Miraquill
How to kiss.
nightwriter_i
I look at these old photographs All laughter that we shared ❤️
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nightwriter_i
20w
Read MoreIn this present environment, with a round pillow under my back it's tough to come up with a thought or two. The exchange of lips is a serene moment. It's serene only when it's safe and respectful or when we look back we see black dots instead of roses. Drop down your chores and dive deep into this for two minutes. You are supposed to trace your fingers on the contours of a waist and pull her forward, worship her cheeks like your life depends on it. And she would lean forward if she wants to, and if she does, don't let her go for a good 5 minutes. Lift her butt up, choke her neck. Make her sit down and giggle all you want. It could be the last time, you could die tomorrow. You can keep your eyes closed, you can keep it open. There are red wires in eyeballs, those red wires come up when the eyes want to cry. This is a very suggestive text. I want to sound as real as Michelangelo did while sculpting bare hands on soft thighs.
And I wish I could write more on this.
I have got some work to do. Until then, read it twice. -
nightwriter_i
20w
Read More
I don't know how many heart to heart conversations does one require to conclude something. What is even a conclusion?
Here, as I sit in front of a lit up aquarium, I don't seem to find an answer to so many things that happen while we walk on the presumed borders of a mosaic floor. There is a new article on intimacy, written by this xyz columnist, which says that when we listen to someone we grow so close that we live them. The dangers of being a good listener is that sometimes you will believe what's not there. And listening is intimacy. This is unfortunate and coherent at the same time. There's no rectilinear propagation, or there is, maybe with a hint of centrifugal trajectory. But this hint consumes many, this hint is the reason why people crave a straight line and never deviate. I deviated twice while jotting this thought down on my notepad. Thoughts are sometimes too irrational and intrusive and we aren't our thoughts. If we market our opinions and not embody what we believe in, then what's the point in looking for results?
Too many questions and very few answers, the good thing is when I search for answers I forget what sadness bring me to this point. So searching is better than meandering in a pool of salt.
And the columnist is me, I believe we can solve anything and everything if we have the courage and will to sit down and be honest.
© nightwriter_iI don't know.
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nightwriter_i
21w
Cheese steak, egg roll Raviolis and a sip of wine. We gut out steeply on our paths, two whole stomach and hungry souls. I have given up on this sloppy edge of great thinking. Hence, content with some dishes high on sodium. So, I eat. And when I eat, I see you squirm because my language has changed and kindness never really proved vital. You understood what happened and moulded into me. And now here, you enjoy the mental state you are in. And there are no conjoined tensed eyebrows, no stress marks and no thin frames. Everything's fine.
I am not this and I am not that.
I am just I, and there are no personal or possesive pronouns that define me. I have turned the tables of my predestined notion (read: Fate). And I have proved everyone wrong. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. And for everytime I will be put down, I'll have an answer. A brutal one.
If it's my last chance on earth, I would really give it my all.
©nightwriter_i -
nightwriter_i
24w
Read More
I'm wearing a black hoodie, a red tshirt with indigo strips on it and red joggers to match an uncanny feat of silk cushions on the sofa. All this while I have written about what I feel but I am not sure if it's good to write about everything I go through, even though my revelations are only one aspect of a grand scheme of things, and the universe doesn't care about a single burning candle on the table. I'll melt and children would poke their pencils on my chest, one day, with the satisfaction of unearthing a dead wax candle and giving it the salvation it deserves. Whilst the last hours of 2021, I was amidst a crowd of fun loving people who looked everywhere with hope, as the twinkling lights shone on their pale faces, everyone looked happy as if they wanted to forget yesterday and live. I always cook different plans, there is perhaps peace, in another world, for people like me. I hardly smile and when I do I think about the circumstances that would follow, would it be one more year of voicing out pain, or entrapping the mind to believe illusion. I hope neither of it happens, I am looking forward to a good year because my expectations are low, and it's better if something surprises me.
if you see me happily sipping coffee in a cozy cafe, leave me alone.Good once twice bad
but still good once. -
nightwriter_i
27w
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Everytime I have whispered something I have meant it. Vacant chairs scare me, the ones that are beside me and one that's in front. There is a place where I can never be alone. I feel stuck in this loop of information and everything that sucks me in is enabling it. There are some around who never wish better, and some leave to make it better. There is always this cycle of something never ending. It's like we live in a simulation where kids push and pull buttons to tap into our imagination. Paying bonuses when we act just like they want us to, luring us into believing that we are in control of our lives.
