Lost for words.
A silent rendition of the mute;
I find my thoughts don’t
Translate into sounds anymore.
A cacophony of images
That collides; within
The confines of my mind,
But to no avail or significance.
A silent scream of perpetuity
Lost in my sore throat;
Hoarse from yester-prayers
That belie my hidden emotions.
Random thoughts swirl in
A mix of truth and what ifs.
My mind reels; in the confusion
Of mind games in flux.
Words escape me
When my mind is made up
Of mush and melancholy;
But for what… eludes me.
Suffer in silence,
When all around is the din
Of glass shard after thoughts
And missed promises.
A new dawn beckons,
In the morn of hindsight.
For retrospection brings
Fortitude and dysfunction.
Tomorrow perhaps brings
Recollection of my mindset;
For mine voice to fly free
Like a long-caged mynæ in heat.
What do the words
Mean when cognizance is
But forsaken in light of
Misguided half-truths and misdemeanors?
Since silence dogs me;
Like half-bred English
Or forgotten day-old nestlings
Gawking in the cruelty of grim realization.
But then the quiet, quaking
Bud blooms in solitude.
To spread its moist petals outwards
Seductively revealing a teat raison.
Words elude my conscious
Being in surrender;
Wither the nest egg of
Promise offers release or comfort?
I am but what I deem
Within each struggling breath
The choices long made to reasons;
Never explored but made in pithy acceptance.
Hark say I to the
Echoes of past sins long forgotten –
Take me into thy sacred bosom
For feminine warmth and devotion.
What can be made
Of these words, that
Seemingly slip off an iced tongue
Like a dew drop on a blade of grass.
Fathomless depths
Implore me to jump to
The shadowy wings; for perhaps
Within those depths lie redemption.
And the sound of my inner vice.
My release,
My thunder,
My reconciliation…
Personal ramblings on whatever makes the news and shakes my fancy. Reviews on stuff I have bought or used or experienced, and observations on people I have had the fortune to meet and life's epiphanies that have impacted my development and has made me ME.
Monday, 31 December 2007
Friday, 30 November 2007
Apartments, automobiles and aubergines
Apparently the market is on fire. Not literally of course but the prices of essential commodities are hotter than Hades on a mid-July day (one would be at odds to decide which sounds more frightening – my metaphor or the possible implications of how “hot” hot really is?).
Before this writer ventures any further, it would be best that he confess that he has no idea about the prices of everyday commodities – what’s more he never really ever did. So if someone were to tell me that onions are Tk. 40 per kilogram, I would be at a complete loss as to how to react – with relief or outrage? After all, is the Tk.40 per kg onion too hot to touch or worthy of an immediate buyout? You see, I just wouldn’t know!
This of course makes for very many awkward moments, so I have perfected my response timing to immediately parrot the exact words in surprise. Lo and behold the messenger takes the next obvious step forward and reacts for me. For example:
Messenger: Onions are Tk. 40 per kg.
Me (feigning surprise): Onions are Tk. 40 per kg!
Messenger: Would you believe that it’s gone up by Tk. 6 in two days!
Me: Gone up by Tk. 6 in two days!
Messenger: Yes, how is one going to keep food on the table this way?
Me: Keep food on the table!
Messenger (with a quizzically look):
Me (still surprised): !
You get my drift. The technique might not be perfection, but it seems to get me through the conversation without sounding like I am out of my depth.
I don’t mean to sound insensitive and oblivious to the rising prices in the market, after all, despite what the government is trying to feed us, prices are rising by the day. The point is that since I have never really shopped for groceries alone I have no benchmark to compare prices. Thankfully my mother and my wife, who actually do the shopping in my house, are not so oblivious.
Now there is much talk about syndicates and middlemen and hoarders, but these parasites are a symptom of societal degradation. Imagine twelve months ago, most of the people buying the big fish, the cow’s rump, etc., etc. were people who came easy into money – societal rules were simple – if you want the good things in life you’ve got to try living life the bad way. Simpletons, like us, who are stuck outside of the jails, obviously had it backwards, since we were living life in the good way, we were stuck with the bad things.
