Thursday, November 24, 2011

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

Haiku - From spectator to participant - November 23, 2011

Your eyes have no glow.

Your hands struggle to create.

You're a spectator.

Thursday, October 20, 2011

Short Stories - The New Bhayanak Maut Album - October 20, 2011

Here's the next short story.

It's called X-O-X-O

You’re standing by the guest bedroom’s window, looking at the new security sensors that you’ve just attached to the window frames. “Done”, you say. It comes out almost like a whisper, this self-congratulatory message. You touch the glass pane, now covered with a thin glaze of morning frost and allow your gaze to travel through it and onto the gravel driveway that’s gently revealing itself thanks to the first rays of dawn. You wait for a few minutes more to watch the murky green of the night turn into a warm red. In a few hours, your guest will arrive and you need to ensure that the weekend tasting session that she’s paid for is exactly the way she’s asked for it to be.


You wipe the window frame, window ledge and glass panes carefully, pick up your tool box and walk towards the large king-seize bed that’s placed in the center of the room. You stand at the edge and pull the bed sheet off to reveal a young girl, lying prostate and absolutely naked. You feel your lips quiver ever so slightly as you gently move your fingertips across her thighs and up her belly towards her breasts. You place your large hands over them and squeeze gently. They feel harder today, more taught..


You shift your gaze to the bed-side table and reach for the injection that’s patiently been waiting to be used. It contains 150ml of human breast milk. You inject 50 ml of the milk into the girl’s left breast and bend down to take her blue nipples in your mouth. You suck on them, gently, until you feel the cold milk fill the dry cavity beneath your tongue. You roll the liquid around in your mouth and then swallow. She’s been dead for a week. Today, she tastes perfect.


You carefully inject the rest of the milk equally into each breast. Then, you wipe away your saliva from the nipple and replace the bed sheet over the body. You pick up your tool box, place the injection inside it and walk towards the bedroom door. After you open the door, you stand at the threshold and say, “You’re ready now, my dear. And, just in time. I’ll come to clean up tomorrow morning.”


You head back to your study and sit at your workstation. You open the package that you received yesterday afternoon and take a look at the contents. It’s one of the high school yearbooks that you had sent to a prospective client 4 weeks ago. The post-it note that you’d placed on the cover page is still there. You read the message that you had written on it, clear in bold, capital letters: WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE TO TASTE? MARK IT WITH ‘X’.

You open the yearbook and slowly go through each page, looking for the ‘X’. You finally come across it on the page that has a picture of the high school cheerleading squad.  You stare at it for a few seconds and then close your eyes and think about how you’re going to make this tasting session happen.

It’s the first time you’ve seen an ‘X’ that covers the entire page.


Sunday, October 2, 2011

Short Stories - The New Bhayanak Maut Album - October 2, 2011

Here's Sunneith's second short story, 'Sigh'. 

You would lay still in the cradle of her legs. Never doubting the shelter it provided – from fears you were still foreign to. ‘Maa’, you called the woman. You loved her. What you felt with your head on her thighs, you will never feel in the orifices of another. Her hair fell on your face as she told you stories. Stories which you pretended to enjoy. Stories that did not interest you. For your eyes rolled back in their sockets, and your ears hummed from the sheer pleasure of laying there on those warm thighs. 

It has been decades. The woman is long past gone, and you haven’t slept for a minute more than two hours at a time. But you have been working to make that go away. Oh yes, you have. And today, it will.

The body lies on the cold floor of the bathroom. It is one of many. You are two feet away from it. Its full legs are spread out. Eyes staring into nothingness, as if contemplating hatred. The dead can’t hate. You smile to yourself as you look at the red cloud that forms on the floor between the legs. Growing. Till it gets heavy and pregnant with consequence. But the sleeping and the strong know no tomorrow. 

You walk out into your room, towards your bed .You have waited years for this day, and now you will bathe in the joy of creation. 


Your bedroom is vast. On the left, lie stacks of sheets and cotton. On the right, 72 boxes. Each containing 200 size-12 Milliner' needles. Bundled next to the boxes are piles of gutstring. 


It is dawn. There is a heaviness in your eyelids that you have never felt before. It is done. You stand before your bed. You're quivering. Your legs shake, your lips tremble, and an almost animal-like whine escapes your mouth. Your chin feels wet. You are drooling like a dog on a pavement, breathing its last on a hot summer afternoon.

You strip naked and stand by the bed, such that your shins touch the wooden edge. You bend your knees to climb in. Your palms touch the sheet; And as they do, your elbows start to tremble, and before you know it, they buckle. Your body glides through the air as if in a dream. And as your face touches the sheet, your eyes roll back. Your ears start to hum.Your sphincter gives in. The ceiling fan creaks, but you know no mechanical poetry.

In this bed made of skin, you lie. Tonight you sleep.

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Short Stories - The New Bhayanak Maut Album - September 29, 2011

This one is called 'Peckish'


It’s a beautiful day. You’re in the City Zoo.

You find yourself sitting in the swanky new amphitheatre, watching a live show called ‘Monkey Business’. It has been an entertaining thirty minutes so far. First came the Squirrel monkeys, followed by the Spider monkeys and then the Tufted Capuchins. The Apes were on next - a pair of orangutans, four chimpanzees and a young Silverback gorilla.


You’ve found a nice spot to observe the show, close to the stage, with a couple of empty seats on either side. Just perfect.


A lot of people chuckled when a young male chimpanzee proudly displayed his erection to the crowd. You had one too. Not because he had one, but because of what he did before he got his erection.

You noticed how he patiently observed and sniffed the anus of the chimpanzee that sat next to him. Within seconds of seeing him do that, you had an enormous swelling in your pants. Like always, you touched yourself. You loved to feel the hard, throbbing muscle struggling inside your tight trousers. Today, you even pushed the zipper against yourself just to see if it heightened the sensation.


Twenty minutes later, as soon as the show ends, you approach a young lady who’s standing on the stage. The pin-on label on her crisply starched shirt says ‘Lead Trainer’. You put on your friendly face and utter the first words to come out of your mouth that day. “Hello there, young lady. Would you be so kind enough to tell me if there are any repeat shows today.”


“I’m sorry sir, but there’s just the one show every day” she says, her voice bright and genuine. “But, if you have the time and come back in an hour, then you’d be able to meet Oscar, one of the older Orangutans…the ‘meet & greet’ section is just behind the amphitheatre.” You think about it for a moment. She sees the indecision in your face and adds, “Oh! And Oscar is quite a darling. He’s gentle with guests and loves it when you pass him a treat or two.”


You nod your head, making it look like you’re lost in thought and then ask “Is there any chance I’d get to see those cute little chimps. You know, up close and personal.” For the first time in this conversation, she looks you straight in the eye and says, “I’m sorry sir, but the chimps aren’t as well trained as Oscar and the Zoo doesn’t allow them any human contact…apart from the trainers, of course….”


