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  • theultimateinsane 12w

    Thanks for the repost @writersnetwork

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    A visit to the Poets' Market

    A metaphorical malice
    in crimson hue,
    some sanguine superstitions
    waged a mutiny.
    A crowd gathered,
    the verdict walked in, the sky came down.
    The mob found peace in pieces of Van Gogh.

    Sellers selling words, the sweetest and the prettiest.
    The others selling words soaked in Vanity
    the bards didn't go for bargaining, they were in rush
    A pariah's accelerated articulation
    and his pregnant mind at the "Simile Store"
    those in the Bestsellers' section one can't find.

    On the two sides of the wide lanes, there were food stalls ,
    making pan-poems and summer rolls in seconds
    they don't cost much to prepare.
    Only finely chopped satirical lines, a pinch of humour, two or three slices of protagonist
    they mix them together and shake it well .
    And serve you a cold Word Shake.
    ©theultimateinsane

  • theultimateinsane 13w

    So, this is RJ Gaurav and I am back with my show "Ishq wla Love". Today it's gonna be little different as I'm gonna share with you guys my love story unlike the other episodes.
    ** Bg Music** ( tada da da Rj Gaurav, Ishq wla love)

    Before we could cross the road, the signal turned red, so we had to stop there. The city lights were dim and beyond any parametric equations and conic sections, how much complexities crept in, I couldn't fathom.

    - Khushi?
    The smoke of the cigar had filled up the room and I noticed her long hair was cut short. She turned round and looked at me under the tangles of her black hair, barely touching her shoulders.
    "Go away!"
    - Khushi what's wrong?
    " I say leave, go away, she shouted and threw the cigar on the floor."
    - Khushi I didn't mean to say that, trust me!
    *Advertisement music*

    So guys yes, Khushi was a real "khushi" in my life. Her attire and her behaviour was perhaps a stroke of luck that clicked well in her and she was not much fair, yet her beauty was pretty alluring. The lips above her crested chin never fake her a smile. So, I met her at college.

    4th Sep, 2002

    -Khushi, ah it smells so good, said I twirling her curls.
    She blushed and said -
    "Vanilla fields, Saloni gifted me last year."
    - Ugh no, I'm asking about the smell coming from your lunch box.
    Soon she became shy and tried making up with -
    " Oh haa, aam kheer! ammi ne banaya"
    - accha? mujhe do, thoda mai bhi taste krke dekhu?
    " Nhi ye to mai bilkul nhi share krne wli! Waise kru bhi to kya doge? "
    It was recess time and Khushi was so much into me that she didn't even notice the gloomy weather outside. The clouds were heavy with every bit of their dark tones, becoming darker in every second promised a heavy downpour.

    - Baarish! chlega na? And I turned her neck towards the window.

    It was late October month , both of us were having a nice talk until a sudden topic triggered us both.

    "Gaurav?" You love me and you just can't confess this before your friends! (she said in a rude voice )
    - See I want to keep these things private. There's a privacy in my life.
    Khushi now raised her voice too high - " There's a difference, a hell lot difference between privacy and being private, keeping matters private always.
    I lost my mind seeing my girl doubting on me. I answered her back with much disgust and exasperation
    - If you can't accept these things , you can straight away leave.
    There it was 5th October, 2002 our relation came to an end. And few months back when I paid a visit to her I saw her smoking a cigar, lying naked on the sofa and a guy in the front passionately making a portrait of her.

    " Just go away Gaurav! " Khushi yelled at me, she couldn't see my tears.
    My hands shook . This is my girl who said years back that she can't live without me . Yes, she is just like a dead butterfly now,still that much pretty ,she's trying to live somehow ,trying to stay happy in her own way.