We all have this tendency to feel important, I visit bookstores on Sundays, mainly Oxford. I sit there in desolation as if waiting for something to happen, with my eyes moored to the printed designs that speak, I almost forget everything that goes around. One such day I met this woman who was hurrying her way towards the cafeteria and almost slipped infront of me. She grabbed my left shoulder and sat down beside me, wondering what's going on, I asked if she was okay. She looked at me and and asked if she is looking beautiful. I said "yeah mam, you do, what happened?". She was wearing a black saree with white polka dots and she was actually very pretty. She told me that she was waiting for her boyfriend, whom she hasn't seen in 2 years. And that she wanted to look beautiful today. I smiled and answered that you are really pretty and he is really lucky to have you. She got up smiled and left, then she came back with a rose in her hand and a man standing beside her. She gave me the rose and told me that I made her day. It was so wholesome and so inexplicable that I couldn't stand for an hour. I sat there, waiting for the evening to pass by.
If a bunch of kids were controlling me that day, I am grateful to them. Everytime I have whispered something I have meant it and under my breath I still speak as I write.
I just want to pass by, happily. Even when trouble comes I want to pass by without a fuss, even when there's a fuss I want to pass by with tight clench and stiff shoulders, but I just want to pass by. If there's a loop, please be gentle, I don't want to pluck your eyes out and make you blind, I just want to pass by your side glances and assert what I mean.
I mean that I just want to pass by. And if I don't, then sit down with me, I have something to tell you that next time "I'll pass by".I wonder what makes me tap on the pavement rigoursly, while waiting for a sight. I am still looking for something at places I had cried.
I am looking for a smile.
©nightwriter_i -
nightwriter_i
35w
Read More
When you practice gratitude it makes you look at things in a better way. Leaves will rumble when the wind is gusty, wilted ones too. And who says that a dead leaf isn't beautiful. Grey is always associated with Gloomy mood, I have great reverence for people who have decoded what grey is. I have great reverence for people who are resilient. Not everyone can tolerate and not break, but you don't have to tolerate when you have a mouth to speak, you should. Anger, sadness won't subside if you won't treat it. Silence could be an antidote but the hurt won't fade if you won't talk about it. When the grey clouds gather up in the sky they protect you from heat, sometimes the drops are forgiveness for your sins, sometimes the drops sting like nudges from Scissorhands. Many of us are not what we tell others, we picturise how we want to be perceived by others. Many of us don't talk about how we were bad to others but won't stop for a minute if someone does the same. When you get happier, you forget these things. It's so liberating to forget things, to forget how people looked, how they sounded, how they had lit up your day once and how they ended up ruining you.
As I have already said, a poet is a poet only when he is writing a poem. I will be a human again as I go back to have lunch and forget about what I had written.God for minutes and devil for hours.
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nightwriter_i
36w
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A poet is a poet only when he is writing a poem. I relay information to my senses and it captivates you all. My words are limited to places. A meaningless thought is still there roaming between the cortex and the stem but bytes don't affect the course of life, do they? A day could get gloomy if you keep your eyes moored on the tip of a leaf until when transpiration sucks out the green from it. But again you slouch like a slob and write about it infront of people you don't know. Things look under control when you aren't alone, but when you sit in a balcony filled with green you can't help but think of rain. Rain isn't a mystery under Science's lens, it spews out acid when it feels violated. Infact I am like a garbage box too, if you keep me full of shit, I stink. When the sky appears orange during sunset the heart is filled with a feeling of longing for something. That something is what people search, if they don't find it within themselves they look for others who have it. They curl themselves on the sofa and make imagination their muse. They paint it, they write about it. The girl on the sidelines of a dilapidated city surely looked pretty, she wore an orange maxi and her lips wore a fluttering anxiety. A photographer clicked her photos and vogue signed a contract. The essence of an incoming Diwali is seeping into the hearts of believers, we left a festival behind and Durga Ma crossed Ganga on a boat, supposedly. It poured down heavily on Vijayadashami, Ma paddled through the junks of the river, thinking about all that there is in the world. I smile a lot nowadays, and it makes me realise the importance of lips. When you kiss someone you exchange saliva, you exchange a desire, you exchange a tune of being in sync. It's a moment when your dwindling thoughts align.
