The duckling of the River

She moaned with a slight twitch on her face.That’s to be silent.He said with pony tail hair hanging by his back of throat. He was suddenly awake in the middle of the hour where in the corner the boys were playing cards. He smoothed  his voice after the time Miss Cosey finished kissing him out in the dark. He smacked his lips.Miss Cosey said ” It was wonderful to see the world like this”And there is no reprieve in demanding answers for the life otherwise gone haywire.There is silence in the know-how about robots loving and kissing.She was satisfied with her life when everything she posited was forsakenly given to her. There was nothing she could not get from life and the captain had smacked his lips again,let out a roar, feeling a lion is at mercy of the woman. Miss Cosey held his hand and there they were two made perfectly for each other. The boys were now huddled over a desk and figured out how the steam engine roared through the rails. It was  a very old discovery as one boy said and the other explained the principle lying in the intricacy of the steam engine’s working. Miss Cosey had stopped caring for anything happening in the room. It was intact a makeshift bar that showcased art of the people of the city. There were many paintings mostly stacked on the floor.John put the coffee down and got up from the bench.I love needlessly without ever going down on my knees.John had been a captain in the army and now investigating into the art world for an inspiration to lead the reminder of his life on a high note. He pecked on Miss Cosey ‘s cheek and fumbled in his pocket to take out a knife cutter and tore open the painting that was covered with the sand paper.The  newspaper having been peeled out and there remained a thin paper enveloping the painting. Before the painting could reveal itself  “Just for your eyes” said John and as if blindfolding her with his hands he put his hands on Miss Cosey’s eyes.She could barely see anything through the edges of John’s fingers though she tried to see what John was hiding. It was a portrait of Miss Cosey that he had been painting and now it was on display in the bar. Miss Cosey opened her eyes and putting John’s hands aside took a glimpse of the painting. She let a feeble ‘Ah’ go through and tilting her head to one side said. It is amazing, I mean me in the colour before the world.


I am a little awake

I drowsed to a boring ripple that aroused men to work harder

There were shadows turning in the cafe of men drowsing like bored

It’s life meaning as the ants find a mole and gather God speed

Low love is not wanted in this climate of love otherwise angels rocked

and rocked till the birds stop chattering outside the cathedral

there is something poor about the soul being blessed on the road to destiny

and I am sitting knowingly grabbing the front of the magazine and crying

for the lucid kingdom of God that suffered on and on the cross

and It is late at night, the boring kingdom of God stood idle

there is no show on the tv like the chariots of Gods, everything is mild

with touch of kindred spirit, but the havoc men arose was silencing

I am figuring little Nope

I am dying every moment

I am consoling the will

and the show ceasing to exist

beyond the mere sum of souls

We must decide the fortune

as the will stops the existence.


Is Art History naive?

Should we trust a historian telling us about art or should we explore the material directly? The artist knows art? He is a creator! But does he know the values of art? Is he aware of moral blasphemy? Is he good enough to trust what he paints? These are metaphysical questions confronting every person interested in collecting artifacts or paintings. But still the central idea or question is, Does the artist show free spirit in approaching his matter or is he replicating an existing idea into paintings?
The new age would dawn only in the wake of freedom, just breaking free from the old traditions and ushering into a new place under the sun. So many cities propound ideas that were once new and now are decadent because life is fast to react against them. What is in life that makes such a situation possible though reluctantly. Life is volatile it wants to spread its seeds on to the newer and newer vistas. It wants to add new chapters to its independent faculty of introspection. We as rational beings do introspection and life reacts to that introspection in order to spread its tentacles with what actually is fresh. So freedom and freshness are the hall marks of any creative thoughts or in the arts an underlying creativeness is evermore important because of freedom and freshness.
Many artists approach the material as self replicating within their thought patterns.So as they live, they change and thus artistic need changes and on we move on to different varieties of artistic pleasure. The variety is important for the artist is not a machine replicating copies so as he looks into the newer central theme he is peeling of his personae and proceeding to new and fresh material being brought into the market and the market is bored with everything so it picks up what is to its own fantasy thus making art as important but difficult.

The Green Aisle

The Green aisle is for me
for moving with power I nudge into the powerful
come back and finish my work on the painting of Languor
I see myself in the mirror and throw a charm or two
for the girl I loved once now a mere formality
the whole scope of love is in question
I am sadder by the time
for me and all the thine
see and grow to walk into an hemisphere which is in psyche
I blow the whistle with a bald head and harsh unkind look
there I idle my time at the green aisle

The Blue Book of Passion

I read the book,half completed and then lay it resting on an avon,
I come back to the kitchen to fetch chips and sauce,
see the rustle of a cracker erupting itself over the burner,
tuned fire to light blue in colour and read the story half imperfect,
I toss my love over the burner and see the flame of passion,
I must confirm the new tunes I am making when loving half empty self,
again the burner is for back burning while I tease the chicken to a knot,
what is the food but simmering of half whet taste,
I now read the blue book of freezing love and squander the rhythm,
over music violating the air with tight air benders,
She was not a cook nor was she for a taste,
there is sudden surge in my understanding and I dodge few words,
the blue book erupts into a volcano and all the love is mine,
reassured I sit on a sofa of corpulence and deny myself a chance,
I must have been in love to be alone once again and silent.

The Red Dragon

Where the normal meets abnormal,the rise a tide
there is the meeting of the opposite in life
I am bothered with the life of a tadpole scurrying
to spread the semen in the world and make a happy life
something is unknown with the world that is dying or
on the verge of extinction and the universe is bothered with
sound of nothing but the red dragon.