deepundergroundpoetry.com

My Story 4.0

       
         
         
The start of the second decade of the twenty first century. Now that's almost two thousand and fifty years after a lady conceived a mortal child overnight. And still you lack imagination.        
         
He is the saviour you probably don't have. He still feels the heat of burning candles everyday. High up in the air. Mahogany. Ebony. Off-white. With carved wounds. Paying his price.        
         
The son of the lord.          
         
Question is who are you then. I thought you were of the same species too. Being created by the one himself. The first batch of immortal souls. Recycled millions of times. And still you lack perfection.          
         
Still you have to do the dishes. Watch the apartments. Sit behind cubicles. Pay by credit card for machine made coffee. Still you are afraid. More than ever-of death, war, famine, wrinkles, old age, marriage. You are afraid of the calling. The bigger things. Everyone of you fights to be the last one on the food chain. The next one. The last if possible. Swine Flu. Bird Flu. Anthrax. SAARS. Jaysus.        
         
A century ago it was fine dying at thirty. Now you are still active on Viagra at seventy. Writing to sexperts about issues with prostrate and frigidity. Everyone wants to be Socrates without brains. And the poison bowl of course.        
         
Noone to blame. Despite the diseases, lifestyle has seen a sea-change on paper. You have more malls, You've churned more brands. You have invented new ways to entertain. You have revolutionised entertainment. And sex. Despite cancer and AIDS and diabetes, you are trying and testing on mice to see if the miracle can happen. Be immortal. Just shoo the diseases away. Shun the wrinkles and dump the bad genes.        
         
I imagine three hundred year old couples walking hand in hand on the nude French beaches. Not a blemish. Infused with extra carbon and less lipo-proteins in the strands. Electron-microscopic level. Tsunami and recession and hunger and poverty and terrorism not withstanding. That's your goal. Immortality.        
         
And in your passive-aggresiveness you are all united in your favourite past time- blame games.          
         
If pollution and polarity, then it's Uncle Sam and the crouching tiger. Terrorism, then the land of purity. Sponsered turbluence. It must be the Roussi. Pashtuns. The Hamas gureillas. The ones who dream of jannat and hoors. For everything else, there is the government.        
         
The truth is so easy when everyone agrees who to blame. Family. Educational system. Mentallity. Upbringing. Poor infrastructure. Mounting pressure. Weak government. The game goes on and then the music stops. The one with the blame on his head lets a diatribe.        
         
Committees. Investigations. Tests. Opinion polls. Candle light marches. DNA tests. Primetime news room debates. A new round starts. Pass. Pass.          
         
All of you hiding and shunning the demons. Secrets. Silences. Half truths. Crimes. Neverending. And so vocal with your judgements for everyone else. One glimpse and you declare its sillicone and not flesh. Nine out of ten. Munching fried junk and watching the flat screens. Bored of the world. The lethargy. The predictablity. A broad daylight shootout and we are charged up. A seer caught in a compromising position. We are talking the week. A leaked sex tape. Few months.        
         
The twisted truth is you get bored of your small lives. The small scopes. Everything cut and dried. Take homes. 6' Pizzas. Ninty minute movies. None of you have any tasks big enough. NO, really. Not big enough.        
         
Reality is after you find the bigger task to dread, all the chores would be breeze. Just air. Once you have a Frank-E-nstein amongst you, the rest of the demons would become more tolerable. Just props.        
   
Till then lock them up. Demons. And somehow drag. Manage. Pop pills. Jump meals. Laugh. Do power yoga. Watch European Cinema. Late night reality shows. Watch men head butt each other. Busty women topple and tear each other apart. Get a tan. Ride the stationary bicycle a thousand miles to nowhere. So symbolic.               
 
Till the discovery of the bigger devil, keep losing. That you always do. You lose. You lose your stocks. You lose shoes, socks and even underwear. Sanity. Misplaced. You lose our innocence. You lose virginity. Earlier it was once. Now a days a thick wad of currency and you are fresh as a daisy. Well men have to wait. For de-circumcision. You lose friends. No big deal. Facebook and Blackberry. You lose hair. And weight. And all the sacred optimism.          
         
And Saturday night house parties. Ultraviolet ambient lights under which all your scars, dark circles go away. Fade to a butterpaper finish. Your salsa moves perfected from months of training and you bump into someone. Your eyes light up. Few gulps and the OH-grop gets in action. One thing where predictablity does not much hurt.        
         
You fumble with car keys. Anticipation and nervousness and sweat drops. Your heart drumming alongside Notorius B.I.G. The rest is bland. Colourless. Internet has it in all kinds and ways. All.          
         
A momentary escape. A tangent universe. A temporary rabbit hole. Figurative lobotomy.        
         
Tick tock. Tick. Tock.        
         
You instrospect. If the latex burst. If you could meet again. If you could manage another go. The EMI. The slight flab. The hair growing back on your back. Small demons. Midegts. Go ahead. Fight them.        
         
Tick Tock.        
         
The godzilla lies in slumber. Till then Merry Christmas. Terri Kismet. Stop-start. So long.        
         
         
       
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
p.s-          
         
Terri Kismet would mean 'Your destiny/Luck'. It's Urdu and Hindustani both.(Kismet has entered the English language though.)        
         
Roussi is a common slang in lower-Central and South-East Asia which is used for people of the U.S.S.R        
         
Jannat means Heaven while [/i]Hoor means Angels of heaven. They are both Urdu terms.    
   
_________________________________________________________________    
   
   
[i]Two other write ups in this series:
   
   
   
   
http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/54245-my-story-1-0/    
   
http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/51070-my-story-2-0/
Written by Whitewand6
Published | Edited 18th Jun 2012
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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