The Spy (and EIGHT, YES 8 personally rejected poems at the end.)

“Ok…I feel calm."

Consciousness resumed continuity from the time I found myself in a car. I was sitting up front, sandwiched between two men: the driver and a passenger -who I would never see even though he sat right next to me. Also, there were two people sitting on the back seat as well, constantly chattering, utter nonsense. I didn't want to see them for pure lack of curiosity.
It was a surreal experience, if truth be told, because I couldn't tell how it had begun and yet I didn’t give it too much thought. I tend to take things in stride and rarely feel obligated to ask questions. Questions in my chosen profession can only make a situation worse. Usually I just smile at people who seem friendly and avoid the ones who don’t, provided that I can, which isn’t always the case. When in doubt...smile...read reactions and plan the next move quickly.
I kept my head straight and concentrated on the scenery outside. The wind shield was clean. Clear light reflected off of everything. The road was broad and unusual and the sky was bright as blue. There were no trees but it was the kind of place where the air would be pure and good enough to drink.There were no clouds in the sky and no birds or animals, no sign of life at all except for some peculiar looking electric-bus tracks. It seemed as if we were aboard a small boat in a sea of gravel. It was a beautiful place but too desolate. I would not have enjoyed being there alone but I was probably supposed to. One of the chatty people sitting behind me said something that registered in my mind as mildly significant.
“Take the first left when you get off the road.” he said.
The driver simply nodded or perhaps muttered a reply; I don’t remember.

“What is this place?“

The car made its way steadily on the rugged terrain like a sail-boat. The gravel consisted of little maroon stones. I could see other paths. Some of them were green, some grey and I spotted a few other colors in the distance. I couldn't name those colors then but they were bright and enjoyable, like rivers of uncut, unpolished, precious stones.I felt like I was immaterial, sort of uninvolved in the proceedings and that kept me calm. The same person spoke again but this time he sounded a bit edgy. I'm only guessing that it was a he.
“I told you to take the first left…we missed the left…you were supposed to take the left!”
“You should have said so,” replied the driver, “we can circle around.” He seemed quite at ease and not at all concerned about the guy in the backseat.

"I am quite calm.”

The car went around a big mustard gravel dune and then skidded as it turned. We had gone all the way around that big dune and were now back where we had started from. We passed by some of those electric-bus tracks again or whatever they were. I decided they were too far apart and too narrow to be electric-bus tracks. Maybe they were just extremely long strips of thin, silver metal, of no particular use.
“Over here, take this left over here.” said the guy sitting on the backseat. .
Now the car was moving on a ruby-red gravel dune, which was speckled with brown dirt. The contrast of the land with the blue sky was dream-like impressive. And so it was that we moved farther and farther away from the main road with each gravel-spraying turn of the tires.
“Take this left...” said the backseat passenger yet again and the driver was forced to cut sharply to the left. The car seemed almost about to tip over and I wondered why we had to take so many lefts.
This was a new left though; I had not seen this part before. The rest I had already seen because we had just gone around twice now. Up ahead in the distance I saw a pretty looking hill, clad in what seemed to be a toga of sunlight; sort of like a roman goddess, and we were headed straight for its steep, gravelly incline. Nose up, we charged on. As the car climbed higher, the sun appeared in the window on my left like a wrecking ball of intense light. It had been hidden before but now that we were gaining altitude, it was pouring in from the window in pointy streams. Shadows switched places like tired sentries being relieved by less tired sentries and slowly, almost mechanically, the driver raised his hand in a salute. I noticed now for the first time that the driver was dressed like a soldier. He was a soldier, I knew it but kept quiet.

The two passengers sitting behind us were still mouthing off, discussing trivial matters and sharing jokes. I could not understand a word the other one said because I was not interested. All I got from the first one was that we were to turn left every now and then. But now even he was wallpaper in boredom. The driver was a soldier, I was sure, but he was not saluting, not saluting at all. He was just keeping the sun’s glare out of his eyes. It was good to know that he was a soldier. It fit, somehow, with the whole scheme of things. I didn't think much of what i was doing and instinctively raised my hand to the spot on the window where the light was coming in from. As my hand eclipsed the sun, the paradigm shifted abruptly.

"Shadow of a thousand hearts!”

