The Tyler Travesty

John Lennon meets Tyler Durden.

Mayhem. Love. Soap.

one moment i take in pure hypnotics
provoking nascent stupid dreams.
the next im standing amidst a brawl
nursing the uncivil scene.

i presume we are lovers,
but do you know what makes up my heart?
loving bedtime makes ferraris,
kisses make bullock carts.

you won’t be happy if drizzles don’t turn into rain.
you’ll be disappointed if your sadness remains the same.

all you need is love! love is all you need.
a slice of pizza with a dash of cheese.
corny songs that’ll put you at ease.
personal jesus to make believe.

there lies me,
trying harder to buy an alibi for self pity.
here i fly,
dreaming someone else’s reality.

found breathless on my bed,
devoid of reason and instinct.
you can never really know,
what i really think.

you wont be happy, if an earthquake can’t shatter glass.
you’ll be disappointed if the fast and the furious ain’t really fast.

i need your love, love is all i need!
the statistical spark, the feverish seed.
ethereal wisdom, from an aerial breed.
and an answer to all of my greed.

why do i always write negative?
why do i only get pleased by sedatives?
why do i avoid all my confessions?
why do i ask so many questions?

felony and arson ain’t simple crimes.
ideas of misdemeanors fill human minds.
completion is an essence beyond time.
can’t break the que, you gotta wait in line.

You gotta wait in line…..

My Titles Are Not Impressive.

Well yes, that is the truth if we view it from the readers prospective. My titles are not impressive. And that is not helpful becuase it’s always the title that gets you noticed. Even though it might sound unbelievable, but it’s always the face that attracts the man first. No, seriously.

My page views are lopsided. And it’s only because the human mind has no face value. It can not provoke an intuition. But the face can. The curve can. No matter what you are, people always want to know who you are first. What lies beneath you, beyond you, is not the catch. It might be worth catching but can you deliver yourself within that time and space, the little period during which you are supposed to leave a mark?

You either leave a tattoo or a scar. Your title. If it turns out to be a tattoo, the pageview follows. The source of elated numerological bliss. The more the better. Unity, Infinity!

The attention. The magnetism. The trap.

Most of the people touted by the world as  ‘genuine people with a good heart or vice verca’ usually lack completion. Now that is not a bad thing, but they lack satisfaction too. And completion and satisfaction are no ways the same. Do not get confused, but maybe I’m talking about you. No, I am talking about many of you. Many of us, actually.

You will not be asked to believe this example because you are already a part of it. 2 serene niceguys, 2 unreal assholes and 2 desirable nicebitches, most unknown each other are amidst a conversation. You, the niceguy speaks a word about George Bush. He, the asshole cracks a joke on Georgie that you told him once upon a time…and the desirable bitch forgets your mere presence. Parasitic but true. You fail to tattoo. Bad End? Maybe not. Good Beginning? Definitely not. Good Content? Maybe yes. Bad title? Definitely…..

All of 17 and still stranded without a date? Hold a degree that you deserve and still out of work? Always been the preacher but never got the stage? Always had the umbrella but forgot to use it in the rain? Always got to the platform but never on the train? Always knew the answer but were still afraid of the question? Always waiting for that one more chance to make a second first impression? Because? Because..

Your titles are not impressive.

Against Your Perception

  Let this come straight out of Socrates’ anus for Shiva’s abnormal forehead – Your perception is your own silent third eye, your own personal canvass, your own I-ching, your own Sunita Menon. Now my failed attempts at philosophy might just fall a little short of jerking Socrates’ fungi filled ribs in his grave, but Osho might just think of making a statement out of his philosophical somewhere. His own Al-Jajheera, you know. His comments that would be his filtered(aqua guard like) perception which he and only he knows as it passes through his nervous system(pipe-like) and comes out as words(like pure water). Don’t get me?

  Let me paintball you through it, doorknob. Here is what you see and you decide.
  He stands there with a fetish for Dhokla and a necessity for Khakra, wears colourful shirts that put the rainbow to shame and resemble the walls of a playschool room, smiles like mama’s boy and calls Katrina Kaif a good actress. Verdict: He is Mr. Saaruche.
 
He stands there in his involuntary karate stance, three or four pubic hairs on his face which he has futilely tried to convert into a goti along with two females who have a crush on some high school music imbecile. Verdict: He is a STUD.    
 
