negative hunger September 29, 2007

the black boxes have been playing the same frequency all day
a goat has been sitting here with complicated books and calculators
occasionally paying attention to what the jockey has been murmuring
the ‘others’ in the farm are busy as usual
they fly in simulated worlds and talk about numeric connectivity

brown rust deposited on the stove is hissing as it cools
water dripping from the silver tap forms a certain 9/8 rhythm
there’s music is in the air. it’s deafening

the fourth guinea pig is being mutilated in an asylum of white rats
his monotonic topics of discussions have been well explored
leaving him with his tongue twisted, and rendered useless
the surrounding is so pale, and it shall remain so for a while
he knows this, but doesn’t change it
not because he can’t, just because it’s already late
too late, like always, even this time, simply too late

his journey so looks like a rainbow to all who visit this farm
but for the creature, it has been just as tasteless as his breakfast
the techniques of heating and mixing is unknown to him
the plate is left empty, cause the others have already had remains of the previous produce

the lazy grasshopper is singing with its noisy voice as usual
the wise ant is moving sugar cubes from place to place pointlessly as usual
this is the new world? or just another faulty remake of the old black n’ white reel
with the same flaws and the same plots
a story that’s predictable, and characters made from striped socks and fingers
the show will go on, as promised. stay and watch as everything melts
one by one. please watch.

Night falls September 24, 2007

…And then again, you find yourself, walking on that same dim-lit street. You can see that same road below  your feet. And yet, it amuses you in more ways than ever. Those cracks, and the stagnant rain water trapped in between form interesting patterns, and the grainy tar road makes it look like a blurred painting. You look hard, and then your eyes focus to picking up more details from the dark atmosphere. You begin to see the reflections within the stagnant water. The light from those old orange colored spherical street lamps bounce off the water surface, makes it look like its glowing. You try to look away, but nothing around you is moving and nothing grabs your attention more than the ground below. You continue to walk on that street. The patches of moist green on the sides of road, along the side walk, and the white line becomes your guide. You can hear nothing, but yourself breathing. You can feel the veins on your fore head and behind your ears pulsate as your heart continues to beat heavily…

The shadow that’s been following you for the past ten minutes appears more darker now. You look at how it distorts your body, as you walk across the street lamps. You extend your hands and see how your shadow interprets your fingers. Skinny and long, like alien hands. You move your fingers as if you were grazing them over a bed of flowers. Imagine the garden. You can almost see it in the darkness ahead. You can almost smell those flowers. Some bright colors, and a million shades of green. You keep on walking. You just can’t stop, even if you wanted you. You just can’t.

Once in a while you turn your head around to look at silent strangers and noisy cars cruising along the street. The headlights from the cars blind you for a second, and the cold winds blowing in your face makes you wanna drop down. Maybe sit down for a while. You are exhausted, and your feet are just about to give up, but you just can’t stop, because you know that your destination is close by. Very close. You plan out things to do as soon as you get there. You make an efficient list of things and chores to do and end this day as soon as you possibly can. You plan to heat up the mashed potato curry you cooked last night, and have it with warm rice. Just the way you like it. Served on precious china, which the elder sibling bought you last month. That blue rimmed dinner plate, and the matching blue cup filled with your favorite brand of orange juice. And then a glass of milk. White, creamy. You love to blow it cold and sip it. It feels nice. So nice.

It’s just a painting, and so it shall be. It never speaks, but says so many things. About itself, its owner and its creator. It’s just a painting, it will never speak. Just look at the thousands of thoughtful strokes and tune your eyes to the million hues. Interesting. Don’t you think? This is a part of the painting. Framed. Beautiful frame.