I suppose one of the reasons any of us bothers falling in love at all is that it stops time in its tracks for a bit.

You talk to this person and they fill your world with surplus kindness and you sort of find yourself drawing a deep breath and going "Oh. Oh! So that's how it's supposed to be, to have been..." Your plans, your anxieties don't actually go away of course, but they stand by the road's edge looking in. All at once you're in some previous year or decade in your life, and some box has been checked that you'd forgotten to check off, some knot is undone, some pesky little nagging worry cancelled for good, and you see the world a little differently. All of a sudden there are possibilities. All of a sudden, there is hope, there are things to plan for.

Love is just Surplus Time.

 Prone in bed.

Watch your thoughts pass by:
a convention of the despicable.

I flee the caravanserai,

refuse the flute and its temptations.

(I say 'refuse,' but I am denied, was denied.)

And too old to ask again, too tired.

No matter.

Packed rucksack,

A long trek alone

where the strength of the withering rose

never leaves my body, so long as I keep walking.

Eternity, withered rose petals dry as powder,

Calluses hard as granite.

The wind on my face, the sand in my nostrils...

I only hear the flute again

when it is

time.

Wasting time is not hard work, but it is draining.
Very much so.

Days, then months and years
swim past headaches and itchy eyeballs,
past back pain and so much shame.
Shoot, it's almost the end of this decade
that began with a meltdown and a TED talk,
held promise, fell apart, and that you hope to end

on top of a mountain,
Your head in the clouds.

Regret, a rage for order,
and yes- very important indeed-

you must teach yourself the value of

SILENCE.

NOR'WESTERS

The first summer evening
of the year. I sit where I can catch the breeze
with my cup of tea, watching
the tops of coconut trees, of telephone towers,
also leaves and masses of wire

blush,
make their apologies,
and see themselves out.

It is dark now, and the air fills with temple bells
pealing out in unison, breaking quarantine.
All is well with the world, just as all can be, should be. Hope!

Home and prison, prison and home, collapsing wave functions
now. But my mother! My mother! She is packing her bags,
readying her car. It will be
a long, nervous journey.

Only the housecat- darker yet than any night could match-
looks at me intently, with a cursed, sullen expression.
He has wanted to kill mine, for quite some time.
They have the same cat-lovers.

I don’t stir from my chair, and he stays put.
Gleaming in the dark now, his eyes
dare me to yell ‘SHOO!,’
to hurl a teacup and yell curses in his general direction,
to smash this world this world with its eternal laws
to pieces.

We man our designated corners
of the roof- like snipers, like friends.
Till the neighbours turn their lights on
and Poof! He is nowhere to be seen.
I am tired. It is time for me to walk back home.

I have not forgotten that philosophy is a ruse for masking inner torment.

Ten years. Well, almost. That is how long

it has been. Ten years! Yes, day after day-

three and a half thousand days-

earplugs and a screen have validated my existence.

How can anyone function

without a plug point nearby? The burden of the Self

is too much, Too Much! Without it, without the

titillation and comfort, without PDF, FLV, and MP4,

I am nothing.

It was a gift from my father, a reward

for having disappointed him. Mother

sees through it, through me.

But now, it is no longer a luxury. I cannot function,

order my days, learn or reproduce, pull myself through

this one last time…as I did seven years ago, and should have done

five years ago, four years ago…Damn it, dammit!

Now I can no longer function without it...

Grime accumulates on the keyboard, in me.

Grime, and age, and back pain/neck pain, absolute

despair.

I escape into Cioran, the Moulin Rouge, and a dirtbag philosopher.

So it goes: nostalgia, a vague, constant, gnawing sense of displacement,

and YouTube recommendations.

I have begun to love you
PRECISELY because I am incapable
of falling in love with you.

Colliding with the unknown, matter-antimatter,
the moment of annihilation, yes all that bollocks…
I’m rather a little old for that,
too jaded, perhaps more than a little sceptical.

But you who are called Memory (Memories?)
I have begun to wait for you…
to come in through the window, flap your wings, peck at the seeds
and preen yourself at my study.
I have begun to wait for you, and for that reason,
all the molten clocks have come alive
ticktock ticktock ticktock ticketty-boo, as I sit waiting for you.

Of course, this is mere metaphor-
I cannot step out to meet you,
nor can you,
not now.
But look! One can see the Himalayas now,
icy and majestic,
from as far as Punjab! So I wait for you because
everything-
disappointments, food riots, heartbreak, Hindu and Muslim-
give way to the softness of your fingers.

I wait for you to come, sit beside me, chirp about your day
and fly out the window.
I wait for you because
you are what I know, or perhaps
what I think I know, that which is predictable, familiar.

I wait for you, I wait for you to come
and tell me why this is so, or better yet,
why not.

Here's to a time when
throat unclenched,
snoring deeply and without fear of reproach,
you'll fall asleep in the arms of a Past returned anew.

Make yourself worthy of her,
cherish her, revel in her smooth soft skin Against your skin, her raw youth flooding the mornings,
sweetening your porridge, darkening your coffee.

Here's to a day
when all the clichés come alive
just for you.

Here's to nothing, to Oblivion:
the greatest gift of all.

Here's to strength and courage and patience-
yes, yes, yes, all of that crap, and then some-
so you can climb and climb and
never forget to climb
pointlessly
back to where you were,
Which of course was no one's idea
of a peak.

What then? SERIOUSLY. What then?
Well climb, climb, climb, keep climbing every time you fall-
patiently, relentlessly,
towards some distant point of rest.
A point from which you won't fall immediately into the abyss, bravissimo!
Some distant, worthy, cloud-obscured point
of rest, so plant your
Feet on it.

What then? Breathe deeply, in the fullness of life. Then shoot yourself
cleanly in the head,
Smile...
Om shantih shantih shantih.