Friday, January 04, 2008

Acta est fabula

The warriors swung their great axes
Till one found its mark, blushing murderous red
Draping the fourth wall with a curtain of villanous blood,
Saw its wielder, his beloved wed

And as the scant crowd dispersed,
The quick and the dead rose to clear the stage
Each washing the play paints from his visage
Joined his mate - to another opera

But the clown sat in stupid trance
For he had worn his mask too long, its colours mixing
With his face till he could tell neither apart,
His living soul from the dead world ill fitting
Into his corpse from the land of the living

Even as he hunched in the empty stage corner
Tears awash his laughing face,
The last of the yellow play lights dimmed
Leaving him acting into the dark

Thursday, December 27, 2007

Break out

The mountain of stone sat
Crushing my groaning back
As my sinews cried in craze
To carry it up the rockface
Like Tantalus of old

Suddenly sense hit me by luck
I threw down my charge shouting "What the fuck!"
And jumped away like a buck
Into thin air

Friday, September 28, 2007


The present


The children in labour toil, one climbing
The other's shoulders to the pot of promise
And the tallest smashes it in laughing glee to spray
A rain of waking asps on the merry party

Waking


When the wind whispers past silence's sieves
and the heart smiles in content sleep
When stars do burdens lighten
And naught but love the mind believes
Shall come the strains of lament
As the makers violins weep - in coda

With a flash of searing fire shall the sword of truth be drawn
from the velvet scabbard of lies and guise
Its jagged rust biting deep the ripe womb of dream
And the strangled mouth of the unborn babe
Pay its tribute in blood and tears
To the waking cold...

Thursday, September 20, 2007

Blindness

And I know my sight is lost
For I see the dying world
That the newly blind inherit
Fading into the grey of memories
As the eye turns around to see
The twilight of the darkening mind

Saturday, August 04, 2007

The Wanderer

I fight a losing battle
With those globes of yellow light
lining the night crawling with human flood,
A maddening tangle of hopes, sweat and blood
Alas they are far nearer, and perhaps more bright

Skimming over the windows, shuttered and barred
Is an exertion of little hope
For within, eyes are locked and thoughts jarred,
With fears of the uncertain morrow

It has been the same for quite some time,
This welcome of deafening pantomime
The players in their roles sunk too deep
To recall their lines (or theme) as first ordained

When was the night when hearts last pried,
met under my grace and in joy cried
When the quenchless thirst of the poets heart
drank me and sang beauty's refrain
When my might seeped in wolverine veins
in reinless madness to terror wreck

But all that is an echo from distant past
A taste of kingship not destined to last
What use be - the endless cadence of the heart
If immortality become at last decadent art

But when I in darkness am bereft of hope
with naught but ignominy to elope,
A gentle voice calls me from the shades
Like falling dew from newsprung blades

And so, in those loving pools of the child's gaze
at my forgotten light in chaste amaze
Warmth I found, for my soul to thaw
To hope, to rest, to live and delight
For not the sceptres of kings may try
With the sheer flood of love attempt to vie

Hope is not lost

Thursday, May 03, 2007

Reflections on Dracula:

When one hears (as he frequently does) about that sports star who passed away in the poorhouse, or of the much married and much laid heroine who was bitten to death by a rabid pig (which she was trying to seduce), he is inevitably enveloped by a sense of melancholy. It is very well when the mob tastefully tears the tyrant down from the throne and hangs him from a banyan tree, but the slow decay of ignorage of even the worst tyrant reminds me of the time when I was forced to eat a bowl of overripe and pungent papaya. And when something reminds me of that fateful bowl of fruit, there is no choice but to utterly take the issue into pieces till it can no longer be pieced back intelligibly.

Speaking of ignorage and fading away, the only decadence that is even more depressing than that of a hero is that of a villain. Villains are supposed to die murdered by the marauding heroes – either through the sword’s point as in good old tales or shrieking napalmed in modern commando movies. No villain should ever die of rheumatism and liver disorders in extreme old age in an abandoned warehouse. It simply isn’t fair. But that is precisely what is happening. And the unfortunate devil I am going to talk about is none other than Count Dracula.

One first needs to understand the motivation behind construction of villains in general. The society identifies those threats that are the most fearful to it, and personifies them all under one gory head. Thus, the American scourge 400 years ago, was symbolized by the British admiral (in striped shorts and sporting a patriotic moustache), and at present is the rational man who irrationally argues that all countries are equal.

