Unconditionally

Unconditionally 

Her eyes met mine like the second and 

the minute hand of a clock,

once every minute of every hour of each day.

Her kiss tasted like dark chocolate, 

bold and irresistible and ever so perfect, 

for I am lactose intolerant. 

Her clothes smelt old, sassy and Italian, 

like vineyards and Scorsese.

Her farts were like a walk through an orchid,

mildly disturbing and so overrated; it felt like 

summer breeze, well, almost like loo.

Her voice was crisp, spicy and so satisfying, 

like a pack of Kurkure.

Her touch felt like post- constipation, 

eagerly awaited and unbelievably redeeming.

Her moans were like marsupials, 

Her walk like penguins.

Her head was as bald as the eagle, 

she had about the same keratin. 

Her smile was photogenic, curvy and fake;

if it had an ass of its own, Kanye would marry it.

Her heart was fleshy and not cold nor raw, 

just like how I like my steak.

Her beauty was undisputed, her flaws were forgivable

only because I was in love, unconditionally.

A Romantic’s ode to 27 rue de fleurus

27 rue de fleurus

Amidst the facade of the roaring 20’s and the allegedly “Lost Generation”, there was one building masked under the beauty by the side of La River Gauche that hosted a certain crowd, who then in their lives had an unprecedented acknowledgement and admiration of each other, which in many ways has perhaps altered our perception of history. On a typical Saturday evening one would have found Gertrude Stein at her post in the atelier, garbed in brown corduroy, sitting in a high-backed Renaissance chair, her legs dangling, next to the big cast-iron stove that heated the chilly room. A few feet away, Leo Stein would expound to a group of visitors his views on modern art. In the very room, abandoning any cruel co-incidence would be Ernest Hemingway, sipping away on wine unsolicited, nor unwelcomed. On the other side of the house would be Picasso, Pablo; re-inventing modern paintings while articulating his subtle sexualities of whomsoever the maid he chose for that evening. Often times, this little party would have the almost insignificant honor of hosting the Fitzgeralds who need no introduction nor a claim to fame to associate with such an ensemble. This little room boasted some of France’s finest, having Henri Matisse and Picasso’s works lying around corners while wineglasses clanked between Fitzgerlad and Hemingway; all too non-chalant, too lost and never truly realizing their influences in time. It could be unquestionably agreed that the gatherings in the Stein home “brought together confluences of talent and thinking that would help define modernism in literature and art.”
Perhaps it was what Paris offered then, not just a City that shone like pearls under moonshine, not just the Siene flowing and dancing around during the daytime or the streetlights that make midnight paradise. Perhaps it was the promise that in a place that holds such unreal beauty, that feels so ridiculously tangible, there might be hope for dreams to come true. Paris held together a mirage of this intellectual occult that would gather about, influence the modern ways of lifestyle, Prais took this mirage and made it real. This was not just true in case for the events at 27 rue de fleurus but many times in the past, there has been change that roots back to fine offerings of heavenly, albeit humble Paris. “If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast” said Hemingway, epitomizing the wonder within the capital of France.

What would it take for all of the world to recreate this? What would I not give to spare a few moments in that space, to breathe in same vicinity as them? All this is but meagre rhetoric trying to encapsulate the prowess of a room full of artists. How something so seemingly minuscule, a room with painters and poets, could hold it’s place in history as something more than just a fine co-incidence. It kills me to not know if others as significant, past this period, used to look back and ponder if they could too accompany these folk. What would have happened if Gandhi was in there? Would Hitler be who he was if he too could be critiqued by Stein? It’s these historical hypotheticals that keeps people awake or ties about what wonders this world could hold. It certainly takes more than just a con-incidence to create anything of such a magnitude but a co-incidence looks like a good start.

