Challenge. Accepted.

When you troll people on Twitter you find amazing things.
I found an open invite to the Godawful Poetry Fortnight curated by @zigzackly.
I don't write or perform poetry and I just spent the evening listening to people who do.
Obviously these are two qualifications I needed to begin poeming.
 *****

Follow the trail of embroidered beards
and cultivated disinterest
Find yourself 
In the hipster capital of the Capital
Mind the jazz
It has
A beard of its own

Leaning rhymes
Against the bass, a double
A couple
Which you are no longer
Part of
This place of beards & poetry
You know it

You had one once
A beard
with a poem
With a text you've been missing lately
"Delhi seems extra rapey tonight,
Call me when you get home safely."

*****

The Cultural Imperative Song

You should get married.
You're 36 you should get married.
You're overweight you should get married.
You can barely make rent you should get married.
Your job is stressful you should get married.
You have subclinical hypothyroidism you should get married.
Kashmir, Palestine, Yemen, Syria you should get married.
You burned the dal you should get married.
Your parents are going to die one day you should get married.
Your friends' marriages are in trouble you should get married.
People will think you're a lesbian you should get married.
You won't be guaranteed happiness but you should get married.
The share market is falling you should get married.
That'll be Rs.500 you should get married.

You're married you should have babies.

Stupid Mantras

Live each day as if it's your last.

Really? Do you know what would happen if we actually did that? Lived every microsecond with the spectre of our mortality, our looming deaths? Fear would paralyze us into Tussaud versions of ourselves. Or we'd poop. Like, constantly.
And because we'd be pooping constantly, we'd have to consume constantly. Pooping, consuming. Pooping consuming. Pooping, consuming. The spiral would continue until our bodies were completely destroyed and we dropped dead in a pile of our own waste. Imagine how many years of productive life we'd have cut short because we tried living each day as if it were our last. Imagine the plight of the person who finds our corpse and has to clean up after.

Tell me, is that a risk worth taking?

What do you think happens next?

******

Note: The above corresponds to this blogger's personal views. If you find any ideas or words objectionable please direct your complaints to: http://www.parnasse.com/drwww.shtml

Excellent Deduction

Aw man! You smell awful!

What d'you mean?

That stink. You gotta do something about it! Phew!

That's presumptuous of you.

Dude! There's no one else here. It's you...god...

Oh really? Think of all the bad smells you've ever smelt...like, in your entire life...

Jesus! What's that going to solve?

What's the common denominator in all those bad smells?

What's the common deno--?! Man, you're crazy! What's that supposed to mean?

Seriously dude, think. 

I don't know man...I'm dying here...

Your NOSE, man! The common denominator is your nose.

Excuse me?

Yeah, so quit hassling me & do something about that stink already.

Whatchoo Talkin 'Bout, Willis?

These apples taste like Satan's balls.

How dare you disrespect apples?

These apples taste like Satan's balls.

How dare you take Satan's name in vain!!

These apples taste like Satan's balls.

How do you know what Satan's balls taste like?

Exactly.



**********

aspire-ations

one day,
i'd like to go deep-sea diving in my grandma's pet fishbowl.
or be a whistleblower of whistleblowers.
maybe write a novel about my navel,
or how noses look crooked, reflected in my bifocals.

just small dreams, nothing fancy.

i'd love to travel with the millions i make in a parallel universe.
perhaps hike up my coworker's pants,
or take a gentle cruise down my perpetually stoned friend's stream of consciousness.

and love,
i'd like to hook up with john hamm's body double,
but because i value my roots, eventually settle down with a professional mamootty memorabilia salesman.

and when my day is done,
i want to be buried next to gandhi & then be cremated.
i want an obituary written in 140 characters by kamaal khan.
i want no one to weep for me, for i would have had a full life
so rejoice,
And I will soon return as a beloved character from your favourite sitcom. 

it's even funnier when you're sober

Plan B

Midway through lunch, Doc got the call she'd been waiting for. The club sandwich, fondled lovingly only moments ago, found itself brutally flung to the side as she stood up with an electric sense of purpose, sending her chair flying across the floor.

She barked confident orders into the phone, "I'm coming. Prep the subject.". But her heart was a toy monkey, all wound up, clapping manically.

No stop lights heeded, no schoolchildren or old men with walking sticks allowed right of way. She bulldozed her way through traffic and within fifteen minutes made a screeching halt at the doorstep of the Institute. Keys still in ignition, she leapt out and rushed past the doors, which magically parted for her. Slipping across the polished floor, finding balance along the walls, she almost didn't make the corner that led her into her lab.

Her lab. Usually a chamber of isolation, tucked away in the back of the Insitute's building. Most passersby assumed it was a supply room full of chlorinated cleaning fluids & wilting brooms. Not today. The lab was humming with nervous energy. Doc's entire team was there, waiting with their eyes on the door for their leader's entry.

She burst in with a flourish and slightly out of breath. Assistant Moxy sprung to her side, shoving a tablet containing the latest data into her hands, while guiding her limbs into surgical scrubs. Doc hurriedly scanned Specimen A's stunning results, her smile widening, then disappearing behind a mask Moxy tied around her mouth & nose.

As she approached the operation theatre's entrance, the corner of her eye caught Dr. Spoote sidling up to her - "So, Doc, this is it, huh? This is your moment."

"Let's hope so, Spoote. I'm very confident."

"Of course you know this could go either way...."

"Let me interrupt you there Spoote. The subject is prepped - we don't want to fry the poor thing's nerve-endings now, do we? Or let me rephrase that - we don't want to waste the Institute's millions now, do we?"

Dr. Spoote stepped aside. Doc strode in, her eyes zeroing in on Specimen A, as she drew every fibre of her being into a nucleus of focussed concentration.

"Scalpel," she said.

The team gathered around her now, waiting for that single cut to begin the rest of their lives. Glory, sweet glory awaited each one of them.

Doc stood there, scalpel perched above Specimen A.
"Hmmm."

The team inhaled in unison.

"Oh dear," she said, "What exactly are we doing here?"

*******

Skippy Badgerow

"Skippy...
...Skippy...Beaugereau?...
...Skippy Badgerow."

She woke up with the name Skippy Badgerow playing jump rope in her head. Her REM cycle had been unkind, sweat had dribbled continuously down her neck in the night, soaking those sheets not of Egyptian cotton.

Who was Skippy Badgerow? And did he dress well?...

The answers would not come easy. Till then she resolved never to eat rabbit or chew on a human heart.