Rode the Lightning: Confessions of a Fanboi

(Picture Courtesy: Metallica.com http://www.metallica.com/photo-gallery/oct-30-2011-bangalore-gallery.asp)

Something happened last Sunday. Something that was made of dreams. Something I am going to hold on to for dear life. Some kind of monster, we call "METALLICA!"

Here's my experience:

Also appears on indianrockmp3.com (http://indianrockmp3.com/2011/11/05/gig-review-metallica-in-india/)

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Rode the Lightning: Confessions of a Fanboi

Chances are you went to school and then to college. Chances are you were a rebel without a cause. Chances are you sought refuge in music. Chances are you were (and I really, really hope still are) into heavy metal. Chances are you spoke of (heard of) this band called ‘Metallica’. Chances are you said at least once in your lifetime, “I grew up with Metallica”. Chances…

Well, that is my life, an average ordinary Joe, just like you, him or anybody else. Pushing 30, never too old to once push that tape into the player, then slip that CD into the slot and now, as much as a certain Lars Ulrich might hate, double click on a Metallica mp3 on my computer.

Yes, my journey into the much hated by parents and the straight A peer group world of heavy metal (Well, you stereotype. So fuck you. So shall I!) began the usual way. With a band called ‘Metallica’, with an album famously known as ‘The Black Album’, with a song called…errr…ummm…ok… ‘Nothing Else Matters’.

All the I-Rocks (strictly Rang Bhavan, thank you very much) and the GIRs of the world, all the Sceptres and Brahmas, all the cover heavy days of the late 90s and the early 2000s; I knew that was the closest I could hear a ‘Master of Puppets’ or a ‘The Memory Remains’ live. So tap that 18-year old on his shoulder and tell him, “You will see the actual band who wrote these songs playing these songs in flesh and blood in your own country one day” and I would politely smile back and maybe sigh.

Even 2007 and then 2008 and then 2009, after being in the front row watching my absolute Gods, Iron Maiden (yes, I still refuse to grant the divine status to the band in question), I remember excitedly chatting up with a Maidenhead brother saying, “WHAT IF we see Metallica one day?”

What if then! Fuck yes, now!

So one evening in June 2011, I call up my kid sister and tell her, “Are you too busy this October 30? If not, your birthday gift is a Metallica concert ticket in Bangalore.” The biggest band in heavy metal history was coming to my country for the first time. Laugh, if you may but it was surreal then, it was surreal on Oct 30 and it still remains dreamlike a week later. The biggest band in heavy metal history played in my country for the first time.

October 30, 2011. Palace Grounds, Bangalore, India. I SAW METALLICA LIVE! There, I said it!

This is not a gig review. You don’t review a Metallica gig. You recall the experience.

Land up at Bangalore airport after an hour and a half long flight on October 28 and you are greeted with a text message, “Dude, Delhi gig postponed.” (And you know what happened later). Fantastic! Inevitable doubt – Will Bangalore happen now? We know better now.

Let’s move beyond the beautiful Bangalore weather, cheating auto rickshaw drivers, insane dosas, excessive beerage, magnificent Kryptos-Bevar Sea-Dying Embrace gig, shall we? It is Sunday morning. The Delhi fiasco has been discussed to death, breakfast has been excitedly had, Metallica t-shirts in your backpack have been carefully avoided, passes have been double checked, “Dude, Bangalore is happening?, Yes, Bangalore is happening” has been done. It is a fine day to be alive.

With family and friends, I arrived fashionably late at Palace Grounds. To avoid the initial eager crowd, we thought. And with the sea of people we were greeted by, we knew we weren’t wise enough. Bangalore was no longer a city of strangers. You recognised faces, you didn’t recognise them; it was immaterial. You flashed the Devil’s Horn to everybody. You screamed if you could, “METALLICAAAAA!!!!” as you waited for the gates to open.

I gave the opening bands a miss. I hope Inner Sanctum and Guillotine won’t hold that against me. I couldn’t give Biffy Clyro a miss. I hope I will hold that against me.

Braving the rain, bullying the security and walking in proud with my backpack (DNA! DNA! DNA! *shakes head*), I am there among each one of you lucky 29,000 people waiting.

