By the rate I'm going, in 2010 -- when the Commonwealth Games will be held in New Delhi -- I will be found in a drunken stupor, writing incessantly on obscurity with a macabre imagery in my eyes. None of this will happen, or rather, not even this will happen right. You may find some scars on my wrists -- very possible -- confirming all the crimes I will commit on myself.
If I will be married, chances are that I will be the victim of domestic violence. My body will be used by my wife to stub her cigarettes and attitude. She will torment me by filling dark shampoo liquid in my bottle of rum. There are even better chances that I will the be alotted a wall where I would be told scribble my bad poetry, then be asked to rub them by off by my palms.
I would be usual to bars, where they will be all in the knowing that I will not be able to pay my bills but they will still be generous and abusive. But some, they will be assured that the stories I tell will be all genuine -- the women, the books and the dunkards talk will be from a world of how it used to be but will never be.
I will also be recognised, fame would never be associated to me. Women would only sleep with me to attain the classifcation of being charitable, to which they would go through this routine unregardedly and endlessly. I will enjoy them, and their cigarettes; their world wrapped in the sheets of Vogue and Cosmopolitans and my musing. Then they will let me walk hrough their doors with my suitcase of thoughts.
I will also sing, when I won't be paid well. My songs will be recieved well, they will take my voice with no sharp criticism. My voice will be weak, but my poetry dark and fiery. I would be found in ragged company, hooting and shouting on the streets, the one's whom even the cops would refuse to stop, knowing their habits.
I will also have travelled. Also charged with murders of people I never knew, or cared. I would be trusted by no one, yet I would find appreciation in faceless corners. Acceptance from shadows that no where they are going. Whistled by imaginations of the following generations. And then I would smile. Commit a murder or start a religion. Break conventionality by my path breaking works that will soon be lost in libraries.
But then one morning I will be woken up by hot tea -- very possible the very next day. Be kissed by my very proper wife, who will then fix my tie right, smile while I read the morning papers, make fried eggs and bacon, set herself to work, and everything would be right. But wait a minute, how old will I be? So it goes.
If I will be married, chances are that I will be the victim of domestic violence. My body will be used by my wife to stub her cigarettes and attitude. She will torment me by filling dark shampoo liquid in my bottle of rum. There are even better chances that I will the be alotted a wall where I would be told scribble my bad poetry, then be asked to rub them by off by my palms.
I would be usual to bars, where they will be all in the knowing that I will not be able to pay my bills but they will still be generous and abusive. But some, they will be assured that the stories I tell will be all genuine -- the women, the books and the dunkards talk will be from a world of how it used to be but will never be.
I will also be recognised, fame would never be associated to me. Women would only sleep with me to attain the classifcation of being charitable, to which they would go through this routine unregardedly and endlessly. I will enjoy them, and their cigarettes; their world wrapped in the sheets of Vogue and Cosmopolitans and my musing. Then they will let me walk hrough their doors with my suitcase of thoughts.
I will also sing, when I won't be paid well. My songs will be recieved well, they will take my voice with no sharp criticism. My voice will be weak, but my poetry dark and fiery. I would be found in ragged company, hooting and shouting on the streets, the one's whom even the cops would refuse to stop, knowing their habits.
I will also have travelled. Also charged with murders of people I never knew, or cared. I would be trusted by no one, yet I would find appreciation in faceless corners. Acceptance from shadows that no where they are going. Whistled by imaginations of the following generations. And then I would smile. Commit a murder or start a religion. Break conventionality by my path breaking works that will soon be lost in libraries.
But then one morning I will be woken up by hot tea -- very possible the very next day. Be kissed by my very proper wife, who will then fix my tie right, smile while I read the morning papers, make fried eggs and bacon, set herself to work, and everything would be right. But wait a minute, how old will I be? So it goes.
posted by jairaj at Tuesday, November 21, 2006
11 Comments:
this one is better than the last piece you posted, that one was better than the one you wrote before it. it is getting more insane, but better. that is how it should be...
Yes definitely more insane.
And facsinatingly-er so.
It is wierd that I know your mother. very time I read a post I think back to the talk she gave me on how you are SO straightforward and cool.
HEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEE
Have you been listening to "DEAD FLOWERS" lately? Something seems familiar.
By the way it is nice.
yes insane, positively insane. dark n twisted, very much so. disturbing n vivid, even more so and finally f***ing hilarious.
oh look, here comes my dutiful wife with some hot tea.
lah-dee-dah! the stepford wife?
jerry your unbelivable !!
go to the "media friendly neighbourhood pub" that everyone keeps mentioning and get yourself a martini .. and when the bartender asks shaken or stirred ... then say "i dont give a flying fuck" :)
Office Poet: Like we spoke the other day, this is the only other reality I can build. You know how the worm gets to people in there where, and how they want everyone to itch he same way.
M: Gulp! Very embarassing. Although, I'm sure she didn't say I'm cool, did she?
Whitelight: Thanks. Dude, Dead Flowers has been on my mind for a very long time. Yes. But the strange thing is, lately I heard some really soft versions of the song. I can't say at all if they sound better, but its nice.
serendipity: In 2010, this would not happen. In 2020 -- the date would be cool -- but I guess it still wouldn't happen. So I might as well peek in to that bag where I breed fear and hope. Actually, come to think of it, I'd rather have a hot wife and a dutiful tea. ;)
inexile: Dude. I would go to this darned pub and tell them that I don't give a flying fuck, anyway. They'll take it as a compliment, considering I'm stoned and play Hotel California for 119th time in a night! :)
Never heard the softer versions but you should get hold of the live versions of Dead Flowers man. These guys don’t play it live very often. But I have a few live bootlegs, which contain the song. The venue and date is unclear. Try and download some of their live shit on the Exile on Main Street US tour dude. There is a bootleg called ‘The Brussels Affair’ recorded in 1973. No Dead Flowers but awesome live show nonetheless. It is pretty popular and easily available on the net.
cool, will do man. or can you mail it, will send you my mail id, is that ok? There was this band that had done it, Cowboy Junkies. Pretty neat. Or have you seen The Big Loebowski, the song is right there and smack in the middle of the end?
There is one unreleased Stones film related to the same tour called 'Cocksucker Blues'. It contains these behind the scene excesses of the group. Never got any official release. However, it is freely available on the net.
hehe...cool, will try and figure...cheers!
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