i'm moving. blogs, not homes.

cheerio!

A few of the many(!) things that bug me.

(yo, S- you listening?)

1. I HATE being patronised, especially with pseudo intellectual bullshit.

2. Being called 'buddy'. I ain't a dog, yeh?

3. People looking for autobiographical links to my writing. Give it up. I just wallow in the darker emotions, I'm not a mental case...not yet anyway.

4. People asking me what relation coffee has to my work. None, except that it keeps me awake.


5. Being blog tagged. It really, REALLY irks me. No, I can't think of another 7- 9- 11 people to tag. And no, I can't randomly list my favourite books or music, nor can I presume to guess why others find me attractive or the reverse.

6. Being given strange nicknames. Caffeine Addict's been chosen because I choose not to reveal my name here, but that doesn't mean that you can mangle it anyhow.

7. Being asked why I'm so angry. If I knew why, I'd probably have done somethnig about it by now.

8. Being asked 'are you indian'? what dpes that have to do with anything?

9. comments like nice blog u got here....drop by mine...courtesy demands that i do anyway.

gnite, all.

you flew in from a land of mists
with tears in your eyes
for the angels you left behind.

over tea and chilli we talked
about husbands and lovers
and a distant mysitc land.

you drove me up north
up to where the sky hangs low
and "peace comes dropping slow."

i danced for you; but your hips
are welded close, and your giggles
drowned out the music.

long walks, and Quadrant tours
are passed, and we relax
into our Easter rhythm.

So much time, so little of it,
has gone by. and the angels
call to you in dreams.

Returning home is easy
and i smile into my cup
knowing we'll meet again.

For Gaki...

Misericordia!

all is asleep, all slumber softly
hope and peace nestle side by side
my sister tosses and turns this way
and i grimace on the other side

all is asleep, all sleep quietly
within our hearts is some despair
she tosses this way, i the other
and we punch the bolster in the way

all is asleep, softly snoring
and i've got a fug in my eye
i look for you to tuck me in
but no, you're out of sight

all is asleep, all tu whit to whoo
a solitary owlet cries
i punch an imagined pillow mate
leaking tears for that empty side.

Written in a bleak (and broke) mood

Mansi sits at her laptop, calmly ignoring the pain clawing its bloody way up her left side. An old Lata Mangeshkar song plays, and scented oil clouds the air of her room. It is late March, and by all accounts, spring has sprung. She is glad of her green sweater top, and shudders at the glistening raindrops winking at her window.

A stubborn piece of code is acting up, putting her CSS design right out of reckoning. She frowns, and tests it again, on a different browser. It still does not work. She would have liked to get up and have a cup of tea, but there’s no one to make it for her. Her assignment list is miles high, and her room like a mini dump. Clothes needing laundering mix cheerfully with freshly washed ones, and the iron looks dolefully at a solitary boot. Mansi stretches her legs, and inadvertently kicks over the rubbish bin again.

She sighs, and leans towards it, and slides off her chair.

“Bloody FAKKIN hell!”

She straightens and hits her head against the table, which immediately causes the mounds of paper perched atop it to wobble. A paper landslide ensues.

“I HATE deadlines,” is followed by a string of fruity expletives. She manages to restore some order to the chaotic mess on the floor and swings up to her chair again, wincing at its hardness on her now tender arse. The music is abruptly turned off as she blinks her sleep fug off, and gets back to typing.

“Aha! A simple, stupid error. Forgot to close that bracket…” she lights her sixth fag of the day. Strictly speaking, smoking isn’t allowed in any of the university’s accommodation, but she’s wrapped a plastic bag around the smoke detector. She draws deeply, sighing with pleasure.

The rest of the code works like a dream. She tests it out on Firefox, brilliant. Firefox is the most unforgiving browser…it’s a nightmare if you’ve made any errors…

Hidden somewhere among all the junk is her mobile phone. It rings now, and she jumps. It’s past midnight, too late for her family to be calling.

“Hullo!” –snarled.

“Hello, missus, you comin out tonight?”

It’s her classmate Betty. “No, it’s late dammit, we have a project to hand in tomorrow, it’s pissin it down with rain and I’m fuckin broke. So no, I am not coming out tonight.”

She grits her teeth, and punches the wall.

...Thank you for being there, always.
And for being mine.

I don't quite know anything much. I don't know anything, as a matter of fact. I'm just your average loser.

Spudheaded.

I don't know why I went on and on about postgraduate study...a PhD, blah. I don't quite think I belong in here. Anywhere perhaps.

My world is with you...but then your world has no room for me.

Isn't it?

I don't fit into any tradition. I overdo things, underestimate other things..and walk around in a brainfreeze. I can't write. I can't market.

I can't do anything.

