helter skelter

i'm not talknig about the japanese cover [whatever] that oasis did. im talkngi about my life! well, correction. the past few days. ruts, endless ruts and bumps and back breaking adventures. no, i cant say more. its a stupid secret...

i really dont know about gnostic, agnostic, atheist, acrostic, anagram, code etc. i just know that i hate serets esp hiding things from mum.

she walks in beauty
like a prufrockian night, smoky, hazy, cluttered up.

disturbing rutting dogs and yowling cats,
she walks.

asian cook tucked under her arm, tempura bubbling madly in her brain,
she is sly; she is shy
she walks.

flick, click, inhale and blow. with her jazz singer's voice she sings
a childhood melody under stinking breath. she stops, and flinches.
murder in high heels.

one of her mates against a wall, looking bored
ignoring the bucking male plastered to her body

ta! their eyes signal. they'll have bangers and mash
(she sniggers at that) for a late nght supper.

she walks and whispers as she goes on
fuckin, fuckin, fuck you bloody mindfucked byron

she ain't gonna walk in beauty like HIS night no more.

'you got a nice arse, kid'

she slaps his hand from her butt and snaps
'i ain't for hire you son of a bitch'

noise annoys me. i lose my threads of thought when noise disturbs me.

eor [end of rant]

the last few days have left me mind fcked if nto brain dead. which is worse, i wonder- althogh i've been feeling bodily and sexually dead for so long now that its a wonder that spiders aren't spinning their webs on me. at which point i wonder if i dare to bring in marvel- had we but world enough and time....except that a role reversal has occred and i am not the coy maiden of his song. my poor man! what he must suffer when he reads this!

perhaps there's something about DIY spa treatments after all. just slathering a horribly tingly face pack seems to have done wonders for my femininity!

ive sweated off some steam by packing. although i wonder how the cartons will hold up when i load them with my books. its getting rather warm here, surprising, as people (you know who you are)kept raving about the 'awesome' weather here! if awesome is simply awe inspiring the epithet is not wholly undeserved, as every time it rains i an awestruck at how my home is flooded. and when i begin to sloooowly bake, i wonderat myself. ah well.

its perfect weather for being naked- too bad we're such a nation of prudes!

goodnight week- and goodbye.

you were one of the worst i've lived through, but at last, you're over.

Life is an idyll, spent tapping at the keyboard, the flavour of coffee still bursting in the mouth…coffee, laced with candy, peppermint, breath-mint, breathless eh…breathy voices, breathless kisses, panting, gasping, air gushing in, gushing out, panting on the treadmill, panting upstairs and downstairs and in my lady’s chamber, building up….on, on, on for evermore…no, stop, hang on, you can’t so don’t stop, don’t ever stop..yeah, this is life, the glorious sweat and salt and all that jazz…why jazz though, why not rock or soul ballads that wring tears from your eyes….but tears are salt too and so that can’t be good..can it….are we still going on, are we still doing it, ah yes….its building up now, your eyes are bugging out of your head, and my nails have suddenly become talons. And music pours out of every pore, winding some weird, sinuous way through my body, and somehow suddenly, its fusing to yours, electric and muddy green sparks flying about, fizzing and foaming and then the scent of men’s cologne in that no-man’s land, the gully between my nose and upper lip…and the softer scent of roses and fruity body butter. The toss of head and streaming hair, the corded muscles in the neck and softer than baby’s touch, your lips…raspy day old beard, throw your razor away honey, its gone blunt, and what rot you say and we go on, and on and on again, and again, and again. And the hand writhing restlessly about and the diamond glinting violently in the cold winter sunlight. And diamonds are forever they say, do they, well something to that effect, and so, and so, and are we diamonds now…if I were to be transmogrified wouldn’t I love to be a chip of ice, but one that doesn’t melt, one that will never melt, but will rip out men’s gullets and grace the icy white hands of a stiff upper lipped queen, and light the fire in a pasha’s hot, hungry eyes. And ah…the hard ice that robbers rob and coppers catch. And then another assault on my senses, as a sugar rich, caffeine laced tongue snakes out, and no, not that, I’ll catch my death of cold, but no, there we are, plunged in icy water, icy air, wrapping us in a chilly embrace and goosebumps gracing my skin and hard pebbled hair roots springing to life and shuddering and shivering, an naughtier still, and I groan, your feet are like ice I complain, and enjoy the delicious warmth of my own, encased in sensible cotton socks, and mourn the duvet that lies like a discarded lover on the carpeted floor .and no, ah no, and I don’t want it to end, but I cant stop it from ending and I want the torment to end and I never want it to end, and suddenly I'm flushing, suddenly I'm too hot, too damn hot, and a sweaty river, look, snakes its way down the warm valleys and crests of my chest, and look a raft floating…no its only your tongue and im still struggling not to end it and still struggling to get it over with and at last it is finished, and desire and denial both have their way and desire and denial are both left lamenting, and you groan and you collapse and you say I look like a cat that ate the cream and I say, nothing because your weight has squashed the air full out of my lungs and all I can do is pant and gasp and make funny noises like a goldfish out of water and maybe I pucker up too because you take that very moment to steal another kiss and im too cold on one side and too hot on another, gerrof me, and bring me my blanket, but no don’t leave me now, don’t you ever let me go, no, I want you and stay put right here, right now, and then a snore, another, a little tiny one and im still waiting for breath but sleep comes instead and so, and so, and so.

no promises.

i don't know if any literary agent exist in this country. i don't know if they'd accept me if they did. i don't have the required contacts. i don't know if they would help.

all i can say is i'll try.

