Ramblings of a reclusive drifter

 In Midland, you spoke in verses, We exchanged stories at the mezzanine, Of Tulips and Chimneys, and Fearful Symmetries. In Hauz Khas, we leaned in together, Reviving old vows while you Regaled me with tales of mystics and runes. Was it in GK? When we spent countless nights confessing Our love for the void? Sipping cola from large, listless Cups? Or was it in the mountains? Where we spent sleepless nights fretting over fits? Past myths, barriers and ruin, “That’s how it is”, you said And that’s how it has been, But you, I am beginning to suspect Are not here

 Had no choice; he courted her Unwittingly, through a lifetime of  Denial and neglect. His wife, though she be misery, Never wavered in her loyalty, Forgave his countless transgressions. Until one day, in a rare moment of lucidity, He proclaimed undying love  And contained all that  Misery

 I force myself to go Through the extreme annoyance  Called life. Each day is the same futile Attempt at living. I eat stories, music, Everything I can. Fall asleep with fatigue. Morning, the same routine. Are you drinking? They ask me.

The Legend Of The Old Hospital “The whispered story   One last glance at the chameleon dance   And into the dark across the park" Venus of the Hardsell - Mucous Membrane I)                     Himalayan small towns sleep early. Uneasy but early. In the long rainy season, the thick mountain mist envelops everything around; creating ghouls out of old deodars, and a long-familiar dread seeps among the townsfolk. Perhaps it is the moss-covered pavements and the all-pervasive smell of mould which induce misery, but even the most cheerful hillman will tell you- the rains dampen the fiercest of wills.  Hilltowns are often dotted with old colonial buildings made by mad Englishmen who tried to carve a bit of the motherland into the only places cold and damp enough to remind them of home. The rainy season in the Himalayas resembles London in March when the air turns grey. The buildings they left behind have largely survived the onslaught of time, and most of them serve some administrative p

The winterline spills embers  Across the horizon. She soaks up the colour; doe eyes reflecting  The dying sun. I cling to that moment, unwilling to accept The transition. So evanescent; like the light in her eyes, It doesn't last.

  Is Simple Yet effective, Much like his Prose. The Barrel in Your Mouth And the Big Toe On The Trigger. Then, a Coppery Aftertaste Filling you Up Completely.