Maybe we're better off alone?

the words are going, fading fast.
un coeur brise.

shadows knocking at the locked gate to my memories, wrapped in the sable folds of everlasting night. they demand entry, they demand recognition...they claw at my memories.

and i must unfasten the door and wash the filth of their graves off them.
and i must give them my last words.

and then...stop, forget Lexia and my pitiful scribbles.

maktub.
'tis writ.

un coeur brise...

Silences scream so loudly sometimes
yours touched me most of all.


And still I watched as you regressed
Into a mockeried babyhood
In silence.

And still I watched as they fed you
Through drip tubes and knocked out your teeth
In silence.

And still I watched as they bore you home
Dressed in flowers and crimson streaks
In silence.

And quietly crying, watched you leave
On that final journey
From whence, none return.
As you left, in silence.

haiku

high heeled boot-
stuck to the sole,
a leaf.

lamplight reflected,
a twin for
my room.

a webcam winks
weighted down
with a pebble

frying fish
flesh gleaming as if
hit by sunshine.

C. A.
14.03.2006

I'm not happy.

don't ask me the whys and the wherefores, I am not an animated Doordarshan television programme.

why
why
why
why

do i

W R I T E? ? ?

when its all so full of

S H I T E ? ?

Juvenalia

“Why did Sherlock murder Bugs Bunny? “

“Objection, me lord!” Watson exploded. “Unless it is proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that the defendant, my client, was actually responsible for the death of the deceased, the question is not only out of bounds, but, but,” Watson floundered a bit, then added with a sudden burst of creativity, “but also absurd!”

Judge Porky Pig had had enough.

“I throw this case out of court!”

Yes, yes, well done, Watson, thought Holmes abstractedly. That was the way, keep em guessing and then confound them at the end. That was the way to do things. It wasn’t as if anyone really cared about what happened to a stupid rabbit anyway. All he used to do was munch carrots the whole day and bug people no end with his quintessential line- “What’s up, doc?”

Asinine question, what’s up. I mean it was so obvious, Watson. The sun, the moon, the stars, they were all UP, weren’t they? And if it irritated me, I know it must have been hell on you. I sympathize, Watson. Completely. Imagine him insulting your intelligence with that awful question, when all the reading public of the world knows that you’re a doctor, for Christ’s sake! M.D! Or was it M.B.B.S? What was it, Watson, old buddy, old friend, old pal? Well I can be forgiven for forgetting! I’m aging, slowly, but surely. Ripening like fine wine, maturing, but aging all the same. Yes, thanks, the morphia helped my gout.

That rabbit was a pest, was he not? Disgusting habit of spewing carrot slivers whenever he munched and talked simultaneously. And that was often enough! No table manners, obviously a finishing school dropout. Why he ruined my last Waterford crystal, totally jammed up the finish with desiccated carrot. I haven’t got all the bits out yet.

And that absurd question of his drove you crazy didn’t it? I know you retired long back, on my account. His question brought it all back didn’t it? The thrill of chase, the feint and counter feint of the pursuit. You missed it didn’t you? And his questions only made things worse. Reminded you of what you and I couldn’t do. Reminded you of all the roaring good times we used to have. You, me and old Basks.

Now don’t tell me your memory’s failing. You remember Basks don’t you? Why how could you forget your old best friend? The hound of the Baskervilles? For shame, old chap. Stiff uppers, let not anyone see you cry. Be a man, by Jove!

Ah leaving so soon? I know you’ll be hungry. You had a hard couple of hours, Watson. Join me at Baker Street. We’ll have a nice time of it. You, me and Morphia. Oh, can’t stir a step without it now. Old Hudson made some stew yesterday. Good stew it was too. I know you’ll enjoy it.

Oh yes, it has parsnips. And potatoes, onions, leeks and meat. What’s a stew without meat, old chap? It’s just a little stew with a bit of everything in it.

Oh no, not lamb. I’m allergic to it remember? It’s rabbit stew. Very good too, I must say.

its surprising, the rubbish that tesco will palm off to you, pretending it's wine.

its vinegar!

(i'm tipsy)

tumtitumtitum...

life keeps pushin and pulling me from past to future, and past and present and whoa...instant vertigo.

i think james stewart is HOT.

mmphh.....he's so adorable as mr. smith!

huh watwasiatagain?

oh yeh. the tenses. people id dropped on the way...well i got dropped too, keep comin back. one of em is T- dont mind my lang girl, i've been takin the piss, who reads my blog...TeeBee.

i like the way my mouth smirks wen i say T.

do you remember maaroing free booze and fags off gaurav the orge, girl? him with his black lips n pot belly...UGH

i hate my boyfriend. :(

i want it to be 20 degrees here too.

do ye think i cud be an ice queen?!?!?!

findin old ppl messaging....akshay messagin among others...

damn im bad at keepin in touch

suds pal gettin married finally! after going about with a married man et al...

funny how all my classmates always thot id be first...

it seems nice n idyllic to be married young sometimes.

not.

some part of my legs has just turned to jelly. raspberry flavored, i hope.

i want my mummy

except shed slap me silly if she saw me boozed up.

any one wantin to do a proxy?