She is worth discussing within Saaruche’s, she wears green sandals, accompanied by an occassional scraf that sparks The Shining, walks to the studs and watch their open mouths releasing smoke borrowed from nicotine’s combustion. Verdict: She is the duchess of mediocracies.
 
He is always wet with Armani, bends like Frankenstein, waves his hands to people who embrace him as Abu Salems resurrection and walks towards all the Monica’s. Verdict: He’s rich.
 
He stretches on the benches of the canteen like a surd on a khatiya, wears a Prado watch and other accessories that almost dipped his father’s foot into the pool of insolvency, talks like George’s Bushes and is accepted like Lalu’s Prasad. Verdict: He Somnath Chatterjee’s uncle’s granddaughter’s sister’s son’s leftover.
 
He wears a kurta and a jeans, or a shirt and a jeans(if he happens to sport a t-shirt, you assume it as borrowed), he has these compulsive eyes that stare back at you with burning non-secular patriotism, he has tea out of everything in CCD and cites the slogans of this white kurta man who’s uncle has now grown the last beard of his life and will see  to it that I am killed after he reads this. Verdict: He is Mr. Jai Maharashtra.
 
She’s standing with a blue-eyed boy and reciting explicit stories of her past boyfriends like a demure little girl who knows nothing about periods. Verdict: She is the lead actress of Lost Lovers I.

 He’s smiling under his spectacles of hope in hope of getting hooked up again with a girl who knows he likes her and is befriending her best friend by appearing for C.E.T.B (Common Entrance test for Boyfriend eligibility). Verdict: He’s the lead actor for Lost Lovers II.(Which is a little better than Final Destination 2, according to critics.)

 She’s the arm candy of a clean shaven branded mortal existence, waves out to one out of million and smiles back to one out of a zillion and soars your temperature high enough to star in mercury rising and expand the greenhouse effect. Verdict : She’s a dame to kill for..or she’s just hot.

 Another guy you know goes and talks to her. But you know he is not as smart as you. If you open your mouth, which you have zipped like A zip-lock bag, you can do the same. But he’s doing it now and she thinks he’s cool. Verdict: Faker. Loser. Poser.
 
 A Metallica t-shirt, devils horns, poorly grown long hair that make Salman’s transplants look respectible and black nail paint. Chicks love him too. What do they love? The disguised genuinenss? The acting, maybe. Verdict: Poser. Loser. Faker. II

…Finally arrives the villain of Lost Lover 2050 followed by Poser. Loser. Faker XXXXV.
 This, is how you see people. This is what they are to you. What they are to you, they might not be to anyone else. You might not tell them who you think they are. I mean what you tell them is not what you really think(pipe-like. remember?), but what they want to hear(filtering?). So, are your words really your perception?

  Simply said with bad rhymes – You might be a man, you might be a thing, you might be an animal. You might be famous, you might be wanted, you might be desired. You might be the sun, you might be the one, you might be none. You might be the ice, the water, the fire. But are you, you?

Shifting Poles

Ok, so my artillery of frustration has bombarded you hopefully. You? Anybody out there? Yes, Myself, two posts and one comment. That’s ok, I like the abuse. XD Maybe all I need is some good PR for changing things around here. Changing things! Ohh, that reminds me of one catalyst that entered my life with ‘Yeh Kali Kali Aankhein’ and the Lion King song I used to pretend to know the lyrcis of.

Post a band titled after the official pornographic colour, post living the westlife in the backstreet, post linking in public places, post Maria’s and Un Dos Tres, post ILU ka matlab ‘i love you’, there came the songs that Changed My World.

*Applause*

Oct 2006.
1. “I Wish” by Infected Mushroom
 Ok, how it all started was actually funny. I liked a girl, yeah I did. And I wanted to make converstaion and had no skills of a pick up artist whatsoever. So I know she likes trance and has a fetish for some mushroom. Bingo, Download! They say trance is for druggies in for a trip. Believe me, this is a trip. No pills, no grass, just you and trance. This song entered my ears and went straight to my stomach and on it’s way made feel like nothing ever had. And all I would do the whole day was sway and say,
” I’m playing the game,
the one that will take me to my end,
I’m waiting for the rain…to wash who I am”.

