Chew on me? It'll cost you Love

I'm real late. My mother does not run My life anymore I love you I k(em)iss you. My mother knocks And helps me nock You up.

What have you in store for me today?
Predatory instincts sharpened before we pray.
Dunk the Lord's Head in the pond
till he splutters out the benediction you want

Never lionize Schrödinger's Cat

Everyone has their own personal way of reacting to a piece of numinous prose. Mr. V comes up with a lot of those numinous proses. But I feel we should NOT comment on Mr. V's deep ruminations lest we undermine them with the platitudes of plaudits or criticism. We should just dwell on them and apply them to our individual experience of existence and see what comes of it.

The only appropriate way to handle Mr. V's impassioned assertions is with a pregnant silence as you turn the matter over objectively in your mind. The slightest iota of rhetorical applause or condemnation (especially on public fora) can jeopardise the impact or outcome of a potent maxim. Never lionize Schrödinger's cat!

1). If the assertion hold true, we'll have attained a priceless Truth for free;
2). If it doesn't, we'll know that either Mr. V has been experiencing something authentic, unique but non-transmittable or that he is, disingenuously or deludedly, propagating a fabricated paradigm.

Only the first scenario is worth pursuing.

"Hey waiter, I'll have what debate"

The entire paradigm of The Debate is based on the notion that the most apt conclusion can be reached only by letting a host of germane viewpoints hammer and crash against each other, at the culmination of which will emerge a conclusion, battered and dented, but all the more mature and polished for it. I say debates (at least the way I see they are conducted and pan out) are more a fanfare-creating device than a forum for honest discussion. If you need a debate to convince you of an ideology, then maybe you haven't thought it through well enough to be part of the informed debate in the first place. This is not, whatsoever, a plea to be stubborn or parochial about one's own views. It's a plea that one must substantiate any idea for oneself, of one's own steam.

Debates are perpetuated by the belief that diversity of opinion is something to be cherished. This can be a grossly misleading idea, if you're not careful.

Now, I know that not every issue is black or white, but how many legitimately different ways can there be of describing -- to employ a proverbial specimen as an example -- an elephant, unless one is holding up a limb or a tusk or a tail and purporting it to be a comprehensive definition of the elephant?

Debates, as we know them, involve a panel of persons groping and grasping at the isolated perspective they are given to as individuals. My plea is, let us not allow the individual to be reduced to having to play the role of providing one of the many ingredients of a debate. Each individual should be armed with a holistic vision on an issue that must resemble the truth as closely as the individual's fallibility allows. If there is but one truth, there should never be two different takes. If you differ from another's viewpoint, that is just what constitutes the variance -- the different viewpoint, the different location; you need to just shift your locus and align with the other perspective to reconcile the discrepancy. But with such a shift, the elephant, or the truth does not, in itself, ever change.

Now, I know the vicissitudes of life make it nigh on impossible for there not to be different perspectives. Life offers too many caprices, too many discombobulating contours for a solid stance to view a phenomenon from (unless you are powerfully ensconced in your Meditative Zen State) and is too unreasonably hurried for the truth not to be often formed in a blurred haze.

So, I know we live in a complex world that's rendered even more inscrutable by its tendency to be unstable. But honestly, that does not mean we allow spades to be called geranium flowers. Of course, a spade may well appear as a geranium flower to somebody else. But you'd be a fool to yourself to allow them to con you into calling what appears as a spade to you as a geranium flower. The key is to know your spade and your geranium flower well enough, be able to distinguish between what each represents in your universe and hold fast to the truth of both definitions, that you can stand your ground if and when you are presented a hot, boiling pot of lies.

Sing and dance, Powerpants!

God for me

Atheism has to be a false notion. If someone says they are an atheist and purports that they do not believe in the existence of God, they are surely misspeaking or misguided, right? Surely they mean to deny and defy formal religion and the insidious mores of men that seek to indoctrinate, not God per se!

If some young, naive wannabe renegade, impressed by the machismo embodied by atheists, should buy into the malarkey that God does not exist, he should let himself in for a world of pain, desolation, dissolution and fecklessness.

For me, God, incontrovertibly, is. That which gives me power is God. Energy is God; and the universe runs on energy. Ergo, there is God. Booyah.

It only remains to find and employ the means to harness God.

The angel asks me, "What may I do for you at this juncture of your existence?"

I want to milk this divine offer. So, I contemplate a while so as to conjure up the optimum request. Then, I consult the phrase I had carefully calligraphed a recent enough while ago that it should still be fresh and germane. I clear my phrenic passages and think:

"I want to discover undying precepts of my very own. I want, then, to define and articulate these ruminations by dint of my incontrovertible finesse as a usageaster. I want to apply these precepts, which should infuse me with strength and vigour, with sagacity whenever beneficial."

