Performance Anxiety

No one wants it to happen, you know. No one thinks it to be possible, until it does. Writing all that shit about how you feel or what you want to do or talking to a friend doesn’t matter.

Any normal day, or night... lets pick night... I like that time. So... any night you are in your bed, but somehow you think it’s getting colder. So you move out to the living room and lie down. All the while, you smile constantly. You think what the note will say, what will happen in the morning. Then you sit up. That sugar from the midnight snack kicks in. Boy... smiling never felt so good. You lie down again and try to sleep... you know... so that people would say that you have a smile on when you sleep. But it’s the couch and your back acts up.

The smile won’t wear. Fucking sugar. Then you go pee, come back and watch a movie on your iPod. Now your eyes hurt cuz you had to turn the brightness down to minimum (to save battery stupid! How would you like it if your movie stopped at the turning point because of low battery, huh?) which strained your eyes.

The smile stays. You start thinking, what if I was a psychotic killer? This would be a cool look J. So then you sit up and look outside the window, smile at the shadows cast.

The smile gets worseL. Now every few minutes you chuckle. Can’t go louder than that. Parents are sleeping in the bedroom. Oh yeah... one of the reasons why you left was because of the congestion on the bed. Really annoying when you can’t move about while sleeping! You think shit, you know... in the night. When somewhere... something falls, your heart beats faster. Just for some time, cuz then you realise that nothing can happen to you when some lady in the neighbourhood turns in bed and her bangles jingle. Hey... I love the Bangles! I mean what a band!! Eternal Flame might just be the most awesome romantic song ever!! :D

Anyway... then you realise how quite it is and about everything you could do... you know... watch TV, work or play on the computer, read... but of course, you don’t end up doing anything like that. Lazy fucking arse.

You don’t understand what the smile is still doing on your face. Maybe you are “feeling” happy... but you don’t “think” so, do you my little rationaliser?! So then you think some more and your rational mind tells you what to do. You have to go sleep; you have to get up in three hours.

Ah... another chuckle... I was beginning to miss those. So then you lie down. Good... that’s a start. You try masturbating, but you realise you’re dry. Guess you aren’t so happy after all, huh?

So now you really don’t know what to do. You contemplate on having a lot of coffee and staying up through the day, but decide against it. Rationally, of course. ;)

Ooh... the chuckle againJ. Louder thins time. Then you......... I don’t know what you do anymore. Maybe you could write the night’s events down. That’s an idea, right? Hone your writing skills? Nah... fuck it. Lethargy still prevails :P. You drink water. Got up to get it and everything.

Ahhh... as long as you are up... why not? You’ve got nothing else to do anyway. So you decide to do it. It wouldn’t be rational, you think. But just this once, you also think that this is as good a time as any for a bit of spontaneity... so you do it!! J Smile still there... two continuous chuckles, whoa! :P Your neck is poised... stiff I’d say. Guess its performance anxiety, eh? ;) Nothing to worry about though. The blade wasn’t so cold anyway.

The hinterland summons,

The last instrument torn

Roam the earth freely, comrade.

Shadows shall be left to mourn.

Bring in the mice.

Let the black feast begin.

The crows stand by the edge,

Shadows don’t scare them.

The white priestess ascends

Grave fervor

A scarlet toast…

To Death, my lover.

The reaper approaches,

Beckoning the era of dread.

Night descends.

The shadows have fled.

The commemorations of the day

Are far worse than the weaknesses of night.

Moon. You cloak all revelry,

You hide.

Thou hatcheth into the sweetest sunlight

Of thy morning glory.

To thy lore, we march.

Breathtaking silver, we bow.

Material Mortality (Working Title)

Another riot missed. Every city I went to, I would reach just as the final dirge began. Another city. I steel myself for another disappointment. This time she comes with me. A lucky charm perhaps.Scouring the sensitive areas, dejection starts to creep in again. Then. Gunshots are heard. Something heavy and wet falls by my side. My lucky charm has struck me gold. I take out my rapier and get to work.

Mercy to the Nightmare

He runs. The shadow of death lingers


A slight shiver
The glimpse of beauty


Mortal attempt
To talk to thee


Thou alluded me in past
Still thou allude me


Via clouds of Death*
The conversation begins


The first wisps
Sweet pain… joy


A gruesome turn
Look to my left child
The scarlet’s in the urn


Shadows beckon
Grave-l path


Restoration promise
The blind floundered


The path advances
Vengeance encountered


The blade strikes
Lustful complacency


Doomed resplendence
Thou bleed beauty


A maiden smiles
Silver slits the dark
Stolen pleasures end sublime


A howl, a cry
What childhood reverie!



