Angry Tree

There was no fall for the leaves that day,
sunning their way, the prophets of end and a half,
the angry tree bellowed and burned right to the ground.
His was the sun, his were the waters below,
yet he wore no tears, might they moisten
his arson dream
Mostly muttering and sometimes whispering with intent
the wrinkled priest followed suit;
burning his altar to the ground and then his dream of god,
his jesus slowly falling from the worm-eaten crucifix.
Looking down from way above the bluest skies
and the darkest cloud, there he was,
my god with sunken, reddened eyes, sloshed
on one prayer too many.
My eyes were mirror to the all the apples on fresh
dew,
which were once in his eyes like I was in my father's. Perhaps.
Wide awake with his flaming lips, he spoke to my eyes,
'smother some mothers, steal all the clocks and watches you can,
sell all your dreams until they reek of the same, till they smell
like the decade old bible your hands clasp'
And all the while there was a wooden stairway,
many falling on their way to heaven to
descending upon this land as a milkshake
of a cupid, a jesus and silence.
White clouds came pouring down,
grated like cheese upon earthy bread, flowers all
deranged in fragrance.
The wind came down, caressing the old man
with iron claws,
He was finally going to make the grave. The one
he drew on asymmetrical toilet paper as a child, with
crayons and blood,
he had his way; persuading the molehills to adorn
cloaks of snow-tipped mountains, their beaks all
piercing the cotton sky, his pen with him sat meek.
And there was day!
The wooden jesus shriveled into a smile and forgave
all in a day's work while the shredded clouds
fell upon these pages praying for endless neon night.
Bringing the moon to the sun, burning to the ground
cotton-fields of the boldest hue and cry,
the angry tree churned embryos in his dreams
into a fine thin thread of silk;
dubbed silence.
In repose, looking as the angry tree narrated his
familiar story of being a worm-eaten wooden jesus in a past-life,
the haggard, hungry silence spoke;
of a time when he was never born, never needed,
just like eye do.

harami c******* waale/dear diary

recently the c******* people announced a 'flash writing competition' or something of the sort offering unimaginable quantities of wealth as prize for a 500 word story. it was a tie up with some l***journal place and required you to register before you entered the competition. in a fit of naivete, i did. also, the topic, as presented by the c******* people, was journal (read corporate sell out). the whole affair was touted as a special sort of thing because they had extended the deadline by a day (because of the overwhelming response, i'm sure), giving the whole thing a garb of destiny. so after i was done with the 'formalities', i pressed the next button and VOILA! 'the page cannot be displayed', which was followed by 'the page cannot be displayed', 'the page cannot be displayed' and 'the page cannot be displayed'. also, the slimes censured a line of encouragement (cleverly diguised as a marriage proposal) for a fellow writer. so BAH! in fact, double BAH! anyways here's the story.


Dear diary,

I fucking hate you.

Dear diary,

What’s with you?

Will you please stop stalking me!?!

Dear diary,

You’re a drug. You’re a bad fucking habit. You do nothing for me. You’re tearing me down, one fucking blank line at a time.

Dear diary,

You’re killing me. I don’t need to need you. I don’t need to be different. This is catharsis. Nothing more. I’m using you. I’m banging you like a cheap college slut. This relationship means nothing more. Now turn the fuck over.

Dear diary,

In a perfect world, we could have been together. In a perfect world, we could have been possible. In a perfect world they would have heard us, loved us, revered us. Well guess what bitch, the world isn’t perfect.

Dear diary,

It’s just you and me. No one else. No one else. No one fucking else.

Dear diary,

I can’t pimp you. I mean, I could. I’d write about engineering colleges, middle class wet dreams and happy endings. But that wouldn’t be real. That would be like everything else.

Dear diary,

Was Jack Kerouac fucking D******** Bank Vice President, was he, huh, huh? Was Brett Easton Ellis an IFS officer? Do I write, do I eat, do I write, do I eat, do I write, do I eat? Middle path, everyone’s talking about some fucking middle path, tell me, look me in the eye and tell me, where is this fucking middle path?

Dear diary,

What am I supposed to do? Tell me. Retards, the fucking bottom of my class makes more than I do, there’s apology in my mother’s voice when she tells people what I do, everyone sits with me and gives me advice (if you met IIT scholar, MBA, Management Trainee in fucking G****** S****, will you give him advice, no, you save advice for those you pity, you save advice for me), the software engineer next door went to London, what did I do? Is being talented a sin, is wanting to write a sin, is there a problem, hello, I’m talking to you Mr. everyone, is there a problem?

Dear diary,

And it reflects in us. A nation’s literature is a nature’s consciousness. N******* M*** rapes and kills women and children in G******, R**** T*** orders murder in W*** B*****. And we, as a nation don’t get it. M*** is re-elected. T*** is an icon. Why? They got the numbers. G****** has one of the highest growth rates in the continent. T*** contributes so fucking much to industrial GDP.

That’s because our nation only gets numbers.

There’s no literature around to get.

Dear diary,

This is it. Our liaison ends here. I’m going to go do an MBA and work in a bank and make pots of money off an extracurricular career writing about some freshman’s first blow job. You’re going to be left here, on a bench in an underground train compartment.

How does that song go, yeah, ‘just that the time was wrong, Joo-leee-et’

ding di-ding ding ding ding ding di-ding ding