Meaningless Drivel

It’s a bizzare circus up here in this noggin . The children of this cerebral acroplis are frozen in time . They breathe in hot crimson clouds of panic , encased and cocconed in past misery tossing and turning all night ; shiny brittle shards of trauma in their chests , cutting their insides ,poking out beneath ribs ;filling up lungs at the brink of silicosis .

 The crystals of time shatter every morning like clockwork . Groggily , the children awaken and brush out the the prickly dust beneath their eyelids . On good days, washed out and fatigued the children trudge along with big bright smiles , keeping up appearances. Most days though, they collapse and curl up like centipedes . No amount of poking or prodding will awaken them . 

The cinema in this city is open all night.  Attendance is mandatory here ,after all sleep is for the sane and pure ; The dirty little cretins of this city deserve no such liberties. Tonight’s big show is : Age 5 featuring co-stars – SmallLimbs and Mr LargeHands .

 The plot revolves around a few kodak moments , SmallLimbs learns to ride a bike , SmallLimbs gets hugs and kisses from LargeHands , Smalllimbs on a large bed , LargeHands everywhere ………. and then there’s the climax (his climax ?)

There are several sequels to this story , 7 years worth of tape . Some stained with blood , others blurred and foggy due to dissociation . 

SmallLimbs wakes up every morning , wishing she didnt . 

The children wake up every morning , wishing they didnt .

I wake up every morning , wishing I didn’t.

diagnosis

“Post-Traumatic-Stress-disorder – ” , her eyes glance towards zig zag lines forming inflammed matrices on my wrists , ” – and severe depression ” she sighs .”What do I do with you kiddo?”

“Dunno man – ,” I shrug and continue twirling around in the comfy office chair ” -you’re the dude with a M.D and the fancy white coat, not me . ” 

She laughs and leans forward to mess up my hair .

” Do you want to get admitted ?”

Twirling stops .

“Even you think I’m crazy ?”, I whine dejectedly .

“No, not crazy , just a very hurt child “,she sighs.

“Not a child “, I huff in mock anger. 

Though despite that declaration of adulthood I couldn’t resist asking ” I will be allowed to bring my video games there- ”

” –and your school books too, ” she says in a teasing tone .

“Party pooper .”

The Voice of Violence

Hardwired, embedded
in a young mind,
cauterized and calcified
in premature flesh
and undeveloped bones .

I emerge from the womb,
kicking and screaming.
I’m a latent seed
sowed by primal needs.

A child’s mind is a star,
nurtured by a nebula
of violence,
masquerading as discipline.

A violent vertigo of blows,
both to the psyche and bone,
helps me spread my wings
drenched in sorrow and dejection.

One summer morn’
my protégé spots the seed
in his only begotten son.
Will he let me grow ?
like the one before him(like father like son)

Nipped at the bud,
Encased; and encaged with,
bars made of
love and empathy.

The seed of love,
is sowed and watered
in both,
blank slate and protégé.

Host by my own petard
defeated by a repentent father,
I retreat to diminish,
in their collective subconscious.

A defeated parasite ,
The transient cycle ,
thrawt by one peaceful child.
The voice of violence begins to fade .

Pictures

Click click click

Bleached white walls ,tilted frames ,marble tiles ,beige headboard ,navy blue sheets and sunflower curtains

Click
A creaky fan’s torque ,
respite to my sweaty limbs.

Click
Dslr in his large palms,
Sticky white fluid on my tiny fingers.
Aching back and bloody undies .

Click
“Spread your legs , princess .Tilt you neck ”
as clothes scatter onto the floor ,
I fold myself into origami shapes

and he clicks clicks clicks
(pic- drawn by me)