You know it’s your turn to speak. You nod your head again and change your tone slightly. “I understand”, you say. “Could you kindly tell me if there were any other animals, in the vicinity? …You see, I don’t really want to walk that much... any other beautiful animals that I may see, till it’s time to meet Oscar. I’d be delighted if you could suggest where I could spend the next hour.” You tilt your head to the left and wait for her response.


She looks at you with a gentle toothy smile, holds up her index finger and says (in the sweetest possible voice you think she can ever create), “Hhmmm…. Sir, if you could just wait… just for 1 minute…. I think I know what to do.” She unclips her walkie-talkie from her utility belt, turns around and walks towards the far end of the stage.


You follow her with your eyes, but unlike most other men, you don’t check out her body. Instead, you concentrate on her face and try to catch the conversation that she’s having on her walkie-talkie. She’s now about 12 feet away from you, her body turned at an angle and you can read her lips. She refers to you as ‘an elderly gentleman’. She turns to look at you as soon as she says this. You’re standing exactly the way you were a few moments ago, with your head still tilted to the left. The only difference is the warm, innocent smile that you’ve perfected over the years, perfectly planted on your weathered face. She looks away and says “Listen, can you help me make it a special visit for this sweet old man?”


You don’t catch the response on her handset but you see a smile break out on her face. She motions to you and says, “Come. Come.” You follow her onto the stage, through the stage exit, into a short passageway and then out onto a path behind the amphitheatre. There’s a handsome, middle-aged man waiting for the two of you. You exchange pleasantries. He has a friendly voice and a pleasant disposition.


“Well then, do you like elephants, sir?”

“African or Asian?” you ask.

He gently grabs your arm “ Let’s find out now, shall we?”

You love being made to feel special.


The three of you walk to the end of the path, down a short flight of stairs and into another enclosure – the elephant stable.


You stand and watch a few elephant handlers hose down a massive Asian tusker inside a fenced enclosure.

“Isn’t he a beauty?” the man asks you.

You smile and nod your head.

“What do you do here?” you ask him.

“I’ve been in charge of the breeding program for the Zoo’s pachyderms for the last 20 years …. Here now, follow me. I’m going to introduce you to the latest addition to the family – a 4-month-old male calf. He’s absolutely gorgeous.”


The elephant stables remind you of airplane hangars with oversized cubicle-like partitions. There’s a faint smell of something that makes you stop in your tracks, bang in the middle of the stables. Your nostrils flare a little bit and you realize that you’re forcing yourself to take a very deep breath.

The next moment you find your knees giving way.

Your head feels extremely light.

Your body crashes to the ground.

Waves of thoughts and memories, deep from your past, start to flood your mind’s eye.

You feel your body shudder as reality fades from a blinding white to a shuddering blackness.


When you come to, you find yourself sitting on a comfortable bench, under the shade of a tree. Both the Zoo employees are sitting by your side. The lady offers you a cup of water; you take a sip and find relief in the cold and crisp liquid. The elephant handler puts his hand on your shoulder and looks you in the eye. ‘Sorry, sir” he says. “ I had no clue that the stench of elephant dung could affect someone this way. I offer you my sincerest apologies. Do you need me to call a paramedic? Are you still feeling nauseous?”


You look around you to get your bearings. You’re sitting outside the elephant stables, on a pathway that has a few benches.


“Thank you,” you say. “I’m so sorry that I …I …I don’t know what happened.”

You’re lying.

“I think I just need some fresh air. I’m fine. Just…let me be. I’ll be fine. I’m sorry. Thank you for your concern.”


“Are you sure, sir? We can’t just leave you here…” It’s the lady. She’s crouching down now, by your side. You gently put your hand on her shoulder to get her attention. “I’m fine, my dear. I just need some fresh air.”


You take another sip of water and breathe slowly and deeply for a few minutes.

“Alright, I’m feeling much better. Thank you, you two. I think I can take care of myself now. Please, don’t let me keep you from your duties. Go on, now. Leave me be. I’ll find my way out.” It takes another 3 minutes for you to finally get the 2 of them to leave. As soon as they step out of sight, you spread your legs and feel your crotch with your fingers. It doesn’t take long for you to find the cold, wet patch. “Hello, old friend,” you say, looking down at the stickiness; “I haven’t seen you in a while.”


You get up from the seat and start to walk away, quickly. In a few minutes, you find yourself in an open area, away from the canopy of trees that cover the pathway that you’ve just crossed. There’s a lake right in front of you, and it’s filled with flamingoes. The lake is a beautiful shade of blue, mirroring the sky above it.


To the left of where you’re standing, you see a spacious gazebo with a few comfortable looking benches that you walk towards. You’re feeling terribly tired now. You find yourself an isolated seat in the shade and allow the gentle breeze to play against your face. You close your eyes and think of the flood of long-lost memories that you managed to bring back to the surface when you passed out in the elephant stable because of an orgasm.


You close your eyes and the first wave of recollections hits you – You’re face-to-face with a young Japanese man and he’s got his rifle pointed at your chest. You raise your arms above your head and tell him that you willingly surrender. He turns his rifle around and smacks the heavy butt to your head.



The next wave of memories has you marching into in the muddy quadrangle of the Japanese POW camp that you spent the next 14 months in.

Hopelessness, sickness and death surround you.

You can see it and you can smell it.

You remember your first night at the POW camp – you were beaten, whipped and electrocuted even before anybody asked you a single question.

At the end of your interrogation, you were stripped of all your clothing and unceremoniously thrown into a dark cesspool, waist-deep in human faeces and flies.


Then you remember the day that you were reborn.

It’s the only real and meaningful memory that you’ll ever have.

You had been ferociously beaten, forced to watch the beheading of a fellow prisoner and then thrown back into the cesspool; at this point you had lost count of how many times you had been thrown in. This time though, for some inexplicable reason, you were looking forward to the next visitor. The Japanese soldier who stepped in a while later fumbled with his shorts and his 1000-stitch belt. As soon as he sat down on the wooden plank, his privates perfectly positioned to fit the hole in the plank, you moved away from the corner of the cesspool pit and positioned yourself in the dark, under him, with an estimation of where his buttocks would be. Your mouth was wide open and your heart was beating faster than it ever had. This moment changed everything for you. As your mouth started to fill up, you felt free. You felt liberated. You had pushed yourself to the utmost bottom, by your own free will. You felt no shame. You felt no fear.


You see yourself standing in that cesspool, screaming out at the top of you lungs. You hear someone else screaming back at you. It sounds like a little girl.

Her high-pitched wailing draws you out of the cesspool and back to the present.


Your eyes take a few moments to adjust to the light. Your head follows the sobs and you see a little girl, dressed in a denim overall over a striped t-shirt standing just outside the gazebo. You tilt your head to the left and call out to her.

“Hey there, little princess. What’s wrong?”

She looks at you, her eyes streaming with tears. You tilt your head to the left, raise your eyebrows and beckon her to come closer.


In less than a minute, you have her sitting next to you on the bench. Her face is still red from all the sobbing.

“What’s wrong, little princess? Why the tears? Are you lost?”

She nods.

“Oh! And who has lost you? Your mommy?”

Another nod.

“Now, now… Don’t worry, no one stays lost forever. We’ll find mommy. Ok?”