December 2006.
2. “Smells like Teen Spirit” by …Nevermind.
 Well, like everyone I would soon know that Kurt Cobain got high and blew his head up.(No disrespect to the dead) But yes, somebody had to tell me. Anand Kamat, my tennis and wannabe band mate, told me about how watching the video of ‘Smells like Teen Spirit”  made him feel as good as the weed made Bob Marley. And there I am at home, browsing through old mp3’s and I see Nirvana. Windows media player obliges by bringing to my ears the four powerchords(of course I din’t know what they were then, I could even mistake it for a solo). The distortion stepped in and I was distrubed for a moment. But well, classify it under History Channel’s ‘The Unexplained’ or beyond reasoning, I liked it! Yes, I did. On the same day, I heard it 9 more times and for 9 more days, that was all me and Anand a.k.a Mak talked about.
“I’m worst at what I do best and for this gift I feel blessed,
Our little group has always been and always will until the end..” R.I.P.W.C. (Rest in peace with cocaine/without Courtney)

Jan 2007.
3. “Sweet Child o’ Mine” by Guns N’ Roses 
 *smiles* Before this would turn out to be the reason I ever held the guitar, before it would become a source of imposed maddening, it became the most time consuming activity in my daily routine which, by the way, also consisted of three tutuions and a joint family briefing on how i [i] need[/i] to study. 30 times. Yes, 30 times. My favourite instrument became the air guitar, at the same time it became my mothers source of annoyance or in Punjabi “chaliyat” a.k.a psychotic madness.
Confession – I never knew what the bass guitar actually was, so I told Anand that Izzie Stradlin (rythm guitars) is such an awesome bassist. Anand agreed.

Somewhere after the Sarkari Exam Madness, April 2007.
4. “Master Of Puppets, One” by Metallica
 By this time my not so personal computer was flooded with various discographies of various bands courstey Mak and Anuj Chugh, my updoor neighbour. Mr. Mak(he was called DJ Mak In Std. VIII) told me about ‘One’ being the one and only. And that is where I would meet Metallica. As I heard the song gor the first time, I was sprung into unease and cluthed into the sound, which I couldn’t digest at once. Later on, this would become my criteria of judgding a band, undigestable sound. That song, was a journey, 7 minutes of madness, pain, helplessness… and addiction. Master of Puppets would follow and inflict the same feeling. It was strange how both these songs would sooth you and aggravate you at the same time. And That was exactly what they were meant to do. HAIL.

April 2007, again.
5. “Dance of Death” by Iron Maiden
 Em C D. 50 Songs on the same scale and you still like them. 100 more and you’d still like them. That is the greatness of Iron Maiden, my favourite buddhas. It was vacation time and your well wisher’s would be hoping that you’d be planning to do a Gates or a Dhirubhai. But there I was, looping an eight and a half minute song to infinty and doing a Dickinson..ahem..Bruce Dickinson. This was the first time I was dancing to a non-Himesh song and well this song also made me feel like Sunny Deol(refer to fits). These guys talked about all the boogeyman stories fitting them effortlessly into our reality.
 The intro. The Voice. The Bass. The Build up. The Solo. The Madness. Waah!

May 2007
6.”Stairway to Heaven” by Led Zeppelin
 I just stammer when I try to speak about this song and Im renedered speechless. Im shaking my head like those dalmation toys on dashboards of cars, but I just cannot speak. You cannot get over this song, no sir. Every line in this song can take your breath away. This song is the reason I know what it feels to be speechless. Eight minutes of breathlessness. Let the stairway elevate you.

Aug 2007.
7.”Laid To Rest” by Lamb Of God
“If there was a day i could live, if there was a single breath I could take, I’d trade all the others away”

Hehe. This song, brings a subtle and wicked smile on my face. It’s feels like somebody throwing words that constitute your truth on your face. And yes, it really helps when Mr. Randy Blythe becomes your saviour and roars, “See who gives a fuck!?”
Believeme , this is the reason for your broken neck.

 Well, people are going to be angry at me for not giving them credit, but you can say they are justified. the Beatles had too many songs that deserved reckoning on top. So did American Pie and Sounds of Silence. But reckoning in just a personal list is much more than what they deserve. *Bows*

 But the people mentioned above, they have their thoughts, their ideologies and they live their life they way the want to. They  rock, they roll, they trip. Their life style never amused me, none of it. Ok, maybe the groupie part. XD

But in my case, irrespective of who they are, where they belong and what they do, their music connects.

Call it Whatever But Use A Fuck In the Title.