Just this for today, too much for writing, too much of sitting at a place and imagining.Everything here is, Everything there was.
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nightwriter_i
44w
Closet.
Comma, full stop, and hyphen
went to a bar
to seek merry.
They approached semicolons
with lemonades and bedtime talks.
All giggled and laughed until a giant pen
summoned them on a piece of paper,
some joined hands
some froze,
the horror spoke
in English,
a love letter I suppose.
They remain etched
on a declaration of affection
folded in square
on the back pocket
of denim.
©nightwriter_i -
Perch.
Sitting on a mound of words, with clenched fists,
There's a hint of aggression in every word whispered,
The bedsheets are creased and a gloomy silence is overlooking a fine morning.
Pillow covers tend to strip down after last night's dream.
A kiss, a hump, and a wet bump.
Channels and funnels smoke
cigarettes with sleepy eyes
telling me if you are in at once
there's no outside.
©nightwriter_i -
nightwriter_i
51w
Note.
We are mortals, we don't have much time on this planet. If you have got problem with someone go talk to them instead of searching for posts that support your cause. Life is already too complicated, make it simple for yourself, yeah?
A thought after watching 50/50 last night.
My feed looks more like a rant field now. *sighs*
But who cares? As long as I am in company of talented people like you all, it's all gains and nothing to lose.
(Day X of not sounding too idealistic)
©nightwriter_i
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accismus
16w
Read MorePray for yourself if you understand this poem.
(Note: The Greek God of Pan is the classic origin of panic. He looks conventionally harmless, playing a pan flute or the panpipes but he is mythologically capable of a apocalypse in your psyche. That will sort the title for you.
Eliot wrote "The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock" and it's anything but a love song. Give it a read when you can.
This particular piece is about a man who is in a manic phase but relies on that phase for his creativity. If you pay attention, you will note that the psychotic voice in the character hesitates to 'infect' him but with time, the voice gains momentum, just like impulses in a body. I will leave the reader to decipher the rest on their own. )Panpipes
He was about to kiss me,
When I realised that,
that I have a vicious infection,
right on the skin of my neck,
an estate left by another lover.
I stopped him.
I could not pass the infection.
We would have to wait,
wait five long days,
before I was fit as a flea,
whom you pet and press,
by your robust feet.
His room smelled of ghee,
no, not exactly,
rather an illusion of ghee.
Did you know smells are like portals,
to your past and your future?
In the present, you are smelling,
smelling the lingerie of a disaster.
I squeezed out the puss from my infection,
that was playing a game of rugby on my neck,
and a corn popped out!
When did I plant it?
This seed of sweat? Of food and hunger?
Of brazen desire?
There was no serpent at Eve's door,
she ate because she wanted to eat!
We are capable of executing elaborate
crucifixions, of tantalizing passions as far-fetched as the serpent's purple metal skin.
So, I went back and kissed him,
passed on the infection,
he took it on,
and kissed back.
He was no Adam, or Satan.
God? God is all hype, no game.
He was the carrier of an infection,
a humble man who stood naked,
and banged on my doors in 2022,
for a simple answer.
Yes, I let him know,
"I am only imagination,
the kind which perplexes your psychiatrist,
makes you take two doses of lithium,
once after breakfast,
once after the dinner."
There can be a biological war
doing a salsa on your porch,
there can be more,
a pandemic, a famine,
and the sky might pee out a nuclear weapon,
dropping it on Prufrock's etherized table,
but I will return to you like a lovelorn phantom, once your medicine wears out.
Since, you do not know what is beyond
this brittle wall of your dingy stereotypes,
I, alone, with tenderness
will impregnate your head,
birth a whirlpool and a wilderness.
Your parents have payed the fee,
the doctors have set out the dose.
I've called upon legendary hysteria,
A God of Pan,
and his mephitic farts within a box of rain,
and we are fucking, like timeless perverts
inside your post-modern brain.
A poser, you never knew anything of dialectics,
commodity fetishism or Eliot!
It was always me, your ghost writer, indeed the ghost of a writer who has one foot straight up in his own pathetic grave.