She just stares at your face.

“Did you know, at one point of time, I was lost too. But I found my way back.”

She finally speaks “Did you find your mommy?”

“Why, yes. I did. I did.”



“So is it just you and your mommy at the Zoo?”

This time it’s a no.

“Alright. Is Daddy here too?”

Another no. “My brother” she says in between tiny sobs, “I came here with my brother and my mommy.”

“Alright, my dear. Now, now, stop your crying. Wipe those tears away. How will you be able to look for mommy if you’ve got tears in your eyes, huh?”

She wipes away her tears and looks at you, straight in the face.

“I’m going to call you princess, is that ok with you?”

This time, an excited nod. A definite yes.

 “So princess, tell me…

She interrupts you with a loud fart. As soon as she lets it out, she turns away from you and looks down. You take a deep breath and let it out slowly.


She looks back at you, with a slightly embarrassed expression.

“It’s just gas, you know” she says, suddenly sounding mature.

“I do. I know. Don’t worry about it. Tell me, what did you have for lunch?”

“I had a hot dog and a beaver tail.”


You lean forward now. “Is that so princess?”

She not embarrassed anymore.

“Well, now I…LOVE…hotdogs. Did you know that, princess?”

“Really?” she asks. The innocence in her voice doesn’t make you feel any pity for her at all.

“Yes. Now, tell me how old are you?”

“Seven”, she says.

“What a coincidence, that’s my lucky number!”

“Really?” she asks again.

“No, not really. But I really, really LOVE hotdogs.”

You’ve got her attention again.

“And I especially love the hotdogs made by little girls”

She looks at you with a perplexed expression and says “I didn’t make the hot dog. I ate it.”

You look at her in the eye and use your calmest and gentlest voice “A lot of young girls and boys have made hot dogs for me. More girls than boys, of course. But, little girls make the tastiest hot dogs.”

She’s looks straight at you and then away and then back at you.

 “Sadly, you’ll never be able to meet any of them and I’ll never be able to prove it to you. I guess you’ll just have to believe me.”

She’s not looking at you anymore. You know exactly what to do next.

“Come on now, let’s go search for your mommy”. You raise yourself from the bench and turn around to face the little girl.

A smile erupts on her face and she gets off the bench and stands next to you. You take her hand in yours and add, “Before that, would you mind if I got a quick bite to eat? I’m suddenly feeling very, very peckish…. Is that ok with you princess?”

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

Short Stories - The New Bhayanak Maut Album - August 30, 2011

Hello again.

Sunneith and I are writing short stories (6 each) that will be used as blueprints for lyrics to the next Bhayanak Maut album.
It's simple math : 12 short stories = 12 songs

I've written two stories.

What follows is Sunneith's first short story.
It's titled 'Eden'.



You’ve waited twenty years for this. It always is a while before the perfect specimen comes across. The hospital is particular about sex-determination data. Even the doting parents are never told. Lest they abort the baby. There is secrecy. There is paperwork. But things have always fallen in place for you. The way has always been paved for you. With a bodies cleared away, putrefying at the side.

Woman – 19

6 months pregnant

Fraternal twins

Boy and girl

“Perfect”, you say to yourself.

After you pin the report on the wall, you turn around to admire your study. A multitude of books adorn the wall on the right. The table in the center holds a glass case with your most prized possession. It is a version of the Holy Bible that no one has. Your version. Twenty years in the making. It has taken you a long time to get here. The deed must be done.

You look to the left and glazed eyes meet yours. You walk over toward the eyes. There is a smile on your face.

“It must be done. Yes. Fifteen years it has taken. I have loved you. I have nurtured you. I have watched you become what you are today, Lilith. You will make me proud. Or I will feed on you. Bathed in your blood. Wrapped in moulded leftover bread.”  

The girl lies on the bed you’ve laid out in your home. A single bulb lamp hangs over her resting body. Her skin glows. It has been a humid month. Fine beads of sweat form on her forehead and cheeks. You close your eyes and imagine the squeaking it might cause if you rubbed your palms on her belly.

Her bump is very much visible. The fact that she holds twins makes it even more so.

She is beautiful. Her hair used to be long and flowing. It would gently brush against her cheek bone; and she would pull it back behind her small, lobe-less ears. Her jaw line forms a shadow on her neck, and you wonder what secrets might be hidden in that darkness. She has no tattoos. Not this one. She is clean. And her husband was her first.

You’ve managed to shave off every bit of hair on her body. You dipped her in a tub laced with bathing salts and gentle cleaning-alcohol. It might have stung her a little. But morphine is a good friend in times of heartache and skin trauma.


She comes to. Her eyes are wide. She looks at you bent at the foot of the bed. She pulls in air to scream. She launches into a full-blown shriek. Not a single sound is made.

The Hindus use a particular kind of powder during their religious celebrations. They mark their foreheads with this red powder. They call it kum kum. It is a mix of turmeric and powdered calcium hydroxide.

With a fistful of kum kum coating the inside of your throat, you can barely breathe, let alone say the good name of the lord.


All that comes out of her are frail, harsh hisses.

“You’re beautiful. Perfect. You know, you’re very lucky to be holding twins. That too one of each.”

She didn’t know. Now she does.

“When god made Adam and Eve, he put them in the perfect place. With everything they could ask for. Much like your body.”

She thrashes. But her arms are tied to the bed. As are her legs. Parted for good reason. She is stark naked.

“I will call you, Eden.”

She now starts to cry.

“You know. Humans have always tried to defy the will and act of god. We blaspheme, only so that we do not conform to the ways of the higher power. We blaspheme to convince ourselves that we are, indeed, the sculptors of our fate. But what if it was God’s will for you to Blaspheme in the first place? Ever thought of that? What if, the serpent was the left hand of god?”

She starts to move her bare buttocks across the bed. That is when she notices that something is terribly wrong with her body.

“So I must create a symbol of god’s doing. I must re-enact the events of the garden. I must bring upon man, the wrath of the higher power. I must, alas, become god.”

Her muscle memory takes control. She tries to squeeze her bare thighs to contract her vagina. She notices the discomfort that she feels there.

“Oh don’t worry. The apple has been introduced. One of your twins has been baited. Much like the curious Eve.”

Her jaw drops. She tries to thrust through her vagina. You’re happy to know that she knows exactly what comes next.

“This must be done. You are merely a host to the mould of man. And I am merely God’s image. The serpent is my tool.”


You open the glass cage lying at your feet. You stare into those glazed eyes again. You take the left hand of God and hold it in your arms.

“Lilith. Make me proud.”

The head of the Burmese python matches the contracted radius of the human vagina.


Sunday, July 31, 2011

Short Stories - The New Bhayanak Maut Album - July 31, 2011

This is the second short story that's been written for the next Bhayanak Maut album.

It's untitled, as of now.

Feel free to comment and share.


You’ve been looking forward to this Master Art Class.

One of the world’s most renowned artists is here, in the classroom, as a guest speaker.