This is true for everything in this town. Apartments, jewelry, cars, are very expensive but the businessmen-crooks running these “syndicates” were reaping in with the big bucks. It staggers the mind how land prices have gone up 1000 folds in the span of a few years, when the per capita income could only slowly inch up in USD 10 increments (if even that much) over that same period. In a country that manages a per capita income of a measly USD 460, apartments (not houses, mind you) are being sold at almost 1000 times that amount!
Let me put in another way, in a country where the average monthly income for a family would be BDT 5,000 (actually half of that) we have select families opting to pay BDT 7,500 (or more) per square foot to purchase an apartment. Now I am no economist, but that doesn’t make sense. I am sure there are quite a few successful people around to flaunt that kind of money; but the question that begs to be asked is: successful in doing what? What kind of business or job brings that kind of profit? And how is it possible that there are so many avenues of accumulating such wealth that an entire real estate industry can be fed on the proceeds.
I mean, how is it that we can be outraged when onions cost 55 cents per kg, but not bat an eyelash because apartments in Gulshan are going “cheap” at USD 150,000?
Now if all these “successful” people had the key to great fortune in business, why suddenly is the real estate industry beginning to stagnate when they can no longer justify their tax returns?
With the real estate shudder, so has the streets of Dhaka cleared of H2 & H3 Hummers, Cadillac Escalades, Porsche Cheyenne SUVs, Mercedes S-classes, most of the BMW X5s. The “bold and the beautiful” have been reduced to riding “normal” reconditioned older luxury cars, or, shudder the thought, Toyotas!
I may not know the price of a head of cauliflower, but when it comes to cars I know my unit prices (out of sheer hobby interests, I assure you). And while a 100% premium on the price of $0.50 foreign candy bar may stand justification (if only as a decadent indulgence, considering onion prices), frankly, there is little to no justification to pay a 300% premium on a $90,000 luxury SUV! Especially when you account for the state of the roads we drive on and the odds on a scrape against a rickshaw.
Thankfully we are going through a cleansing process, and people are made to become more accountable. Whether the entrance of a higher degree of accountability will spell the exit of any degree of corruption and underhandedness, time will tell. Meanwhile, apartments, automobiles and aubergines will continue to defy the price tag, and unfortunately for me since apartments and automobiles is now passé, benchmarking the market prices for everyday commodities will continue to be a favorite pastime.
Before this writer ventures any further, it would be best that he confess that he has no idea about the prices of everyday commodities – what’s more he never really ever did. So if someone were to tell me that onions are Tk. 40 per kilogram, I would be at a complete loss as to how to react – with relief or outrage? After all, is the Tk.40 per kg onion too hot to touch or worthy of an immediate buyout? You see, I just wouldn’t know!
This of course makes for very many awkward moments, so I have perfected my response timing to immediately parrot the exact words in surprise. Lo and behold the messenger takes the next obvious step forward and reacts for me. For example:
Messenger: Onions are Tk. 40 per kg.
Me (feigning surprise): Onions are Tk. 40 per kg!
Messenger: Would you believe that it’s gone up by Tk. 6 in two days!
Me: Gone up by Tk. 6 in two days!
Messenger: Yes, how is one going to keep food on the table this way?
Me: Keep food on the table!
Messenger (with a quizzically look):
Me (still surprised): !
You get my drift. The technique might not be perfection, but it seems to get me through the conversation without sounding like I am out of my depth.
I don’t mean to sound insensitive and oblivious to the rising prices in the market, after all, despite what the government is trying to feed us, prices are rising by the day. The point is that since I have never really shopped for groceries alone I have no benchmark to compare prices. Thankfully my mother and my wife, who actually do the shopping in my house, are not so oblivious.
Now there is much talk about syndicates and middlemen and hoarders, but these parasites are a symptom of societal degradation. Imagine twelve months ago, most of the people buying the big fish, the cow’s rump, etc., etc. were people who came easy into money – societal rules were simple – if you want the good things in life you’ve got to try living life the bad way. Simpletons, like us, who are stuck outside of the jails, obviously had it backwards, since we were living life in the good way, we were stuck with the bad things.