Eh? Self-pity much?
I know 'you will dare not disturb the universe'
because you make me murder you in your own wet dreams,
so that I leave you with a poem like a redundant lover,
and you feed on that,
you chew Literature up in deafening silences,
like a starving intellectual.
©accismus -
53.7%
The man took out his belt,
marked her skin in a Valentine red,
I think, I think loud, that she prayed,
She said, "Allah, where's relief?"
The man took out his belt,
marked her skin in a Valentine red,
I think, I think loud, that she prayed,
She said, "God, end this today."
The man took out his belt,
marked her skin in a Valentine red,
An atheist, she didn't pray,
She perhaps remembered how
her father cut her ma down,
pulled her out from a dead pit,
and how he didn't stroke her skin,
On February Fourteen!
Can you compensate?
Women are so ignorant,
they turn to different Gods,
they turn away from Gods,
Yet, they keep saying,
"Perhaps, God is a woman!"
Would you ask Saraswati,
to come down to school,
in a skirt?
Oh yes, since you believe,
Would you dare to ask,
Mother Saraswati to come down,
in a skirt?
Uniforms cling to my skin,
A liberal, I scream,
"Liberation, here it is!"
Meanwhile, a trans woman
who cannot afford a transition,
looks at herself in a pant and a shirt,
because that is the binary garb,
kills herself.
What's suicide?
Most of it is institutionalised murder.
Sister, I don't know if you have read Marx,
Lacan, Kant, Derrida, or two pages of Clara Zetkin, Dhasal, Mahasweta Devi or even Arundhati Roy for the matter of fact.
I don't know if you will choose to.
All I know is, if you want to hold a book in your hand, and the saffronised warmongers do not let you, here we will rage with you,
clothed and naked,
as naked as Nangeli,
as naked as the raped body of Thangjam Manorama,
or as clothed as Savitribai Phule,
or as clothed as my mother,
who wears a saree with ardent care, everyday.
Here, we will rage with you, today,
for they have taken away the book
from your hand.
We will March again,
twenty or two hundred,
with pride,
yet with shame,
ashamed at our female literacy rate,
so stagnant at a quivering,
fifty three point seven percent.
©accismus -
Hello, Bourgeoisie.
I think I write in English.
What an ambiguous language!
A metaphor here, there,
and then a metaphor
on the frustrated arch of a pregnant woman walking ordinarily on the pavement.
At 17,
women get married with their hair parted,
an affirmative nose pin,
and an itch in their father's crotch.
A burden, that she is not!
She is an asset rather.
Is 'bidi' yet an English word?
Or is it 'beedi' for the sake of my literary accuracy?
She has been taught to roll one,
fill tobacco and wrap it in virgin leaves,
day in and out,
with efficiency,
with frequency,
with consistency,
with intensity,
like her father fucks his wife,
like her husband is taught to fuck her.
Together, they roll out multitudes,
of bidi and children,
and hunger of supreme kind.
And then the senior says,
"She has rolled bidis all her life,
from the maternal to the paternal,
from the swing to the in-law,
to an age where she is immobile
with wrinkles and tuberculosis,
an adjective of a cancer,
or the usual, benevolent asthma,
more benevolent than her master,
and the blech of a factory."
My parents are tight on cash this month,
and I light my bidi instead of a Flake.
I have learnt to spell a word lately.
Communism.
I am a flourishing English student,
a creative mega mind.
I also learnt to spell a word, today.
Ergonomics.
You see, I can write a revolution,
I cannot possibly 'manufacture' one.
A hopeless communist,
with a looping savior complex,
I sniff to inhale equity.
My subconscious whispers,
"One elite fucker,
and a hoard of jargons,
writing a thesis on communism,
and basking in the innovation of it,
like a man-made God."
A privileged student did tell my senior
that the bidi worker can be spared
of the familiar back ache,
and all she will need is an elevated desk,
to roll her tobacco on.
However, I am only concerned,
concerned about an overpriced lighter
that my new lover dropped in my purse.
What will I cure of a spine,
when ours is crippled by overconsumption?
We are chewing our food, and words,
such as Communism and Ergonomics.
But, are we digesting yet?
No.
©accismus -
whitewings
27w
More terrifying than your abuse,
is the lack of remorse in your eyes.
I wait for the night to pass.