A long wait between 7pm – 8pm and then finally on a huge screen, I see Tuco running through the graveyard searching for gold as I hear ‘The Ecstasy of Gold’. This is it! I am being born again. My eyes are probably even welled up.

And then bang! The opening riff of ‘Creeping Death’. Yes, now there is a tear that rolls down. I AM WATCHING METALLICA LIVE! The head is going to snap off and fall. The fist up in the air, refuses to come down. “Die, by my hand….”

It has just begun. Creeping Death ends and immediately Lars thunders and so does the sky. ‘For Whom the Bell Tolls’ now. Then ‘Fuel’. Then shoot-me-fucking-dead ‘Ride the Lightning’, ‘Fade to Black’, ‘Cyanide’…. What a setlist! What a fucking awesome setlist (I could live without the Death Magnetic songs though. Maybe ‘The Day That Never Comes’ would have been fabulous)!

People around me going berserk, genuine fans, fake fans, know lyrics, don’t know lyrics, no one cares. Every man for himself here.

I have always enjoyed watching concerts feeling one with the crowd. That moment came with ‘The Memory Remains’. We all sang in unison, we all sang terribly. “Na-na-na-naa na-na-na na-na-na-na-naa…” Marianne Faithfull be damned!

I heard ‘(Welcome Home) Sanitarium’. The one line in the song summed up my existence through a college life I hated – ‘Leave Me Be’. Then ‘Sad But True’, ‘All Nightmare Long’ and the beyond magnificent and classic ‘One’. I think I really, really wanted to die and freeze it all when ‘Master of Puppets’ began. My most favourite, MOST FAVOURITE guitar solo and all your ‘100 Best Guitar Solos’ lists could go to hell. Once more, we all sang with Kirk Hammett and James Hetfield and their guitars. Once more, that insane feeling of brotherhood only and only heavy metal provides!

Climaxed? Not yet. It was back to …And Justice For All when Hetfield broke into ‘Blackened’. Sweet Mother of God, the pyro! Ok chill now….but bring those lighters out. It is ‘Nothing Else Matters’ time. No, nothing fucking else matters!

And just before the first tease, the opening song on The Black Album…. ‘Enter Sandman’. By now, I can’t see anything onstage. Just heads and thousands of them, I see screaming, banging. I have to completely depend on the screen. Aunty in front of me is tired of trying to climb up her husband’s shoulder and me yelling at her to behave herself.

Then those four men onstage leave. They do. And we beg and plead for more. They return. Encore act! Tribute to Diamond Head. ‘Am I Evil?’ Yes I am!

Yes, we had a broad idea of the set list after Abu Dhabi but then came a surprise…. ‘Battery’. I am running short of interjections and exclamatory marks here. I don’t care anymore. Every Metallica song I cared about, well almost every (‘Turn the Page’, ‘Outlaw Torn’, ‘The Four Horsemen’ and ‘My Friend of Misery’ would have improved perfection), I heard live till the madness came to a close with ‘Seek and Destroy’. Sought! Destroyed! Done!

It is almost 10-30. Two-and-a-half-hour of being in heavy metal heaven has been ensured. I am tired. I am beyond happy. The band takes a bow, thanks the crowd. We thank them back. We thank you in all sincerity James Hetfield, Lars Ulrich, Kirk Hammett and Robert Trujillo for this evening. We thank you Cliff Burton, Ron McGovney, Dave Mustaine, Jason Newsted for helping build this monster. This monster lives!

With Ulrich promising to be back soon, we once again believe. Just how we believed Bruce Dickinson when he promised the same in 2007 and the man kept his word.

Argue that Ulrich probably doesn’t pack in the same punch with his drums (showed most on Battery). That Hetfield tries a bit too hard to bring back that raw energy to his voice. Or maybe Hammett’s shredding isn’t what it used to be. (Say nothing about Trujillo because that man is probably the best thing to happen to Metallica ever since Mustaine left, and is pure powerhouse.)

But this was much more than any of that. This was for a larger cause….to experience Metallica. And that by God, we did!