The officer/driver smiled briefly, which meant something, and then he spoke. His words came out with an army man’s inexplicable self-assurance and ease. Nothing he could say would ever be wrong…even if it were wrong. Cool as a cucumber! They're always very graceful, in a masculine sort of way, when they're not shouting like red tomatoes or sucking cock in the barracks. Their clothes are tidy and caps all perfectly placed. Clean shaven, most of them, up-stairs and down; I know all about it. He never turned his head to look at me when he spoke. He didn’t need to…he was driving.

“Do you belong from Bengal?” I thought he asked.

“Yes??” I asked to confirm.

“Do you belong from Lahore?” I heard him say.

“Yes…that is exactly right.”

“Exactly right.” he repeated, like a grotesque chorus.

“Yes.” I said, like a reluctant prostitute.

“So then maybe we should call you ‘our friend from Lahore’?” he asked, in that same army voice.

“Yeah, I would like that, yes,” I said, “I have many names.”

“Many names.” he echoed, looking straight ahead.






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On Second Thoughts (The Smell of Burnt Plastic)

Her hands, like spiders scuttling,
Made webs in the old corners of my brain,
And some thoughts, like flies, got caught
In silk knots that struck while the iron was hot.
But you are so wrong to think I’m mistaken.
How could I sleep when I never awakened?
Addicted to your shadow, on poison am fed.
I hang from a thread inside my own head.

Gossamer strands in the hands of the dead.
I curse the hands of the spider…scuttling,
Shuffling around like a disfigured anomaly
You hide in my mind and wait for this homily
To end and then send me back to my grave,
That is freedom indeed in the sight of a slave

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Metacognition

The mind is a strange, moist, womb
One where terrible things are conceived
The darkest and most gruesome tomb
Where all mortal thoughts are received

It is a series of pictures of frozen horrors.
Of mouths stretched so wide they tear at the cheeks
Lipless grins of ghouls are flashed repeatedly in time

With the mad melody of a lidless eye

Like lightning that blinds and leaves an imprint
On the perforated edges of a blackened cloud,
The mind can suggest; it can promise and hint.
It can torture itself and then scream out aloud.

The mind can cheat and be cheated and beaten.
It can be pried out and then cooked or be eaten.
It can be sultry and seductive and sweet and surreal
It can be all and everything and then a tasty meal

The mind is deceived again and again but then
Taught to look at everything differently when
Anyone says anything or points at its attire.
Inside maggots trip on maggots as they feed on desire.

Slowly this eye dries up; its humor lost to heat
A crumbling old mess is left of putrefying meat
Then taken for a short ride by other such ghouls
Who weep for a while then dig deep like fools

The last thought you thought is plastered forever
Like wallpaper or an image etched out on your cadaver
Through tinted glasses then eternity is viewed
A life time of horror and debauchery reviewed.

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Likes and Dislikes: A childish rendition.

What are the things you like?
I like to be taken for a ride,
Having complete assurance
That it is not my car you are driving
But yours,
And it is not in my car I am traveling
But yours,
Having complete assurance in you,
Constant attention from others,
An endless succession of brothers,
Lovers, objects of affection, the elimination of rejection
And, of course, when I make love; an endless erection



What are the things you dislike?
It just cannot be true that life cannot do
Without money, without fame or even without you
That I must learn fancy words and live like sheep
Gathered in herds, then slaughtered. Or like birds
Eternally bothered, caged up with a natural predator
I am meek and yet not the inheritor
Of this crazy f*cking world where I have to choose
To be a nice guy, a gentleman, to constantly lose
My self esteem for the sake of money, fame or you.
I much dislike self esteem. I pop a pill.
I resume my dream.

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The Pervert's Lover.

When I see you using a cat like a glove for your dick,
To keep it warm in winter, it makes me sick.
And yet I cannot help myself when you come at night.
I look forward to your coming; it is such a delight.

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The Onset of Twitches.

The bones in my face, they twist and twirl
I feel like a drink being mixed by a girl.
The viscosity of honey or madness that sticks
This damn damaged brain, up to old tricks.
My body is entirely composed of cheese curls
When this facial disaster unfurls.

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This Girl I Kinda Loved

in Guantanamo Bay, i say,
think of nothing but me
think of nothing my love
when they come for you
when they torture you
when the rats begin
to feed ... upon your face
and when you're afraid
of all you knew...
betray me, do
and i'll still love you
when you come back
that is if you do
i'll still love you
and i'll try my best
to put you back
together again

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