You like the way he walks energetically across the open space that’s in front of the class. He’s wearing a silk shirt, black and full-sleeved. His jeans are a vibrant shade of blue. His shoes are made of shiny black leather. Thick soles. No laces.

You like the way his hands continuously clasp and unclasp in front of him. The rings on his hands are hard not to notice. They’re chunky, thick Silver, with flashes of Gold and Sapphire Blue that shine like fireflies when his hands move.

You like the way he takes the effort to make eye contact with everyone in the class. His face is clean shaven. His hair is silver. His eyes are a mesmerizing shade of silvery green.

He’s a prolific painter, architect, sculptor, artist, photographer and filmmaker.

He’s a thinker, an author, an art collector and an entrepreneur.

He’s a creator. And you’ve always wanted to be just like him.

His voice is rich, soothing and demands your attention. He’s been speaking for over 30 minutes now. You’ve soaked in every single word that he’s shared with the class today.

“You cannot create something unless you’ve destroyed something else.
You all realize that, don’t you?”

You like the way he’s been questioning everyone. His tone is anything but condescending.

You look down at your notebook.

DESTROY. You write that down.

DESTRUCTION. Right under the previous word.


DE – STRUCT. Somehow, it makes sense.

You’ve made this notebook yourself.

150 perfectly cut, A5-sized sheets of Thai White Mulberry.

Hand-pressed. 120gsm. Acid-free. Spiral bound.

It’s the 34th such notebook that you’ve created.

You know this because you’ve individually numbered them.

“Be it tangible or intangible, something must be destroyed for you to create something else.”

CON-STRUCT. You smile as you write this.


CREATION. Something inside your head moves at a million miles an hour.

CREATION | DESTRUCTION. You write these words right next to each other.

“I’ve had the privilege of interacting with quite a few people who honestly believed that that there was some form of destruction involved in their creations. They were wrong.”

You look up now. He’s stopped pacing the front of the room. He’s now standing right in the centre, with one hand in his pant pocket, and the other held against his chin with the index finger placed against his lips.

He’s allowing that sentence to soak in.

His upper body moves from left to right as he scans the room for a reaction.

You notice that he’s never, even once, looked down at the floor since he started talking.

DESTRUCTION | CREATION. You re-order the words.

“You see, In order to really destroy something, you have to know it;

You have to understand it.

He pauses here and clasps his hands. You look up and stare at him, completely aware of everything that he’s saying; your mind though, is searching for some meaning in the words that you’ve just re-ordered in your notebook.

“Everything wants to be something else. Have you ever thought of that? Have you sensed that desire?

You smile. He looks straight at you, catches your smile and smiles back. He says the next sentence while looking at you straight in the eye.

“Furthermore, your act of destruction should ensure that the original form and the new form somehow still co-exist.

His gaze shifts to someone who’s sitting behind you.

“You see, every single element that is involved in this process of change has a purpose. The purpose of this process, of course, is to create tension in the minds of those who observe the change.

He pauses here.

“ In your mind though, you will feel absolute power; and the complete absence of fear.

He smiles and nods at the Head of the Art Department who is sitting on the first bench at the right-hand corner of the classroom.

The Head nods back. The guest speaker opens his arms, his palms facing the ceiling and looks at the class with one smooth movement from left to right.

“Thank you very much, class. I’m happy that I spent this Monday morning with you.

The Head gets up from the bench, and leads the class in a standing ovation. He’s a fantastic person, the Head of the Art Department. He’s knowledgeable, witty, warm and extremely patient with all his students.

He walks towards the center of the class and shakes hands with the guest speaker. The Head then asks everyone to sit. He thanks the guest speaker for taking the time to be here today.

Suddenly, you notice how the Head’s mannerisms are mirroring the guest speaker’s mannerisms. ‘Strange’ is the word that comes to your head.

The Head then turns around and walks to the large black board that runs across the length of the wall. With a piece of chalk, in neat, block letters, he writes THE LAST ASSIGNMENT on the board.

He informs the class that everyone’s final projects are due in 3 weeks.
He looks around the class and says that this is the opportunity for all students, across all departments, to showcase their best work yet, because this man (he points to the guest speaker) will be grading them.

A gasp escapes your lips. Someone in the class whistles loudly. Someone from the back of the class starts to clap. A few more people join in. Soon, there’s another standing ovation.

You stay seated in your bench. Your body is shaking.

The Head raises his hands and asks everyone to calm down.

There are thoughts in your head that you just cannot control. Like always, you let them run around, while still paying attention to what’s happening in the front of the class. The Head gestures to the guest speaker and says that it’s only fair to have him speak to the class about the last assignment of the year.

“I’m truly honoured and delighted to have been asked to grade your final assignments. It really means a lot to me – this institute being my alma mater – and I’m looking forward to spending time with each one of you during your personal assessments.

He walks to the board and with a chalk he writes DESTRUCTION | CREATION under what the Head has already written on the board. You hear a murmur of voices from behind you.

“Now, listen up. For your last assignments, across all departments, I’d like to see your interpretation of destruction and creation – It could be a moment in time or a feeling that you want to be immersed in; it could even be some sort of vision or an intense participatory environment; I want to see how you capture this relation between the two.

Your Head of Department and I are both keen on seeing how well you’re able to showcase the mastery of your skills. Grading will be tough and honest. I’m looking at every single detail – the choice of your raw materials, how much you use, how you use it, what you expose it to, why use it the way you do – everything will be questioned.
Remember, as creators you’ll have to question yourselves about every single element that you use to create your canvas.

I look forward to seeing you all in 3 weeks.

10 minutes later, the classroom is empty, except for you. You’re reliving the entire morning - Every single word and action is being re-played in your head.

You look at the blackboard. Your mind is playing with the words you see there.




You’re still looking at the black board.





And then, you see it. Well, at least fragments of it.

It’s not going to be easy, but you know that you’ll be able to pull it off.

Like always, the details will matter.

You close your eyes to complete the thought.

You open your eyes. It’s now 20 days since you began work on the last assignment and it’s almost complete.

You’re sitting naked on a chair, in your studio, and you’ve just lit a cigarette.
You’re trying to get your bowels to move.

10 minutes later, a cramp begins to form in your lower abdomen.

You get up and walk towards the dead woman who is lying on the floor. You squat over her hollowed-out stomach and position yourself so that you can smoothly deliver her 5-month-old foetus back into the womb.

A foetus is not easy to digest. Especially when it’s uncooked.

Eating the creature was not an issue. But keeping it down and passing it was difficult. Today will be the last time that you’ll have to pass one.

You finish taking a shit. It’s perfect. Just like you want it to be.

You stand up, turn around and take a look at the almost complete canvas that’s on the other side of the studio.

Your interpretation of DESTRUCTION | CREATION looks beautiful.

You take the dead woman and lift her up gently.

You carry her towards your canvas, slowly, not wanting to disturb the foetus that’s back in her womb.

You place her gently on a wooden chair that you modified with a high backrest. You pick up the nail gun that’s placed on the floor next to the chair and fire a volley of 6-inch nails into her thighs and then into her chest.

She will be still now.

You shoot a couple of nails through her mouth, into the backrest, to ensure that her head stays still.

