Torrents of Vonegut
You try to get Kurt’s Slapstick. Damn torrent does not open. Heigh ho! Some more lonely.
I have a cat in the cradle. Which means out of the bag.
After mid-day meal is heavy-lidded nap.
On the day the bomb dropped the father(of the bomb) was dawdling with a string.
There were sex orgies on the precise day.
Father (of the bomb, as also of the letter writer) was playing with string.
Sister-cum-mother slapped letter writer.
That is for hurting father, she said.
That is how the tendrils inter-twined.
That was Cat’s Cradle for you from the moustachioed Kurt straight from his Vonegut.
Evening on green bench
It is still evening . I have to go the architect to sign a location map.
Findling a lie
Google Drive gets better search, so you can finally find that goddamn file.
The headline can be mutilated by a dirty mind this way:
Google’s (sex) drive gets better (at) search, so you can finally findle that goddamn lie.
Soap opera! Sister says of death. Her own.
Kurt the moustache of W.W.2 is back into my mouth’s slurping. Hey ho.
If my catheter hurts less this time, I offer one kilo of sweets to the fakir God.
Says woman waiting to go upstairs.
Doctor says no space upstairs for the present. Soap opera !
I had put Kurt mustache to nap. I wanted for it a cat nap but as it turned out it was a ferocious jungle cat sleep. The jungle cat twirled its mustache threateningly.
Yesterday’s cat was in a cradle. Today it has grown to a big cat.
I now have a dozen of Kurt’s twirls. Right now, that is before the feral sleep,I am wading in Slapstick or what you have.
The idiot zygotic twin-egg pair ,who should have died long ago turn intelligent and polite. They have read all the books.
That is the mishap for which Dr.Mott is accountable .
But the cat is soon back on its soft foot.
Don’t you worry -the supernumerary nipple shall be hid from prying eyes.
Take a flying fuck
Are you a thirteen, sir? Asks the guard.
With all respects due to you, President sir,
take a flying fuck at the rolling doughnut or take a flying fuck at the moooooon.
The President took it ?
To marry the beautiful Draupadi ,eligible princes have to shoot an arrow at the revolving fish eye.
Something like the flying fuck. The princes took it?
Only Arjuna could do it. And he gets the fuck.
Draupadi was his mooooon.
A hobo is a homeless vagrant.
W.H.Davies was a hobo who could break away from hobohood to become a Doctor of Letters.
Dr.Hobo makes out a strong case for No Work.
(The Sleepers by W.H.Davies)
You want to sleep peacefully under the subway, rain or shine with no watch to show office time?
Or you want to be a zombie commuter on way to work every morning before the cock crows?
(By the way hobos have no sons)
Either way you are going to die long before your time.
But the former state allows you time to stand and stare.
The latter allows time to stand in the local train with your body parts mixed up with other similar body parts.
Standing and staring
Sheep or cows can stand beneath the bough and stare as long they can.
(Leisure by W.H.Davies)
When we pass woods we cannot stand awhile to watch a squirrel hide its nut in grass. We have no time for the squirrel’s flippancy.
Does the squirrel have time to stare at a biped passing ,wearing dark goggles?
It would not know where the eyes were behind the glasses.
No work, all pay
Work is wash-up and no work is all pay. In the parliament you get paid for sleeping and watching porno on smart phones.
Morning was when I asked about the dog’s v -bark . V -bark? That was not any bark but a hollow bark of midnight, with an electric fan whirring above my inside. A matter of atmosphere.
V- bark is not like v -belt but a continuous wail by a v- shaped dog snout.
By the way , v- birds are birds in a painted landscape sky, with two rocks and a date palm with a well-worn pathway along the rocks.
Cars of odd numbers and even numbers to use Delhi roads on alternate days. To halve emissions . The cops will have a tough time watching your behinds.
Some truck behinds warn: O you evil eyed man, may hour face turn black. They also tell you Horn OK Please. Truck behinds have more emissions. It is not OK to horn.
But car behinds have no such warnings. Some cars have “In Jesus We Trust”. But they have emissions nevertheless.
