Kaafi Kafka hai

There was a man in a freak show

His master yells: Come one! come all!

The man that eats nothing, nothing at all!

The man he ate nothing for forty days

The master he made money because it was a sight to see

The man he ate nothing, there was to his liking nothing to eat.

On the fortieth, his master- he fed him, though he protested

The man wanted to fast, for the food was stale

The man wanted to fast, he wanted nothing but in vain.

His protest, led to violence and his master, he did strike

In prison he was put, in silence he sat, to wait

In prison he was put, they offered, but nothing he ate.

An hour before the hanging, the door opened

Like every other day, a plate slid in

Unlike every other day, he paused, the quail was like sin.

His fast was broken and his will was put to waste

The fast now broken, the man, on the noose

The fast now broken, the hunger for life, he could not now choose.

-mithrandir

Based on The Hungry Artist by Franz Kafka

3 Non-working Fans

~mithrandir

“Winston Smith: Does Big Brother exist?
O'Brien: Of course he exists.
Winston Smith: Does he exist like you or me?
O'Brien: You do not exist.”
~George Orwell, 1984

Coward

I stand at a crossroads today

Knowing not why or when I have come here

Not knowing why, makes me question the veracity of my experiences

Not knowing when, fills me with answers that I know are false

I thus stood at the crossroad today

And for the longest time nothing happened

And it was good

It was good because I was for once sure of this feeling

And this feeling was cowardice

True and naked

I spat away at the dust of comfort that had settled in and I went down one path

I walked long and hard

Thinking that I knew why and when I had set forth from cowardice

I stumbled at the end of that day

Only to realise in cold sweat

I stand at a crossroads today

Knowing not why or when I have come here.

mithrandir

"Find out what you're afraid of and go live there."

Chuck Palahniuk

Paper Cliché

The writer writes the story.

It inspires the poetry in the poet.

Who yells it atop the roofs and roads.

The people hear it and are shocked and some are inspired.

The father tells his wife, she tells her daughter.

Who tells her little brother.

He sleeps on it and dreams of it.

Years go by and the brother sleeps the dream away in prison.

The air is filled with the words.

On death row now, the inmate is asked,

"ANY LAST WORDS".

He narrates the story.

His little boy writes those last words down.

The writer,pauses and tears the paper and throws it away.

~Mithrandir

 'And that's the thing about people who mean everything they say. They think everyone else does too.'

~Khaled Hosseini 

Pick-up Ettan: Part Fiction Part Childhood

Every morning all the kids in the block used to wake up, brush and dress up and eat breakfast," One should never go to school on an empty stomach!" Says Pick-up Ettan. Pick-up Ettan is highly disciplined when it comes to what enters his Pick-up and what leaves his Pick-up.

Pick-up Ettan's get-up is a white pant-shirt combination. On special occasions a white shirt-white mundu. His Pick-up is a yellow 3 wheeled beast with a black round head. No horns required. It goes "tup-a-tup-tup". And everybody stands in attention at the gates, waiting in to be swallowed up and taken to the ooschool. On bumps the Pick-up, she goes "tuppam-tup-tuppam". It was a musical beast that Pick-up and Pick-up Ettan, that most venerable of conductors.

Once the Pick-up went "tuppam-tup-tuppam" over the bump and came down heavily with a "tappusss...". We reached school late that day. Pick-up Ettan got yelled at a lot by the ooschool maash (teacher). We didn't see the Pick-up or Pick-up Ettan the next day. After a few days, one evening we saw Pick-up Ettan, a forlorn figure with eyes closed under a tree.

His get-up of white and white pant-shirt, was dirty that day.


~mithrandir

Written and Unwritten

I met this girl once, we gave each other many books.

She gave the ones that were already full and written to read from.

And I gave her blank ones, unwritten- for her to draw in.

And there was happiness.

-mithrandir

Note to self

Pick a match stick, light a smoke

Burn a few lungs, live a dream

Open a bottle, pour out your heart.

Hide away the bore you are 

Smile a fake smile , live everybody else's lie

Be with all those who call you-friend, walk away

Nag about life, pretend somebody gives a shit

Look up at the sky and as everyone sighs, 

Hold your breath and wait to die.

~mithrandir

" Take a writer away from his typewriter and all you have is the sickness that started him writing in the first place. "
~ C Bukowski


onism - n. the awareness of how little of the world you’ll experience


Imagine standing in front of the departures screen at an airport, flickering over with strange place names like other people’s passwords, each representing one more thing you’ll never get to see before you die—and all because, as the arrow on the map helpfully points out, you are here.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IrBlmpqh8T0

~ The dictionary of obscure sorrows