silent night

this isn't part two of the previous post i wrote up.
something i wrote up before math.
hope you like it.
don't hesitate to write back.

-------------------------

bloody hell.
the sound of gunfire rings out.
instincts say 2'o clock, over half a click away.
not to worry,I haven't been spotted.
they're just trying to spook me out of cover.
hah.
bloody amateurs.

these guys have plenty of guns,but a shortage of good shooters.
hell to that.
what the spooks really lack, are good thinkers.

I'm still concerned, though.
I'm getting sloppy.
I cant always bank upon their inexperience and inefficiency to get my ass outta the killbox.
gonna get myself killed,one of these days.

nevertheless,i was holed up pretty damn good.
dense african rainforest, the bane of any search party.

or so i thought.

shit.
a torchlight flickers through the undergrowth, accompanied by the crash of feet on dead leaves.
growing steadily louder.

lying still.
very,very still.

I see the all-too familiar AK snout poke through the foliage.
the stamp on the lower receiver tells me its just another chinese-made clone.
just another testament to the universality of 'Made In China'.
Clone or Kalashnikov, it still spews hot lead with as much benevolence as an angry ex-wife.
My angry ex-wife, if you want specifics.

Carrying it, is a kid in his early teens, wearing a stained t-shirt with some rapper's face on it.
He comes to a halt, looking around warily, his knuckles clenching tight around hot metal.

Bloody americans.
Thanks to them and their insatiable capitalist lust, this kid's life expectancy just plummeted off the goddamn chart.
The idiot can't even hold his gun the right way, thanks to those gangsta rap videos on mtv.

I really wanted to step out,and show him how its done.
Of course, that meant I'd have to kill him too.
And I couldn't risk leaving behind another body.
not now.

So I let him go.
Let him have a second chance, without him ever knowing.
As the crunch of dead leaves slowly fades, something monstrous starts to stir up inside me.
The feel of power.
Of holding consequence in the palm of your hand.
Oh, how it allures man,to touch that naked flame, not forseeing that it would be his hand that would burn first.
Someday it'll get me killed, it will.


silence is restored.
Just me and the jungle once more.
Quick glance at my gps.

Need to make some serious ground before dawn breaks.
Or ill find myself in the thick of a serious power vacuum.

The kind that arises, when you kill the one-eyed king of the blind.
The kind that arises, when a warlord dies in Africa.

----------------------


ciao

Grief

Wrote this after reading up on American Indian history,so that's the backdrop for the poem.
Also,as the title suggests, I wasn't exactly feeling on top of the world at the time.


I dreamt the dreams of better days
For they felt so far away
Of selfless love, and come-what-mays
Grew darker, day by day.

Gone, was the spirit, the fierce pride
Shriveled up, like autumn leaf
The shell was empty, nought inside
Nought remained, but grief.
 
Gone was the calm, my heart defiled
Filled with night even in day
Grief, not for the widow, nor fatherless child
But grief, for the the death of the way.

Still, my eyes well up with grief
Dripping from my lashes
To see the chief, no longer a chief
Living in his own ashes.



ciao

Up In Smoke

She woke up, about half an hour after daybreak, to the chirping of the birds outside.

I was watching.

She began to change her clothes, and I felt little tingles run down my spine, as I watched the layers come and go.

~most people don't usually change with the curtains drawn back, with nothing but a large french window between your privates and the great outdoors, but that false sense of privacy is exactly why you pay top dollar for a remote chalet in the Tuscan countryside~

In any case, I was quite happy given the present circumstances.

And before you ask, YES.

I did zoom in for a closer look.

Most guys would, given the chance.

For she had an exquisite body.
The sort of body that wouldn't just make most men break into a sweat, but the sort that would invariably land its owner in deep water (as seems the case here).

As I watched her walk out into the driveway, something made me want to change my very way of life, maybe find myself a nice mamacita, settle down somewhere sunny, restore an old '68 charger, hell, maybe even raise a family.

As that last thought soured in my mind, I decided it probably had something to do with the size of her breasts.

And her car.

Ooh, fancy women, and fancy cars.

Truly, a match made deep, deep down in the fires of hell.

A Maserati, a worthy example of Italian opulence, and their skill with cars.

Under its hood, lay a 4.7-litre V8, twin-turbo, with a 6-speed gearbox,the works.

You know me, couldn't help but check.

I really would have loved to hear her roar, but my thumb was already pressing down hard on the detonator in my hand.