Her foetus, now reborn and still fresh in her womb has now started to attract the flies that have invaded your studio.

You turn her chair around to join the 12 other chairs that are part of the canvas. You squat next to her knees and have a look to see if all the chairs are placed symmetrically. They are.

Each of the 13 chairs now has a woman nailed to it.

Each woman has had their once-pregnant stomach hollowed out and carefully refilled with the foetus after it has passed through your bowels.

What excites you the most is the sound and movement of the thousands of flies in your studio. They add life to your canvas.

You take your time and walk around each of the 13 chairs. All of the women, except for the one seated in the middle, have gorgeous black hair. The one in the middle is different. She’s the only one who turns you on. Her flaming red hair along with her full-body tattoos and body piercings make her the perfect centerpiece for your canvas.

You grab the long table that you finished building yesterday and drag it into place in front of the 13 chairs. You’ve already made markings on the floor to know exactly where you should place the table’s legs.

You close your eyes once again. You remember the last conversation you had with the Head in his office after the Master Art Class when you were introduced to the guest speaker. He smiled and asked you what your major was. ‘Visual Arts’ was your reply. He said he looked forward to spending time with you at your assessment.

You open your eyes, stand in front of your canvas and take a deep breath.

'Create | Destroy | Create: The Last Usurper' is now complete.

You know you’re getting an ‘A’ in this assignment.

Friday, July 22, 2011

Short Stories - The New Bhayanak Maut Album - July 22, 2011

Sunneith and I are writing 6 short stories each.

These stories will be used as blueprints for the lyrics to the next Bhayanak Maut album.

This is the first short story that I've written. There's no name to it as yet.



You’re having a flashback.

You’re 10 years old.

It’s a sunny afternoon and you’re behind the village shaman’s house.

You look around you and see your father.

His face is a mixture of uncertainty and pride.

Your elder brother is standing next to your father.

His best friends are standing very close to him.

You recognize that look on your brother’s face – You’ve seen it whenever one of his friends puts his hands inside your brother’s loosely-knotted pants.


The shaman is now standing in front of you. There’s a breeze blowing and his white robes are stuck close to his body. So close, that you see the shape of his paunch and the shape of his skinny legs too.

Your gaze shifts to the young goat that the Shaman is holding by the ears. He turns the goat towards the hut and secures a noose around its neck.

He squats down next to you, takes your hand and gently places it on the goat’s back. ‘There, there, there’s nothing to be afraid of’.

His hand then guides yours to the goat’s fluffy tail. ‘You see this?’, he asks as he lifts the tail and points to the pinkish hole from where goats let out their brown berries every day.

You always wondered why nobody ate those berries. Well, at least till you ate one yourself.

‘Now, you’re going to prove to all of us that YOU (he said this is a sing-song way) are a real man’.

There’s an unusual feeling like a knot deep behind your belly button. It’s the first time you’ve felt anything like it. You swallow your spit, take in a sharp breath and clench your buttocks.

 ‘How?’ you ask him, looking straight into his eyes.

The shaman puts two of his fingers into his mouth, sucks on them for an uncomfortably long period of time, takes them out carefully and then shows them to you. His eyes are suddenly glassy, like the marbles you play with.


One of his eyebrows raises itself, slowly. You don’t know how that happened, but it brings a smile to your face. The Shaman smiles too, but for a completely different reason.

You then follow his two, wet fingers as they approach the goat’s backside.

You hear him call out to someone; in a flash two pairs of weathered hands, are holding the goat’s hind legs down.

For a few seconds, you notice the animal struggling to look around, but your attention soon returns to the two fingers as they are forced into the hole under the goat’s tail.


Your head explodes with the bleating of the goat. That knot behind your belly button suddenly starts to drop lower into your body. There’s a funny sensation between your legs.  You don’t know it, but your father is now standing behind you, his hands around your mid-riff, untying your pyjamas. He drops them to the ground, raises you by holding you from your armpits and kicks away your pyjamas with his legs.

You’re forced to look down at the little pipe-like protrusion between your legs as the Shaman takes it into his mouth and starts to suck on it. It’s an unusual feeling at first. A warm, tingling sensation starts to build up between your legs. It’s mirrored by a ticklish sensation on the outside of your legs as the Shaman’s beard rubs against your thighs.


 Your father’s hands are still holding you by the armpits, but you have no idea where your arms are. You look down once the sucking stops and what you see excites you tremendously. Your small pipe is now very, very long. The Shaman looks at your father and smiles. He brings the goat’s backside closer to your groin and raises the tail once more.

‘Today, show us that you’re a man’ he says in your ear.


You don’t know it, but you’re already bucking; something inside you wants you to put your pipe inside that goat. You slide in nice and easy. The hair that surrounds the goat’s pink hole is soft and ticklish. You don’t know it yet, but this is a feeling that you will remember for the rest of your life.


Your head is now in a warm place. You don’t know what you’re doing but you know exactly what you’re supposed to do. In the distance, in another world maybe, you hear shouts of encouragement from your brother. The haze in your head starts to clear and you’re brought back to the back of the hut when you feel something hard and wet creep between your buttock cheeks. It’s the shaman’s fingers.

You don’t know what they’re doing there, but you feel them probe an area that you touch only when you have to wash yourself after taking a shit. The only other people to have touched that area before were your father and brother. Your father taught you how to clean up after you did your ‘kaka’ every morning. Your brother told you that it was he could touch you there whenever he wanted to. And you allowed him to do that; you liked it.


As soon as the Shaman’s fingers enter you noiselessly, you find yourself bucking even harder. The goat’s bleats are now like a beat that you’re following.  Your head escapes once more – this time into a brighter, warmer place. There’s an unusual fuzzy feeling that’s starting to build up in your groin.  You don’t know it, but you’re about to experience an orgasm for the very first time. A dry one though. Your testicles won’t produce any seed till you turn 12.

The first orgasm you ever have is a violent one. Your body contorts and writhes like you’re having a fit. Your father pulls you out of the goat and swings you away from the hut’s shadow and into the sunlight. His strong hands hold you up so that your kicking feet don’t touch the ground. The other men from the village cheer loudly. You don’t hear it; your ears are buzzing with the sound of a million flies.


Your breathing is shallow and quick. Now, you smell your brother’s breath and slowly open your eyes. The bright sun only allows you to see a silhouette of people at first. There are loud voices asking your father to bring you back to the goat. The Shaman is now standing next to the goat with a large knife. Your father places you close to the Shaman, who gently places his hand behind your neck. He comes close to your ear and whispers, ‘A man, you are now’.


He moves away from you and hacks the goat’s neck with one strong swing of the knife. You see blood spray violently against the hut’s wall. It’s the first time you notice dry spray patterns all over the hut’s wall, now being soaked back into existence by the fresher blood.


The Shaman now holds the goat’s midriff and cuts away at the skin (parts of the skin are still violently shaking) to reveal the back-bone. With the skill of an expert, he rips out the last bone with the tip of the knife, holds it up and shouts out, ‘A man! He is a man!’