As the evening sunk in and I left, I knew what I witnessed was more than just a concert, it was more than just another day in my life. On October 30, 2011 chances are….lives changed!

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All things Metalllica. Period!

Lights Out!

blink blink blink.

sunrise sunset sunrise.

one day second third.

new day?

same same same!

hurt defeat boredom.

pain pain pain.

I stare into you.

blank.

I peep into the cavity

that is I.

dark damp cobwebbed.

how are you and I

then different?

how are you not ugly?

how do I stink?

a scent

beautiful, seducing

factory made.

you offer, I deny.

you laugh and say

"fool, this is how I am different."

no, say I.

you are sunrise

sunset I am. am I?

we both have the sun....

...or maybe I have the night.

"no," say you.

"you Also have the night."

maybe that makes me

different.

different but invisible.

invisible to you, to them.

invisible and ignored.

A gift, a clap of thunder

on a sunny day.

maybe they will not

ignore me

for a moment.

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All nights dark and Biprorshee

Delhi Belly Ki Maa Ka Bhosda!

Yes, Delhi Belly ki Maa ka Bhosda! Oh, offended, are you? Didn't I tickle your funny bone? No? You will not laugh hysterically? Even if I use crude Hindi to suggest that my posterior is being split into two or tell you in all graphic glory how my faeces look like? You would at least chuckle if I let one rip, won't you please?

No? Wait! You are throwing the world's 'ewwwwws' and disgusted looks at me?

I'm aghast. On Saturday though you wouldn't stop laughing at these very things when Abhinav Deo and Aamir Khan told you that it is funny or at least implied it is.

Seriously, what did I miss?

At the very onset, let me say this is not a film review. I am not qualified to do that. And I am very sure, by now you have your own 4.96418733333/5 stars for Delhi Belly.

This is about a question I need to ask. And you are free to question my intellect, sanity, of course perspective and you are free to be judgmental.

Question? Yes! When did cuss words and reference to human waste become funny? No, do not give me that 'situational' bullshit -- "Oh! But in that situation, it was funny." No, it wasn't.

There are millions of videos on YouTube that show off a "swearing baby", "baby saying fuck", "cute baby farting" and gazillion comments that scream, "Awwwwwwwwww...."

How old were Imran Khan, Vir Das (why does that dude even bother?) and Kuna(a)l Roy Kapur in the movie again?

Seriously, are you going to give me the "Oh-the-movie-kept-it-real" crap now? Am I the only person who thinks it is NOT real and is a bit abnormal for swear words being thrown around like that? No, you do not know what a truck driver's vocabulary I have, so don't get there. I have learnt my Hindi in one of the most crude belts of the country and words/phrases such as "bhenchod" and "teri maa ki chut" were as elementary as the school I went to those days.

You think it is normal and "real" for every second word in a sentence to be "chutiya" or "bhenchod"? You do that? I don't think so.

Well ok, let's say you do consider it normal. If it's normal why are you laughing then? Are you laughing with that whole "Hawwww...dekho gaali diya" thingie on your mind? Then you sure sported a fake ID proof when you went to the movies to enjoy Delhi Belly.

And of course, "crappy" jokes never cease to be funny, does it?

Is it just me who smells a rat behind the swear and shit? Is it just me who thinks that the film makers knew that the plot was weak and the movie had to be sold hyping the profanity and a sex scene that was really much ado about nothing. (Seriously, if that is the hoopla you are going to create about your female lead's pussy being licked, I want to see and hear more than just her moan and groan!)

Does nobody see that there was nothing new about the plot? Does nobody think Guy Ritchie and Snatch? Does nobody find it weird that we are not really laughing at jokes and gags anymore but stuff we wouldn't give two fucks about otherwise in real life?

I have groaned enough thinking when would Bollywood stop paying its unwarranted and terrible tributes to Coppola and The Godfather. I think a new God has been found in Guy Ritchie. At least be worth his style when you copy.

I believe Aamir Khan when he said he never saw Memento. Christopher Nolan would too if he saw the disaster that was called Ghajini. So I'll also believe if anybody makes the Ritchie reference and Khan and his team decide to deny the existence of the film maker.