The benign seraph says benevolently, "Will do, Mihir. Stand by for fulfillment of your wish. Nicely composed request too, by the way, if I may."

Come, kiss

Transient, but it lingers
For long enough to be tasted.
Fleeting no longer,
It ceases to elude capture,
And embeds itself softly
But surely in the pores
Of my mind.

A vast fullness
Envelops the atmosphere.
There's no space
That's beyond my eyes.
If some does lurk,
In some shadowily painted corner
Its screaming secrecy
Betrays its presence
To me.

Wait till I unleash
My eyes on your form.
You won't know
Which way to look,
Or which way to swarm.

Would it really be
So bad if you just
Came over
To my place
And stayed there
Till I drink
You up
To
My
Fill?

Promise premise

Call me from the high throne.
Make sure your voice reaches me on the phone.
I'm not hard of hearing
but I do like for sound to seep,
and to penetrate
real deep.

Drop your string of yarn
in cascading fluid curls.
Pour that viscous mix
up the chute.
Shoot your bull's eye
at point blank range
and fill up the space
with neurons
that sparkle.

Twinkling eyes, they see,
and gleam in my sockets.
Gleaning data packets
osmotically and
gravitationally.

PRemise: my name is Mihir.
Powers latent in me
suffer silently
in a self-imposed state
of dormancy and sterility
due to a diffidence
born out of their being stationed
in an unviable, hostile environment.
I don't feel kindred with my co-fauNA.

But rest assured, O Conscience,
that I will succeed in persuading
you to seek and find your fulfillment
in your lot. And if you cannot
give up your asphyxiating obduracy,
I will create for you
an environment you will be
enticed to blossom in.

Armed rosary

Step away from that pot of gold.
It's mine, in case you didn't know.
Be along on your thieving stroll.
My beans for you won't grow.

I stalk my predators.
My viagra runs in their fangs.
In my veins, a myriad nectars course.
I scheme from behind my bangs.

Your arrows fall limp like dead poodles.
Flat, long and impotent.
I suck down the bowlful of noodles.
The china plate has a gulp-shaped dent.

Manning the ring are my minions.
They number six-and-infinity.
They wield scimitars and pinions.
I'm geared for divinity.

I know you were daring a heist.
But that was before you knew about us.
Begone before I set on you my feist.
The hound will ravage you without fuss.

Breath by breath, I thrive with my knack.
The more you fume, the more toasty I get.
Bred for potency, my bricks I stack.
Let go of my puzzle; that's my jigsaw set.

Peace be with you.
Be with me if you will.
Know that I want my space and my view.
I shall exercise my skill.

Where Thee at?

These bohemians are slandering Your name,
thinking it fashionable to badmouth
You, Who seem to have left as soon as You came,
And Who created a diaspora between the North and the South.
They want to render You nonexistent
So they can make their contradictions consistent
With one another; they seek
To befuddle, with their unverifiable libel, the meek.
Ironically, the barbarians are more
To be pitied than censured, for
They try to tell apart Krishna and Thor,
And, failing to split the atom, disparage The Core.

Are they entrapped by Nihilism, surely not!
I, more than anyone I know,
Had been infected by the rot,
But never saw the tumour successfully grow
Into anything sturdy and tenable.
I have found I must be amenable
To Thy true form, whatever It be,
And allow It to gambol within Me.
Shall I venture why You, to them, are a nonentity?
Your absconding renders them blasé;
When You, the Top Cat, are away, they, the bandicoots, will play
Fast and loose with Your identity.

I'm forced to invent
Names for You, one for each of Your myriad hues.
In order to circumvent
The desolation of Your apparent desertion, I muse
On my memory of You.
But at times, when the morass thickens (the plot too),
My shoulders threaten to buckle under
The sheer weight of the blunder
You committed (cough, cough)
When you upped and left (You deserter!),
When, without a word or murmur,
You simply took off!

Your absence is oppressive! I demand
That You show Yourself -- like You did
To the horizon this morning, and
To Pandora, when she unclasped that lid.
In a torrent You will come rushing
Like the frothy waves that come gushing
To scoop the straggling turtle hatchling up
Into its foamy embrace, as it yodels, "Surf's up!"
I must thank all that I have seen, each mountain
I'm coerced to scale by the force
Of Your Will, which, with my own, I will forge,
And then head up to the source of Your fountain!