The construction of Dracula took place at a time when, thanks to a lack of blood banks and anesthesia, blood was at a premium. On a more serious note, the church was upto some serious consolidation and its marketing department probably decided that “Motivation by goal setting” was the best payoff tactic – the goal being saving your life by running from a bloodsucking nightmare of wings, fangs and bad breath. So this terrible creature who perhaps first coined the phrase “blood is thicker than water” was spawned to haunt poor Transylvanian farmers and run away from silver stakes, holy water, werewolves and Van Helsing. However, now blood has been long replaced by brandy and beer in vitality, and Dracula is grossly out of shape. If Dracula subscribed to Darwinism, he would have evolved into an alcohol guzzling monster who haunted breweries and made off with heavy booty. However, villains are involved only in Satan worship instead of Darwinism, so the sad tale of the Count’s decadence.

Since I have some experience in consulting, I would like to start in the typical consulting jargon with the problem of my client (yes, I have adopted him) and run a SWOT analysis. However, on some thought there is nothing to be filled under the Strengths head, unless you count overgrown canines and an ageing harem of 1000 year old brides. On quick summary and stocktaking, one can arrive at the following principal reasons why it sucks to be Dracula today.

1 – Dracula’s traditional strengths have been threatening people by putting the bite on them, a pair of impressive wings and an unrivalled ability to party all night. Looking at the above today, they are either useless or commonplace. The popularity of garlic cheese and onion guarantee that Dracula can come no nearer than a couple of metres from any prospective victim. And given the congestion rates around the place, he would be barely be able to use the wings, and even if he did, would most probably be stuck up in some electric poles. For the record, he has been admitted in hospital thrice after being shot down – twice by boys with airguns who thought he was a bloated turkey and once by a stinger missile from Islamic terrorists.

2 – The only possible competence that could have put Dracula in a profitable position today was his ownership of sprawling estates in Transylvania. Unfortunately, unaware of this real estate boom, he was asleep in his coffin for more than 300 years, only to be rudely woken up by some workmen who were clearing the land for a drilling rig of Gazprom, which had taken over his lands after a deal with the local governor in a bar. Perhaps for the first time in his life, Dracula regretted putting the bite on the land registrar who had come to survey his estate for preparing the ownership deeds 400 years ago.

3 – The question of his unsustainable diet has been a growing worry for the Count. In addition to his woes, he contracted syphilis and gonhorrea from the three people he bit in hunger, literally accentuating the “bad blood” between him and the rest of civilization. These infections also resulted in uneventful nights for the Count, with his brides refusing to cooperate for the needful. His contacts with Satan proved to be to his undoing when he could not enter a church for getting the free food served there to the destitute and the homeless.

Five years ago, Dracula sold his family antiques and carpets (which were rumored to have been bought by George Bush on Ebay) and with the cash he had, hired McKinsey to consult for him on possible future moves. At the end of the four month long project, he was left with a terrible headache and an invoice for twice his asset worth - resulting in his bankruptcy. Dracula now is put up in a budget lodge in the outskirts of his erstwhile estate, the rent for which he manages to pay by working as a construction worker (for Gazprom) at nights.

There is much to be learnt from the decay of this great personality. All those aspiring for immortality would do well to have a one on one conversation with Dracula (it costs only 20 cents) to be enlightened on the futility of living forever when you have been outraced hopelessly by the changing times.

As for Dracula himself, the future remains unclear. His short term potential is to continue working as a construction worker, where his wall climbing and flying skills are much valued. Given that his ugliness and pride stop him from participating in the traveling Gemini circus as an attraction, there is little else left to do, except perhaps hope that a werewolf breaks out from the Hollywood studios and has enough appetite to bite him.

This tale of decadence has a powerful message to the society that constantly churns out ill equipped demons. Given that there is so much talked about social responsibility, let us think twice before creating immortal creatures of horror to haunt our imagination for a few years and then fade out of fashion.

But perhaps, on a philosophical note, the mob will never change, and maybe these fears will come in a cycle again, as most fashions do. In that case Dracula shall go to hibernation again (in a borrowed coffin) and wake up centuries later when people dread his name again. He shall then proclaim his ancestry (after a shave) from the rooftops, and the mobs will flee in dread. With a burst of wings he shall take flight, and shadow the moon.

But again perhaps, he may just lie in a garbage yard, decompose and become WD-40 engine oil after another half a million years of fossilization, only to be disturbed by Gazprom again. Shit happens, you know…