Let the bugles play loud,
the warriors are in town
to fight for a land they call their own
which is a desolate dystopian dump
and those who try to make it better, the patriots,
are told to leave the man made borders.
Whose imaginary friends are better,
shall decide life and death, because if yours is formless,
you’ll be beaten to death, in a fight that never happened
for trying to protect the honour of your women.
But that was bound to happen,
in a country where we joke about
someone’s dignity ripped away every thirty minutes.
If your religion truly believes that this,
this horrendous state of affairs is the way to be,
if you care about your cows more than your women,
then maybe scripture got it wrong,
maybe the triple eyed trident wielder could legally rape his wife,
and the cowherd with a flute deserved jail
for loving an older woman.
Maybe our country is born of hatred, and I’m getting it wrong.
I am light, light as a feather, I can fly,
I can float slowly down to the ground,
I don’t need a parachute, I can
slowly drift down to mother earth,
from high up in the sky,
beyond the clouds, in a realm
science has not yet understood for its magic.
And then I plummet, accelerating,
my fate being sealed every second by 9.8 m/s,
I see the ground fast approaching,
the bright blue sky with its magical white clouds
is now grey with magic of the darker kind,
and lightning strikes everywhere,
it just doesn’t give me the quick release.
And then I hit the ground,
a moment I so eagerly anticipated,
forgetting my own unfortunate immortality.
I just want to drown in the puddles around me,
I want to be burned to a crisp by the lightning
I fly again, hoping this time, somehow,
the fall ends it all.
We are friends,
we share our joys and sorrows,
and see each other through the worst of times.
We are friends,
we accept the other for who they are,
we listen without judging, and celebrate our differences.
We are friends,
from the hour long phone calls,
to the free counseling sessions whenever our better half is distressed,
we are friends,
but aren’t we?
Aren’t we supposed to be friends?
Then why can’t you talk to me ever again,
just because I am slightly unstable?
I guess the truth is, someone like me
doesn’t deserve any friends,
and poetic justice prevails,
so I get what I deserve.
We were both in the bright sun,
the kind that beats down ruthlessly,
blinding all those who dare look up.
The bright white light piercing my eye
rendering me stark naked and grotesque
as if all that I had done floats to the surface.
You and I were both standing
under the same bright sun,
which ripped relentlessly at your skin and mine
exposing us both to the other
to see, to judge and rape with our eyes
the blinding sun setting us on fire.
You and I were both standing under the sun
the sky was aflame with a plethora of emotions
and one moment you looked straight into my eyes
the next you had turned away forever.
I’m not defined by the triggers,
I can handle myself,
I am strong, I am…. lying.
When a river flows underground,
you can deny its existence,
but it is still there, just below the surface.
Just below the surface. A shadow, a specter,
a reality that haunts and stays there,
threatening, waiting to be revealed
in all its gruesome glory.
Shame, stigma, embarrassment,
they better not know,
conceal, don’t feel, don’t let them know,
now I empathize with Elsa.
He calls it a useless tantrum,
he calls it meaningless drama,
she calls it lack of control,
she calls it stress reaction,
she calls it drama.
My own underground river
flows in torrents, demolishing everything in its path,
waiting for its chance to break the surface
so that I’ll break a different kind of surface,
again, and again, and again, and again.
All that I see around me is changing.
The world is turning upside down with every 360,
the bright contrast in different colours,
the whole rainbow that once streaked across the sky,
has now dulled to grey-scale,
visible only in black, white, and all the grey in between.
What once was a function of magic and blessings,
where wizards worked with weary fingers,
now can be explained in clear numbers, and logic,
and facts and figures come to be our new friends,
replacing creativity and imagination.
Slowly, all the dreams that I had once nurtured,
so lovingly made the world my own,
anything was possible then, I guess it still is,
but that ‘anything’ has a new defined definition.
Seeing the world in binaries was so much easier,
believing in far-fetched fantasies was so much easier.
It is hard to live in a world
where Superman won’t save you when the demons attack.
When the fateful day arrives,
when I should breathe my last,
and my heart’s beats fall out of rhythm,
slowly to come to a halt,
and all my senses, five, six or a hundred,
cease to sense any more than senselessness,
don’t shed a single tear.
When rigor mortis takes control of my physical being
and the shell on the bed, or on the floor,
is hardly recognisable as the man you used to know,
don’t shock yourself to silence.
Instead, throw a lavish party, with Queen and Doors,
invite everyone who ever knew me,
and tell them this,
“A man lives not in person, but in memory,
so now that he has found home in the sky,
remember him for all that you loved,
for the rest,
so long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, goodbye.”
I am still young, the miles ahead
far outnumber the seasons left behind.
But I am no stranger to love,
I have seen it, I have felt it.
I have seen the roll of loaded dice,
always in the favour of one over the other.
I have seen red in valentines’ hearts,
as red as the blood later on his hands.
I have seen science fiction come to life,
as human beings are reduced to zombies.
I have seen love.
I have seen a mother on the footpath
naked because her sari is the blanket
for her infant.
I have seen the scrawniest mongrel
growl at perceived risk to her puppies.
I have seen lovers break up
because maybe, just maybe,
their love was too much for a label to communicate.
The frozen night sky, all clouded over,
a silent forest, save for the breeze
mischievously rustling the leaves,
as if to say that silence will never be perfect.
Coniferous trees, adapted to nature
the falling snow does not bury, suffocate and kill.
A forest breathes like a beast,
rearing its head to strike silently at the night.
The forest has a life of its own,
with its packs and herds and colonies.
But right now all is silent,
as if the thick blanket of fresh snow,
keeping the ground snug and warm,
has put all life to sleep for a while.
The ground has a mind of its own,
rising in places, and falling thereafter,
like waves on a solid surface.
The sacred silence suddenly is broken,
as a silhouette raises his head
to the white face in the sky
and sings of his freedom.
We’ve spent nights at the Hotels,
of Heartbreak and the one in California.
We’ve lived on our own, in another broken home,
and sung rhapsodies in Bohemia.
I once went down to the Paradise City,
to meet a sweet child of mine,
she sang with me, I was going crazy,
but now she’s left me cryin’.
We waved goodbye and said hello,
watched angels as they fell.
We’ve all taken the stairway to heaven,
and driven down the highway to hell.
We’ve called out to Jude and to,
you when you were out in the cold.
Dined together on sweet cherry pie,
when by a man the world was sold.
We spoke in innuendos, and gotten by
this crazy little thing called love.
We were livin’ on a prayer, ’cause it’s our life,
hallelujah to the skies above.
We were stars together in a dope show,
and you were my one and only,
we have seen all kinds of people
the beautiful and the lonely.
Lazarus was in heaven, as we heard
Major Tom talk to ground control,
we are still going strong, and will never die,
long live Rock and Roll!