Some stories are safely parked, some are sugarcoated jams. Which to choose, you will direct buy I always choose pickled ones, the better one. Not too far, with different taste in every occasion. That me oriented is me. I would love to choose those dark vicinities over the light full of lurking atrocity. Let the something, something tells you how. But don’t develop an emotional attachment with it, let the flow go. After reading my cathartic life with disgust to awe, can definitely misled you to what I am jerking about here.
Why I am saying you? Still I can’t resist into.
After that pathetic war, timeline of those heat of struggles starts to choke me down ; letting me to lessen the grip of my emotions. Sounds funky, or retarded furious old man! but a mushy child craving that heart of contagious love.
You might guess, cooking the soup of the story under the silhouette yes!
Let’s begin.
It’s a hush hush you know. That lurking chickens raises and kicks the eggshell insides me. It plops and plops, amidst bringing the foul smell of uncouth immorality. I wasn’t even given a choice henceforth. It was always the battle of choose over choose, no choices, and yes poverty and shortages scrunches you.
Despite of controlling my orgies towards those jeopardy chickens I yet miserably fail. I bereaved my soul inside of my body. But yes, whenever some invite herself with the butter of exhaling beauty, tension inside me rises! Is it a buffoonery? I am an old log but a man too.
Society should taboo my illegal thoughts but I am a starving man. Shall I be apologetic now for my personal account isn’t it normal?
You might say me as a manual maniac, do judge me it’s your list of control, but every thatched roofs screams theories, and stories. I am howling mine as a full moon as I can’t in-box now.
It never did start with once upon a time to happily ever after in my childhood dictionary. It was always a carrying hoarding board of save- me from trauma, to the cries of mares to stop the rival of brutal rebuttals. It never was a cream of mashed potatoes and coffee on my bed room with a soft touch. However, slogging under the sun for bread and butter just in a mere age of 7year young was my routine. It’s a mere golden glimpse I am giving you though. As little slice of me-hood is necessary.
As after a war, timeline of heat of struggles choked me down. I repeat.
Anyway, I read books of none; scratching all scrape of words well here. Shoveling you know;
Once reading, a poem written by me :-
When your self is dropped Dead?
What would you do?
When you are in a dark mode?
In which circle you round and round?
Your thought radius you.
Or you radius your wisdom.
Tell me, what is your point?
I won’t complete my poem for you. It’s a habit I inducted in. Unsold papers were written by me. How come this resources will be a goldmine! Sell beauty! Have you ever thought Lacking gives you the soft time. “Any stories to advertise my haws and jaws. I am complaining it’s a story of every windows. Writers are easily available in every nook and cranny”.
Well you will, slap me again. My kinetic energy might synergies your wire of anger, you too want to know the towering histories and mysteries of me. But I am not giving you my story it’s a bite I am sharing with you.
“ No, no, no! I won’t let you make me plausible. Don’t rush in to know more, what is left to be done must be undone. These who, how wh- questions are beyond my calculus. Forget these anecdotes now, only cementing those few layers of bricks can really berg the house of love and care insides of me! A big no!
I am mumbling again, rampant recurring happens. Well known age and agedly mistakes.
Well, I was talking about something. Let’s be professional now.
Last night humming around in my dark cubicle, I felt the pit of fire inside me. I want to water in, sip and dive in seriously. So, I collected the few cents, you know the writer writhing calamity, holes inside the pocket, all nosy! Dissolving into the beer cans and dousing my carnivores hunger in. No meat to beef up my mood and no dimes to enjoy the propensity of flavorful markets. Rummaging over the edges and baffling into my shortcomings, I never knew that, what element do really intensify me to be a hunter, to hunt? What chivalry was there in hunting despite of gas lighting and beating black and blue for the meaty thirst was always there in my family bloodline. I can’t swear to his hunting attitude. How well he drag me and my elder sister like a hamburger sandwiched into the Fang’s teeth.
You wonder which metaphors I am driving and drinking on. Well it’s a suspicious chain to break.
But yes you know, whenever I see moving lyrical ballad or an attractive poetry piece why my account of conscious logistics drops into. This combative feeling to be in the feeling of loved let’s every raccoon to survive.
Yes!!
Will anyone bothers to stop me, no one can even budges into. What rules, sections, which papers are there to swell with geographies of punishment systems. I am damn confident, someone can imaginatively kill someone, no judiciary is going to thwart him/ her. They are nowhere else except people playing and plying politics. A magnetic trope to leverage the poles of the hangman card. No cahoots, bandits are afraid to lynch, launch new moon policies indeed. They thrive on with the genes of revenge and war card happens!
Again, again in vain like rain. I am cribbing into some historian rain.
Why am I crazily talking with you? Am I a forlorn lover? No, no, no? Why am talking intensively with paper and pens. Are their audiences? Ooho-ooho! They are friends whom you can take into. No just loneliness is the only friend which I can take to the coffee bar to beer bars into.
Nobody is allowed.
Still I fish into.
