Homogenised identityA curd festers on the top of a glassFloating above the homogenisedSamenessDefeated individualismRelative existenceRelative and pointingAt the curdRelative to the curdHomogenised identityFighting to sink
We Will All Know PovertyHearts fooled, fouled, fullArteries throb, clogged with shadowsWith truth, no room for the otherWho is demandingWho is beggingThe self, cut in twoThe self can seeNo more truthClogged with shadowsMirror shardsThe good lifeAll needing nowGorging on each otherBecoming the otherPoverty, the bifurcation of selfA well heart wealth
Under A Gibbous MoonIt was a dark evening, the light of a starkly gibbous moon shone ominously onto a lone Arkham building. A place rooted firmly into one of the more undesirable districts of that cursed city. The light trickled through into its Georgian interior, as if afraid of the dancing shadows it threw forward like devilish spectres. The pointed ears and peaked form of something alien to the world were cast darkly onto Howard Phillip Lovecraft by the softly tortured light. He sat reading the "The Cask of Amontillado", muttering to himself, strange musings punctuated by the curling of his lips. The cat's shadow disappeared and the scene seemed twisted for a moment, silent but for the screams of another world that could be heard echoing in the dark circuitous passageways of his mind. Lovecraft stared stoically at the aged paper before him, pensive as he ignored this all too familiar experience. He closed the book, self indulgent self hatred and adoration of his erstwhile peer an
Misunderstanding AmbiguityColaba. Mumbai. India. Tom & Tom step off of the pavement into the chaos of an Indian road. The smell of fried pakoda and diesel over-whelmed them to the point it no longer existed, denying contrast as they walked at equal pace across the street. An empty bottle thoughtlessly thrown was retrieved by a street child, who contemplated it thoughtfully. As Tom & Tom walked further away into doomed potential, a put-put narrowly missed their centre, the driver then having the gall to ask if they would like a ride, "Baba please. Why like this?".Across Madam Cama Road sat the National Gallery of Modern Art, a pristinely alien aspect exuding false 'civilisation'. Tom looked towards Tom to affirm this was the place, although it was an educated guess inferred from a low quality image. They walked past the burning trash on the other side, passing the iron-fence leading to the entrance where a
Beauty in the contraryThere is beauty in the contrary.The off beats of appreciation are not wantonTo those found wanting.In the jazz of life, They offer an escape from the machinations of our conducting oppressors.A personal oppressor we all know well. A violin that shrieks high andCuts at the beauty of melody,Nothing but an escape from the prescientVision of pre-destiny. There is a remedy.There is always a remedy. An escapeFrom the inevitable end we areOfferedIn the madness of the ecstatic heart heavy dance.Release your burdens and seeWhat the enlightenment brings.