Pelt

It isn’t music unless appropriate seduction precedes and meaning proceeds it, while ”it” remains indefinable experience.

When, after crawling hours of rolling flashing, grey sky stops pelting rain,
This mountaintop terrace’s steel railing, plastic chair and plants drip crystal colorless ether of pain;
A dull ache that seeps deep to the roots of 1300 year old trees, throbbing ancient rituals,
Of blood and sweat and porn and sperm and massacres of potential heavenly visuals,
Darkly thick wool hangs low above, oppressively condensing thoughts demanding space,
Slaying a sentiment, a whispering, pleading ambition to tumble it off a cliff with grace,
Seeing this mutely shrieking mourning, hidden in the audible, visible silence,
Lying in every tearful leaf and sheltered shivering birds’ hearts with ominous elegance;
A silence I could not allow pass through my bones, like the shredding wind, its ally,
Witnessing all this from under a shade on the terrace, as I sit dry,
Still drenched in the will to:

Bloom all wry,
Attempt a wingless fly,
Swim boundlessly mortal, like a hooker’s midnight sigh,
Invisible, persistent, lest the freedom mortify,
The petulant contradictions, I choke whose cry,
Castrate all hearts since balls make’em lie,
Hunt that dear who with these balls did toy,
Prepare a line for that old dead fish called joy,
Resurrect all colors from grey, in the wake of fog which die,

So as these wills, crippled but armed, recruit a mob to soil wherein I abide,
Towards me with Day-Lewis like intense, foreboding theatricality they stride,
And I could not Help but chuckle at the illusion of power all these deformed passing beastly kids hold,
Just because the ghoulish weather is on their side, like a parent taking sides, making them grow bold,
But deep down I know these kids will grow to become oaks and thorns with dreadful scorn,
Spreading spiteful regret for not having spilled the poison even though it was pungent before born,
So, to refuse the mechanical beasts fuel which revs up their fatalistic engines drowning souls in their wake,
And blur wants and needs and liabilities and ambitions and confuse horizons with limits in their buzz you can’t shake,
I plan to give meaning to the solemness and despair of the weather and sentiments spilling out from its eye vagina,
All seeing natural, filthy yet believing, the surroundings’ lack of definition and context melting my faulty antennas,
And to conjure this meaning I let the coldness of the polished wooden flute become one with the numbness of my fingertips,
Which rested on all six holes, ready to flutter into motion, discreetly alert, directioning sails of a voyaging ship,
And like expecting that kiss I refused, or Sting’s caffeine, or an artistically rolled joint, the flute lifts for a meeting with my parting lips,

All slows, stands, stills,
As though underwater,
The fluid silence thickens,
Clouding over the valley haze,
And the crickets and dripping,
All wait in slo-mo, paralyzed,
Expectantly but crouchingly,
As though ready to molest if the show proves unsatisfactory,
Every little atom in all that’s hideous and beautiful all around me,
With all their moroseness and dying hopes of fading glee,
halt!

And then that reeling, dazed wind’s lunacy building inside me, I set free,
A grunt, a heaved sigh, of sorrow and relief, goes on a killing spree,
And the first note has arrived! Welcome you orphaned bastard, daddy’s so madly happy!
Now go, travel, be wild, drink and fuck and curse and write!
And paint naked ladies and sing folk alright,
And keep a moustache, for not fasting get into fights,
Wed together children but debate for freedoms! rights!
Crave weird visions and shun crowded sights,
Stare at that ass all clad in tights,
Praise your filth, secure your plight,
Know you’re homeless, half read novels your companion at 7,400 ft height,
No matter what they teach you, beauty’s the diet,
Love doesn’t happen on first conversation but sight,
Go now, sensually and erotically shake nature’s hands with a smile so bright,
Like that Jutt Urdu writer shook mine when we met at that khokha that night,