Waxing Official

One cycle had passed since the Neophyte started drawing his income for shifting with the lunar pearl. Came D-day, however, he was feeling a gnawing sense of dissatisfaction over what he couldn't help but feel was a distressingly mundane culmination. Then, not one to be crushed by anvil-shaped feathers, the Neophyte began to reflect on a mirror, which he held backwards while simultaneously laying the cleansing carpet out. To the acolyte's right, an inquisitive Quorum, sat chomping on each other's fat. What chew say? the members of the Quorum were often heard inquiring of one another. The Chubby Minister held the Industrious Honey's attention with the timeless benjamin, information. The CM burped out well-digested digestibles. The Neophyte, meanwhile, sat muttering his mantras within himself. These mantras were inaudible, imperceptible, at the time, to the Neophyte himself. For you see, the mantras had, after months of diligent and assiduous repetition on his part, accreted into a deeply embedded, automated internal skill that lay beneath too many fathoms to be fathomable at a superficial glance. As the Neophyte keyed in the self-sufficing prophetic words, he sensed he should acknowledge the venerable presence of the Knowledgeable Saintly Man, for he had just learnt that everyone was keenly aware of everyone's doings, and it would be amiss if he should omit this sage from the Quorum. The KSM was, therefore, duly noted and imbibed. Within his caffienated chamber, the impish livewire went about his administrative obligations before he may wink 40 times. The Neophyte had organised his inner space so as to attract and assimilate any and all lessons; so he absorbed the teachings and was eager for more. For there was much information yet to glean, many mountains of treasures waiting scheduled to be discovered.

Gems bond with the wind

The diamond in the dirt decided it was time to come clean. It had spent much borrowed time burrowed deep in obscurity. Of course, this newfound urge to stick its head above ground would not mean it must emerge to peek dangerously out from a hole in a snake pit. Venom corrodes the purest of jewels; the diamond will not let itself be tainted. No, it is much too pristine and rare a thing for such mistreatment. The precious stone would do laps within its inner marathon grounds, lest it lapse into atrophy. It was a trophy that it would award itself. On a daily basis. Life would be a breeze. With every zephyr that condescended to caress its softly gleaming exterior, and with every purr elicited, would catalyse its dogged commitment to petting itself with feeling care.

And the breadth of its breath would serve to be its daily bread.

High, flying fish

My fingers start to bleed
as I thump prayer into these keys.
I ignore the pain and tell it
I'm sorry, I don't mean to offend it
but I'll turn right round the bend and mend it
as soon as I encircle my own sweet muscle.
I need to get on with my tussle
with my mind; so now, I need to suckle
so I can hope, one day, to stop sucking knuckle.

When the rouge trickles down
calloused digital mandibles, it drowns
all the vanity and insanity,
bringing truth to reality,
reinstating precious gravity.
When two and two start making four
not cos the elder fraternity told you so,
but because you've come to know
that you can control the way the river flows.
You can set it in motion,
And you can merge it with the ocean
and then drink the mixture up like magic potion;
let it soothe your veins like lotion
Just hold on to this notion.

Great birds know they need all the seed they can stock
So they throw caution to the wind and just feed round the clock.
When the aviators fly, they cry;
so their fledglings open wide
and they swallow all their pride.
Birdbrains are deceptive.
They trick you with their perspective,
forcing you to be receptive
to their ideas, sans contraceptive.
We know we're dwarfed by your gigantic wings,
and our voice sounds gravelly like when a crow sings,
but we're biding our time and counting our things
and once we've organised our nests and smoothed our chinks,
we'll find ourselves at the place where the rainbow brings.
So don't you dare stop short.
Please reconsider if you intend to abort.
Flap those arms like you're fleeing from Voldemort.
If you're panting, think of it as a sport
You're on hole no. 17, or at a tennis court.
Pump that blood. Feel your water. You never need ask for more.

Freak of a nature

With an eye on the sun,
the ostrich sneaks out
of its cranial shyness.
You're no tortoise, my giraffe.
Stick it out.
Reach for the dangling carrot
while it still hangs
in the balance.

My royal highness,
would you like a refill?
I'm here for the morning rain
like I never was parched.
Let's wreak some havoc
and then curl up into it.
We'll sneak back in
when everyone's watching.
And the applause will be
a sideshow just for us.

Get up at dawn,
but stifle no yawns.
Rush into focus.
Ease into view.
Wash your own socks,
and go out for a jog.
Tense those new runs
and avail your wiles.

The unsinister watcher twitches
in delight, for it can see
better than anyone else.
Turn your sight inside,
look at your inner sighs.
Your inner size
would dwarf a mammoth.

