slut pigeon!

heat street

inertia blooms, thoughts lay rancid under the tropical sun.

somewhere at the back of my head is a haunting reminder that the heat saps away all willingness to make an effort at a halfway to decent existence or for that matter, any desire to live.

it's no longer those romantic summers of yore filled with white-washed haciendas, enchanting cooling breezes to play among its pillars.

it's fearing and loathing, disgust and hate, sweat mingling with tears and the feeling that this city is eating you alive.

but i stay. and i wait. until the acid rain flows down heat street and life smiles once again.

coming up for air...

i think if i quit social science research, stock up on some contraband and have nothing but my laptop (minus movies and graphic novels for company), i might just be one of them *prolific writers*.

i'd write lengthy academic articles, document conversations with fuzzy creatures in my head and write obituaries for my lovers while basking in the flush of coital bliss.

here's a prototype for the sort of stuff i'd write. thanks, so much toxic teddy. much love for my canadian bear...

yours truly: i think i'm downloading a german movie without any subtitles

i am slightly worried for my sanity.

giggly teddy: loll

yt: it disappeared 22 years ago and i think it has been kidnapped and raped.

gt: over and over again?

yt: oh, yes

and left for dead in winnipeg in a sanctuary for blood-thirsty bears

---------

the rape of stromsund

"welcome to armageddon", read the recorded message
and three trench coated figures
with wide brimmed hats
stepped off the doomsday capsule
to survey the acid laced remains
of what had once been
their world.

they had returned from an interplanetary orgy
a congregation of spacebeests
handpicked to represent their planets in a contest of virility
the earth was represented by two human males, a woman and
an androgynous praying mantis
who died after screwing a wingding from andromeda
for twenty three straight hours.

as the three humans gazed in awe,
cockroaches approached them
and spoke in high pitched voices
of how this wasteland came to be
it seems that a para nuclear machine was triggered off
while two scientists tried making babies
in a barrel of plutonium 253.

and so it seems that the only survivors
of earth's last fuck
were cockroaches and cher and a town named stromsund,
population 5000, north sweden
a fields prize regular cockroach hypothesised
that stromsund had survived in accordance with
what had once been a far fetched theory of probability.

they say that death brings the need to procreate
this has been supported by a british study where
psychologists been proved conclusively that
people indulge in sex after attending funerals
and so, our heroes felt this very human need
more so, in the face of being the
universe's champion fuckers.

being desperate as they were, our human heroes three
realised that fucking cockroaches or cher
would not alleviate their misery
they needed to share their grief with like bodies
and asked, therefore, for directions
to that improbable town in north sweden
population 5000, the one that was called stromsund.

how they made it there was anybody's guess
but then again, reason had taken a beating
when the town itself survived
and as if probability wanted to wipe its penis on the fabric of time
after fucking with every humanly acceptable concept
it turned out that stromsund was not abound with viking descendants
but was a peaceful, sexless amish settlement.

they knew there was just one way to go
and that there was no choice
for cher and cockroaches and nuclear waste were out of the question
they rushed into the town like cash's whirlwind in the thorn trees
roller skates, cookies and white bonnets askew
all it took was seconds
for stromsund to come undone.

the cockroaches watched in horror
and cher was unavailable for comment
the post-nuclear destruction continued as every man, woman and child had every orifice in their bodies violated
the biological sex machines didn't even stop for a cigarette
until they came to terms with their pain
and even they degenerated as nature wept nuclear tears, a final shower of potent acid rain.

dreams and the endless

i promised that i'd write on experiential marketing.

instead, i'll write on the sweet, seemingly endless sleep of hashish- it's an experience to be cherished, especially since sleep in otherwise normal circumstances is a fleeting, furitive presence.

add to that the heat waves that linger when the summer sun is long gone, the sweat streaming from my body and the lack of desire for anything worth living for.

i realise now, though, that writing about a hash trip ruins the very foundations it stands on... it's an esoteric bond between the individual and the endless. i don't know and i won't comment on who is worthy of it, what the best hash is or why it is taboo.

all i know is that i long to bow down to the endless and get enveloped in parvati's womb. over and over and over again. for the dreams of hashish are the elements of the endless.

addendum to art fart.

this is going to be a narrative either at the beginning or the end of "city of joys", my latest apocryphal art project...

roland joffe missed an 's' at the end of 'city of joy'. i mean, joy can't be a unique factor in any city, let alone kolkata.

it is a city that is abound with joys. small joys, big joys. simple joys, fancy joys. uptown joys, downtown joys. legitimate joys, bastard joys. morning joys, night joys. straight joys, gay joys.