How often do we look back to such times and wonder at how gracious we are that it happened? Are we at least acknowledging the immaculate significance of not just this, but any particular such incident. Are we not, in some way, a product of their thought and thus in a loose way, their creation? The very idea of my senile reasoning having in an any way originated from that room being true would and could be the greatest happening in my lifetime. So, if I reflect and look, it takes me not long to ponder, not that in what way I benefit from their thinking but in what way that I could either acknowledge or honour their achievement. Of course, I could just pour my thought into words but perhaps that is all it takes. After all, even they were merely thinkers who gathered to share and learn. It takes only a group of committed intellectuals to bring about a change, we all know that can invariably happen but when some magical occurrences, such as that which happened at the Stein’s Salon, take place, it brings about an understanding of why there is a mysticism to our world. An understanding, for the lack of a better word, that when there are thoughts of an open mind, flowing away around those of as capable and creative psyche’s as the ones shared in that room, can together go about to create or even recreate new chapters in our world. Art, a resounding medium capable of inflicting thought like nothing else is the product of that creation. Art, that hold unparalleled feats in pushing our race forward and art that seems invaluable for it not only holds the creation of an intellectual, but binds together the future perceptions and the present articulations. Art, as beautiful as thought could get.

for you alone…

i can no longer remain silent. i can no longer ignore you, nor can i deny myself from defiance. i must speak to you and i have to tell you any means as such within my reach. i can no longer let time pass by having known the fact that you have pierced my soul. my existence is peculiar and exceedingly your fault for i am now in half agony and half hope. tell me otherwise, tell me that such precious feelings are gone and that i am merely drunk in the vast and vicious idea of love or else i am afraid i will be gone at your privilege. now that i offer myself to you again with a heart which is even more of yours than you can imagine, i simply seek to quench this thirst with which you have filled my soul. dare not say that i will forget you soon or that my love will not last someday, for you know not of how by mere existence you can tie my life together while devastate me within. i have loved none but you. i have been weak and resentful but never inconstant, never stopped wondering how someone could be so beautiful. you raise a question with your beauty and you know not that you answer it with the same. for you alone, i have wished to be all that i can and all that you want; for you alone have penetrated my feelings and shown me a self i was oblivious too; for you alone can make every instant seem dull if devoid of your essence; for you alone can make me whole and for you alone, my heart will wait.

i solemnly swear i am not in love with anything except words, poetry and literature.
– yours falsely, 

Hariharan Sriram.

Kiss of luck

The kiss of luck
A monotonous plead, I’ve heard all week.

An everyday sight, on the corner of the street.

Under the streetlight, transfixed at his bleak, 

a victim to curiosity, I began to speak, 

“O poor old sod, I’ve paid my alms, what now do you seek?”

He wept at first and then laughed aloud. 

He met my eye and pointed at the crowd, 

“Nor you, nor them, none of you deserve to be proud”

The next encounter was with more than some spite, 

as he began to weep and shriek under my sight.

I couldn’t help but ask, “are you alright?”

He told me the tale of his existential plight.

He was no beggar, he was nowhere near poor, 

although he had lost something more than just dear.

He’s still in pain as he’s been through his gravest fear, 

“I’ve lost her, I’ve lost my luck” he whispered, under his tear.

Now he lives in the gutters, aghast and soulless.

All he wants now is a kiss from her, 

to end his unquenchable thirst; he wants his child.

He doesn’t need kiss of luck, her charm or her smile.

He’ll do with a kiss, a final wish, he wants her to say goodbye.

 

  
   

Epiphany

Epiphany 
It’s around 10 in the pm on a Monday night. I’ve been surviving for over three hours without any electricity. It’s just been candle lights, the nature’s wind and the chill from the continuous rains, which now has been putting for over an hour. 

