Now,
I’m no longer afraid to die.
For I crave and greed for death.
I want to reincarnate,
Not be disqualified as a human again,
Fare
Well
To be a cat
A dog
A bird
Or even a mosquito.
And hence, there is a courage to rebel all, to just  be alive!

One of my favourite memories
- Of all time, in fact -
Is of us bickering in the kitchen.
(God knows what over.)
And as our voices got more heated,
And our bodies closer together,
And it was on the verge of becoming a row,
Someone yelled,
"Oh, just get married already!"
Now this is something I've heard before,
With many a friend,
But it has never before shut
Two people up
So instantly.
You and I always
Have something to say, but
The look we exchanged then,
As we bowed our heads
And returned to your washing up
And my cooking!
Not yet, I think.
Maybe in five years' time.

Oh, the reality.
How different it looks from Clogdance.
Bereft of the muck and the mush,
It looked overdone and suffocating.

Gilbert thought Clogdance was too much.
Well, Gilbert never wore glasses.
And, Gilbert had an amalgamate of yellow and blue,
Iris.

He’d always dreamt of the dullness.
And, the blindingly searing colours,
Of Clogdance were just not the right cup for him.

So, Gilbert walked fast.
And, Gilbert walked far.
To find the bubble to break out of and move into the alternate,
Reality.

Gilbert had wanted just the normalcy.
A right dosage to appreciate his otherwise
Worthless an existence, too languid.
Bright, and pricking and smothering.
The colours forever, was leered into his skin,
In the days of Clogdance,
Gilbert believed.

Well, Gilbert walked faster.
And Gilbert walked farther.
Hoping to live the numbness to retreat to the searing bright,
Gilbert did never stop,
nor turn around and look back.

Gilbert walked for forty years,
Through the white shores of Paradiso
To Teal Whale like water Wholes,
Carved into and flowing in shapes.

Gilbert shut his eyes.
Gilbert thought he’d be blinded soon.
Gilbert disagreed with all the logic and science
That Clogdance had to sacrifice.
Sloppy Gods and their hermitage taste buds too bland,
And corroded off,
Off the ability to taste any,
Had simply maddened Gilbert.

Gilbert wanted to live.
Gilbert wanted to live without the charity of the old Gods.
Gilbert wanted to, just Live.
Gilbert walked fatigued,
But, steady and stable.
Gilbert’s brown Wolf-like curls were silver streaks
in the darkness too slow.
Gilbert stopped.
Gilbert inhaled.
Gilbert sat down,
And, then he slept for an year-long.

He woke up in the Sahara, on Earth.

All around, Gilbert saw the streaks reflecting his youth.
Of an era past,
in the deal for greed.
Or a plain, pleasant contentment,
Gilbert thought.
The brown jet.
Unending dunes of a beautiful radiant Brown,
Gilbert found no green, or white,lest his own grey discoloured strands now.

Brown and brown,
and brown and dull,
Gilbert widened his eyes at the thought.
Gilbert gasped and groaned
in his new-found Mortality.

Gilbert panted and heaved aloud,
For water, warmth and comfort.
For a little colour to fuel
his faint ‘browned’ life.

Gilbert crawled in the dunes of Sahara for two years.
None an oasis did he find,
So forth,
He died.

To be buried deeper into the merciless dust.
Of a heavier Legacy.

Brown with the Brown,
Gilbert died Unknown.

And, young.
And, dull.
And, a mortal.

And, none knew
What ate Gilbert Clogdance.

We were lying on the lawn
In the park when the Shooting star,
Made its first appearance.

"Make a wish honey, you'll not live forever",
He told me.

I looked at him with the same contempt,
I’d given birth to,
Since the day of our holy oath.

"There's an old man called God,
in the sky is what world preaches.

No.

There is just a man in the sky, ******* shooting stars too hot n bright.”
I finished with sparkling euphoria.


"you ******”,
He addressed me, to deliver a mocking pat,
But his heavy muscles excited itself too much,
And my skin broke red a drop
Upon his slap too tight.

"***** mouthed *****",
He emphasized his love again,
Hence I shut my mouth too *****.
And stared at the starless sky.

Sarah the ***** passed by,
And he asked her if she'd spotted the shooting star.

Sarah's lips shrunk too little,
And she nodded a hefty no.
And he got up on his legs,
And walked away from me.

I saw him moving his hands down her jeans,
And Sarah bent further down.

Then, I saw another shooting star.

And my rage wished for a gun in my palm,
And,

Lo, there it was.
A sleek black gun too comfy in my palm.

I could see their back.
I could see Sarah bending,
Responding to his fingers down her jeans.
And then he pulled down her negligee' too transparent,
Ripping off at his touch.

Then, he turned and looked at me.

I saw his eyes widening the focus on my gun
And his brows creasing.

I clicked the safety off.

I wanted to lock the eye contact,
And savor it for my eternal future.