    Khushi if you are here on my radio station listen to me I want to say "aaj meri ammi ne bhi mere lunch box mein aam kheer pack krke diya hai , sirf baarish ki kaami hai, tumhare sahar mein aaj baarish aaye to mujhe bhej dena. "

    Episode ends. * Bg music* ( Rj Rj Gauuuraaav)

    ©theultimateinsane

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  • theultimateinsane 13w

    Lost in Last Summer

    Sometimes I wait. I wait for the summer to arrive. Like this summer I want the last August's summer. There would be acorns lie scattered beside the bosky lanes and before the the children could collect , the squirrels would run away with them. I will write poetries again and give those homeless army ants an oak tree to climb on and some sugar crystals too. I will paint summer ballads in blue, in green, in red on their earlobes who can't see.

    Treat in toasted summer

    Reminiscing on the last kalboishakhi what comes more than coloured origami ,the origami barques ,the porridge smell from the bib, is the sweet corn smell and sometimes even the sweet potatoes. I would sit by the fireplace husking long strands of their golden hair next to my mum . And by the time the sweet potatoes get baked the rain would stop falling and the zephyr would harness the melange of their happy smell and roasted taste.


    Blossoms in blooming summer

    Again the summer will come, but not the summer that once dawned in the oxen Meadows of Chekhov's play , not the summer that had a fresh rose in a milksop's garden in my name. How beautiful the sun-crisped yellow petals of sunflower would look like ,the daffodils would merrily swing their hats to the song of the lost young reaper.


    Singing a ballad to the Summer

    Summer puts in the redolent shoes of the lately ethereal June.
    Dancing with the cosmos and the dandelions
    It bleeds on the Winter to mend
    A bit loony to me, for the saccharine evanescent memories of summer won't fade.

    ©theultimateinsane

  • theultimateinsane 15w

    To La Lingerie, on Black Friday
    together they went
    Not shy, but a bit worried
    far away she stood

    First man, first date
    She shook her head "My 43"DD makes my shape
    awkwardly fallible."

    "Sir , you have choices - colours and sizes
    types I may suggest."
    The man went blank
    here for braziers or pants
    SIZE and COLOUR
    do they really matter?
    Took out the napkin in his hand
    wiping his chin

    A long pause
    Salesman's veins chasing rancour .
    Turned round and pointed towards her
    "There's my lady in green"

    Amongst the crowd, women behind chuckled
    and said -
    " this handsome guy, what helplessness
    he might have to choose this girl? "
    No sooner did the salesman smirk -
    "I doubt whether there's a size for that big fat hen."

    She ran away,
    The man followed spitting on their balderdash
    trying to know if it was her
    claustrophobic cells.

    Inside the car, he saw - It was her shame
    that the size took her into
    "Nothing's similar but still the same
    made of
    MUSCLES and BONES,
    flesh two - three pounds more .
    Cut off her breasts,
    one midnight she'll weight half pound less "- his evils stroke

    Loosened the strap and took it off .
    She screamed in fear -
    " Hunting wolf on gear!"
    " I set them free today, lady come to me
    Prisons there would be no longer! "
    ©theultimateinsane

  • theultimateinsane 24w

    @my_cup_of_poetry @dusky_dawn and @kairos_ just wrote to keep your request.
    @_still_in_mess I'm still writing just because you never skip my rants (special tag♡)


    @writersnetwork thanks for the like
    @mirakee ~ a visit may be?


    #wod #gratitude

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    ~A letter to the rusted strings of my Tanpura ~

    To the strings,
    It's been years your rusted strings help me meeting my old escapes. How finely your strings still get plucked and the vibration creates a classical ambience shrouded in strands of yellow, orange and pink hues, not arranged neatly in a rope.
    Those white lilies she potted in the balcony, sang me summer ballads, couldn't make my eyes soaked in sleep anyhow. But you oozed sleepless nights out from eyes, your rusted strings played classical renditions and peppy contemporary ghazals to make me fall asleep.
    I remember the day we met, like it was yesterday, the weather was playing tragic and the thunder banged the glass doors. Everyone was telling "your mom is no more".What I thought was a rumour, it actually wasn't . I pushed the blurry faces behind and dug deep into her large wooden box. My fingers rummaged around. I felt my fingers running on a smooth surface and no sooner did my tiny hand touched your rusted ivory strings, I pulled 'em out and tucked my fingers into the palm, squeezing it gently, it was all red. But the girl who used to cry over broken dolls, smiled that day and her nerves laced up the boots to live the world on hearing the soothing music
    You taught me, why court death when there are spices yet left to treat the buds. Throughout these years I survived her loss, just because of your sweet melody that lasted amid the dregs of her last touch.

