[tamil] Somewhere out there someone may know what I mean

[aseervaatham Iruthayam <aseervaatham@excite.com>]

Travelling in opposite directions 

I am pretty old to be romantic and virile- 
to my wife, 
unlike a male version of a luring queen bee 
in a newly settled honeycomb. 

To my mother, I am 
a laterally crawling young crab- 
yet not fitting in this world 
to get rid of white breast milk sucking through a black nipple-pair.

I, 
the rustic rubble rousing phrase-rambler, 
in my path, 
walk on and over the middle of a rusty knife edge. 
 
The peaceful warriers are no more 
for witnessing a roaring blind rower and follower 
hopping on and off of two ol' holed boats 
travelling in the opposite directions.

a verse tearing overgrown baby  
seen by the friends 
scribbling and spraying graffiti and batiks 
on the shadowy walls of its own passionate past-time domain.

Resting at the bottom-shores of the abysmal brain pores, 
a rear word searcher and dry phrase compiler 
in me always aiming
beyond a scribble board triple score saver. 

Wriggling in my thoughts,
a restless spider, the octo-heavy metal rocker, 
spitting on and around its own body 
with the hoarded old thoughts of all sorts. 

Here lies the professional, 
a washed out style-breaker of prose 
gone and turned into a hip bender 
of small time underworld rhythmically frigid poems. 

As a whole,
from being an accepted refuse-collector and sediment drainer,
I metamorphosed into a waste treater 
with the recycling final touch.

Dig and find in me anything, 
but a pathetic pseudo prophet
professing a series of doom's day and 
tracking behind the tail twigging shooting stars 
in search of prosperity and would-be-prophets.
Being so the facets of this little tramp's hectic life 
in the skeptic-septic pool, 
I wonder in this yonder heat with the trembling irregular heartbeats,
where comes the satanic dirt in the midst of ozonic serenity!
--

Keeping the Darkness with Oneself

Keep the darkness for yourself; 
Collect it and bundle altogether. 
Seen it budding and growing the hair, 
hide the gloominess in your harden pockets. 
Peck and sickle all doubling dark-chickens. 
Sieve the dirt, wash and hug the residue. 
Desert the morose hirsute-oasis. 
At the orgasm of your touchy mesmerism, 
let the dusky shadow totally wither. 
needed a warm hobby of prosecuting, 
save a little darkness in shake. 
Let myself stay here, 
and walk yourself forward. 
On the sidewalks, 
waits my duty of 
planting tiny seeds of sundrops.
--

A lost child of time


I am a lost child of the yet-to-be-met age.
In the medieval past of shadows,
while my peers were peeling clay stained boiled potatoes 
for the romantic cloudy suppers of the emperors' fat bellies
and their harem dwelling fleshy breast concubines' balloon- blooming
–process,
found myself wandering in the present forests.

I was a lost kid of the stars and nebulae,
a time bug bitten dipsomaniac,
suffering with the intermittent seizures of lava dispersing images.
Time impeded smothered daydreams fail the classical co-ordinate geometry.
My skinny body's awkward skeleton movement,
a time induced function of a dense blackhole sucked tiny proton;
stuck and stopped in space as a half burnt dead timber log.

In my abandoned pilgrimages,
I saw the rulers begging for the ancient wisdom;
I saw the philosophies bud and crawl, 
only to metamorphose into religions to 
howl and kill the wisdom, souls of the sciences,
and above all, in hard times, self rooted conscience.
Yet, I was a time traveler, who could vision and listen,
but not permitted to act in my own in the logged space of the coming era.

Now, I was pushed to present with the old body to fit the current situation.
Alas! I have been travelling with my thoughts
and fought a lot of battles that would be settled in future.
Ahead of time! Is it my bless or curse?

You said that I am a lost soul of the earth that you dwell.
I agree; time whispers to me with a very convincing speech,
"Walk with me and leave this compacting space,
the three dimensional rain-soaked cardboard box
left in the junk yard of the universe."

We may happen to meet at the end of the hollow
that fell in the fishing net of time Vs. space;
or, our fates may chipped into pieces 
like the potato skins we peeled in the past.