My dearly beloved blog,

Although I’ve posted on you, scribbled, ranted, raved and generally let myself loose on your shiny grey self, this is the first time that I am actually writing to you. I am doing this partly because I want to prove something and partly because I need to let out [oops, caught in the act] to someone who can’t holler back, since no one will understand.

I don’t remember conception, gestation, birth and my first few days. Heck, I can barely recall yesterday! And I am desperately afraid that I’ve forgotten the girl I was in my rush to be the woman I am.

I do not claim genius. It is not my lot or cross. But if I look back and reopen the few words I locked up somewhere within my consciousness, I remember being a shiny person. People gravitated towards me. I was young, I was YOUTH. I was intelligent and popular. I had angst, existential and otherwise. I had a perfect cacophony of words inside, all screaming to be let out, all writhing within my head until I relented and poured them out on paper.

But growing up isn't easy they say. And ive only grown up in habit. In years. My mind is still as chaotic, only I’ve learnt to hug responsibilities closer then anything else.

I don’t chain smoke anymore. Well, I never did, I just said that for glamour. Scratch that, I hate to cough. I rarely drink, I don’t touch the hash or the ash or whatever it is people trip on these days. I haven’t been to a club in years and would feel like an old fogy if I did. I wonder at the clothes girls wear nowadays- at the sage old age of24!

Ive got a job now, responsibilities. I need to do this for myself is what I reasoned when I was totting up the pros and cons of moving cities and living alone. I had something to prove.

I don’t know what it was anymore. I live clean; I pay my rent and other bills on time. I did go wild with my credit card but apart from my wedding clothes [for a wedding that may never happen] I swiped only for trips home and sundry domestic stuff. A bed, a washing machine et al. how boring!

I wake up before the alarm buzzes and go to work everyday, even when I feel like shite or completely brain dead or ill. I stick out my 40 plus hours of work each week, and the weekend goes with cooking, cleaning, playing laundress etc. where’s my youth now?

Here’s self realization for you. Ever since I started writing all I ever wanted was to be normal. To be mediocre and forget the pain inside.

I succeeded beyond my wildest expectations. I am normal. I am mediocre.

I am boring.

P.S- I would have preferred writing to Boo to be honest. Bt there’s, this slight problem see. Boo can’t read. How could he- he’s only a toy pup!

wilkommen zum mein Welt!

i admit it, in fact some of my acquaintance would be surprised to see me talk so. the fact still remains though that i am a klutzomaniac. don't bother googling for it, i coined it awhile backas i searched for that one perfect adjective to describe- well me.

i am the girl who falls down the stairs and bonks her head against any given srface if she posibly can. not contant with that, i scratch myself with my nails while bathing...in fact every time i wash m hair i drive one nail into the cuticle of another. know how tender that skin is? if i reach for a towl i take some plaster from the wall with me. i cant even fry an egg withot the hot fat nearly blinding me. something to be learnt from v for vendetta i suppose.

so muh for klutz. ill describe the maniac bit after awhile, im terribly sleepy.

or i could finish it off now.

later.


now.


later.


you can probably guess my other title. yeah its princess of procrastination.

reason for rant- ramming my toe into the wall and hearing an ominous crack. i shall update this tomorrow, whn i know for sure if i have broken a bone or not.

there are cycles and then, there are cycles. everythign goers through them, birth, growth, decay death. the economy and the markets go through theirs. moods swing, seasons change, and the amount of dandruff o your scalp waxes and wanes depending on the state of the moon.

i made that last bit up.

there are seasonal shifts in my personality. i am something which i could never be at work when i am at home and lounging about the house in my new nightclothes, hair dishevelled, stuffing my face with gorgeous food(!)

when i am at bangalore i am an altogether diferent person...more take charge, more aggressive (if thats possible for a wimp like me to be). at home i may well be apathetic..and thats fine.


thats what holidays are for, yeah?

its 8 am on a sunday morning and im typing..what rubbish..i need to go back to bed. !!!

i tried damn hard to be a diamond in the rough,
but i'm not that kinda girl.
fee fie fo fuck
i'm not that kinda girl.

i can't walk like a slut or talk like a slut
and i don't set ot to be deliberately mean
i could have paid you back with interest
bt im not that kind of girl/

she's hyper communicative,
she's smart, sexy and sublime
everything that isn't me

i'm sugar and spice and clotted cream
the spring in your step, the smile in your eye
i'm peevish and sulky, cross and contrary
and i wish the world were a simpler place.
but that

is not the world
and that

is me

i'm that kinda girl.