This is true for everything in this town. Apartments, jewelry, cars, are very expensive but the businessmen-crooks running these “syndicates” were reaping in with the big bucks. It staggers the mind how land prices have gone up 1000 folds in the span of a few years, when the per capita income could only slowly inch up in USD 10 increments (if even that much) over that same period. In a country that manages a per capita income of a measly USD 460, apartments (not houses, mind you) are being sold at almost 1000 times that amount!
Let me put in another way, in a country where the average monthly income for a family would be BDT 5,000 (actually half of that) we have select families opting to pay BDT 7,500 (or more) per square foot to purchase an apartment. Now I am no economist, but that doesn’t make sense. I am sure there are quite a few successful people around to flaunt that kind of money; but the question that begs to be asked is: successful in doing what? What kind of business or job brings that kind of profit? And how is it possible that there are so many avenues of accumulating such wealth that an entire real estate industry can be fed on the proceeds.
I mean, how is it that we can be outraged when onions cost 55 cents per kg, but not bat an eyelash because apartments in Gulshan are going “cheap” at USD 150,000?
Now if all these “successful” people had the key to great fortune in business, why suddenly is the real estate industry beginning to stagnate when they can no longer justify their tax returns?
With the real estate shudder, so has the streets of Dhaka cleared of H2 & H3 Hummers, Cadillac Escalades, Porsche Cheyenne SUVs, Mercedes S-classes, most of the BMW X5s. The “bold and the beautiful” have been reduced to riding “normal” reconditioned older luxury cars, or, shudder the thought, Toyotas!
I may not know the price of a head of cauliflower, but when it comes to cars I know my unit prices (out of sheer hobby interests, I assure you). And while a 100% premium on the price of $0.50 foreign candy bar may stand justification (if only as a decadent indulgence, considering onion prices), frankly, there is little to no justification to pay a 300% premium on a $90,000 luxury SUV! Especially when you account for the state of the roads we drive on and the odds on a scrape against a rickshaw.
Thankfully we are going through a cleansing process, and people are made to become more accountable. Whether the entrance of a higher degree of accountability will spell the exit of any degree of corruption and underhandedness, time will tell. Meanwhile, apartments, automobiles and aubergines will continue to defy the price tag, and unfortunately for me since apartments and automobiles is now passé, benchmarking the market prices for everyday commodities will continue to be a favorite pastime.
Saturday, 24 November 2007
Personal Religion, global repercussion, and local restitution
Religion is a rather personal affair. What I think about my religion should be as personal as how you practice yours. Born and brought up a Muslim, I would venture to say that my point of view on the religion (and most everything else, for that matter) is somewhat “liberal.” My point being is that when I say “liberal,” I do not say “right,” but most people (of a less liberal or more orthodox point of view) act like I did!
But then this is not an essay on religion or my point of view. Although since the subject was brought up, I would like to add that ironically the theology that calls for brotherhood and harmony among men and women is also the excuse behind most of the conflict in today’s world.
For example, take the conflict between the Jews and the Muslims over Jerusalem – the Jews claim that they are the “chosen” people (but the Muslims, of course, know better). My point is that if the Jews want to believe that they are God’s own, and the Muslims believe that they have been chosen to suffer in this life to be given the key to paradise – where of course there is NO space for the Jews – isn’t it enough that the chosen people will eventually burn? The Muslims can suffer for a better after-life, which they are only passing time to attain, the Jews can bask in the glory of being the “chosen” people in this world and in the end the Muslims are given their share of the virgins and wine and the Jews their “just rewards.” Peace is attained. A divine (?) win-win situation if there ever was one.
Of course, the previous passage is totally stereotypical and quite unacceptable, but it is because people believe with a vengeance what they do about these stereotypes, is why everything is wrong. The best example of this is the tarnation that has ripped through the land of the immigrants and every under-achievers dream – the United States of America; once a country of magnificent tolerance and harmony has, through the actions of one of those under-achievers with a rich dad, become largely a country of intolerance, suspicion and racial profiling (this statement itself is a stereotypical world-view). Just like in Bangladesh we got the kind of leaders we deserved, likewise in the US – in a land populated by people who have chosen to remain uninformed about most of the other states within their international borders, let alone other states outside their international borders, there was always that risk of one of those “unenlightens” being elected to the highest office! Of course Americans have to protect their soil from people who mean them harm, but first the American people have to protect themselves from their leaders who mean harm to other countries.