Accept it, my darling.
My space is woven with the colorful threads of time.
Dali tried and failed to capture 
my Persistence of Memory in his Triangular Hour.
I am a time traveler, made of and concentrated with concrete e=mc^2,
and lost in the series of dusty packages of nano seconds.
Agreed to keep my space, and fitted my body into the vacuum I will make
here,
I'll slip into the shadowy silent time-pockets of the far universe.

I am a lost child like many of the screwed up scientists,
who was shadowed by the never saturating everlasting poetic 
curse of the time injected mind.
I will 
fly in time, eat the ever-growing fast light rays 
whenever hungry touches my neural nets,
swordbuckle the shrewd sound waves, 
regardless the super and sub clusterings of speed.

You will hear me in the hot Helium bubbles of
a cooling sun impeded in another galaxy;
you may even see me in the shunning collision resulted pieces of
the speeches left behind a raging comet's wagging tail.
One will see me through the deft ears, and listen me through her blind eyes,
when she wants me walking in her evening walk in an urban park.
This skinny restless child of the future,
an unwanted running refugee of the shivering time dominating earthy space,
will whisper the dropping words of oozing future,
whenever the rays of an already dead star is faintly spotted
blinking in the Hubble focus reign.

Let me lost in abysmal time for this moment,
If you wish and can, hold me preserved in unleveled space and mind-cells.
Perhaps I may perpendicularly cross your path again from west to east,
and one more time from the north;
and, once again there is a possibility for the last strike from sky to soil.
My journey is a high-floater in the riddling bathtub ripples of time.

I may cross, or I may rest; but for now,
I am soulfully off in the time frame of your 21 inch monitor's DOS mode
cursor.
I am a scribbling wanderer in time and
a non-stop juggler of stardust words soaked in red planet soil.
--


Revived Images of a Poorly Saved Dawn-Dream

With the following statements, here starts 
a silly attempt to document a dawn collection of 
Ultraviolet noisy spreamy stain spotted naked images, 
Unfiltered withdrawn aroma of a not-previously tasted dish, 
And some faintests of faint echoes 
of spicy signals colored with disturbing circumstances. 

"Lost are the reasons and linear logical functions, 
but a not-given up attempt of learning process of 
my semi-conscious mimic-acts and monologue echoes of the past" 

The dawn-dreams, a set of broken beer bottle pieces 
making kaleidoscopic imagery patterns, 
well ordered, yet --illusive and escaping explanations, 
scientific definitions, and proper nomenclature. 

I am the daily collector and ardent courtroom compiler 
for the royal archives of my own reigning fascination 
and self-indulging narcissism. 

Turbulent streams of porno memory dust impeded respiration flowing 
from the perpetual random thought copulations 
in the hot brain cells' unleveled carburetors; 
precipitation, collection, saturation, evaporation, and sublimation, 
an ultimate wild cyclic process charred with chaos. 

I touched her face under silky wind braking veil. 
From her invisible eyes flows a geometric series of turmeric moon paste, 
grated and then ground to be smooth and sticky. 
The paste scoured by the ripples of two pond nipples
wounded by the hurricane wind and deadly storm. 

Pushing and pulling my left leg in between her slippery-smooth thick thighs 
dissipated an unceasing delicately perfumed energy of long wave lengths; 
I believe, 
it is a spontaneous automatic molecular kite-flying process of a
never-decoded, 
endlessly chained aromatic organic compound. 

At some blind and deaf orgasmic junction, 
shattered the Venetian blind 
hanging between the left over reality-scales and 
the popping aerosols of my dawn-dream-cream. 

Totally shackled in the dream chain reaction, 
simply vanished my surging reasons for roaming a rational animal. 

I'm liberated and floated like a tiny bird 
having its first flight beyond the resting nest towards the raging sun. 
For such a sense-dead second, 
even the radius lost sky is not a measuring limit, 
but a mere lowest datum for my starting wing strokes. 
Hastily eaten was the gravitational pull, 
by the bouncy forces of an undefined invisible gaseous substance. 

The lost in this domain was salvaged in another dimension. 
--



Faith

A post-storm dusk; 
Heavy strokes and a thorough search 
for a single flower 
opened with nectar. 