Take a flying fuck, Aamir Khan and Abhinav Deo and next time you or anybody want to feed me with shit....chal bhagg, bhosdi ke!



Almost forgot...gave you cuss words, potty reference, here's titillating eye candy. At least, now laugh!









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All things chutiyapa and Biprorshee

A Man Was Murdered Three Days Ago....

Guns, murder, crime have always fascinated me. Rather morbid but yes, they have. I have loved reading about special reports on the 'underworld', the dons' life, murder conspiracies and some such. My favourite movies have been flicks like The Usual Suspects, Reservoir Dogs, Scarface, of course, The Godfather and blah.
And inevitably has remained my fascination for crime reporters! Why, in my journey to become a 'journalist', did I not take the turn to the crime beat, beats me. Seriously! The high point in my career as a journalist writing on finance and later, advertising and media? Covering (Ok! Let us be a bit honest here, 'being there') (in the thick of things of) the 2008 Mumbai Terror Attacks (I did file a couple of stories from Ground Zero, ok?).
Looking around there were my seniors in college writing for the broadsheets and the tabloids covering the crime beat. Looking around there were my classmates cancelling Friday night plans because they had to rush to a crime scene. Looking around there were 'journalists' who were wearing out their soles on the dirty streets. Looking around there were these two men -- Hussain Zaidi and J Dey. And only one remains today!
J Dey, and I confess I did not know it was 'Jyotirmoy Dey' for a long time, was shot dead on Saturday afternoon in a busy neighbourhood in Mumbai. Insensitively, I will say, a just death! If I were to know that Dey had succumbed to a kidney failure in some local hospital, somewhere I would think that it wasn't the end he deserved. I mean seriously, you could get all poetic here and probably write a tragic ballad on guns, goons and J Dey's art.
Dey wrote the best movies I read on print!
For example, Sorry Apoorva Lakhia, your pathetic excuse for a film called 'Shootout At Lokhandwala' just told me that Vivek Oberoi is a joker. J Dey gave me the real Dilip Buwa and Maya Dolas with his stories.
But this isn't a tribute to Dey. I am tempted to show my respect for Zaidi too here but in this country of mine, it is the dead man who is the hero. For how long? Days? Maybe months.
No, this isn't about a tribute to a much respected crime reporter. This isn't about condemning the murder. This isn't about being a part of the fraternity and being one in outrage.
This is about questioning, the fundamental job of a journalist as we were told in media schools. While you question the government, the law; I question you! And dare to suggest that maybe your question is wrong. I beg of you to stop the circus. Maybe even tell you that as a journalist, my job might not be to question the administration and find faults every time.
This is about my absolute hatred for segregation. You protest and demand a law to protect journalists? Why? Why not a law to protect the common man? You demand for answers and for the authority to grab the miscreants by their collar within days? Did you ask for similar results when the old lady in your neighbourhood had her throat slit by a couple of rogues who wanted her money? Your patience is of epic nature then.
This is about my absolute hatred for screaming but not voicing out. What do your candlelight vigils translate into? Post the terror attacks, there was one. Post the terror attacks, there were questions once again thrown at the administration. Post the terror attacks, the turnout for the election thereafter was worse than dismal.
Sadly, your questions each time are just rhetorical!
Quit waving the journalism flag when you don't see yourself bringing a change. Quit waving the journalism flag when you don't see yourself being the common man first. It is a murder investigation. It has been only 3 days. It takes time, right? So what if a journalist was killed? Condemn the fact that a man was killed in broad daylight.
Protest the J Dey murder today and go get your beer later tonight. Return to work the next morning and demand answers to your questions, make a noise. Somewhere you want the administration to be ineffective and callous because that would give you another story for the day. Somewhere you want your leaders to fail to fire your "revolution". Somewhere I don't want to be a part of your family anymore.

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All things question, Biprorshee questions things

The Jester

My head hurts.
Going round and round in circles,
it spins.

I just described an entire nightmare
in two sentences.
To you.
Did you realise?
Did you care?