I capture thee
I capture eternity


Almost crossed
The robes slither


A soul rises
The heart withers


A kindred dream
Yearning a mundane road


But the Persian sings
Listen now…
The hymn of the White Sword


I bow to your spotted perfection
I follow you … my moon


Thou art hallowed

 
*The phrase “via Death” was used by my literature teacher, Prof. June Dias, on 19th December 2009 in one of our literature lectures. Her prior permission has been taken to use it in this poem.

Sedate Reconciliation

It happened again.
The quest for reason
Futility

Really,
The chains were too tight now
Rust
Foster-child
Damn!

Constant sitting
No grass
When, if ever
Speed. Oh the speed.

Linen,
Muddled memories
Why not?
No more.

Taste it
Addiction is key
Now the door opens.

White peacocks
Poets
Wicked ice

Cheer comes
The scythe of pleasure
Cherries

A conversation
Pure passion
Paper against paper
Sweet inked kiss

The bus arrives
Love
One stop only
Melancholia

The stone never turns
Let it go
Throw

Rampant dreams
Wood angles
Music sounds
The scissor listens

The rose cries
Caffeine
Restoration
Bloom

Ramifications underway
The apple is presented
Fascist mud
The cards fall

June’s glory
Snow
Minuscule black
Bones

Selling trees
Mystery lives
Mercenary
The fig tree

Repose comes.
Pardon reprieve
The mind still recalls,
Speed. Oh the speed.

All In Vein

The hand was like a conductor’s baton. Blood flowed like notes. Only sweeter. Much much sweeter.

They slithered below. Demanding crimson. The hand reminisced. Silent capitulation

Hunger prevailed despite. Pain. Lathered and warm.

A terminal endeavour. The last genuflection. A steadily throbbing palm.

When All Chains Are Lost

To most people anything black is grave. Its represents misfortune, ill-being and eventually Death. Over time, through this superstition, everything black or even remotely dark came to be considered a bad omen. Persian cats, ravens, black clothes (ever wondered why we wear only those to funerals?) and even something as beautiful and divine as the night. Most people forget that black is derived from the mixture of all possible colours in the world, whereas white, the symbol of purity and goodness is the absence of any colour at all, a void. Every argument taken up on the lines of the absurd reasoning this superstition follows ends up with the same conclusion every single time. Black represents Death. Even if we were to consider the whole concept of a colour representing a particular thing or emotion (which again is illogical! Why exactly do you need a colour to represent your feelings, let alone your end is beyond me. If you have to express something, you say what you are feeling not what colour it is that you’re feeling!), black still wouldn’t fit the bill. Allow me to explain, red represents anger, yellow represents happiness, purple represents melancholy and so on. When a person dies, the most prevailing feeling (unless that person was Stalin) is sadness. Now if we were to follow the “colour representing feeling” theory, sadness is usually represented by blue. So essentially, Death should be represented by the colour blue, right? It’s too late to change these notions now. Most people experience limitless fear and anxiety from the colour itself. By the time they reach the part where they can get scared of what the colour represents, they have either reached a state of heightened paranoia or have sought refuge in their mind’s little cookie-and-milk land where nothing’s black, not even night.
They say life is all about conquering your fears. Then why not start with the biggest one? If people were to think about Death even for a moment, spare a few minutes to decipher why they are so immensely afraid, they might realise that it is not a frightening concept at all. Death is nothing except ceasing to exist in the same space-time continuum as ours. If they are troubled about all the things that they are going to miss after they are gone, well… they are dead anyway. What does it matter what they miss? Presuming that after Death a person ceases to see, feel, smell, taste, hear and everything else that a human body is capable of experiencing, then what is entire hubbub about? Your emotions won’t exist either, hence you won’t experience fear, sadness, longing, anxiety, angst, misery or any other feelings that we associate with Death. Sure you will deal with a lot of pain at first, but that would be the final bout of pain you’ll ever experience. If you think you’ll regret that pain was the last thing you felt, you won’t. If you are incapable of feeling anything at all after your Death, then that bout of pain would be the last thing you would ever feel because you were alive when you felt it. You wouldn’t remember anything you felt after it; indeed you wouldn’t remember anything before it as well, since your memory shall forever be erased. In any case, what use would it be, if you can’t express your emotion-filled reactions to the incidents lodged in your memory? If you were to think on this line of reasoning, that Death allows you to feel nothing at all; no pain, no sadness, no misery, no happiness, no pleasure, nothing; then isn’t Death in effect better than life? You might invite immeasurable pity from others for thinking this way. However, pity is an emotion, which (as mentioned earlier) will not exist after Death.
On the other hand, there might be a potential flaw in this theory. People. Not the ones who die, but the ones close to them. They would feel miserable when someone they love dies as they would not have that person in their lives anymore. However, if they would be a little less self-centred and not think about the repercussions that the person’s Death would have on their lives but instead think about how the dead person is finally, in the true sense of the term, free; they wouldn’t feel so ‘sad’.
The chronic aversion to Death that people suffer from can get quite frustrating to anyone who thinks like I do. In the end, you feel like all people should die, just to get the whole thing done and over with. Nevertheless, after the frustration mildly subsides and slightly more humane emotions take over, you feel that instead of killing everyone, it would be best if you were to die. Then realisation dawns; anyway you look at it, Death will always be the answer to life. The ultimate answer to the eternal question.Now, if only I could tell this to the rest of the world without being ostracized by the entire human race for being the spawn of Satan.

