Twanging strungs

At each given point in time, a single string reverbrates in a bid to be twanged. It speaks its mind in a convoluted retrospective proposition. Its answer begets the question. Or why would it need to be twanged after its drone has already rung out? What is created, is so, because it was given that shape. A cow 'moos' because it makes that sound. A cow might well croak, but you would then have to make too many cumbersome changes to the universe. And who wants the universe to be more fucked up than it already seems?

That's, a spade, why, suitcase o' mine, is called a spade.

How can you have so much power over me?

Could ya show yerself maybe...
So I know I ain't at the mercy
of a deaf
stone wall.

One day,
will I be your slave no more?

Move and shake

Flighty thoughts on the rampage
spell violent words,
and the screen is forced to take cover.
Little balls of wooden courage
frame it back in the picture.

Illuminating squares above
shimmer down on a blatant mind,
and rescue it from its confused stupor.
Mice sway upon yellow dancefloors
too engrossed in the mixture.

Secured words shouted
across the chamber
hold themselves in their respect.
I search for reverence
in my own bowl of cerial.

Delivered keys monitor labels
and scoot them with control
till they are vacated.
Their fall could save
a publishing firm.

Nailed down, the finger pointed at itself,
not knowing whence it came
or went.
Too sharp was the impression
that a loving paratrooper had.

Moving as it pleases,
it confirms its ideas
to the granter of wishes.
Its smooth, hyperbolic swishes
give it love.

Dealing with a content mind
soulless shells feel lame
and impotent.
Stainless steel leaps
for joy.

It's ours

He's feeling better about himself, he's feeling comfortable in his world. His mind is not aching everytime he acts. It's ours, he knows.

Pocketbook

Comforted by its own reflection,
it grew more tender by the second.
Sparkling crystals shoot out of nostrils
and show what was to be reckoned.

It's one with its motherhood.
It knows only itself.
If more were to be known,
it would surely topple the shelf.

Crows sighted their butterflies in the water
and swooped down to meet their prey.
Twinkling wings batted their velvet
and held the predators' sway.

The warriors tugged on the long rope.
Bristles began to erupt out at the centre.
Dry husk left powderily,
so healing tears could be choked.

But all the while,
the hazelnut fished for a scholar.
Dear-skinned blankets wrapped around the body
to squeeze the smell taller.

It let freedom emblazon itself
onto the placard.
Swotty resins taught it to build its house
in its own backyard.

Pushed for an answer,
she gave way.
And then he hoped
he'd have something to say.

Conspiring to inspire

There is something about inspiration that makes you want to act on it. Why should some powerful thought entice you to do something you would not do on a normally lethargic day? It defies Einstein's body of work that the amount of Energy in you (E) should rise, when your mass (M) remains just the same amount as to continue to make you look like an undernourished twig. But when you do get an inspired thought, you want a mark of it to be left in the annals of history. There is something dastardly about how inspiration can almost enslave you, and make you do its bidding.

But thank heavens that it does! Or the world would be a dried up coffee mug with sugar granules clinging on to the sticky cup-bottom like a starfish with attachment issues with its aquarium wall. Ah the satisfaction of making up a laboured metaphor that could have been left unconcocted in a less gregarious frame of mind.

Must keep writing....before the system realises how far it has allowed itself to snooze, and be back to action stations to thwart me. The urge to write and create is oozing from the pores, crying to be sustained till actual thoughts worth sharing strike me. But till such ideas do make themselves known to me, I must blather nonetheless, in the true spirit of one who is enslaved by a surge of inspirational energy.

What brought this on? Oh I happened to read a funny blog. It pains me to feel that this upsurge may be an offshoot of envy. Such a vice should not have been designed to spawn such a positive phenomenon as inspiration (incidentally does that rob inspiration of its positive connotations? When Ravana's Mom spawned the demon-child, did her maternal glory get diminished...wait, so that isn't fair that just because her baby was evil, she should be robbed of her due glory as a Mother. WAIT. I just argued the opposite case for which I started to make this point. Yeesh.)

Ok there is apparently a cure for the unchecked inspiration surge. You really have to hit rock-bottom, or rather stratosphere, to cease the momentum. This can be achieved by letting yourself run wild till you argue against your own point. Threat neutralised.

Venting air

The sighing hands
that never wanted to deserve rest
ceased to be stubborn,
and assumed a daze with zest.

Trembling in response
to the cold numbness of calm,
they knew how it felt
to be a balm.

Strident cogs rolled into themselves.
They made things happen.
When they shrouded themselves with brake fluid,
He didn't know what then.

Mechanics were always others;
they worked their own steam.
Just the sense of arms
did not mean he was to catch a moonbeam.

In the throes of hypoxia,
the mind paved way for a honeymoon.
Airlessness is not always at hand,
but you live inside an air-vent.

His quest for a niche
sharpened his thirst for the globe.
As she drew to a close,
shreds of yes-men were installed in his lobe.