Halfthought

Am I a writer?

Is a writer like one of the thousand scattered, among the sea dream that we pass off as the sky?

As the cosmos, or the milky way?

What defines you?

What combines you,

As a human being or a multi celled organism

Trying to be what you probably wouldn’t even be

In your waking lives?

The City

I am the ruins of a forgotten city.

A city which is now a half baked jigsaw of broken down monuments.

You may call these monuments buildings,

for they once were built on the foundations of character and a vague semblance of humanity.

There are building of tears,

Arches of guilt,

Unending pathways of remorse

Blind-turns of faith, hope and agony.

I am still alive.

The city is still alive.

Alive and dead in the same moment of space time.

There are crumbling bricks of men and decaying concrete women.

They were complete once, now , only pictures.

Installations in a gallery which no one visits.

Flickering images and broken dialogue on television sets

Soaps with anonymous actors, playing out unknown stories,

Broadcasted on channels which don’t exist.

I hear music.

The city has music.

Jarring, itching notes created on a violin

Made out of broken furniture and high tension wires.

It goes on and on, like the unending leak lying unrepaired

At the house which plays the soaps.

The city is empty and full.

Loud and quiet.

I am the city that you cross, looking out of train windows

Visiting places that you think you know.

Shocketry Reboot: The Bite

And so it was

That once, a boy

Not knowing what to do

Just closed his eyes

And made a wish

And hoped that it came true

‘Every word I say,

Must turn for real

And behave the way they mean

No dilly or dally,

Nor silly or sally

As real as could be seen!

It was all fun

With the moon and sun

And Stars and day and night

Then he felt a chomp

Not quite the romp

It was the word called BITE

Up and down

He scampered hard

With Bite holding his bum

Come rain or wind

Or Sun shine in

They were now the best of chums!

So the boy wrote a book

And christened it

“I’ll call you Bible cuz I can!”

Then he named the bite,

More out of spite

“Now on, I’ll call you MAN!”

(pic: Helix nebula, nicknamed "The Eye of God")

[Okay okay, I shall get back to writing fiction soon! Incase you are new here, this is a part of Shocketry which started last week here.  Two people followed suit and did their own shocketry here and here. Have you earned your shocketry badge yet? Also, I am looking forward to collaborate on fiction stories here or on Your blog. Any takers? ]

The birth of "Shocketry" and other important things...

Ola Amigos!! There is a lot of news updates this time. All of ‘em are good, for a change. Or let’s say I am keeping the morose stuff out of this place. Why would you want to ruin the mood at a Dark Fiction blog isn’t it? That was a joke I just said. Just so you know.

So the updates. The Facebook Page has zoomed past the 200 Likes mark. The blog here has also upped to 200 plus followers. What could I say but THANK YOU. I could have hugged each one of personally. No, seriously. Thank you.

I coined a new form of poetry. It’s called Shocketry or Shocking Poetry. I define Shocketry as nothing but Shocking Poetry. You could have your own definition. It could always be a good shock or a bad shock, the only condition being, it MUST have shock value! Your boyfriend growing horns. Your motorbike turning into a turtle. The school teacher turning into an octopus. Anything. Wild! Anyways, ‘nuff said. Here is my first attempt at it.

The Pumpkin’s Revenge

It was dark as night

And Jack sat down

On the night before Halloween.

With knife and pumpkin on his lap

All ‘ready’, if you know what I mean!

For years together,

 Jack always made

Lanterns Big and Small

And during Halloween, Jack o’ Lanterns shone

In the houses, one and all...

So on this night

Without a fright

Jack poised his knife on top

Before the blade could make the cut

He heard a grave voice say “STOP!”

“No more lanterns!”

The pumpkin said,

“We have taken this all too long!”

And before Jack knew, the pumpkin broke

Into a pumpkin song!

The song now over,

And Jack quite frozen

The result was very strange

Jack spoke not a word, nor did any gesture

For both seemed out of range

Next morning when

the villagers came

to take their lanterns home

It seemed just like any other Halloween

The way the years had known.

“This one looks like Uncle Jack!”

A child squealed looking at his piece

The villagers giggled

and praised crafty Jack, saying

“I think we should pay his fees!”

Jack now hangs

Outside a door

With a candle in his head

And if the poem scared you bad,

Make sure you don’t wet your bed!

[It was first published here and the blogger folks liked it! A real cool blogger took the cue and did her own Shocketry! Read her Shocketry here.  In case you find the Idea interesting , don't hesitate to do your own shocketry. Yes, I am pretty obsessed with how cool this can become. Infact, I even made a "Shocketry Writer" badge for you guys to pin up on your blog! :D

Feel free to copy the badge from below and put it on your site and put my link. Let me know in the comments section if you did any shocketry so I could put your link in my blog. See you soon!]


Presenting the SHOCKETRY BADGE:

Waking up

The sea of silence lingers,
against an anxious shore;
mysterious illusions walk around
waiting for a cure.

"No more, no more!"
he screams, in hate.
"no more!" he shouts,
a tad too late...
the sea, now lashing
recapitulates,
of silent nights before.

The peace is gone
the shadows deep
the shore, now drenched in pain
he blames his heart
now torn apart
promising never to love again.

"I hoped for joy!
I hoped for bliss!
I hoped for yellows and pinks!
Now, heart of hearts,
We must depart
and for a moment, think.

The heart was meant
for blood well spent
to keep our bones alive
how was it then
that Love was when
it chose to lose its drive?

It now sits still,
against its will;
making people fall in love.
Through mush and kiss
and hugs and bliss, 
it randomly peturbs.

The beach now seems to melt away
the sea does ruckus make
I sit now, sleepy, thinking of love
leaving corroded dreams in its wake...

[I am no poet and I hardly understand poetry the way it should be understood...but do drop in a word about what you think of it; suggestions on improvement would be welcome as well.]

Thought...

Death, of your deftness, be not proud;
For the footsteps of age, are resounding and loud...