pictures. I’m going to bury them deep in my hard disk because I can’t stand to lose them either. Such beautiful pictures. Old, and full of years. I don’t know how to remember you, I’m so terribly confused.

The last few years are such a blur, how our faces have changed. I couldn’t bring myself to accept the fact that time is linear and age it’s loyal ally. That the years had lined themselves up on your face, marking little bruises of victory on your body like a forsaken lover. But in the end with all the wrinkles and bones, I only remember the glow, pure as snow. Did I tell you you were stunning ? You reminded me of mangoes, of an old TV Set, of old comics, of home. I was always prepared for this moment, but I feel so restless now. Cold walls and bricks of mortar and all the air conditioning in the world can’t keep down my flaming heart. You know how they say, a body is just a box? I’m going to pretend you’re getting a new one. Facebook me.

” What films do I make? What eulogies should I write? What portraits should I save? Word and colours and songs are defeated by time. Time has won. Now, let me run, faster than horses of lightening, so that my life is a blur, and I catch up to everyone I’ve lost to time. Send me the spaceship newton promised. Give me back my time.”

See you on the other side, with him, and our german shepherd.

xx

A time for you.

yoko

There will be a time, when you’re not alone at 3:47 am in the night. There will be a time when you’ll kiss with open eyes.  And a time for dreams to come true, and eyes to light up when you speak. There will be a time my friend, for love and victory. A time for friends with easy hearts, and teachers with sound minds. A time to fill endless nights with the songs you wrote in the endless nights. There will be a time for dark circles to fill up with light and stretch marks to go climbing mountains. A time for a long swim in the cool arms of an unending ocean. There will be a time to create, and a time to create something truly extraordinary. There will be a time for brilliance, and then some time for exhilaration. Then there will be a time, for the time. And in that time, time will cease to exist. And then you’d open your eyes and realise, there was a time for you. And there will be, a time.


For the photograph, see Fukase’s “The art of losing love.” For the inspiration behind this piece, read The love song of J. Alfred Prufrock.

The absurdity of telephones

fukase1

“I’m always writing about feral waves and dark alleys. Never clear lakes or interstate highways. It’s not like I’ve been caught in quicksand more than I’ve found myself swimming in pools. It all started when I found out that Newton was wrong. Einstein was right. Everyone was so way off when they said, time is the absolute truth, the only thing that passes, the only linearity in a world of dimensions. No, when I was sleeping on the longest day of summer, it was still smaller than that moment when I heard those words. Humour me here for a second now. Moments, I feel are like black holes in the vast universe of time which remains unchanged as a whole, if you see the universe as a physical entity that has a start, an end, length and breadth. Now, that night I got a phone call. And you know as phone calls go in the middle of the night – no good can come out of them. So this phone call of course had a sombre tone. It could have been anything- a requiem, a heartbreak, car crashes or lightning strikes. But you get the drift. Now that moment when I heard those words, I swear on everything that is good and holy and not God, I felt the black hole of time sweeping me in my entirety and my consciousness being swallowed whole by it’s vastness. And then I felt nothing. I was nothing on my own. Now, I was a part of that moment, and soon I was growing limbs of a heartbreak and features of a car crash. My voice creaked like a funeral song and my eyes crashed like lightning. I was that moment on that day of that year of the mighty, the invisible black hole that time is. And I remember waking up next morning and having kids I didn’t want and a house that looked straight out from a comic book about the world’s end. So I swore to have another moment swallow me up and throw me out in a different world with blue beaches and wooden guitars. But I feel so young now, being older. I wonder if linearity is a lie too. In any case, I’m not using telephones anymore.”


ps: The picture is by Makahisa Fukase. For a glimpse of his stunning work, google A solitude of Ravens.

Garden on Silence

IkkoNarahara_GardenonSilence_1958-1977

And then what’s the point,

you great, grandiose piece of myth.

 What’s the point of you

shining like a diamond,

spitting like a volcano,

sweeping us across in waves of hope.

No, god needs not me,

No, nor my faith neither.

Long live my loyal gin,

musk of my mirth.

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The photograph is a work of Ikko Narrahara titled ‘garden of slience’. You can check out more of his work here.

The Five Minute Knight

                                                  tomatsu

Yes, if I’m being totally honest with myself- i’m scared of connections. There she was staring right into my eyes and there it was; a heavy lump in my throat stuck right in the highway to my heart. I would look up occasionally and it was as if I was staring into a deep, infinite pool where a glitter of interest floated up once in a while. Eventually she gave up too. Since that day, she would talk to me staring at my hair. So I grew my hair long and bought the most ridiculously priced hair wax so that they would stick to my head and flow down my eyes. We had nothing in common, I told myself. She restores monuments and I write stories. Well, if you thought about it objectively – we had a lot in common. We both took on to something hopeless and fell in love with it. We spent years repainting it, rebuilding it. Brick by brick we gave birth to a new kind of old- and it destroyed us eventually. So you see, when I looked into her eyes while ordering my coffee, I did not just see a pool. I saw us dancing in the deep end – wearing tinted sunglasses we’d bought on a flash sale. Listening to some hipster music youtube had so gratefully picked for us that afternoon. Flapping our fins to pink champagne. Talking about my next story and our plans or rather the lack of them. Then colliding in an embrace to shame the most horrific car crashes. And in that image, strangely, I remember not remembering how to swim. And then there are whirlpools and waves and bubbles and sentences that were meant to come out but got caught in that lump stuck in my throat. And so- I’m afraid of connections.  My heart calls out for a swimming lesson but words wander, like they tend to, when fear does it’s dance. And hence, I was proclaimed the master of five minute affairs and a connoisseur of solid half hour friendships. 

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Note: The above photograph is a part of a collection by Shomei Tomatsu ; one of the most influential Japanese photographers of all time. Check more of his work here.

only lovers left alive

Fix you

I survive the night
on noir films
and leaves of grass
Now i’m getting done
in the back of my car
love notes precipitate
left by acid romeos
mock my dreams
I keep the names i like
for next season
and wait for the rain
to wash away the
scents of women
lingering on my wounds
splashes of nail polish
clawed on my neck

Well, friday’s here
I should write a love song
but tonight everything
sounds like heartbreak so
I’m looking for a chemist
some xanax
some time
to fix you
fix me