Man, I hate my job.

the man behind the mask

everyone has a mask.

everyone.

its who we are,when we know someones watching(even when said watcher is but a figment of our imagination/ego/dementia).or even when we try to be cautious of how others react to our presence/behavior/antics.

its quite simple really.

whatever we do under said circumstances,quite frankly,just isnt us.

what we do as a group,says nothing,absolutely nothing, about who we each are.

if someone was watching when,to us,no-one was watching(even that little voice in your head didnt know),theyd have us figured out.

theyd know everything.

theyd play us around like a little bug,making us squirm all we can,even when we all know the end is coming.

dont bother.

ever.

shine that light back at the maggot, and hear its skin crackle under its 100W beam.

i know you cant manage to do that to one person the whole time.

we all know no-one can.

no-one but the man upstairs.

so do it to everyone.

paint a little tarnish,a faint brown patina on every other little critter.

savour that faint,sooty smell of dry roasting.

i know you cant sit back and admire your handiwork,you gotta keep up the work.

or youll fail.

youll give someone else that chance to fry you.

and you will burn,and with that,youll realise,that you arent much different from any other maggot.

or you can persevere,give up your own life,your very self,in the conundrum that you are,your "quest for survival".

and after a while youll notice.

cliche-"everything is an illusion"

yes, dearest retard.

weve all heard that one.

but the rabbit hole goes deeper,still.

ive already put you through these many lines of drivel,so i dont think youd mind a few more.

i promise itll end soon.

when you see through the mask,you see beyond the face,beneath the skin.

you see inside the man.

the mask is his desires,fears,aspirations,thoughts,his lifes work, his very own matrix.

the mask is his wall.

think of it this way. 
the mask is just a colour negative.

just as simple as that.

youve just gotta take every little pixel,and flip it the right way round.

just takes a little elbow grease,is all.

oh cmon.

dont throw that half-arsed look at me,i havent done any of this crap.

i just give out the instructions around here,mate.

now sod off.

~distantly calls~

ciao

five

The world of scientific experimentation is like an iceberg.

What we see or hear about is but a fraction of what actually goes on under the radar.

This is the story of one such experiment.

In the professor's laboratory,tucked away from the world,and its regulations and red tape,five human embryos,taken from five races,five continents, lay ready to be "tweaked".

A synthetic chromosome,the culmination of decades of his research,was to be implanted in their DNA.

Its function,was to make its host be able to "read" the thoughts of those,in its presence.

Once the implant was complete,the embryos were sent to surrogate parents on five continents,who were to nurture them till birth,and beyond.

Their role,however, did not cease there.

They would monitor every aspect of the child's life,and relay the data back to the professor at regular intervals.

Five children,completely different in their upbringing and circumstances,but alike in one aspect.

The chromosome,and the unique ability it had given rise to,in each of them.

The original intent of the experiment,was to create alpha-humans,or superhumans,by giving them one unique ability,using which they were expected to rise above all their peers.

However,the outcome was not quite what the professor had expected.

Each of them had taken their own life,and not one had lived to reach adulthood.

Ponder awhile.

Write back if you like.

Ciao.

nadir

this post,i dedicate to every girl whom ive ever thought i had a chance with...

I was born a bastard.

A couple of years later, i became an orphan too.

I lived alone,in the slum,my ten square feet of rusty tin and corrugated iron,where laid whatever little proof that i even existed.

Id made it to fourteen like countless others,by living off the crumbs of someone else's plates,their joys, their beliefs, their lives.

Every day, i would go to the old lady's house,stopping by at the temple,not to pray,but to survive,on the remains of yesterdays prasad,that they gave away.

I could not steal,or fight to feed myself,for i was weak,simply too weak.

She taught me, out of pity,and out of love,for the son she had lost years ago.

It took me hours,even days, to learn what most learn before they turn five.

It was only through her reassurance and conviction,that i learnt,how to read,how to write,how to live.

I left her house,and treaded along a familiar path,headed to the playground.

I sat lamely at the boundary,watching the boys fight over a disputed wicket.

It was then, that i saw her.

Looking out of the window,not much older than eighteen,watching the match with brown,deep brown eyes.

Just then,the ball came by me.

They called to me,to throw them the ball.

As the child in me took charge,the notebook fell from my hand,which instead picked up the grubby sphere and let fly,with what seemed a colossal effort.

I tried,i really did.

Yet it fell,not so far away.

Laughter ensued.

I was only too used to it,and had long ago,put up walls of stone,to block out the laughter,to block out the hurt.

It worked,but,somewhere,somewhere deep inside,was a little wound,still bleeding,still burning.

Hurt,i turned my eyes away from the ruffians,muttering curses,when my eyes met hers.

She smiled.

I dont know what happened,but i felt something well up inside me.

Some part of me knew,that like the old lady,it was but pity that made her smile.

But still,i found myself thinking there was more,more reason,more meaning,more something,more anything,behind that smile.

All i wanted,even for but a moment,was to rise from my nadir,and float up,up into her balcony,into her life.

Then it all blacked out,as the ball rapped against my temple.

"SIX!" screamed the batting team,and danced joyously onto the ground.

I woke up,dazed,my head throbbing.

I looked around at the victory celebrations.

Then i looked up at her balcony,and saw her celebrating too.

It hurt.

It hurt more than my swelling head.

It hurt more than the crippled ego of this cripple.

It still hurts when i think about it.Not a lot,but not a little either.

---------------------------------------------

P.s.-i hate writing emotionally-charged pieces

-nadir means the lowest point

Ciao