So that in the morning when you'd smile,
as if nothing happened last night,
it'd be easier to tell myself...
I should not hate you.
©whitewings -
illicit_skunk
29w
to live is to write a verse on flower extracts that exudes a newfound absence of meaning
wisps of dust
on disheveled guesses;
all things eventually take a stale turn.
the need to keep up
with the rate of dissociation
turns me into a cheese-less wheat disc
topped with minced meat
and olives.
a smoke crammed,
posh, Calcutta based bar
and a mixologist
entrancing people with his spirit play;
soaked in a thick haze,
i wonder if you'd like my heart
done tender
with a slightly charred exterior.
the likes of you and me
aren't exactly alike
but if the two, scour through
basic degrees of coffee roasting
they'd prefer theirs brewed
with dark roast beans;
and when served so,
they'd like it flung across the room.
a figment of my mist laden imagination-
a vagrant with intense eyes
crafting supple leather lodgings
for a rich woman's maquillage
bought at extortionate rates.
i accidentally let him get pulped
by a machine in the tannery
whilst he dreams of better days.
the background music in my life
is a wild mix of genres
and i'm not yet a fine music maker
but i'm good at raising hell
and smothering myself
with the most bizzare expectations.
tying the reality to me,
is a delicate, translucent tendril
and it snaps
just as I start to get the hang of it.
©illicit_skunk -
whitewings
27w
What is the benefit
and who gets it,
when you're friends with benefits.
Is it the man getting his ego boost
of having conquered another female body
or is it him getting the opportunity,
to shoot between her thighs,
night after night,
the seamless jet of his insecurities.
The dopamine rush,
his veins teeming with adrenaline.
Is it the woman's idea of receiving,
approval and validation,
by bartering her body.
Or is it a woman so deprived of affection,
that she gives up on love,
and makes peace with receiving
lustful kisses and touch.
What actually is the benefit,
of losing your soul to satiate the body.
Who gets the benefit
when two people mutually murder,
each others self esteem and integrity.
©whitewings -
gehna09
35w
Read MoreIt's eerily quiet in his office. The only thing I could hear was the pitter-patter of rain against the windowsill and my fingernails tapping against his mahogany table. And the only light that entered the room was from his dimly lit vintage lamp that sat across the room in a corner. Forlorn sans any companion. I resonated with it. It was just like me. Sitting alone with it's thoughts.
Jahoda, a humanist psychologist, once said that one of the factors of imbibing positive psychological mindset was perceiving reality as it is. I think that's where the artists deviated. They read too much into the lines. That's why I quit being one.
He sat across vacantly looking at me in the most inconvenient way possible. I was uncomfortable. But it was okay too, because I put myself in that position. He straightened his twead glasses and reiterated himself as if he wasn't articulate in the first go. I really despised this part of him. Questioning me about things that I despised talking about.
“Well, staying alone with my thoughts wasn't comfortable, so I quit it. What more do you want to know?” I murmured.
“Is it worth it?” he got up, treading across the room, pulling out a random self-help book from his ginormous bookshelf that ran up to the ceiling. I didn't want another one. I already had too many with me, without an iota of motivation to read one.
“Don't worry. This isn't for you.” he said as he came back with it, resuming his stance.
“I told you already, it's scary, the job, living, and now...even you.”
“You run away too much. And the thing is, that you can. It's the worst part. You won't even hesitate to leave me if your fear overpowers you. Regret, people's emotions, reality, guilt, all of this means nothing to you. Does it?”
I had no answer. He went on with his soliloquy on how flawed I am as a person. And I zoned out. The fading glow of the lamp was far more fascinating than his speech. He snapped me out, scolded me some more and got me tea. I really didn't know what to do.
“Have it, you'd rather do things your own stubborn way than listen to me.”
“Thanks.”
“Do you even know why I stop with my revolting these days?”
I laughed. I laughed till my stomach hurt. It looked like I was having a manic episode. But I wasn't. I was laughing at his hypocrisy.
“you find this funny?” he clenched his fists. his breathing got audibly heavier. It was rare to see him like this.
“you're a hypocrite.” I gasped
“I never said that I'm not afraid. I just don't run away. Why do you love to test my patience so much?” he said as he walked away. He was fuming, but still under control.