It’s a vicious circle, I’ll grant you – but to quote one of America’s better presidents – not coincidentally a democrat – “the buck stops here.” We were faced with a motley crew of corrupt businessmen and politicians over the last 30 years – however, the ones over the immediate past five years were especially vicious. Our situation today has more to do with reasons of sycophancy than demerit. Over the last 20-odd years we have been voting for the spirit of two people long dead. Truth be told, sycophancy is just another form of religion – more pagan-styled idol worship than spiritual cleansing. Most of us should be aghast, to witness the seeming worship of symbols, monuments and photographs (tiled or otherwise). The laying of wreaths of remembrance and the raising of hands to pray towards a monument! It’s anti-Islamic (but then what do I know, being a “liberal”).
What we have politically in this country is the battle of two “almost deities” – both pure as milk and untainted in the eyes of each respective camp. To borrow a real life conflict: much like the Jews and the Muslims over Jerusalem – none able to see eye to eye on the matter and each regarding the other a terrorist group with little or no legitimacy. The Jerusalem conflict is beyond the scope of this writer to solve, however, it is time that we say that “the buck stops here (!), when we talk about our home-grown conflict.
While the current caretaker government cannot be considered divine, i.e. pure as milk and as untainted as our fore-fathers, fore-generals, or fore-opportunists, they are human – and if you pull religion into the argument – a result of possible divine intervention. So while these ten at the helm of things may not be an appreciated alternative, currently, they are a better source of leadership than what was in store for us through the “democratic” process.
It is probably a rude awakening for those of us who choose to have short-term memories that the situation in the country between November 2006 and January 10, 2007 was borderlining on a possible civil war (and this was going to be the real thing and not one like the “patriotic” Jamaatis had suggested was what happened in 1971). We can’t possibly bicker about these people taking too much time to fix things, and forget the situation that prevailed BEFORE they took over (and not just from when they took over in January this year, but the over the last 30 years prior to). The presence of this administration and the clean-up currently being undertaken is enough to convince me as proof of the existence of a God and that the omniscient hasn’t forgotten about us (but then, I am a “liberal”).
But then this is not an essay on religion or my point of view. Although since the subject was brought up, I would like to add that ironically the theology that calls for brotherhood and harmony among men and women is also the excuse behind most of the conflict in today’s world.
For example, take the conflict between the Jews and the Muslims over Jerusalem – the Jews claim that they are the “chosen” people (but the Muslims, of course, know better). My point is that if the Jews want to believe that they are God’s own, and the Muslims believe that they have been chosen to suffer in this life to be given the key to paradise – where of course there is NO space for the Jews – isn’t it enough that the chosen people will eventually burn? The Muslims can suffer for a better after-life, which they are only passing time to attain, the Jews can bask in the glory of being the “chosen” people in this world and in the end the Muslims are given their share of the virgins and wine and the Jews their “just rewards.” Peace is attained. A divine (?) win-win situation if there ever was one.
Of course, the previous passage is totally stereotypical and quite unacceptable, but it is because people believe with a vengeance what they do about these stereotypes, is why everything is wrong. The best example of this is the tarnation that has ripped through the land of the immigrants and every under-achievers dream – the United States of America; once a country of magnificent tolerance and harmony has, through the actions of one of those under-achievers with a rich dad, become largely a country of intolerance, suspicion and racial profiling (this statement itself is a stereotypical world-view). Just like in Bangladesh we got the kind of leaders we deserved, likewise in the US – in a land populated by people who have chosen to remain uninformed about most of the other states within their international borders, let alone other states outside their international borders, there was always that risk of one of those “unenlightens” being elected to the highest office! Of course Americans have to protect their soil from people who mean them harm, but first the American people have to protect themselves from their leaders who mean harm to other countries.