It’s dark, cold and rather silent except for the pleasant and never ending sound of rainfall. There’s an essence of melancholy in the air and it’s the ideal set of circumstances for a primarily philosophical and deeply aesthetic mind such as mine and I can’t help but wrote about this momentary epiphany. 
Traffic. I’ve also considered traffic as something outrageously influencing. The sounds of engines heating, the frustrated honking, the impatience of the masses and melodious motions of countless commuters just oblivious to everything but their ride. It’s rather funny how something so simple and arbitrary seems to make me feel emotions with stark contrast. It’s this ‘music’ orchestrated by traffic that makes me feel as though I’m part of something bigger. The sounds trigger a sense of belonging and makes me feel that I am after all, a drop in the ocean. Yep. Traffic.. Another one of the bloody overthought clichés.
While the candlelight and cool winds helped me relish my hot and fresh dinner, I began to enjoy myself. It’s a very humanly pleasure to forget the world for a moment, sit under candles and not tube lights, feel the wind and forget the fan, and take in all the pleasure from a simple dinner. People are forgetting these little things. Nobody wants to go back to simplicity, live as naked as humanity can serve and take pleasure in it. People, including myself, have been spoilt with undeserving pleasures in the name of development. They’ve becoming over obsessed with riches and begin to ignore the pleasures in simple things. I’m not complaining or whining as even I cannot afford to survive a saint like livelihood. All I’m asking you is to give a few moments of your oh so precious life for yourself and try to see how fun it is to do something extraordinarily simple, yet feel an unconditional satisfaction. That’s about it.
I have no idea about you folks but a simple candle fire and a lot of free time when it’s raining has made me introspect and discover desires and phases of my lifestyle I’ve almost become ignorant too. The world is not going to end and even if it does, you’ll at least have the privilege to boast that you’ve done something outside the course of normality; so why not just spend a night with a candle, introspect, enjoy traffic and feel the wide and lively world around you? 

Empty without a soulmate

So this was what I had texted my friend, to whom I was making an argument about why there exists something on the lines of true love and how everybody can have a perfect soulmate. The basis of my argument was how empty our lives are without having one undeniable obsession towards somebody we love unconditionally

.

I, for one, feel that a person is not complete unless they literally have something of their own.

You cannot be 35 and say yo bitches i got my mum. nor can you pledge a job, a car, a house, a chopper or be dan bilzerian for all i care. you are not your wallet or your mattress or the car you own or your fucking chanel or prada. they are materialistic and come and go.

your only condolence, your most prized posession, yours truly until death will do you apart will be nothing but your family. find the right people and live for them as they do for you, then, my dear, you are complete.

so you will live all by yourself, incomplete and lost when you know what has to be done yet you deny the possibility and seem to find happiness from what each man suffers or wants to avoid most? you really think you have things to do when your friends have a family for themselves and you will just live through enjoying life? maybe, you climb the everest. maybe you run marathons. maybe you can afford monthly vacations at Bali but is it all worth it when you look back at your life? would you be content to see that mere strangers with just respect and not love attend your funeral? would you be happy to see a life where you survived and regret the one where you could have lived, when you depart? is it all worth the struggle to find the right people? of course. if it had not been so, i am afraid you would not have been born at all.

macha, have you heard or John Lennon and Yoko Ono? they were the couple. THE couple.

i agree it is a real pain in the ass and much more toward the fictional side of the world that people have soulmates and stuff. but the real thing is to work out a chemistry inbetween all those perfections and live as though nothing could be bad and stick together. compromise, love and understanding is all that it takes.
oh and if you wonder how fucking lucky you would have to be to find that perfect one?

it is rather simple. just somewhere between optimistic and adamant.
fine, you might disagree and have your own say. but, just make sure i do not telk my kid of how you died a virgin; that is one tale i do not fancy.

– Yours Falsely, 

Hariharan Sriram 

I can’t wait

I can’t wait for the time when I feel so helpless in love;

I can’t wait.

I can’t wait for those endless stares and that meaningful silence;

I can’t wait.

I can’t wait for when I miss her with every breath of mine;

I can’t wait.

I can’t wait for the sheepish smiles and countless chuckles;

I can’t wait.

I can’t wait for holding her hand and being on top of the world;

I can’t wait.

I can’t wait for sleepless nights or timeless thoughts;

I can’t wait.

I can’t wait for when I regret my acts and become more of a child;

I can’t wait.

I can’t wait for a little fight- the time when she apologises first;

I can’t wait.

I can’t wait for the world to seem worthless before her smile;

I can’t wait.

I can’t wait for when I roll on my bed throughout the night;

I can’t wait.

I can’t for you to come and sweep me away. 

I can’t wait for so long so I’ll need you now.

For you and for now, I will wait…
-Hariharan Sriram (The Skookum).