tall

He was 4 feet seven inches short, which, combined with his rather dry personality, didn't get him any action. So his bed was his to do what he pleased with. He took it to a carpenter friend and asked him to make it shorter. He insisted that the bed be made 4 feet seven inches long exactly. The friend, being a friend, was comfortable enough with him to point out that that would be too short, because, um, where would one keep one's pillow? He argued that he didn't need one, and he was aware that the carpenter just assumed he was being too proud to admit his lack of foresight, but insisted anyway.
When the bed came home three days later, he slept on it with his feet sticking out, and, after a long time, had tall dreams.

:)

ok, so the last post was black. I wasn't in a good place. A long night of awakeness, much battle with pointless demons and dragons, and i was tired. Luckily though, i don't think the spark ever dies, and poetry, well, she's gonna be evoked right now...

sometimes i want to clingwrap a kiss and deepfreeze a moment and stop a stopwatch and touch it one more just once more and know it again
but cling wrap tears when you pull it too tightly
and fairies have wings that take freezers unkindly
and its meant to go as i am too
but the good news is i just found...

:/

I congratulate you, oh everyday, and applaud you mediocre, and status quo, you get a standing ovation. you've finally dragged her out of me. It's what you wanted, isn't it? it's what they meant, na? after years of fight, of hope, of tinier and tinier spark, i think you've finally done it.
My poetry is near dead.happy?

flashing my naked thoughts

In this world where everyone lives in layers, manages relationships and has versions of, i crave a space where i can be raw, honest, brutal, vulgar, vulnerable and myself without censorship.
So i guess that's my mission statement for this blog, really.
The two people who know who i am, and know i've started this, are iffy about it, saying that some things are better left personal, the world doesn't really need to know about the extremely intimate inner workings of my convoluted mind, and that this could backfire and blowup in my face, if traced back to me.
Honestly, though, i feel that, as a human race, too few people say anything close to what they really feel. Maybe i live in a space that so requires that i am not myself that i need an outlet, maybe i think that this is all i have, realness, and hopefully somewhere, someone'll relate, or maybe i'm just being an exhibitionist, flashing my naked thoughts to turn you on. Maybe all of the above, and then some.
Whatever. I'm writing this, and will continue to do so, in the hope that, here, the tongueclamp of race, gender, time, appropriacy (is that a word?), location, familial diplomacy, societal hypocracy and everything else inbetween, at least in my head, do not exist.
If you know who i am, it's (wink) our lil' secret.
Now let the pole dances begin!

dancer in the dark

the lights went out. Silence. I was alone at home. The hall of the house i live in is largish, and largely unencumbered by furniture. I felt the sinews of my body. i could hear my breath so clearly. I twitched, i followed the impulse. I moved. for ten minutes, i felt my body flow. Towards and away from an imagined flicker, every rustle distinct outside, a force inside almost audible. For ten minutes, i was floating. Just a dancer that no one saw.

baba

the most heartbreaking thing of all, is the time lost... so much time you took away, you made me feel like i wasnt good enough, so much time... and it aint never coming back... and there's nothing i can do. Nothing.

the desi fillimi scandal

They'll whine about my ethics with flashing thigh. They'll be shocked and scandalised and blasphemed by an onscreen kiss. And yet, and yet, not one of them will ask about the ethics of portraying a stereotype, painting an inferior incompetent woman, or reinforcing the two dimensional character industry.
Just once, I'd like to read an article where the interviewer asks, in accusatory tone, "How could you support such filth as doormat wifeism, rehashed formulas and headache inducing buildups? don't you have any moral obligation towards your audience? is this how you uphold our culture?" Honestly, I'd rather do a graphic scene involving sexual intercourse in a film that has some real reflection of life than play a coy bride who needs her dishum dishum hero to protect her.

casting backseats

o he died. Um.
i wanted to be a movie star. Correction: i wanted to act. Want to, actually. So i met the right people with the pretty pictures and smiled just right, not showing my bugsy teeth and looking just a little further so no one noticed my squint.
After six months and general frustration, he asked me to meet him.
He was HuugE(in the industry,i mean) and had launched some very famous names.
He said i was perfect. Said he'd make me a star in his next film. Said i was talented. Said i was beautiful. Said, as he tried to hold my hand, "So, what will i get in return?". Oh, the cliche's, the cliche's!
I told him he'd get anything but sex.
He was offended. A girl can't call it what it is, there's no pretense of seduction.
He'd rather i let him take me for dinner. And maybe afterwards...
Anyway, he was ugly, married and altogether particularly unattractive because he assumed that i would want to act in his overhyped uncreative overexpensive film so bad that i would fuck him for it. Ugh. I enjoyed saying it, saying the words, 'i won't sleep with you' to his face, because i could see him cringe. Probably the only way i could return the sting of his assuming i would.
So he cast someone else. Took her to a foreign locale. He died there of a heart attack. intresting.
I heard this yesterday, as i was shooting my first decent budget film, heroine et al, without having to fuck for it.
They wanted me to shoot a condolence episode of my tv show in his name.
I shot a sympathy link. i said my heart goes out to his wife.
It does.

an old melancholy

The stage curtains open
A lone heart broken
sits on a chair
As if it lived there
The backspace doesn’t seem to work anymore
A memory erased
Still seems so
Melancholy
A word you never knew
u said
ow
how come
there’s so much
pain in numb?
an empty head
felt flooring
replaced
velvet feeling
a false ceiling undone

Ever typed over your self
Where has all my poetry gone?
The song in my head
Is unwritten
Now
All I feel is a melancholy dity
Pity
I dont
Know the words
Of the sing along

And he breaks my heart again and again
And I keep coming back for more