It’s a vicious circle, I’ll grant you – but to quote one of America’s better presidents – not coincidentally a democrat – “the buck stops here.” We were faced with a motley crew of corrupt businessmen and politicians over the last 30 years – however, the ones over the immediate past five years were especially vicious. Our situation today has more to do with reasons of sycophancy than demerit. Over the last 20-odd years we have been voting for the spirit of two people long dead. Truth be told, sycophancy is just another form of religion – more pagan-styled idol worship than spiritual cleansing. Most of us should be aghast, to witness the seeming worship of symbols, monuments and photographs (tiled or otherwise). The laying of wreaths of remembrance and the raising of hands to pray towards a monument! It’s anti-Islamic (but then what do I know, being a “liberal”).
What we have politically in this country is the battle of two “almost deities” – both pure as milk and untainted in the eyes of each respective camp. To borrow a real life conflict: much like the Jews and the Muslims over Jerusalem – none able to see eye to eye on the matter and each regarding the other a terrorist group with little or no legitimacy. The Jerusalem conflict is beyond the scope of this writer to solve, however, it is time that we say that “the buck stops here (!), when we talk about our home-grown conflict.
While the current caretaker government cannot be considered divine, i.e. pure as milk and as untainted as our fore-fathers, fore-generals, or fore-opportunists, they are human – and if you pull religion into the argument – a result of possible divine intervention. So while these ten at the helm of things may not be an appreciated alternative, currently, they are a better source of leadership than what was in store for us through the “democratic” process.
It is probably a rude awakening for those of us who choose to have short-term memories that the situation in the country between November 2006 and January 10, 2007 was borderlining on a possible civil war (and this was going to be the real thing and not one like the “patriotic” Jamaatis had suggested was what happened in 1971). We can’t possibly bicker about these people taking too much time to fix things, and forget the situation that prevailed BEFORE they took over (and not just from when they took over in January this year, but the over the last 30 years prior to). The presence of this administration and the clean-up currently being undertaken is enough to convince me as proof of the existence of a God and that the omniscient hasn’t forgotten about us (but then, I am a “liberal”).
Saturday, 10 November 2007
Yaba daba doo!
You have to admit when you read “Yaba Shundori (beauty)” the next thing you feel compeled to do is see ithe “shundori” herself – but alas, she was rather elusive and RAB only just kept missing her for an hour! Which, had she had a publicist, would have been her publicist’s dream come true – just follow the line of the stories that were concocted around her and her chubby, yuppie, hubby(?) and their decadent, lascivious lifestyle.
What got the papers excited were talk of her Tk. 70 lakh plastic surgery, skin pigmentation lightening (something tthis writer would have never had known could be done had it not been for Michael Jackson – but wait, his condition was the result a rare African American disease that is so rare that it has never infected another African American!), two maids to look after her beauty, Tk. 1 lakh in beauty products a month – two things dawned on me, a) she was one of spectacular assets, and b), more mundanely, even I could be come a “shundori” at that price!
After all that hype, her picture in the papers was a major let-down. I can understand that the last couple of days would have been very trying for her, her being on the lam and all, but I would not be surprised if her boyfriend-husband-DOM* doesn’t actually sue her when all this is over. I mean, where DID all that money go?! Trying time or no, with that kind of money pumped into her face (where else could it go?), her ogling public, I’m sure, had expected much more.
Guilty or not, what a spectacular lifestyle she lived. If my opinion matters, I think she was just whiling her time away as a boy-toy with this old rich buzzard (come on, he could have used some of that money he spent on her cosmetic upgrades on himself). In all likelihood she was hoping that he would croak on one of their skirmishes – either from their frantic closed door politics in overseas chambers or from the hotel tab the morning after! As for the charges of peddling yaba, it was probably a small favor for her favorite financier. I think that as far as peddling goes, I am sure she took the limo and not the metro! Peddling? No. Courier service, more like it. But then that’s just my opinion, and I have nothing more solid than speculation and wild guesses to back my claims.