Sorry, I don't mean to apologise, but this sort of fear calls for a bout of well-meant contrition. We'll do so much better, henceforth, I promise.

The chocolate oughtn't to have been served, if Rudder had heard Norbert well. It was uncalled for. Rudder had served below the belt. He wasn't playing fair. Oh sure, Rudder was the Dark Lord and all, and Voldemort had nothing on him, either trident-wise or serpent-wise. But, it occurred to Norbert a trustful covenant had been signed earlier in the day. Was this supposed to be Rudder's twisted way of signalling a bashful retreat? Was He being brazenly spineless? Surely not, Me Lud, if Norbert may venture to call anyone that. Usually, Norbert would never even instigate such a thing, but the gold-foiled cocoa slab really was really pushing the envelope.



And suddenly, Norbert was wishing for a world in which the law of the land was either sanity or death. It was absolute madness to have a world where one was allowed to be insane. Give Norbert intellectual liberty or give him death, Zogwarg Queen.

The repetitive clawing motion was insisting that Norbert do his utmost best to ignore it. The more it jabbed, the more it urged Norbert to build his muscular resilience. "Get stronger," it thumped benevolently over Norbert's silently screeching hypothalamus. It's a cardiac calisthenic. Breathe and jump. Rinse and repeat.

When the eye tried to stare Norbert down, he knew he must rise to the challenge and climb the stair on the double. And didn't he dare worry that he seemed not to be able to play by Their rules. Truth be conjectured, They didn't seem to be able to convey with any sort of clarity what the rules were themselves, and Norbert would be a fool to himself if he attempted to understand that which strove not to be understood.

In the meanwhile, it still remained to be seen what would be done about the insidious bar of chocolate. More on that as it unfolds, or unwraps.

Irredeemable insanity should really be banned. Just saying.

My Lord, for comfort!

The cushion lounged, sat back on its revered bum, flanked by two carefree attendants Who liked nothing more than to emulate their liege lord, albeit they were given only to produce a more squashed-looking facsimile. On that regal dais, sketchy-looking pages lay, bowed, having come unbound of what adhered them once to their hardbound face, although they still maintained sibling cohesion. And so they beseeched the royal bolsters to grant them shelter and patronage.

I find I can be quite productive when not being crushed by despair.

Breathing helps to calm my nerves and detect my bones.

I take refuge in whatever will promise to entertain me and keep its promise unfailingly.

Conversations

All the current literature state sanctimoniously that listening is a quality to be cherished and cultivated. Textbooks, morals, TV shows all talking everywhichwhere about the virtue of the listener. "Ooh, I'm a great listener," brags this friend of mine, unabashedly, just having got off a sermon of a phone conversation, in which she had delivered earnest advice to this love-lorn friend of hers for, like, half an hour straight.

Everywhere I go, though, people are actually hounding the conversation and steering the flow of debate towards their ideas and liking. It's the sign of the successful human being that he ensure that he is in full control of a situation. Allowing another person's ideas and notions to cordon the conversation, I've found in my experience, is tantamount to succumbing to death.

I'm faced with a moral dilemma everytime I enter into a conversation. Are you supposed to listen wholeheartedly, submissively even, or come to the fore with views of your own, even it they're harsh or abrasive, and potentially dangerous for that matter? I guess the key would be not to have harsh, abrasive views. Also, it so happens that I'm shit scared of advancing views these days lest they be held against me or misconstrued. This happens very often, so I find my fear understandable.

Lord, help me hold my own and not get washed down under the merciless cascade of someone else's views. I beseech yous, World o' mine, let's all just work with the power we have on our own. No one needs to stomp on another person to feel a power surge. We all have power of our own. I think it ought to be enough if we cultivate our own. I don't even wanna know how this view is going to come back to bite me.

Maybe God'll sink his teeth into me today.

Eternal mirth and mindful satisfaction

Future tidings rang out
and sounded strong gongs.
The acolyte drank in the clamour
and digested them as silken songs.
Of eternal mirth and mindful satisfaction.

Every act and thought
became a rectifying mercy.
Steep steps climbed
all the way to pleasing surety.
In eternal mirth and mindful satisfaction.

Three doors above,
the dragon expired with a start.
With its final blow it called the shrieking ogre
to come claim its heart.
Of eternal mirth and mindful satisfaction.

Complexities unravelled,
subtleties ran outside to play.
In the sunny morning,
every cell made hay.
With eternal mirth and mindful satisfaction.

Fleets came together in solidity,
captured by an even speedier instant.
Things were said as they were
and meanings, like they were meant.
For eternal mirth and mindful satisfaction.