    to the strings and the smiles ~
    I plucked , you grinned
    not blossoms but strings
    I cried , you resonated
    a convivial melody
    I promised, you smirked
    love sonnets but not ghazals
    I construed, you frowned.
    From,
    the girl who once longed for the harmony

    ©theultimateinsane

  • theultimateinsane 25w

    My jeans slit
    cut deep
    can see through it
    how the freckles, he caress and says
    "beautiful are these yellowish musings."
    Crumpled primroses, in between the pages,
    mocks at my scars but,
    he calls it 'A true fallacy'
    eulogies to my sweet lies
    juxtaposed the unwanted truths
    behind the bars
    "You are just three beautiful tragedies lesser than me
    but not small " ( said he)
    his words did heal, and the world
    waited for time.
    The blueberry stain yet not gone
    even summer eve never promises tomorrow(s)
    a forever peachy morn
    Time waited for memories to become and
    memories waited for the moments to sum (up)
    His coming is a renaissance in my heart,
    I'll write more poetries perhaps,
    when he'll be gone
    if he too leaves,I trust
    tomorrow will again come.
    ©theultimateinsane


    @odysseus_2 sir written, @sereiin thanks for those prompts, @abhishekkamble encouraging always
    @_still_in_mess jani will you?

    #wod #pod #mirakee #writersnetwork
    @mirakee @writersnetwork

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  • theultimateinsane 31w

    Another day and I wake up to the pitter - patter sound of rain. The bed bugs are still resting, for the folds, I made last night on my bedsheet are still prominent .
    Behind the curtains, I fear the sun is playing hide and seek, just to be a perfectionist in trapping my imperfections. And no where but here today the cuckoo is mocking at me seeing the pastels of grey clouds, knowing not where has it come from.

    *Removing the curtains a bit*
    The calm wind slowly caressing my cheekbones, my fingers lingering on the glass border to feel the raindrops, add up to my beautiful scars.
    From somewhere the smell of "meetha paan" ( sweet bettle leaf) is coming, faraway the leaves of the tall coconut trees have got wilted, drop by drop they are counting how many rainfalls have they survived. Kachcha aam( Raw mangoes) that had fallen in yesterday's storm, crowd today's streets. The bricks of the walls, broken yet a promising shelter to the mosses, weathered yet monsoon after monsoon it never fails praising how the water carries out the stains of summer.
    * Extending my hand through the window*
    The clock strikes 3pm , still it's raining. My pains now feel like getting louder than silence as I put my eyes on the wood-line, where the army ants are carefully carrying eggs to their nests, to my surprise, they never give up. And just now one drop fell on my wrist, it felt as if my senses are again back to me. The sparrows are flying back to their nests, I wonder, what for, if my certain consciences are meant to be homeless.
    The sky has put off it's curtains. I'm now sitting on my terrace, the toads are croaking, before my eyes could find them , they already camouflaged themselves in the sticky mud.
    *Conversation with the street lamp*
    It's been half an hour we are sharing gaze. The street lamp telling how much she feels lonely especially on these rainy days , how much she misses the hurried up city folks, seeking for shelter. Whom she expected to atleast pay a visit, back then that little girl who letted her umbrella fall to the wet street and be blown by the wind, the young couples who enjoyed their warm kisses on every monsoon.
    I relate how everyone left me while she says, she has no one to talk with ,as she stands like a lifeless pillar on this abandoned street. The rain continued and we kept on pitying our loneliness until the abandoned street mocked at the lamp and my shadow smiled back at me loudly.
    ©theultimateinsane