Stepping out of the circus
of sand,
I am so small against
how I see you to be.
I am tiny
and you intimidate.
I am puny
and you laugh.

Such might.
Such bravado.

I step back.

I bury my head
in the sand.
And shut my eyes.
I dream!

You eat
me.


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All things entertain like Biprorshee

Death, do be proud!

Death,

I am kinda humbled.

A little jittery

with a faint smile

and a shocked emoticon!

For you came knocking.

You rang the doorbell

and like an impish child,

ran away before I could answer.

You dirty tease!

I know where this is coming from.

I've teased you enough too;

mocked and poked.

And you never listened.

But you did hear.

I know now.

A slight pinch to say

"Preview of upcoming attraction, kiddo"!!!

Charmed! Thanks.

Saved! Thanks.

Still breathing! Almost thanks.

Next time, give me prior notice.

Got some packing to do.

And when you do knock

don't run away.

Wait, and let us flee together!

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All things immortal and Biprorshee

Anaesthesia

Layers!
One above the other.
Stacking it all up.
Very heavy within!

And it lessens the load.
Trust me, it does.
You forget the pain
that is at the bottom of the pile.
What is on top does not matter,
as yet!

By the time it does,
it too shall have
a heavy load to bear.

My fine remedy.
Guess even pain
can't stand pain.

Only fair then
that I can't bear
myself!

Imaginary foes
help me live.
I talk to them
in my head.
Imaginary foes
help me hurt.

Press.
Harder!
You'll know what I'm talking about.

Squeeze.
Watch it flow.
Paint all crimson.
Eyes, skin, soul, the works.

Lose consciousness.
Fall.
Sleep.
There shall soon be no pain.
Anymore!
And you and I shall sleepwalk.


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All things painful and Biprorshee

Lunch

Worms wriggle
in my head.
Dance an ugly song
in my head.
Why?
I don't know or
maybe I do.

Maybe I gave them life.

Of course I did.
I wanted them
to be there,
didn't I?
I wanted them to feast
on what they could find,
didn't I?
They found my thoughts.
Eat! Eat! Eat!

What is that music
they dance to?

I can't hear.
I am deaf!
I can't sing.
I am dumb!
I can see
the nightmare.
I am not blind!

What a gift!
Happy happy!

With my hands tied
to a chair.
And my legs bound.
They eat and they
force feed
me.

Feed me my brain.
Adulterated.
Made bitter.
Eat, with love!

Tomorrow?
Yes!
Why?
Is your life over,
fool?...
...Suffer more!


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All things corrupt and Biprorshee

To Love You Less...

To stand outside and look at you
is not something I can do too well.
It becomes easy to be judgemental
and call you names
but it is not something I can do too well.

I can point out your flaws.
Being on the other side,
I can be spotless.
Not attempting to break the glass
lest it breaks my fairy tale self.
But it is not something I can do too well.

You will seem ugly to me.
Through the transparent mirror
that is not honest;
as it lies, with you as my reflection.
Of course it lies.
I am not ugly!
The mirror shows the dirt in you
that I must see.
But it is not something I can do too well.

I can be at peace.
I can be comfortable.
I can say that it is all your fault.
I can call it your monster
and not mine.
But it is not something I can do too well.

I can scream
and thrash.
And watch a tear fall down your face.
As it does, I can smile.
And free myself of guilt.
But it is not something I can do too well.

I can take my pain and put it away.
Own yours and hurt.
I can love you too
but it is not something I can do too well.


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All things useless like Biprorshee

Welcome Freddy!

Since when did I begin to deal with nightmares?
Not my area of expertise, I always thought.
It was yours;
as you told me how you couldn't sleep;
as you told me how you couldn't dare.
When did I begin to show such courage?

It was ok, I think, when I was an insomniac.
I slept so little; I confused scary dreams.
I slept so little; the alarms broke.

Now, I sleep early.
I think of healthy habits.
And I dream of the worst addictions.
I wake screaming
or maybe wanting to scream.
I have no voice to shout.
I could cry but not out loud.
I would still call it
'To wake up screaming'.