Let’s tap now. My minus percentage of story tags are here. Oh yeah I fall in love with her hands.
Swiping my booze without food, I puff around like a hot steam bun ready steady go!
Ahh! What was that? What I see? That night of booze..
I encountered her hands on the midst of avalanche of the midnight city. I was due innerved by my own lethargic act. I got a cigar and I definitely am unaware of my cigar buying story. Come-on I am boozed now. I darted my crazy chattering on my cigar, my red wine anger. That wispy rail dances under my nostril through my lung pipes. Was her hand a good pleasure blow on my chest. Aah I can’t beat this cycle I can’t!
Just as an omen in my life, like a cat crossing on my edges of thoughts and crossing the parallel situation, she as a reference is approaching my walls of heart through her tinkering bell. I cannot control, I won't, why, how a zigzag exasperation rotates 360 degree on every teenager's mind. Let me spoon my blob of destiny, by the look of her hand! What a chaotic aisle of labyrinth I am dripping and dropping into. My feelings were galloping like a frog inside the alkaline. Finally, I am inching on her ground.
Yet, she came. That patron of adolescence! That hunts me like a tavern. I am whipped by her ravenous wilderness, pattern of confrontation and her shrewd indigo bracelet creating a lump of joy inside my Adam apple. I am whirlpool well by her audacious streaming look. Who can control just tell me ! Although I am not a number; still my 16 year naughty cock stage obviously is bickering well. It wills to jab her attractive lore, and enjoys the happily ever moment before. That’s nothing new.
With a hump jump I toss down the coins of algorithm of teenage mutant battle. Yes, I am still imagining her with me. It’s a personal bubble though, having a crackling egg yolk like feeling seeing her. I want to curate her and want to collect a jar of am a beautiful musky collector. It is an uncertain playfulness that plays turmoil in my heart. Her hands created an aura of smell inside me. Her dovelike fingers are starling.
She came as mist and vanished within a single air. I doodle my breathe and followed her. Her astute hands with a silver ring attached her on index finger signifies her roar for the society. Strong lady hmm! That milky silky hand makes me to follow her on the minute route of that darkest alleyway. I followed her hand or her image I don’t know well but I still wanted to be enraptured within her.
Little does she know, or was she known about the footsteps about being followed. Her hands were gimmicking and her fingers keeps tapping her footstep front and front. Those fiery hands were dancing like a saga and fingers were grooving their belly on her tapping. I wanted to seize her like those dandelions. I wanted to taste the adrenaline rushes. My beat of heart wanted to spoil the mental broth with her. I imagined myself to feel her coffee perfume filled fingers on my roof of the cheeks, lips and in my brain. I wanted to walk in each and every yards of fingers, palm and fingers on my eyes to soothe my ice behind the fire.
Oh! I was not rushing into her body skin, no, I was imagining a beautiful midnight croissant just seeing her hands.
That gorgeous hands knots the courage in me to grasp her. Those hands yelp me to forget my dull routine of being a mental monster. Those hands forget me to relish my black tint of tragedies and followed her on the brim of anything else. I chased her. She finally stopped. Her bare hands were no more movable. I saw her hands were arresting some cane or pillar to raise herself on her feet.
They were so exhausted just walking on this short mile. I raised myself a question, how? My eyes were on her legs they were as usual on the mature walking stage. She had worn velvet heels and her short blown hair made me her bias although. As I always think long hair girl as my ideal girl and long straight hairs were my visual treat. Its okay I still managed to stop my compass of ideal woman list. Finally, happened to see her crescent moon like nose. She was motionless but my heart was racing like a marathon.
I managed to see her; it's a time of win win. Finally my flirty orgy heart beat was over. I consoled myself well. To no avail!
That blue sockets of eyeball like a Doll!!!!!
No! Big no! Her hands were molten wax like a fervent candle thrown under the strong breeze. Flickering lights and midnight times, my eye bear sore of seeing her hands. It was no more hands of that imagination, which I had seen my bare minimum into. It was a replay,replay of some kind of musician playing the same edgy ballad of saxophones and buzzing like a bee around. Love sick drama eh!
I recur the thread of my imagination of that dummy made hands, viably creamy plastered , donned with an attractive silver ring. I am sinking!
I was all done! Pin drop silence! I was exhausted to see the mocking of me. I furthered my way and went to my room hastily before I am gulped. I started rubbing my eyes and heavily abate my head that was knuckling on the wrong side. Constantly, no wonder I remembered that hands, It was the hand of same plastic doll. That hand With my dirty infiltrated story, roaming around hitherto, I slapped my cheeks and try to river into my real world. But I can’t! that doll is the hands of same doll, which my dead sister used to play.
It was the same poor plastic which my father used to molest. Ahh ! Ahh!
I can’t can’t I can’t why am I even writing those thistles of bandwagon rhetorical making it complicated. I can’t!
Please don’t understand the disease inside me. Let me be an underdog.
Oh! Yes I am tired, drained ….I hadn’t slept for 5 days..
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