    #wod #pod

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  • theultimateinsane 38w

    Those pink barbies still crave for blues( Society mocked
    at those boys who loved pink)

    (In this piece, Blue is referred to as a boy , and the
    poems in between the para are written by me)


    ���������� �������������� ���������� �������� ���������� ���� ���������� ��������������������
    �������������� ���� �������������� ���������� �������� ������?
    ���� ���������������� ������ ������������ ���������������� ������������
    ���� ������ ������������ ���������������� ������ ������������������ ������������������,
    �������� ������ ������������������
    ������ �������� ������ �������������� �������������� �������������� ��������

    My every date went awesome without that colour.I
    believed that the sky has been cursed bereft of any pink
    shades,crying over her own fate, what would you think is
    just a flood.
    I've been nurtured saying: "�������� ���� ������ ���������� ������ ������ ������������ ������ ������ ��������"
    But both pink and hot wheels are just two nouns right?
    despite of any caste, creed and Sexual discrimination!

    Blue loved wearing pink hair pins and the polaroid on the walls of his room reflected perfect oxymorons. The
    neighbouring barbie dolls peeped through the glass
    windows into his room got jealous seeing Blue playing
    with those pink dolls ,they also wanted Blue to play with
    them .
    Those wild spider mums wait eagerly to get
    circumscribed round his head but the roses wilt seeing Blue in fear of mocking society .Even the scattered petals of asters in the Graffiti pots once promised Blue to answer to his every questions now if Blue asks them "why others laugh at me when I put lipstick ?" They soon turned into a post-apocalyptic dystopia .
    In the day break elysian consciences kiss him leaving
    back a puddle of ataraxia on his cheeks.
    And the flag of our socially Darwinistic world soares high in his midnight querencia when he secretly paints his lips in Fuschia.
    Society mocked at Blue,when he bravely said ,he is in
    love with another Blue.
    Society made him weaker than ever, and now when his
    heart asks him about his feelings Blue says ~

    ���� ������ ���������������� �� �������������� - //������ �������� ���� ���������������� �������� �������� �������� ������ ������
    ���������� �������� �������� ������ �� ���������������� ������������ ���� ������ �������� ��������������
    ���������������� ������ ������ ������ �������� ������ ������ ������.. //"(~theultimateinsane)
    ©theultimateinsane
    #mirakee #women'sday #writersnetwork #pod @myrrhc( your prayers worked)@_still_in_mess special tag , @galvanizedthoughts @love_whispererr(you two made my comeback special)

    #mirakee #facebook #writersnetwork #writersofinstagram

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  • theultimateinsane 49w

    I miss you too @my_cup_of_poetry @myrrhc(♡♡♡ Meg loves Mir) @_creatingworldsthatdonotexist @thousand_splendid_thoughts @chai_biskut ( thanks for remembering me ;)

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    To them who were concerned
    I'm fine sweet souls :) . Trying to be here soon
    ©theultimateinsane

  • theultimateinsane 52w

    Here, the former Cookie, is a girl ( servant) and the later one is a food.



    P. S : Who loves Red velvet Ice-cream like me? Eat this up ;)



    #writersnetwork #pod #mirakee

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    Cookie could cook cookie

    The blue bottles, and pomegranate fills,
    Ah! What a divine match of Summer.
    The oysters besides the beaches, well roasted
    and mother brushed their coats neat,
    A lick on and within, their coat,
    Wow, a flesh piece slipped within!



    Winter has fallen,
    her rich toffee cheeks brewed with some furrows,
    Jars filled with nutmegs only,
    Not a single praline cheese cakes in this winter
    Oh mum, at least pack me a jar full of Gingerbread men

    You, threw her out in one wintry night,
    just for stealing my new toy?
    Thousand a pennies, jingled in Dad's wallet
    And did you steal them,
    to show how decreasing order plays in practical ?

    Servant she wasn't, servant she wasn't,
    perhaps my favourite cook
    Ohhh! I miss her and her cookies these days
    I remember ,
    Cookie could cook cookie!


    ©theultimateinsane