What a world wonder, 
this little butterfly!
--



My weekends... 

These lonely Friday evenings,
my neck-hanging death ropes. 
Beyond the mountain silhouette goes the hot sun,
expecting a raunchy midnight orgy.
After blowing a Good bye twinkle, 
stuck in the yesterday's emptiness
my one-way memory lane of the day. 
I see myself
imbedded alone in the virtual world
as another perpetual number grinding silicon machine. 
Together dense agony, 
melts the erotic tears,
hot and tiny rolling spheres. 
Vigorously dancing and bumping on
the lazy brain cell walls 
are untamed jungle elephants. 
A pair of sagging air filled lungs;
In the midst, 
got pressed and dizzied the heart. 
Outside the murky window,
in the dusty dusk,
a young thin bird striking alone 
in the windward direction. 

Intermittent dull strokes
crow and convey its burden to me,
its only interpreter. 
At this point,
I burst into words.....
the sole drainage.

Bird's bulging burden breaks into little bundles
travelling outward high in the space,
leaving me live with the prose and poetry. 
--

What I could have been!


With my iterative writings
within a rolling ring,
Overly I explored,
exposed,
exploited, and
emptied a weak fluid-part of mine.
The unwritten stuff,
my private in-situ dry chaff.

What I could have been,
if hadn't written
anything of my own!
Could I be just an
unjust ridiculer of someone
who literally wrote
of myself
and my silly feelings
with a hounding claim
that such were
surrounding him?
--

Analyzing Voices in the shadow


Burdened pilgrimages through
the country of the woven voices.
Peckings and spittings of nervy-tongues.
Every whine of a voice is
a wavy-journey to register its self.
Never ending ripples in the process
of demanding own identification.
In the midst of the peer noises,
yours is mine, and whose is mine.
Ultimate absence of the act of differentiation

Vocal code hanging voice tassels;
only the enviorns damaging silly sound plaits.
Non-stopping ubiquitous call of
"Accept me! Accept, only me."
In such collective tunes of strings,
which is yours? which is mine?

Hurried restless voices
never wait for their turns.
Pitiless noisy existence
massacres the uniqueness.

Worn are the words,
"One at a time."

Classification and the search for the individuality,
a dual aim lost shots in the world of unfiltered noises.

In a chatterbox globe,
whenever enters, vanished are the voices.
--


Yearning a goodnight sleep


Seems a fire in a far place;
the vehicles crisscross the road skin;
disturbed is the deep sleep of the night wind.
No thirsty in mind;
despite I drink some glasses of water.
Next to do, I have left with nothing.

It is not wise kissing a sleeping wife
for the fifth time within a half an hour.

Like the speedy cars in a highway,
me too start to walk inside the room
along the imaginary lines I draw in my mind;
the usual patterns on a splitted room floor
to be unknowingly cleaned by a dutiful wife,
on the very next day;
Not anymore, I think.

What to do till the time
the sun comes up to burn
the toes through the window?

She rolls once more;
a smooth finger crab-crawling search
for my bare chest;
A mild shock sparked
at the touch bed vacuum;
followed a demanding utter,
"Somehow compel yourself into sleep";
she reactivates her interrupted
four O' clock dream
from where she has left;
an early dream always comes to reality,
she knows, since her mother told more than once.

I start to touch the tips of my thumbs with the index fingers;
a time passing tiptoe game of my lousy hands,
a neat construction of an imaginary
three dimensional chain in the space.

In the dense darkness, constructed
the lines on the floor, and
a chain in the space;
I am incarcerated inside a geometrically barbed jail.

Somewhere below my shaky feet,
I am able to feel the agonizing voices
that the randomly thrown Guernican
noses, eyes and ears try to make;
may be a fading illusive echo-tone of my own.

In the monotone of the dullness,
breaks the spatial dancing chain of fingers.

The eyes have drowned into drowsiness;
I have kissed her for the fifth time then,
and slipped into the cozy cotton quilt.

Only then I have come to hear it;

it seems a fire in a far place; and,
the vehicles have started to crisscross the road skin.





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