The mountain’s cracked smiles
The sun is piercing the tree . Tree has a rag waving in the air. It might have had a baby in it. The mom may be now bearing bricks on her head elsewhere and the baby swinging by another tree’s breeze.
A baby sun is fiercely swinging on the opposite tree.
On the way back a mountain cracked in smiles. They are probably making houses of the mountain.
Funes the Memorious
A woman is holding on to the iron bars unwittingly . I sit under the neem tree ,with a dog bark tickling my right face. A bald man is waltzing near the iron bars .
Morning after midnight I heard Funes , the Memorious. He was gorgeous pre-blind Borges on a visit to Uruguay. Funes would later fall from his horseback and discover a new phenomenal memory.
He would name each of the numbers up to 21,000 or so and remember to call them by the names.
Was it a bit of needless extrapolation?
I do not believe it is real. But Borges story is itself unreal, partly blind. His books stacked up to the roof and he could read all of them with the minds eye.
But Funes cannot generalise. He cannot capitulate. He has details that do not add up.
If Funes has every detail of every day of his life, what is the problem? If only he can junk them and keep only postulates till postulates are themselves junkworthy.
Funes is concrete. He is stuck with the stone pleats of a lake’s Standing Buddha . The abstract Buddha meditating under the pipal escapes him.
The laughing club guys were swiveling their necks like table fans . They would burst into paroxysms of laughter soon. But they ran short of jokes for laughing.
I think about Seamus Heany and his mother on collaborative potato peeling . The potato peels they did together fell off like little drops of flame from a solder. They were his moments with her.
(“When all the others were away at the Mass” : Sonnet by Seamus Heany”)
The peels made soft plops on their silence . On her death bed the priests prayers went hammer and tongs. They were not his monuments .He remembered her head bent towards his, her breath in his, their fluent dipping never closer the whole rest of their lives.
I take leave of a big bright silver sun behind cool clouds. Somehow he is not gold this morning .
We argued for a neat unified life its spidery dreams enough material for lyrical verse, its terms nature like filigree works of a spider circle hanging by roadside thorn tree ,here and going but expectantly postponed to the returning camera. The argument of a life steeped in pearly lyrics was lost to spider snug in a silky wayside hexagon ,not usual concurrent lyric circles. But geometry is not our concern.
We argued to retain it in return a beauty to capture in the mind not on the dew of camera lyric. The camera turns out its beauty if put off , a fine lyric in making. We gestured acceptance in air. Our hands went up to a sunrise and we would turn a silhouette standing by the spider getting busy at its gathering dew pearls.
Our arguments sound specious always during our morning walks.
Today is a cold day with a gentle breeze touching the trees. A mild sun is up in the trees.
This morning we thought of the continuous half lie we are .In our beginning , outside the cloth cradle was a full lie each time it swung to the wooden beam and returned.
Tomorrow is half lie, an illusion of continued existence .
A half lie is continuous fog . A sea mist in our eyes. Our bodies are a lie about us. A half lie is irony embedded in them for some one’s sarcastic pleasure .
Wise to the clock
From the green bench, after the fall of the almond leaves ,we see men on the track rotating clockwise. Men are wise to their clock.
Death is our shadow ,January to February as the months rotate like men in the park. Soon we will be in February with its own shadows. March must bring snow and wind. There will be new suns in the hills. There will be snows of forgetfulness.
* At the KFC
At the KFC all things are red but some things are red and dead. The walls are red .The chicken is freshly dead. Sometimes it is dressed to be killed . Luckily they do not cross the high street .
Chicken is fresh and red, the color of the wall panels .Like embroidered chicken. Chicken are highly embroidered in cock fights, where they turn red and dead, by each others legs. The knives tied to their legs make fine embroidery of chickens. Red and dead.
In rice their corpses are a fine biryani. The city is famous for its chicken biryani . Not so famous in the chicken population.
* Fresh chicken
The chicken shop in the street corner advertises fresh chicken. Wonder how a dead chicken can be fresh or if it is a bird slaughtered just now, it can only be a fresh carcass. The shop also lists a dressed chicken. All dressed and nowhere to go?