joy cometh in the morning. or so thinks wodehouse. joys can cometh when they are sufficiently aroused. sexually, i mean.

joy isn't simply an emotion in kolkata. joy is very likely your next door neighbour.

joy is joyonto.

art fart

there is roland joffe's "city of joy". fortunately or unfortunately, this celluloid um... work has remained just a name to me and yet, it gave me inspiration and much er... joy on an idle wednesday morning.

joyonto or joyanta is a fairly common bengali name.

those who can see what i'm getting at can shut their traps and get the godsfuck out of here before you are tempted to question my intelligence or my sanity. for those who don't, here's the blueprint...

these hm... species are called "joy" for short. and there's easily a million of them in kolkata. imagine getting at least 20% of them to congregate in several well-known locations in kolkata thru' the viral sms thing. get a decent enough camera- nothing fancy, just a handycam. script is one simple line- "hi, i'm joy". no acting required. no makeup. no leading woman. sharp editing topped off with a decent enough music score (say, durga pooja music- "joyo, joyo he mahishasura moddhini, etc.)

best short action film at the oscars' is mine next year.

next post: what i'll wear to the oscars'.

if i were a character in an indie flick...

... i'd be the nosejob.

and my speciality would be slitting people's throats *halal style* and pulling their brains out through their nostrils once they have been thoroughly bled.

what is a raskolnikovna?

a raskolnikovna is an obscure female species found lurking in urban areas (preferably metros). it is possible, however, to find raskolnikovnas hanging around rural areas (where cigarettes and chai are available) on occasion.

a raskolnikovna is pro-globalization, but possesses the habits found in government officers from more communist regimes (maoist). a very redeeming trait of a raskolnikovna is the desire for all things obscure, right from music to coffee beans. they are part-punjabi, part-maharashtrian, gujarati, irish and tam brahm, especially on the ethno-centric front.

this creature has a love-hate relationship with the media field. she enjoys criticizing dipshits employed in creative, client servicing and acting, while taking the occasional swipe at journalists, particularly desktop writers. while it is expected that she would have a healthy respect for scientists, engineers, accountants and other "respectable" professions, the truth is, she just finds them fucking boring and not nearly as much fun to taunt as mediapeople. raskolnikovnas take their professions as "media researchers" a little too seriously, researching everything from the latest campaign plugged by amsterdam's single location agency, 360 to India's finest cult flicks (read, mithunda starrers directed by kanti shah).

raskolnikovnas take to plagiarizing just because they don't happen to possess any talent to string two words together coherently. they abuse ellipses, let loose entire armies of fragments and almost invariably end a subject abruptly much to the chagrin to copy editors. a raskolnikovna's idea of art is to take lyrics du jour and render it in typographic styles that defy all rules of this high art or any sense of aesthetics for that matter. they have a penchant for trebuchet.

raskolnikovnas love movies. one of the few things they actually pay attention to. they also read movie scripts on occasion. this particular raskolnikovna's current favourite dialogues include "you rock, rock" from i heart huckabees, samuel l. jackson's "did i break your concentration?" from that dialogue-ricochet worthy tarantino classic, Pulp fiction and bhulla's achingly beautiful outburst of grief to his raped and left for dead sister- "maine tere liye teen sau ladke dekhe rakhe the. woh bhi chikne."

food is a fine way to lure a raskolnikovna. as a matter of fact, raskolnikovnas know festivals, communities and countries by food. never contest with a raskolnikovna on the matter of vegetarianism, chocolates and alcohol. raskolnikovnas worship coffee and accord the highest respect to south indian mamis (and mamas) who can make that perfect cuppa kaapi.

around the time that their uterus walls start chipping away every month, raskolnikovnas slip into depression and end up listening to slowdive, death cab for cutie or worse still, leonard cohen's "hallelujah" on loop for hours on end. they are unpredictable, especially when it comes to cigarette brands or for that matter, cigarettes consumed in a day.

raskolnikovnas adore their friends and despise them when it's all over. stability is merely a collection of letters that doesn't make much sense. a raskolnikovna's zodiac sign includes aquarius, capricorn, scorpio and the slightest hint of gemini. in other words, there's no telling what a raskolnikovna will do next.

raskolnikovnas can look like anything from a chamathu iyer ponnu to something that the cat threw away. they think that masters' degrees are necessary only to look good on a matrimonial site. a raskolnikovna's worst nightmare is migrating to america. period.

while this is no introduction to what this particular raskolnikovna is going to write next, you know what not to ask a raskolnikovna. ever. again.