The Procession

Bird, cat, beast
The path lines.
Engulfed
And luna shines.

Dandelions, chrysanthemums, petunias, posies
Hack, chop, sift and clear
Its understood now
The glinting silver is near

Black and scarlet
Earth and rose
The wreath of verve
Enters ritual close

Drops of water
The underneath beckons
Tears red amalgam
The beat quickens

On head it looms
In heart it treads
Slowly... stealthily
The blade tears to shreds

The name he knows
In hood, the curse
The staff leads
Ahead... the kindred hearse


The rose bleeds.
Vehemence...
The cross turns,
Silence.

WHEN DARKNESS SUMMONS...

There’s something in the other room,
Gory details should be left alone.

All white, all the time,
No black, no gray
Mass expanse,
Spot the crime.

Love dies,
It’s imperative to know
The python was aware
He lied.

Place the lives in a line,
Call the offspring
Its supper time,
It’s still warm.


A moan’s heard,
Not too loud,
Enough now
Here’s the shroud.

The beads lay scattered
With a pale glow
Which will shine
When your tears glow.

The blaze ends
Your life doesn’t
You can go,
When darkness summons...

The Jest of the Fire-Child

You see things in the dark. Things which would never survive the blatancy the daylight proffers unto its inhabitants. The sparrow lurking deep within its nest, watching the owl tearing down the entrails of her supper. The vulture fervently hoping that some of those entrails fall on the ground below so that his breakfast is taken care of. The raven, resting her tired wings after a day of spreading despair over the ridiculously sunlit world. The dog, howling in agony which Lucifer afflicts on him with gleeful malevolence. The cat, poised gracefully behind the Light Bearer, enticing the dog to invoke his predatory instincts. The parrot, witnessing everything with noiseless, infinite fear. The robber shadowing an innocuous little girl, malice dripping from his every step, the glint of a blade only just visible under his trench coat. The nozzle of the spray only just visible above her handbag, her features marred with a mirthless smile that revealed her razor-sharp teeth. Their paths cross with that of the Luciferian retinue and the parrot’s eyes widen. The final colour in his eyes before they close was scarlet.
The hours of darkness are almost at an end now. The Moon has been a mute spectator to all the proceedings of the night. She was being watched too. By a mortal, so immensely in love with Her that every full moon night he would linger on for the entire span without moving a muscle, pining to acquire one untainted glimpse of his beloved. To witness Her in all Her splendid glory. Just once. It was not to be. The Master of Fire was prowling beneath the mortal’s window, wafting flaring clouds to thwart his sight.
The son of Light gave way to his father and the Sun rose. The mortal, whose face still exhibited his fragmentary love was overtaken by slumber just as the epicentre of all his heart’s yearnings searched for him with tear-filled eyes, all the while cursing the Devil from the unfathomable depth of Her virgin heart. All futile. She bowed down to the Sun and scarpered. The Sun laughed with cruel delight as He saw Her running away leaving a trail of tears behind. For He knew and so did She, that in His naked radiance alone could a lifeling behold the Moon in Her true majesty.