  I mean, this time your responsiveness to stumili is struggling from psychological defects and you are at what can be described as so called saturation point where you finger-hammer the key board harder than ever and forget that a full stops are a part of sentences. And words, well they usually stick to you like fingernails and this time they are angry. Raging with fury that will vandalise towns and the civilians that dwell in them.

  But again, you are harmless. You havent had a fit since 10,000 B.C and you have done well in redifining what it means to stay calm when hell breaks lose, of course in a corny way. Or atleast thats what you think so, because c’ mon man you are modest and will never go boasting about your qualities because for you actions speak louder than words, mixers, grinders, bombs.

  But what if? What if? Before you can even complete asking yourself a question, another question mark and headbanging(in the literal sense) are engraved into your thoughts of violence. Which again mean no harm to anyone. Not the backspace key you are not hitting and making typos, not yor little screen that dont care to look at, not the deserted park where you ran three rounds of 100 m each  and gave up on your sacks of undigested bullshit, not your empty list of enemies, not your friends. Coming back to the deviated point, what if you are taken advantage of and you knew it was coming? yeah, yeah, I can see you trembling. The period when the mind loses control over its senses and the senses lose control over reality.

  There you are, sweating amidst Antartica. Your stomach churns everything from your food to your appendix to your long held supply of anger. Like water above turbines. Like rain on clouds. You, you’ve heard about letting it be. You like the beatles. You would do John lennon in his grave. But now, that feeling means nothing. The beatles are obsolete. Release. That’s what strikes your merry little social activist like mind and an open loving santa clause like heart.Merry Christmas bitches.

  But why? Why would you harm anyone? Why? Why would you go against whatever you’ve stood for and stood by. Why will you supress your emotions compressed by winzip, accumualted and locked one by one making your rib cage a rendition of Pandora’s box of troubles. You can’t unleash it. You will be a good boy, like mama says.

  A good boy, a constant image of what people know you as…..Ohh fuck the people man! Here I am with someone else’s hand wanking my brain. This problem is well, it’s just too damn serious.. Wait…No it means nothing.. If I am ready to sacrifice my wanted/unwanted emotions again, all would be sober, all would be happy. But then again, it will grow, it will inflate and soon what was held inside for a long long time will infiltrate your body, the resisitor, Ohm’s little guinea pig. You need to let it go. Let it go. I mean, this aint celibacy so theres no scope for enlightment if you hold everything in, it will just grow and grow, enlargen and inflate, tumor-like, balloon like.

  Be happy. Be happy. AB says that on TV. Well of course he will, he’s got a hot daughter-in-law. What will make you happy? Facts. Oh no. They are too weak for that, provoking hapiness. Fiction, for how long will you buy that as your stairway, your alibi, out of your mess. Your mess, that you are not responsible for. No, you’re not. Modesty can kiss my ass. It can shove itself in too if it feels like . Selfishness? hehe, you laugh at that thought. Oh, when was the last time you thought about yourself? He he he. You laugh, like a maniac…Two minutes later, it doesn’t help anymore.It’s just asexual reproduction masochistic pleasure, that will soon be dismissed.

  It’s ok. It’s all good. But you know, everything’s not gonna be ok. There aint no charming nephew here and you ain’t Aditi. You can no longer give yourself embebeded commands now. The usage of the word fuck is just a pain killer. Nothing else. Nothing more than pain killing helpless scum from various unidentified sources.

  All neuro-wounds aside, you just realise you are not the person as you typed above. But you are sure you’ve been the one typing. Lightning, ohh, it’s a bullet man can only dream of making. Penetrating your chest before the sound penetrates your years. He he Ha ha. Applaud yourself, applaud yourself!

  You need the nile to quench your thirst but can only manage a pond in an oasis, You got a ball and two empty goals but you don’t know where to shoot, you don’t know where you will be three months from now, you don’t remember how it feels to know yourself for who you are, you don’t know where your shadow lies, behind you, with you, within you. You just don’t know…*silence is golden and pre-explosive*…

 FUCK!

Infamous first words

*Oscar type Red Carpet Applause*

Thank you and I welcome my and thyself to my empty blog. Im honoured and excited as a bride in a Punjabi wedding. Just like the bride, soon this blog hopes to grow fat and conceive. You know, words and surds instead of ghee. Articles instead of fat.  Poetry instead of children. And very soon I hope to make more sense than my first ever post. 

You can now kiss the bride.

Thank you, Im speechless.*blushes*

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