I, again, had no answers. I didn't want to hurt him like this. But this was no sappy romantic comedy that a kiss would solve things.
“Fuck it.” he walked over to his cabinet taking out a bottle of whiskey. I knew he'd be annoyed and then he'd cry out of his wits. Which is did. And I hugged him. He does hate me, but not enough to leave me.
When he almost passed out in my arms on the nook of the couch, I whispered in his ear, “I won't run away from you. Don't worry.” And he fell asleep.
...
I ran away though. You see I am a coward, and a liar.
©gehna09Jahoda, a humanist psychologist, once said that one of the factors of imbibing positive psychological mindset was perceiving reality as it is. I think that's where the artists deviated. They read too much into the lines. That's why I quit being one.
©gehna09 -
illicit_skunk
40w
typewriter 404
I should buy myself a typewriter
but I am leaving this apartment
and striding out into the unknown
with no money.
it might turn out to be
just like my grandfather's story
when he left home at fifteen;
left his mother behind
who died shortly after;
left with almost no money
and became a soldier in the Indian Navy.
he once told me that no one
but his mother
had loved him
and that I look like her.
I didn't know I loved him then;
I love him now
but he's gone.
maybe he left a little of him in me
and maybe that will be enough to carry me through whatever lies ahead.
when I look around,
I see no one
who would hold the parts of me
that are falling apart.
they'd rather dust
my crumbs off their shoulders
and make sure I -
nevermind.
who would build with me
and cut out a little on the ecstasy
when they have the leisure to be melancholy?
luxury sinks deeper than a beast's fangs
and love is but an abstract noun.
I have been dragged past all these
Ls
and made to believe that
I am undeserving of them.
there's a new centaur in the stable
aiming for the fish's eye
and in all probability
has shot mine.
little does he know
I'm resistant
to all these archers
and their ephemeral love.
I'll play along
while the sweat runs over
my open wounds
in the scorching battlefield;
thirsty for something
that makes my ink run wild
under a new moon in September.
I had my blood raging
against the emotional unavailability
until I became the very devil
I dreaded past three
in the morning.
though leaving
after everyone has left me behind
makes no sense,
I won't stay back to watch
those old nightmares being projected
on these very walls
that I've finally managed to erect.
I'll also buy a typewriter
and smash my head with it.
©illicit_skunk -
illicit_skunk
40w
self talk after pot brownies
September 15, 2021
two hours and four minutes past noon
I was never written about.
never the muse
but the possessor of a mind so obtuse
that I wrote all the obsession out of me
until there was none left.
layers of iron laden water
stood still in my basement,
in the buckets and the washbasins
creating an obscene tune of utter stagnancy.
but I had to return
leaving the momentary escape behind
to scrape the stubborn rust stains
off the wet floor.
this beginning tastes different
and I have a delta attached
to the left of my soul;
and to whatever is left of this soul.
I was led on and on to dead ends
only to breakthrough and make way;
to sit back and breathe in solace.
with my perspective, everything has changed.
I'm the strongest when alone
with the fresh mountain air speeding past
and thrashing against my face;
peeling off all the masks that I've ever worn.
there's something rough and fierce
about honesty and tenderness;
about loving with all your heart
and bending till you break.
but I choose to channelize that love towards myself
because I've seen myself standing alone
against the worst of times
when people were too busy
hurting, blaming and accusing me;
when they were too busy
drowning shoulder deep in self pity
and using it as an excuse
to do what they did.
but i have forgiven myself
and everyone I've come across.
I've chosen to walk out of the dark places.
I'm not looking for love.
for, if it's there, it'll find it's way to me.
I refuse to be consumed by trivialities.
I'm waiting on miracles
and I believe in magic
and the fact that smiles heal us.
I'm ready for massive changes,
prepared to combat any darkness that stands in my way.
I have never been written about
but will soon be -
in history and in the minds of masses
who would look up to me
and say, "if she could, I can too."
©illicit_skunk -
The villagers believe
that the scarecrow
has a role to play
in their cloaked comical lives
while there's no escaping
the pointless.
Yes, an innate lover
still writes to me
on the same lines
where I lost track
of time,
back in the day.
For every latent hardship,
that I acknowledge
and move on in my mind,
I feel deceived
coz the reasons derail
and intuitions jump the gun.
©_transient