Having said that, just imagine the times she lived in! She was young(er), decadent was god, and she was above the law. Foreign trips, chartered GMG flights (this was the clincher, in my opinion, as to their real aspirations – I mean for a couple that reportedly spent Tk. 1.5 crore over 11 days in Tokyo, to charter a Bombadier to Cox’s Bazar for a honeymoon is just so sad), diamond tiaras, designer outfits, Victoria’s Secret lingerie – she was living the fairy tale princess dream; only in this story the princess was a little PG-18 (well, she was 26) and was married to the frog.
What a scandal the press can rile up; oh what lurid details they can hound out – even the ever stoic men in black seemed quite amused to relay stories of ostentation underlined with seductive overtures and insinuations. What’s more, is that you’d think I was making all this up from reading trashy tabloids and not the more respectable mainstream papers! So just imagine what the tabloid had to say! Yaba, whether you did it or not, know someone who does, or didn’t even knew what was happening, is suddenly the story on everyone’s mouth. Respectable people are sneaking peeks, between reading the other stories, at the Yaba story made famous by the Yaba “Shundori.”
Does anyone REMEMBER the six young men who were caught by RAB with Yaba in their procession at all? Amin Huda, that oldish looking 36-year old has some recall value in this development owing to his kinship with a prominent (and as one paper labeled it, controversial) businessman, who himself was quite the rave in his time in the 80s and 90s for his own PG-18 reasons. I mean, wasn’t the story leaning towards Amin Huda being the mastermind and key manufacturer of Yaba in Bangladesh? Now the Yaba story has hit its prime with the “shundori,” and following along the dotted lines of her frequent flier destinations, suddenly the drug is an imported product! At least we are on the downward slope, unless of course there are any more revelations of the “marital” bliss shared between the princess and her lovable hotelier.
As for the plight of our delinquent hotelier, with the weight of the world piling on his shoulders, Yaba “Shundori” or not, Jannatul Ferdous, no matter how cosmetically enhanced, was, at least for him, his first (and last) vision of heaven for a long, long time.
* Dirty Old Man
What got the papers excited were talk of her Tk. 70 lakh plastic surgery, skin pigmentation lightening (something tthis writer would have never had known could be done had it not been for Michael Jackson – but wait, his condition was the result a rare African American disease that is so rare that it has never infected another African American!), two maids to look after her beauty, Tk. 1 lakh in beauty products a month – two things dawned on me, a) she was one of spectacular assets, and b), more mundanely, even I could be come a “shundori” at that price!
After all that hype, her picture in the papers was a major let-down. I can understand that the last couple of days would have been very trying for her, her being on the lam and all, but I would not be surprised if her boyfriend-husband-DOM* doesn’t actually sue her when all this is over. I mean, where DID all that money go?! Trying time or no, with that kind of money pumped into her face (where else could it go?), her ogling public, I’m sure, had expected much more.
Guilty or not, what a spectacular lifestyle she lived. If my opinion matters, I think she was just whiling her time away as a boy-toy with this old rich buzzard (come on, he could have used some of that money he spent on her cosmetic upgrades on himself). In all likelihood she was hoping that he would croak on one of their skirmishes – either from their frantic closed door politics in overseas chambers or from the hotel tab the morning after! As for the charges of peddling yaba, it was probably a small favor for her favorite financier. I think that as far as peddling goes, I am sure she took the limo and not the metro! Peddling? No. Courier service, more like it. But then that’s just my opinion, and I have nothing more solid than speculation and wild guesses to back my claims.
Having said that, just imagine the times she lived in! She was young(er), decadent was god, and she was above the law. Foreign trips, chartered GMG flights (this was the clincher, in my opinion, as to their real aspirations – I mean for a couple that reportedly spent Tk. 1.5 crore over 11 days in Tokyo, to charter a Bombadier to Cox’s Bazar for a honeymoon is just so sad), diamond tiaras, designer outfits, Victoria’s Secret lingerie – she was living the fairy tale princess dream; only in this story the princess was a little PG-18 (well, she was 26) and was married to the frog.