But hold on, you disagree?
You think that even if ugly is gorgeous you can’t make beautiful ugly?
You think to crush these monsters of weather and within I need to consent to the blue?
That I need to fight with the same frequency and weapons and use the strength in sadness your voice owns too?
So be it.
The sighs and fingers ally,
Albeit,
Doubtful and shy,
Through it,
The self composed melody shall now fly,
I give to receive, exchanging wind for sound,
The playing flute transcending time and logic, liberating limits and bounds,
The soaring, wavering and then fading note swims to the valley and echoes back,
Its destination the valley , and it too its origin since direction it returns from, I lose track,
The valley shines bright with the lent light of the sound the flute sets about it afloat,
The valley, like a moon, boasts a merriment that isn’t its own but borrowed from the searing sun’s gusts in my throat,
Under my shifting fingers I sense and hold the tremors of the sound, vibrating with profound subtlety,
Like holding a petal, holy grail or a dynamite, in possession and control of delicacy, divinity, necessary hostility,
The upper hole’s high pitch being love, and youth and morbid hoping,
The lowest hole winter, doomful trumpeting, a low sinister hollow harrowing,
And jumping from hole to hole, I excel sense’s realms, travelling psychedelic and spiritual, from tyrant to just,
And when I’m with my performance done I see the night’s ink now changed, from past eve’s horizon’s rust,
And one by one the beastly wills grow buff and mighty, sucking at the flute, but I can bear with that,
Since they bow before me, on nineteen mountaintops, for like Hans Landa, to catch a rat I thought like a rat,
By adding to the pallet of nagging shades I elevate to civilize chaotic sadness to harmonized one,
By taking sorrow and trying to give it art and articulating it into aesthetic realm nature naturally shuns,
I finally change:
Tear to salt,
Stab to prick,
Moment to memory,
Sound to music.

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7 Comments

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7 responses to “Pelt

  1. I have always, ALWAYS genuinely admired your literary sensibility. You have the innate ability beyond any ruddy layman to make love to words so passionately that it strikes me with awe and even envy. The way you fuse Hardy-esque Nature and Eliot meets Manto Modern literary aesthetics is so appeasing to the senses. I grinned, I sneered, I spat, I grunted, I agreed, I disagreed, I felt, I thought and I immersed myself into your words. It’s like wine that seems to just keep getting better with time and intoxicate me more every single time. I must say this, Yes, I am absolutely in love with you, your work and your words.

  2. Reblogged this on Halcyon Phoenix and commented:
    My dear friend wrote this masterpiece and I cannot help but reblog it. He beautifully fuses Hardy-esque Nature and Eliot meets Manto Modern literary aesthetics, that is so appeasing to the senses. I grinned, I sneered, I spat, I grunted, I agreed, I disagreed, I felt, I thought and I immersed myself into his words.
    Happy Reading! x

  3. Alright, Little Lali. This was a ponderous and delightful read. I’ll be bold enough to say that I can grasp certain references and allusions found herein; obvious and underlying. Not all of them, mind you, because only the writer knows them best. Somehow, it’s hard for me to have an overall impression about this because it’s vast. There’s hinted imagery, apathy, reminiscence, insolence, rhetoric, introspection, overpowering melancholy, resolve, all of it held together by the lofty tone. I’m no critic, but I know sheer genius is bursting at the seams when all these thoughts that seem to be running all over the place are expressed one after the other, held together by something, perhaps the “it” that remains indefinable.

    “I plan to give meaning to the solemnness…” I absolutely love this!
    And then there’s this.
    “I elevate to civilize chaotic sadness to harmonized one
    by taking sorrow and trying to give it art and articulating it into aesthetic realm nature naturally shuns”

    Bravo, man!

  4. You probably get the ‘Lali this was spectacular!’ bit quite a lot, so I think we can skip that preamble 😛
    Right. I’ve at least been sitting staring at my laptop since an hour, and this reeks of zero exaggeration. Reading this was actually quite a weird experience, to be honest. Good weird though. As in, there was no one constant feeling throughout the poem; there were a bunch of different emotions, all connected by your orchestrated music which, somehow, was both the background and the subject. You know how you sometimes listen to a song, and you’re just going in and out of thoughts, and there’s peace and stability and then bumps and rocks and ‘halt!’s and then peaceful continuation? So you get a bit of all but you can’t define the experience as an all. Like a rap song maybe (if you just ignore the peace bit). Which is probably why I still don’t have anything defining to say to you, other than that it was a journey of a read, and quite a profound and enjoying journey of course!

    For specifics, this happened to be my favourite part:
    “Go now, sensually and erotically shake nature’s hands with a smile so bright,
    like that Jutt Urdu writer shook mine when we met at that khokha that night” :DDD

    Maybe I don’t have the most literary tastes..

  5. This is brilliant. You have a gift 🙂

  6. Such profound grace resting between these lines. Demanding imagery, movement, geography, and of course, the intangible yet undeniable flow. A little too grand for my taste, but the power with which you write never escapes me. I can spot an overwhelming frenzy of inspiration; and the way you’ve pulled words and rhymes out of it, is worth applauding.
    Behtareen!

  7. “When you do things from your soul, you feel a river moving in you, a joy.”
    ― Rumi
    Well I can say I saw each and every path the river of emotions took within you through your writing and that is something that should make you feel like you have enormous amounts of talent which by the way you do!

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