Now, back to the present.


You’re in the back of your truck.

A eunuch has your penis in his mouth. It’s well past mid-night but the moon is full and bright. You pull yourself out of the eunuch’s mouth and turn him over. Two fingers, first in your mouth and then in the eunuchs tight hole.

Like always.

You’re hard as a rock now.


You spend a few seconds squeezing the eunuch’s firm buttocks with your free hand.  Then you use the tips of your fingers to feel for scars.

You don’t find any.


To your delight, the eunuch is blessed with a thick matting of hair between his legs and his buttocks.

You tell him that you like that.

You pull your fingers out and get ready to mount him.

He’s now on all fours, and has no clue about what you’re going to do to him.


As you enter the eunuch, he moans his surprise at the size of your erection.

You wrap your hands around his neck and start to thrust yourself.


You experimented with your sexual behaviour during the second decade of your life. Dogs, Sheep, Goats, Cow, the odd Cat and Horse too– you mounted them all.


They always brought you joy.

Women never did.

They talked back.

They always talked back and told you that you were too big, or too rough or too unusual.

But, animals were different. You never had to deal with their feelings after you were done with them.


When your father passed away, your brother forced you to join him on the road as a truck driver. You were only 19.

What did you miss the most about being in the village?

The animals. You yearned for their touch.

On the road, you allowed yourself to be seduced by other truck drivers on a few occasions, but you never enjoyed it.

You had stopped feeling like a man.


Then, one night, you slept with a eunuch.

He said that if you were a real man, then you’d have to prove it to him.

You did.

Since that episode, you’ve only slept with eunuchs.

And, tonight, once again, you’ll prove that you’re a man.


Like always, you enticed this eunuch into joining you in the cargo hold of the truck by offering him a gracious sum of money at the end.

You showed him the currency note and said he could have it if he did exactly what you told him to do.


Your hands are now wrapped tightly around the eunuch’s neck.

As you thrust harder into him, you grunt out that you want to hear the bleating sounds of a goat while you’re inside him.

He tries to bleat, but he can’t.

You start to thrust harder and your grip around his neck gets tighter.


He pulls at your fingers; you let go of his throat and hold him by the shoulders.  He starts to bleat.  

‘Again!’ you order him.

He bleats again.

‘Don’t stop!’ you shout at him.

The bleating continues.

You are now in a warm place.

There’s a knot behind your belly button that’s dropping towards your crotch. That familiar fuzzy feeling that tells you that you’re about to ejaculate soon has started to build up in your groin.

You can hear your brother and the other elders of the village cheering you on. You start to buck like a maniac.

The eunuch continues to bleat.

He’s never done anything like this before.


Your grunts have now turned into deep moans.

Your hold on the eunuch’s shoulders becomes stronger.

As soon as you start to ejaculate, your body becomes tense.

If you could, you would have ripped out the flesh from this eunuch’s shoulders.


The eunuch hears you take in several sharp breaths of air as you thrust a final few times.

You finally stop moving; but you’re still hard, inside him.

There are a million flies buzzing in your ears.




You see shiny beads of sweat on the eunuch’s back.

One bead is slowly travelling down between his buttocks, towards your penis.


You remove your penis, still erect.

You hold him down in this current position with one hand and use the other one to squeeze his groin and the insides of his thighs.

Then, like a bad habit, your hand moves to a secret crevice on the edge of the wall of the cargo hold.


The eunuch lets go of a sigh.

He looks back at you and the last thing that he sees in his miserable life is a knife coming down on his neck.


It’s taken you a while to perfect that move, and you’re quite good at it now.

One powerful and complete swipe of the arm into the back of the neck with a sharp knife, and death is quick and silent.


They bleed a bit, most eunuchs, but most of the blood seeps into the wooden floors of the cargo hold, only to drip away onto the road.


You use the knife to expose the back-bone and rip out the last bone, the tail-bone.

You leave the eunuch’s body in the cargo hold. You usually wait to cross a bridge or a river to dispose the body.


You wear your robes and head back to the front of the truck.

Once you’ve climbed in through the driver’s door, you move to the back seat and pull out the tin jar that you’ve hidden under it.

You place the fresh tail-bone in your mouth and suck away the blood.

You pry the box’s cover open with your fingernails and look at the contents of the tin box.


There they are. All the proof you’ll need to know that you’re a man.

You spit the freshest tail-bone into the tin and close the lid.

You know you’ll sleep well tonight.









Tuesday, July 19, 2011

Destruction - July 19, 2011

It's so easy for humans to believe that they've actually destroyed something. 

You believe that in order to really destroy something, you have to know it; you have to understand it.
You have to make the act of destruction graceful enough so that the original form and the new form somehow still co-exist.
It's like a change of bodies.

The purpose of this, of course, is to create tension in the mind's of those who observe this change.
And, in your mind, you feel absolute power.

Thursday, July 14, 2011

Haiku - Writing for the new Bhayanak Maut album - July 14, 2011

I'm writing for the new Bhayanak Maut album. 

I'm terribly excited.

Maybe because it's about subjects that people avoid talking about.

A Haiku to tell you how I feel:


Humans are cruel.

You've never seen them this way?

Do hear the album.



Haiku - Fuck Off, Cough - July 14, 2011

Cough, Cough, Ack! Sniff, Cough.

Thoo, Cough, Cough, Ack! Sniff, Spit, Gah!

I hate this weather.

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

Haiku - This city, so shitty - July 13, 2011

Me, myself and I

All good with the three of you?

Let this city rot.


Sunday, July 10, 2011

Haiku - Cry, Baby, Cry - July 11, 2011

You've built your ocean.

With tears of salty sorrows.

I'll stay at the shore.


In a non-Haiku form, it reads so:

You're building your ocean, tear by tear.

I'll stand at the shore and watch the waves of cold, salty sorrows.

Probably, I'll wave back.

Saturday, July 9, 2011

Haiku - More of The Beatles at 3:00 am - July 10, 2011

Have you heard this song?

How does one write like this, eh?

A day in the life.

The Beatles at 3:00 am - A Haiku - July 10, 2011

I wish for acid.

Strawberry fields forever.

And a time machine.

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

I wish we were all strangers again. A Haiku - July 6, 2011

Wish we were strangers.

Cannot see us together.

I will kill my bird.



Tuesday, July 5, 2011

I wrote a piece for a magazine. They might never print it. - July 5, 2011

<Column name> - July 2, 2011

To pee, or not to pee? That was the question. 

I peed.

Yes, I urinated. On two tomcats, who for some reason, had decided to make my balcony their battleground on this humid, depressing, sticky monsoon night. 

You see, I had just sat down to write my first piece for <magazine name>  - AND I WAS READY.


The timing was perfect – It was way past midnight  between a Saturday and a Sunday - i.e. the best time to write, and talk, and have a quickie, and read a book, and basically do anything at all.