What a scandal the press can rile up; oh what lurid details they can hound out – even the ever stoic men in black seemed quite amused to relay stories of ostentation underlined with seductive overtures and insinuations. What’s more, is that you’d think I was making all this up from reading trashy tabloids and not the more respectable mainstream papers! So just imagine what the tabloid had to say! Yaba, whether you did it or not, know someone who does, or didn’t even knew what was happening, is suddenly the story on everyone’s mouth. Respectable people are sneaking peeks, between reading the other stories, at the Yaba story made famous by the Yaba “Shundori.”
Does anyone REMEMBER the six young men who were caught by RAB with Yaba in their procession at all? Amin Huda, that oldish looking 36-year old has some recall value in this development owing to his kinship with a prominent (and as one paper labeled it, controversial) businessman, who himself was quite the rave in his time in the 80s and 90s for his own PG-18 reasons. I mean, wasn’t the story leaning towards Amin Huda being the mastermind and key manufacturer of Yaba in Bangladesh? Now the Yaba story has hit its prime with the “shundori,” and following along the dotted lines of her frequent flier destinations, suddenly the drug is an imported product! At least we are on the downward slope, unless of course there are any more revelations of the “marital” bliss shared between the princess and her lovable hotelier.
As for the plight of our delinquent hotelier, with the weight of the world piling on his shoulders, Yaba “Shundori” or not, Jannatul Ferdous, no matter how cosmetically enhanced, was, at least for him, his first (and last) vision of heaven for a long, long time.
* Dirty Old Man
Friday, 2 November 2007
Whatever happened?
Whatever happened to the guy we knew…
The little engine that could…
Sput, sput, sputter with a ne’er care in the world
The boy-man who repeatedly fell…
Either in love or on his ass? Or both?
Whatever happened to the guy we knew
The boy with the nazi salute…
The desert fox?
The boy-man with the golden heart?
Beat, beat, beats me why it doesn’t beat no more.
Whatever happened to that boy we knew?
The corporate guy with the suit of wool
You know, that guy with his Manhattan strut…
The guy who stood his ground on crutches
Perhaps you knew him better…
As that Yiddish New Yorker on Mercer Ave?
Whatever happened to that guy we knew…
That guy hidden behind all that cigarette (?) smoke…
That dude who inhaled deep and never let go?
The boy-man with a point to prove.
You know, chicken little who cried for help?
Whatever happened to that guy we knew…
You know, that guy with a brick wall of attitude.
That dude who spoke but listened not
To anyone who cared to tell him who, when or what.
I’m sure you’d know whom I mean...
Even if you had met him once.
Whatever happened to the guy we knew
The one who sometimes tried too hard
The educator of men
The boy who cared as deep as he dared.
Perhaps you knew him as the wayward guy
With bills to pay...
Whatever happened to that guy we knew
That simpleton who basked in glory?
The man with a cannon
Or so he said
That rumbling sound, that something you just can’t forget
The man who got under your skin
But you liked it that way.
Ah hah, that man you simply couldn’t put down
But despised with all your heart… for most of a minute.
Who know whom I mean…
That man, that child, that wicked, wicked guy
Who would just leave without a goodbye.
The one who was always there but behind the scenes
Behind the shadows, behind the trees
The dude-man, the nigger-hater
If I could only put a name…
A guttu, a goots, a gutiere
What does it all mean?
A name to love, but hate to love as well.
It seems that this guy had one more trick.
Ne’er one to stay too near
An arm’s length was a safe bet
He rolled a joint, and rolled away…
This time a bit too far out of reach.
Whatever happened to that guy we knew…
Whatever I am hearing, is it true?
Has the desert fox deserted us all?
The news I hear on silenced lips…
Whisper his fate
Which brings me to ask
Whatever happened to happy endings?
In Memory of:
Syed Nahoum Ali
December 26, 1971- August 25, 2007
The little engine that could…
Sput, sput, sputter with a ne’er care in the world
The boy-man who repeatedly fell…
Either in love or on his ass? Or both?
Whatever happened to the guy we knew
The boy with the nazi salute…
The desert fox?
The boy-man with the golden heart?
Beat, beat, beats me why it doesn’t beat no more.
Whatever happened to that boy we knew?
The corporate guy with the suit of wool
You know, that guy with his Manhattan strut…
The guy who stood his ground on crutches
Perhaps you knew him better…
As that Yiddish New Yorker on Mercer Ave?