NOTICE

Please note that henceforth, I shall not comment upon any blogs that have word verification turned on. It might help you to junk any spam comments that you might or might not recieve; but it is HELL on my eyes, regardless of whether it is day or night.

You are free to return the 'favour' by not commenting on mine either- although, as you might note, I don't have the miserable thing turned on.

Pax,

Caffeine Addict

What this started out as was a personal love poem; and while it remains that, it has morphed into a terza rima (of sorts). I have taken liberties with the form, (feel justified to have done so), and this is now a sort of apostrophe- an address. This is part of the theme for my next poetry portfolio- apostrophes. Of course they're not all going to be for him; that would just make it a mutilated sort of canzonierre- but willalso include address poems to people I've loved over the past years- especially my family.

Hope Anup especially enjoys this, as a poet himself. I'm waiting (eagerly, I might add) for the promised villanelle, Anup.

Poem for Sh---

You feel like a child reaching for the moon.
Last year you were invincible; nothing
Could hurt you. The bubble burst too soon
Maybe.

You look about you dazzled; with loathing.
The moon was a toy and the stars silver dust,
And the sex and the filth could not bring
Happiness.

You are saddened and sickened by the lust
And barrenness you see; this daily grind
Makes you forget yourself, and then you thrust
Me out.

Escape into the Shangri La of your mind,
I know you will pull through and smile again.
Retreat now with me and pull down the blind
And be as you were.

Till the next post; whenever that may be...I have my screenwriting module submission deadlines leering at me...help!

conished priory; ulverston; cumbria and me

i do not believe in god. this is a fact that must be clearly understood. i do not believe in god, fate or anything of the sort. i do not believe in rebirth or karma. i simply believe in cause and effect.

why then was i daft enough to go to a buddhist meditation centre for the long weekend, spending ten odd hours on the road either way in the freezing snows of english winter?

it was a quest of sorts- my own search for a holy grail of sorts. i want answers.

i was not an agnostic before! oh yeah i had as much blind faith as any average brainwashed (unthinking if you like) mortal.

then i started to ask questions. which remained unanswered.

it was a long and painful process. stripping myself of my values and beliefs felt like stripping my skin off; and i wasnt moulting...in ways i'm still raw.

i would like answers that satisfy me. i would like to believe. how often have i wished that i could just fuckin believe!

but it doesnt happen any more.

two years back, my then 17 yr old nephew laughted at me for my long discourses on the bhavgvat gita and faith with his grandmum...

how are thou fallen, o caffeineaddict!

i feared sin. i feared hell. i feared the unknown, i suppose; i feared for my immortal soul.

i dont think i have a soul.

reading paradise lost nearly killed me.

or not.

no one could satisfy me.

not meditation. it brought back troubled memories i'd blocked out for years.

the blind faith of most people infuriated me.

yeah on the surface it was very civilised; lovely really. a gothic priory with vaulted ceilings and stained glass and wood with a silky patina. morecambe bay with shingles and snow. the fells.

but an unquiet mind...

unquiet mind
never at peace.

Snow in Swansea



(The real deal might or might not show properly- but hopefully you can make out the flakes falling)

I leave for Ulverston tomorrow a.m. For a Buddhist retreat- to discover inner peace- if such a thing exists- and a time out from illness and dependence.

Have a good weekend.

I thought I would write something terribly clever, oohing and aahing over my own magnificence. Oh yeah, I thought to myself, come out with a kicker.
But it didn’t happen.
Swansea has seen some snow this season.
And when I wrote that I decided that I was being a bit too clever. Consonance and assonance and all that. But I don’t owe this cleverness to myself. No, I owe it to Mrs. Nathani of school, who set us exercise after exercise of metonymy and synecdoche, made us go through entire chapters of the ubiquitous Bose & Sterling book of rhetoric and prosody.
I did not know that some seeds were being sown.
But there I go being clever again.
Cynghanedd and englyn- what Nigel, my poetry tutor calls Welsh S & M. Singing in chains. Singing songs in chains of silk.
I was not trying to be clever, honest.
In my own roundabout, half bureaucratic way, I suppose I am thanking Mrs. N- wherever she may be, for instilling a love of language into me. Not literature- although it was she who introduced me to Keats- but language. Sounds. Phonetics. Ejukashun.
Creating links between rudra and red; me and mein. What’s mine is mine; what’s yours is also mein. English as an absorbent, evolving entity.
There I go again- and without even trying!

Diolch I Mrs. Nathani.
I owe you so much.