I was wearing my late-night writer’s gear – 
(1) Loose cotton boxer shorts adorned with 4 skulls, 6 marshmallows, 3 naked women, 1 goat, 3 cockroaches (I should wash these shorts more often), and the Golden Gate Bridge. 
(2) An unwashed t-shirt that has a picture of Yoda getting butt-fucked by the Emperor. An oddly-shaped speech bubble near Yoda’s mouth has the following text – Strong is the force in this one. 
(3) A strawberry-flavoured durex condom, firmly pulled over my head. 
(4) A pair of white, faux-fur, bunny slippers (I.LOVE.THESE.SLIPPERS) and finally, 
(5) A pair multi-coloured, tie-and-dye, knee-length, dead-head socks.




I even had a cup of hot coffee at arm’s length on my desk.


Oh, allow me to digress and indulge you with some random information – I had not made myself a cup of filter coffee (yes, I’m a South Indian and I MUST have 89 cups of filter coffee every day when I go home) because I can’t.

Instead, I had opened up a sachet of pre-mixed Nescafe Cappuccino that I had quickly and easily whipped into perfection in my favourite Gold-coloured, dick shaped, ‘Gold Member’ coffee cup. Let’s digress a little further – Have you seen that movie? I think it’s stellar. I want to spend an entire day with Mike Myers, discussing accents and the abomination that is Wayne’s World 2. 

It was at this juncture, after I had walked the 12 steps from the kitchen to my study, placed the dick-shaped coffee cup on the hand-cut cork coaster on my desk, sat my rather large, yet curvaceous behind on my new super-soft, air-cushioned, steel grey office chair, that these two, rather rude creatures decided to strategically plant themselves in the balcony, on the other side of the window that lies behind my work desk. (it’s simple really: my desk à window  à  balcony).


I heard a rather strange sound (semi-gargle, semi-choke, semi-magic bullet) from the other side of the window at first, and assumed that my neighbour, Mrs. Lobo was on her late night fart spree (Yes, Mrs. Lobo’s and my balcony are quite close, very close, in fact, they’re very, very, very close to each other).

I knew I was wrong when that strange sound morphed into a conversation between two Chinese people with a very strange accent. It went somewhat like this:


Chinese #1 – Mao…


Chinese #2 – Mao…


Chinese #1 – Maaooo…


Chinese #2 – Mao…


Chinese #1 – Maaaoooo…


Here’s a little secret – I cannot write a single word in the presence of a cat – especially if the cat is in a 3 meter radius. I don’t know the psychological connection but my palms begin to sweat, I begin to stand on one leg and I see Santa Clause sitting on a western commode reading a 1995 issue of Debonair (weird, cause their best issue was April 1997) but only this time, Santa couldn’t open the magazine cause all the pages were stuck to each other. 


I had to get rid of those pesky bastards.


If 7 years of touring with a band had taught me anything, it was about how to control your bladder. I can willfully hold my pee (this, of course, takes years of practice) till I find a decent enough spot to go; I can also willfully release my pee (this too takes years of practice) in case I’m not going to get an opportunity to go, like on a long road trip.


Ah! Here comes my good friend, digression – Have you ever had to pee in a plastic bottle because the only bathroom in the near vicinity (your tiny 1BHK home, in most cases) was occupied by a friend / girlfriend / eunuch / neighbour / god? Me neither.


I was at my favourite watering hole (LOL) over the weekend and I was shocked to see so many demons from the netherworld cavorting with men.  Don’t get me wrong; these rakshasas were good at what they did– they had successfully got sober men to take them out for a drink. Most of them had the face of a South Indian actor and proudly exposed 3 inches of fungus-ridden cleavage. I wanted to drink a bottle of hand sanitizer as soon as one of them brushed past me. How does this relate to me urinating on a cat? It doesn’t. That’s what digression is all about.


Coming back to the cats – To ensure that I wrote something print-worthy I had to get them out of that 3 meter radius. The only thing I could rely on was my trustworthy bladder. So up I went, behind my desk, onto the window ledge and unbuttoned my boxers. The Chinese cats looked up, saw me hang out with my wang out, and cocked their heads slightly to the left. One of them even raised a paw and swatted at me. I unleashed the wrath of my urethra on him.


Now, I’m back at my desk, without any cats to bother me and I’m ready to let it rip. Here goes nothing.


I’m going to be writing this piece for <magazine name> from now on. I’ll share stories from real-life experiences, I’ll provide insider information from the Brihanmumbai Municipal Corporation, I’ll give advice to pedophiles and other animals, I’ll introduce you to the world of retarded songwriting, I’ll give you tips on how to make the bouncers at a high-class venue your best friends, I’ll tell you the truth about what really happens backstage at a metal concert, I’ll show you how to wear an incontinence diaper and I’ll even give you reviews of porn movies. Ok?


For now, I will leave you with a Haiku – You see, if I leave you with a little child, that would be punishable in a court of law.


It’s time. I must go.
Do not believe anything.
My beard is real, man.








Wednesday, June 29, 2011

A Haiku - Enjoy The Silence - June 30, 2011

Trying to hard now,

Would it be better to say,

Nothing at all now?

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 


The Truth - 

I've not been able to write for a while now.

It's bothering me; It shouldn't.

Instead, I should just enjoy the silence.

I know I miss it dearly at times.



The Truth - 

I tried to write , last night, while I sat in an auto rickshaw, on my way back home from work.

Before I could transport myself into the imaginary arms of a fantasy, the stench of a decaying body filled the air.

I knew that smell - old friend - dead buffalo.

After that, all I could do was make mooing sounds till i got home.


The Truth - 

I'm writing this after spending the last 10 minutes making mooing sounds.

Sleep, please come to my rescue.





Friday, June 17, 2011

Sir, this is you - June 17, 2001

Nandan Joshi, my colleague and junior at work, sketched me. 


Sunday, June 5, 2011

For the one with the lulz

Ever miss someone so bad that your stomach knots up, and you have to curl up to make it go away?
Yeah, sure. Me neither.

Wednesday, May 25, 2011

Taking a breather - May 25, 2011

You've been sitting on the couch for about 20 minutes.

Your sweat has formed a thick, wet layer between the rexin and your skin.

You don't care.

It's dark. You like it that way.


The light switch is placed right behind the couch.

Before you had switched off the light, you had looked around the room. Very slowly.

It felt like you were saying goodbye to all the things that you own.

As soon as it was dark, you seated yourself and felt very happy.

At first, like always, you were filled with excitement.

This is probably the only time when you felt comfortable about the dark.


After a few seconds, the shapes start to form.

Recognizable shapes. 

You block out the sounds.

And concentrate on controlling the shapes instead.

At that moment, you see how black mixes so easily with darkness.

Everything starts to move like it had a pulse.

It's a very comforting rhythm.


You pay attention to your breathing.

And wonder if you could pause life at this moment.




Monday, May 23, 2011

An Old Friend - May 24, 2011

You haven't seen that face in years.

8 years, to be exact.

This detail is important. 

Why? Because it feels right.


It was a meaningless friendship.

More of an attraction.

Towards the face.

Not the person.


You make small talk now.

An old friend, humour, makes an appearance.

So does desire.

Just like they did, 8 years ago.


You never wanted the other person as a conquest.

You've always wanted them to want you instead.