And there's no one around.
Drenched in sweat and there's no one around.
Just black. Just dark. Just a buzz.
You know what I am talking about?
Did this happen to you?
Spooked...Screamed...Black?
Spooked...Screamed...Black!

I was better off not sleeping.
I was better off unhealthy.
I am not healthy.
I am scared.
I don't want to
sleep.


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All fear awake and Biprorshee

A moo-ing and a moo-stache!

Someone loves someone else a bit too much and puts it down in words that transcends all that is beautiful and/or could be called so. Here's to a love that can't be defined, a friendship that seems to have the life of a Phoenix. Here's to how beautiful life should actually be. Here's to you, here's to me!

P.S.: You are a much much better writer and a human being than I can ever be. Don't ever argue after this.

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Remember that boring evening at work? You stuck in your office, me in mine? And that sudden coffee plan? Barista at 8. See you there.

Should have known then what a bundle of lateness you are. I finished reading a two whole chapters of my book before you walked through that door, bag in tow, hair swishing. "Sorry Moodles. Got stuck."

"It's ok, I say," smiling. One really can't be mad at you, can one?

We spoke that evening. A lot. Chatter chatter. About what? Nothing of consequence. Work. Colleagues. Gossip about cabbages and kings. And did we wonder whether pigs have wings? We must have.

Coffee. That's how it always starts. Why didn't we do more coffee trips when I was around? Oh yes, it's always been work.

Never mind that now.

Fate made me move to a different city. You were heartbroken at seeing me go. I, at leaving you behind. Should I have packed you in that suitcase like I'd planned? I should have when I'd the chance. See? I'm not always impulsive.

I promised never to lose sight of you. I promised I'd be there. I promised to do all I could, to stop you from hurting. Wishing I could have all of your pain. Friends? We were beyond that years ago. Soon, you became my son. Me, your overprotective mommy. "Sleep. Get some rest. Eat on time. Don't smoke so much," and all that. Did it bother you? I hope not.

Being your mother, a full time job I loved. I wanted to envelope you in my love. Protect you from the big, bad world. A mother fawning over her little baby. Apart from the fact that I didn't give birth to you, all the motherly instincts were there. I felt normal. I felt like a woman. Responsible for her cub, shielding you from the eyes of the world. Fiercely protective. You were just mine.

Maybe I overdid that bit, in hindsight. Somewhere, I lost the plot. You were not my son, I, not your mother. Happy realisation. Too late. You were not mine for keeps. I had no right to be jealous. I had no right to keep you chained.

But all I did was want to see you happy. All I ever wanted was to grow old together. With you. Live in that palatial house by the sea, which you'd sell your kidney to buy for me. That's ok. About the kidneys, I mean. That's what two kidneys are for. And no, no dog named Gaffurbhai would run in the passages of our home. Shh. No arguments. My word is the law. Because mother knows best.

So what happened? We lived together, we loved together. Sometimes each other. Sometimes other people. But we loved. And we laughed. And sobbed. And hugged. And we sang. And we cheered. Life was good. I had you. And you had me, or so I thought.

Why the past tense now? Why the end, when the beginning seems like just yesterday? Where did time lose us? Where did we lose time? Where did we lose ourselves? Where did I lose you?

I don't know you anymore. And much as I'd like you to, you don't know me. We stopped being a team. When? And when did the tears replace the laughter? Over and over? Why didn't I ever notice?

I was busy. Chasing my dreams. Making new acquaintances. In a different part of the world. You were there. Was I there for you? I now doubt. Like I now doubt everything else. Love, friendship, top that list.

You're gone. And there's nothing I can do about it. 'We' died a pernicious, cancerous death. And now all that's left behind? A black hole. Where happiness goes in, never comes back out. Seeped in. Sucked in. We died a gory death.

This is not the death I ordered, God. Wait, I never ordered one. Trust you to mess up, as always, you interfering pile of trouble.

A cup of coffee stares at me now. Half drunk. It has unfinished business. Coffee. That's how it always starts. But it can end in two ways, mind you. One, you drink it all up. Feel happy. Refreshed.

Or, two, you pour away its cold, forgotten remains. Then you wonder. How would you have felt if you hadn't forgotten to consume it?