And I shot once, straight into his heart,
That dragged him to the ground,
Dead with a tent in his pants.

Then, I shot again.
Just to sweep the obscenity off the frame,
His *******.

And then, I looked at Sarah.

Another shooting star passed by.

'Make a wish hon, you'll not live forever'
I told her.
She closed her eyes.

I shot her four times.

Mouth, ******, left
And then the right breast, just to emphasize.

And then, something heavy stuck my chest.
I looked at Sarah and the big gun in her left hand.
I gaped and gasped at my bullet hole.

I said,
"Shot with a shooting star,
******.
I should've ordered a tank.”

She shot me thrice, in the head.

Then, we're both dead.

And then, there was just stars.

do not date a girl
who writes.
she will internalize
everything,
carve poems
into your eyelashes
instead of
kissing them,

she will analyze you,
calculate age
from the rings
your coffee cup
leaves
instead of refilling it.

she will memorize
the way your
lips curl around steam,
but not that you
take it
two sugars,
no cream.

she will read your
palm instead of
holding it
against her chest.

she will not
blink
when you leave,
because she is
already
romanticizing it.

He never knew how it felt 
like to be loved. This heart 
of his could only emit it. Born 
with no hands and feet. He could 
only breathe and fabricate amity. 
This girl with her tiffany blue ribbon 
on her hair, drifts him into the ocean of 
her blue aqua eyes. Struck by her 
glance with that ethereal smile akin to 
the moon-crescent. He just knew he wants 
to be with her presence.

She fell for his hazelnut brown 
eyes. As they reminded her of wolves 
howling in the dead of night to the silver 
moon. Shape shifting and bones breaking 
his body is left every night shaking and
aching. He never gave her much information 
about his transformation. “You are my 
moon and ill forever howl to you” he softly 
said.

Sitting on the rooftop where he fathom northern lights will appear in the black night, emitting colours of hope with stars like freckles glinting like they know his wish.
His only wish is to have hands & feet. So the girl with blue aqua eyes would gleam at him like the moon elegant in her eminence.

Knowing her would make him feel 
alive instead of blind , useless and dead. 
"Hold me through the night and cradle me 
like a baby in bed". "You're all that's in my 
head he said. With you I become no longer
blind". "I just feel stronger and refine. Shine 
down your light on me" he said.

As the sun rises waking souls back to their homes. 
Rays of fervour stained on souls who lost hope
Giving them the miracle they hope to prevail.
As he woke up with both hands & feet
He was no longer bounded by stigma in defeat.
He almost died when he held his breath for the longest time. 
When he saw her, the girl with blue aqua eyes said, "Honey, Get up wolf boy it's time to eat."

He was living a dream within a dream
A nightmare filled with fantasies.
He knew then she was the moon gleaming.
Staring at his wife, mesmerized
**That was when he felt that she has brought him back to life.~

There is no whiskey in his room tonight...

Instead,
There is a half-empty glass of-
Rock shandy, Pepsi-cola, Dr.Pepper,
Or something black.
Something minuscule,
even though he has not sipped from it.
He has not looked at it- his tongue
Was only dry for two minutes before he
Locked the door.
For the only presence that made it hard for him to swallow
Was in the form of something that he was still trying to release...
at 2AM.
Release at 2AM.
There is a typewriter in front of him and he is feeling as permeable as
The glass that is sitting next to it.
'as permeable if it had a closed lid made up out of carbon' he thinks.
'Closed lid', 'Carbon',
'Closed lid'
He does not know what to type.
As distance diminished it's existence throughout the years,
He began to realize that Letters were starting to transform themselves
Into Diary-Entries and vice-versa.
The art of belittling seclusion through the method of fictionalizing himself
Was turning more into a hobby than an art and
he did not know what to do except to accept it as a tragedy
That nobody else needed to know about.
"Tragedy:" he types.
"I don't know how to forget about you."
'And etcetera,' he thinks.
In his minds eye he sees a girl in a school far away.
She's holding a camera and a textbook and a picture of a boy
That isn't him.
She's walking into her new life and one day she will go a week without
Thinking about how it feels to know interest and feel it shared
from someone who thought it never existed.
One day she will go a week without thinking about the boy who stared at empty pages
And wrote letters about bitter meals that his tongue thought could never be tasted.
One day she will go a week with just the thought of how glamorous a life spent alone is...
Before she meets someone there...
Who will make her taste something that is less bitter than him himself.
'I hope that's where my story ends.' He thinks.
And then imagines himself embedded into
Dark bitter things.
(Tobacco, caffeine, dark chocolate.)
He sighs and stares at the words he has already typed.
He can imagine these bitter things spilling into his glass and changing its taste with each
little drop.
"You were dead to me before you even walked out of the door..." He decides,
And puts it onto the paper.
He lifts the glass and takes a sip and then puts it back down again.
'One day she will go a week without thinking about me..."  He thinks.
Release at 2AM.