And once they did that, they became worthless.


And you?

You became the rejector.


Friday, May 6, 2011

Eye tea edge

You pathetic fuck. If I were you, which I am, I'd slap you across the face with my boot. But your thoughts are your penance.

Haha to you, you stupid, stupid man.

Wednesday, May 4, 2011


I was sitting on the ledge smoking my cigarette, and for what seemed like the first time in years, I looked up towards the sky.

I felt old.

Sunday, May 1, 2011

| /

Every morning, I wake up to the sound of the flapping poster at the foot of my bed. I flatten the poster out till it sticks again, and go back to sleep.

I wish that poster was us.

Friday, April 15, 2011


"Why doesn't he want to talk to me?", asked the old man.

"He's been stressed off-late. Maybe that's why. Also, things haven't been very cool with the two of you. But mostly, the fact that he's stressed.", said the young girl.

"But he can talk to me.", said the old man.

Ten years ago.

"Why doesn't he want to talk to me?", asked the kid.

"He's been stressed off-late. Maybe that's why. Also, things haven't been very cool with the two of you. But mostly, the fact that he's stressed.", said the Mother.

"Okay", said the kid.

Thursday, April 14, 2011

Blue Sketches - April 14, 2011

2 more sketches - Pencil on paper[[posterous-content:pid___0]]

A Choice - April 14, 2011

Being Inspired


Working Hard


What are you currently spending your time on?

You're Limited - April 14, 2011

You try to look good for others.

You try.





Monday, April 11, 2011


There's something about album closers. Just when you think that the band's album has offered its best, in comes the last song and pulls the carpet from under your feet.

Off the top of my head, here are a few:

Periphery - Periphery - Racecar

Gutter Twins - Saturnalia - Front Street

Metallica - the black album - The Struggle Within

Kings of Leon - Only by the night- Cold Desert

Aborted - Strychnine 213 - The Obfuscate

Scar Symmetry - Holographic universe - Ghost Prototype 2

Karnivool - Sound Awake- Change

Machine Head - The Blackening- A farewell to arms

Meshuggah - Obzen- Dancers to a Discordant system

Pearl jam - Vs. - Indifference

Dead Letter Circus - This is the warning - This is the warning

Alice in Chains - Dirt - Would?

Pantera - Vulgar Display of Power - Hollow

Friday, April 1, 2011

Blue Sketches - April 1, 2011

2 sketches made earlier this week.




It has begun - April 1, 2011

Sunneith and Namaah are here:

I love it.

Thursday, March 31, 2011

0 | 1

When I was younger, my parents conditioned into me, what was their idea of a sense of self. I think every one gets that. Don't get me wrong. My childhood was as happy/fucked up as yours. I was given everything that a child deserves.

I said, 'what a child deserves'. Not 'what a child understands'.

That manifested itself into something very obscure, unclear, and almost outworldly.

Even today, when it's dark, I am unable to close my eyes and picture what I look like.

Or when I'm standing in front of the mirror, and when I stare straight into his eyes, I'm looking at the unfamiliar. It is almost challenging.

It's like that man says, "I'm you. What are you going to do about it?"

Tuesday, March 29, 2011


I haven't done this in a while. A 15 minute job on Mspaint. Ignore the pixels.

Monday, March 28, 2011


Most of us have always been fascinated about certain songs, and parts of songs. About how they're about you, or maybe explain parts of you. I am a huge fan of The Haunted. They have a song called The Flood, which is part of
The Dead eye. This is how the line goes:

"In the darkest corner of my mind I see a boy with a crooked smile.
With a crown made of tinsel and glassbeads on a wire, singing a song out of time.
Now if you believe I'll bleed for you.
And if I could bleed, then so could you.
Close your eyes and pretend it'll go away.
But you know that you've got nothing to lose."

Thursday, March 24, 2011

Unnervingly Perverted At The Altar - March 24, 2011

I have a strong hatred for organized religion.

I always will.


I'm currently working on a concept album with a close friend.

This is the name of one of the songs.

I painted this as soon as I finished writing the lyrics this afternoon.



Shame, sandwiched between Love and Lust - March 24, 2011

Acrylic on Canvas

And... what do you feel like, most of the day?





I am dead inside

Your letters - my epitaph

Ones you never sent.

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

What lies between us? March 23, 2011

Acrylic on Canvas.

Put a name to it.

Otherwise, I won't be able to see it.



Emerge, Hatred, Emerge - March 22, 2011

Acrylic on Canvas.

I can't hold my hatred back.

I've tried.

But it feels wrong.



{ }

Yeah. It's gone. I'm pretty sure.

You know that space between "I'm so fucking plastered." and "Fuck that, I hated her anyway. Give me another." ? That. There's no choice or reasoning there, yes? No 'sir. See what I did there? No you don't. YOU do.

And you never realize when or how you got there. Like a walk with a stranger from a crowded street to a dark alley.

Some things are still lurking around. But so does the stink of shit.

Fucked if it's gone.

And fuck you.

Saturday, March 19, 2011


What makes me happy.

That two second freeze before a smile
The first drag
White blankets
The first drag after
Cold velvet
Staccato goodbyes
Post-gig bodyache
Post-yeah bodyache
Torn shoes
That two-second silence after the song ends, and before the crowd erupts

That space where the back ceases to be the back, and the waist is just a promise

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

Close your eyes - March 16, 2011

When was the last time you just allowed yourself to float away?


Just let go.

See, hear, smell, touch and feel everything.

Why fear the unknown?

You are already in it, aren't you?

Monday, March 14, 2011

You're Mine - March 15th, 2011


I absolutely love what I see in this image.

Found it on


A thought:

Whatever mask you wear,

I will always find you.


A Haiku:

I see you, always.

Even when behind the mask.

I know the real you.

For Sunneith, Niyati, Abhijit and Nivedita - March 15th, 2011

Thank you for writing to me.

You made me very very happy.

Haiku - 15th March 2011

So what will it take?

A single word might do it.

Don't die wondering.

Thursday, March 10, 2011

I Feel Dead - March 10, 2011

You're looking for something dead.

You find it.

Now you feel it. Hold it with your hands.

Press it. Hard.

It's cold. That doesn't matter to you.

You're fingers are looking for goosebumps on the skin. 

Raised. Like tiny boils.

Waiting to be pinched.

Waiting to be stretched.

You rub it in a circular motion with your thumbs.

It's soft. And tough. At the same time.

You take a deep breath.

And think of how this would feel if it were alive.

You can't, can you?



Saturday, March 5, 2011

For Sunneith - March 6, 2011

Sunneith and I shared a few thoughts on 'Happy' people yesterday.

I think he'll love this poem by Shel Silverstein:



Have you been to The Land of Happy,

Where everyone's happy all day,

Where they joke and they sing

Of the happiest things,

And everyone's jolly and gay?

There's no one unhappy in Happy,

There's laughter and smiles galore.

I have been to The Land of Happy--

What a bore!



Friday, March 4, 2011

Haiku attempt

What if I tell you.

That I don't want to ruin us.

Would you stop me, or-