And the coffee on my table? I forgot to finish it. Left it behind. The warmth is now gone. What remains behind is a sad, watery, sickening taste of caffeine.

I get up. Pour it away. Watch its remains flow down the sink. With the other hand, I wipe a silent tear that forces its way out of my eye.

Goodbye, my son.

I love you.

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All love bovine and Biprorshee

Yesterday Song

Sing me a song, will you?
About yesterday.
About yesterday of colours
and laughter.

Sing me a song and remind me
of me.
Of me that was,
and alive.

Tell me all because I don't forget.
I don't want to.
Tell me and sing me sweet
for it is all that will be
cherished and hated.

Tell me all about the joy
when I impregnated life.
When I fathered my first born,
cradled her and then
flung her to her death.
Leave that memory out!

In words, I live.
Only in words hence, I beg
for you to sing to me.

Sing to me again
in pure velvet.
Sing to me again.
Intoxicate!
Stupefy!
Thrill!

Talk to me again.
Violate and trespass.
Talk to me again.
Love!


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All Biprorshee remembered

The Good Student

My God, I learn!
Very slowly but I try.
Very slowly but I do.

This change of air;
stranger land, different faces
welcome,
smile,
accept,
don't accept,
ignore,
teach.

Teach resilience.
Teach patience.
Teach pain.
Teach strength.
Teach life.

Stranger land, you'll never be mine.
Stranger land, I can touch you.
Stranger land, I can't hold.
Stranger land, I can't make love to you.
Stranger land, I can admire.
Stranger land, little you speak.
Stranger land, lot you say.

Slap me across the face
and kiss my black lips.
Bitter lessons are made
of these.
Sweet dreams are too.

Home shall come
in due course of time.
I shall be banished
to the warmth of mother.
With a vinegar tongue
I shall talk
of a mistress I have,
of a mistress I don't,
of a mistress I show off!

But I shall learn a bit more.
Some strength
I will fake.
The strength
that later will take shape too.

My God, I learn.
My God, I love
what is not mine,
what will never be,
what still shall seduce,
and vanish like a mirage.


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All things teach Biprorshee

About A Love Song...

I sing
a song and not of sixpence.
I sing
a song of joy.
Of a heart brimming with love.
Of love pouring over.
I sing
a love song.

About the rush to reach where you are,
about your sighs, threats and disgust
and about coffee bars and liquor stores.

About tiny fingers, messy hair and car rides,
about brownies, more coffee and English grammar
and about other love songs.

About hurt, tears and hugs,
about separation, rejection and kissed eyes
and about turning around and not looking back.

About you, about me, about us,
about him, and him and them
and about a feeling inexplicable.

I sing a song.
A love song,
a hate song.

I sing
when the hurt
gets unbearable.
I sing
with a failed voice.
I sing, I wail
all to bury the pain with dirt!

---
All feelings musical, all pain Biprorshee

Will Die!

Why do things rot
slowly?

Seems like God too loves a slow death.
The sadist immortal.
Poking, punishing and laughing.

I, a snake
without fangs without venom.
It is funny!
It is funny when you Almighty
who can't stop beaming being all powerful
won't let me bite.

What's the deal?
You, the snake charmer
don't charm me at all.
And I still am to dance,
dance to your designed cacophony
Laugh when you poke,
pretend to be tickled.

I am to decompose gradually too.
Wasted of everything I own.
It's funny!
It's funny because You say nothing is mine.
You say, you are the Absentee Landlord
claiming rent for this life.

I, a tenant
can't leave this house.
I, the tenant
can only complain
and You shall demand a higher rent,
and the lease shall never end.

Replenish You shall not.
To corrode I live.
This life, a placebo!

---
All things die quicker than Biprorshee

Up here Down there

A spirit

High

A spirit

Soiled

A spirit

in a dirty glass

A spirit

Broken...Sharp!

A spirit

Gold

A spirit

Black

A spirit

Bitter

A spirit

Heavy

A spirit

Large

A spirit

Shallow

A heart

Charred

A soul

Sentenced

A spirit

Illegitimate

A spirit

Cheap

---

All things high like Biprorshee

Substance....Abuse!

