The Death of History.

Those green patches he got on, aint so new.
His cap's just as dull as they are few.
It wasn't too far ago when the moon brought light.
Now it brings the darkness that eats within.

The flag they raise is a chameleon,
changing colors as and where they rage from.
The drums they beat are hollow,
The skin they beat is callous.

Could you whisper in my ear.
What it feels like to be near
How it feels to scream out loud
maybe we are just not meant to shout.

And as it happens,
For a moment, all the pain ebbs away.
Just one moment. That's all, y'see..
Remember that, for all else is just your own garbage.

The're talking in their sleep
It's keeping me awake, without a dream
The whimpers are overtaken with hushed tones
they aren't asleep, just our talking dead.

The street musicians written his tune,
so the reviews are left in ruins
but then he's tightened those chords.
just like the cocked guns and locked targets.

The memory is not what it was first,
rusted metal and a stoop for passer-birds
How many have gone underground they know not
The reason for their being lain down, they care not

Have you ever touched the night..
Have you ever watched the wind blow..
Did you ever feel the glance,
Ever been blinded by the Rainbow..

Post Script: The last verse was taken more or less from a musical piece written by the Stones that Roll. It takes me some place else. Some place nice, pretty and dream-like. I like it.

Tic-Tac-Toe.!!

I want to write for a living. Just write. No pre-decided topic or direction. Just write, like I think, like I ramble.

I want to ramble on my love, which is football, a certain rainbow and maybe the mad gypsy troupe. I want to ramble on my love for quaint drinking joints or my love for the beach. Maybe my fear of all the creatures under the water unseen by my handicapped eyes. Sometimes, I think I'd make a great cartoonist only to be dissuaded by my never-dying need to be appreciated. I'd love to be a song-writer, even if I can't carry a tune and I wish I had held my stubborn chin till I got those drum lessons instead of the darn piano. Shame, I still can't play a note and have completely forgotten to read one.

"Have you ever seen the rain..?!" - sings John Fogerty and I yearn to be a hippie backpacking across the fields waiting to get anywhere and nowhere. I think I'm a romantic, with a tendency to romanticise everything and yet I find the greatest comfort on my couch, watching a game and munching on some meat.

Ah.! A wannabe Rainbow-Hopper and yet a slave to the Concrete-Jungle, whimper I.

I have spent some amount of time wondering why I can't write anything meaningful anymore. My last 5 or so attempts have yielded nothing that even I, a soaring egoist would want to beam over. The lack of tragedy was blamed for the lack of 'penmanship' by them voices. Tragedy, after all is an artist's best friend. One very close gypsy however, reckoned it was during moments of dizzying elation that he saw flashes of brilliance in these typed words. Besides trying to be nice, he might just have a point. After careful delibration, it has been decided that it is not just profound grief or toe-tapping, hip shaking joy alone for that matter that bring out the juices but rather an extreme sense of being. Whether that is achieved by the former or latter is irrelevant but it does tend to bring alive every microcosm (Yes Suzie, I couldn't resist) of thy self. =)

Yesterday, a colleague of mine passed away as he lost control of his car and crashed into a divider. I hear he was a young boy who was to get maried in 10 days. I didn't know him. I didn't even know he existed till the news reached me, yet I felt the anguish. More so, with regards to the fact that I tend to live my life without any thought that every breath is a gift. And, as soon as that thought comes in, I block it out with something inane like the popping of a button from my shirt at the most inappropriate of places which cannot be hidden and definitely not ignored.

Keeping pace with topics that seem to flit around, I really don't understand how people can get names wrong even when the're replying to an email at work. I mean bleeding hell, it's right there on the mail-id. Morons, I tell you.! The only way to calm me down with this, is another sojourn through the many football sites on my favorites list as I travail for any scrap of information on the upcoming events, the ever-delightful transfer gossip (What? Beckenbauer to put on his boots for Liverpool to help stem the rot.?!), previews of games I will be watching and compare my player ratings with the various post-match editors. Yes, I have a non-existent social life but I love it nonetheless. Immensely.

I also realized I have zilch cooking skills, absolutely zilch. Just the other day, I looked forward to some left-over KFC, fries, coleslaw (gaaaa...aaaaaah.. drool and all included) and all I had to do was re-heat it. Just re-heat in a simple-to-use microwave. 15-20 secs, you would say.? So would I. But, I'm not sure what, was it the Champions League Final or the Brain-freeze thanks to the upcoming meal but I put it as 20 mins.(!?!) *yes, I can be that distracted* and as is obvious promptly forgot about my dinner only to notice something was amiss when mum & dad walked in from their dinner outside and a very disturbing odor of burnt meat wafted in. sigh. Let's just say, I have never seen charred meat as that before nor have I tried to ignore the burnt smell in the house to avoid them going further mental. Oh! and the game was a joy. Not that I had any preferences, especially since that lucky two-shoe robben and his once in a trillion shot. BAH!

Anyway, more to the point of this long tedious narration, the above incident has only added more strength and conviction to my belief on how I shall tackle my cooking inadequacies and at the same time help thy rainbow with the culinary bit.

Enter Child#1.

Now, what use is procreation if they are unable to repay some of that 9 month labour - some would say only the missus has to bear this, but Hey.! I'm sure we have as much to deal with it as they do. Anyway, so once they are old enough to be coherent say, we gently nudge them onto their life-long 'passion' which ironically would be cooking (!!) Can you imagine, a hard day's work and wanting to cook.? Heck no.! I want the beach and a cold chilled beer. Therefore, I plan on creating a whole gamut of lil mutts and flowers to take care of the cooking, house-keeping, groceries, chores et al. =D I must say I'm mighty proud of myself and all that's left is to get the rainbow on board. *eeps*. =)

And, to top it all, it's barely 2 months before I pack my bags for Amsterdam. Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!! and Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey!!!=D

I was going to name this "Write says Fred" but then again word play has been so wonderfully used by my fellow gypsy earlier so I shall refrain from sharing his thunder.

Damn would you believe it, but the team in front of me just ordered KFC for lunch. Effing 'ell.!! I wonder if the'll let me heat it up for them.

*snigger snigger*.

A Writer on the storm

A writer on the storm, I’m a poet out of form
Awake from a long sleep, I stand at the brink of dawn
Rigging the thoughts of an honest mind,
I convince myself to have done no crime.

The old song has hit a new note
Dressed to kill, I run out wearing my black coat
The alley of fortune has let me walk it again
Darker is the night, so is the hour, through this lane.

The fire bird came home to me, brought some glee
She kills the silence, only to save me
And now our music is louder than our feeling
Hold the smile; it’s the key to my breathing.

Beneath the fire of passion, unfolds the story,
Of a sleeping desire that holds within, a little fury
This feeling has pushed me to the helm of unknown
Now I’m gone, but my shadow waits all alone.

Thinking of the loudest laugh that made me cry,
I figure, this is a speech that’s bound to be wry
Blowing in a wind, the boat ride is not free
The dock awaits the rocky rider and the beloved sea.

Letting go the still moment, the night has finally turned to dawn
The touch and the passion have left, but they’re still not gone
A brush of skin has poked an old wound
One that seems to remind me of a long gone moon.