Little

I learn.

Slowly

I know.

Walking away from joy

is what keeps me alive.

Pinching the skin,

piercing the heart,

hurting you,

punishing me

has brought me home.

You are my strange drug.

You get me high

staying away.

I am not to breathe you.

I am not to keep you.

A roll call.

I am to mark you absent.

Everyday.

Call out your name.

Everyday.

And know you're not there.

And float in the trip

taking thrills in the distance.

Breathing the smell

of a burnt bridge.

The fumes numb me.

Then quickly thrash

forgetting its anesthetic role.

It then has to singe me

from within.

Cook me on a slow flame,

blacken a blackened soul

to make it ugly and inedible.

You are such a strange drug!

You are such a strange addiction!

You are the most heinous pain,

I love!

Don't ever hold my hand

I must know you not.

I must love you much.

My little fat darling...

I must hate you.

Not!

---

All things you; you who kills Biprorshee

Jerk King!

Yes, do that and do it well.
You're good at it.
Pretty damn good!
Self gratification you must,
self gratification you're left with.

Jump off the cliff!
They won't save you.
Jump off the cliff,
you'd still land on hay.

It is a strange joke
that you'll fall for each time.
It is a dastardly joke
that does not stop being funny
to everyone but you.

Just as well!
You laughed too, remember?
When they slipped and fell?
You pointed and laughed.
They didn't find it funny then
but they need some kicks too.
It is just fair.

When they call you weak
they are true.
When you lie about your might
you are true.
They can choose to believe you or not.

You're not to call the shots.
Nothing is for you to decide.
Wallow in self pity.
Write cheesy poems.
Masturbate.
Pre mature ejaculation
is your pre mature joy.
The rot is your gift.
The garbage food.

Question but not them.
Complain but in silence.

Death shall not embrace.
Pariah to life, you shall remain.

You bastard!

---
All things hate you, Biprorshee

Cheater Cock!

What tomorrow promised

was far from what it delivered.

What tomorrow promised,

yesterday had a good laugh at.

A few dozen incomplete songs

that couldn't be sung.

The melody never came.

The meter never perfect.

The lyrics bereft of honesty.

The voice always choked.

Some letters never written

or signed with 'With Love'...

The nib always broken.

The words always blank.

The language vile and cryptic.

Address unknown.

Some journeys planned bad

and left abandoned.

Routes almost always wrong.

Directions never understood.

Stars that were far from guiding.

Destination anywhere.

What tomorrow promised,

what tomorrow brought.

Whom tomorrow loved

I could never be!

---

All things far from Biprorshee

Happy?

Just a line
and a rainbow I am promised.
One by one they appear.
All I've known, all I've loved,
they are seven colours.

They play
hide and seek now.
They laugh
and pounce on me.
A blast
that tickles.
Then a scream, they mistake
for laughter.
An expression they think
ensures good health.
An irony,
a cancer.

The seven still play.
The seven still laugh.
Oblivious.
Ignorant.
Superficial.
Loud.
Chaotic.
Then they hurt!
All I've known, all I've loved?
They hurt
and turn away.

Slowly, they fade.
My colours unite.
All I've known, all I've loved.
My seven turn black.

And then I laugh...
to bring them back...
to beg for mercy...
to long for company...

"Come back, please."

"Remember the line,
remember the line!"

It is a process
for white to turn seven to turn black.
Welcome.
Accept.
Love.
All I've known, all I've loved.
Geometry will facilitate kaleidoscope.

All I've known, all I've loved
will return.
A mirage.
Touch, I shall not;
feel, I shall.
Hope, I shall not;
remember, I shall.

All of seven return.

I, a child
clap in glee.
The seven now dance
in a blissful frenzy.
Seducing.
Inviting.
The orgy starts.
Making love
with a vengeance.
Cursing.
Screaming.

And then the colours explode
again.
All that I've known, all that I've loved
continue to dance.

I embrace this insanity.
I promise to return
to this brothel.
Where, just a line
And a rainbow I buy.


---
All things BRIGHT and Biprorshee