Whatever happened to that guy we knew…
That guy hidden behind all that cigarette (?) smoke…
That dude who inhaled deep and never let go?
The boy-man with a point to prove.
You know, chicken little who cried for help?
Whatever happened to that guy we knew…
You know, that guy with a brick wall of attitude.
That dude who spoke but listened not
To anyone who cared to tell him who, when or what.
I’m sure you’d know whom I mean...
Even if you had met him once.
Whatever happened to the guy we knew
The one who sometimes tried too hard
The educator of men
The boy who cared as deep as he dared.
Perhaps you knew him as the wayward guy
With bills to pay...
Whatever happened to that guy we knew
That simpleton who basked in glory?
The man with a cannon
Or so he said
That rumbling sound, that something you just can’t forget
The man who got under your skin
But you liked it that way.
Ah hah, that man you simply couldn’t put down
But despised with all your heart… for most of a minute.
Who know whom I mean…
That man, that child, that wicked, wicked guy
Who would just leave without a goodbye.
The one who was always there but behind the scenes
Behind the shadows, behind the trees
The dude-man, the nigger-hater
If I could only put a name…
A guttu, a goots, a gutiere
What does it all mean?
A name to love, but hate to love as well.
It seems that this guy had one more trick.
Ne’er one to stay too near
An arm’s length was a safe bet
He rolled a joint, and rolled away…
This time a bit too far out of reach.
Whatever happened to that guy we knew…
Whatever I am hearing, is it true?
Has the desert fox deserted us all?
The news I hear on silenced lips…
Whisper his fate
Which brings me to ask
Whatever happened to happy endings?
In Memory of:
Syed Nahoum Ali
December 26, 1971- August 25, 2007
Monday, 11 June 2007
Forever
Silently I sit with my thoughts,
Meandering between images of sudden
Love? Lust? Perhaps, agony and desire.
What wills a man to choose as he does?
When all that he wants is that he has foregone.
Winter cold in all clam and cacophony,
Weather-beaten but for cynical compassion,
A truth unknown; kept hidden in the twilight
Of recourse and reminiscence.
Wither the winds of sorrow,
Blow across the plain flatlands of status quo;
A dust cloud through barren waste,
Weaning itself off the rain
That promises rescue.
Not from thirst
But, from surrendering to the beaten down soul.
Can the yesteryears of post parting
Be worthy of so many memories?
Such that during times of togetherness and post period
Merge into one and blur the lines of wisdom?
Forever shall my mind wander the desert plains?
To regurgitate the promises never made,
But forever filled with good intentions.
I smile at the irony that life opens to my eyes;
For in its twisted humour of vacant laughs,
I stand corrected; I stand holding little but a resigned smile.
Forever is a long time,
But that is how long I pay penance to your absence.
For your not being here to stand beside;
For your not clutching a waiting hand;
For your lips not brushing across a hungry pout.
All seems destined to oblivion,
Yet there is so much to live for
And a life of free choices bound by principle,
Forever is for how long I pay my penance.
- 15 May 2007
Meandering between images of sudden
Love? Lust? Perhaps, agony and desire.
What wills a man to choose as he does?
When all that he wants is that he has foregone.
Winter cold in all clam and cacophony,
Weather-beaten but for cynical compassion,
A truth unknown; kept hidden in the twilight
Of recourse and reminiscence.
Wither the winds of sorrow,
Blow across the plain flatlands of status quo;
A dust cloud through barren waste,
Weaning itself off the rain
That promises rescue.
Not from thirst
But, from surrendering to the beaten down soul.
Can the yesteryears of post parting
Be worthy of so many memories?
Such that during times of togetherness and post period
Merge into one and blur the lines of wisdom?
Forever shall my mind wander the desert plains?
To regurgitate the promises never made,
But forever filled with good intentions.
I smile at the irony that life opens to my eyes;
For in its twisted humour of vacant laughs,
I stand corrected; I stand holding little but a resigned smile.
Forever is a long time,
But that is how long I pay penance to your absence.
For your not being here to stand beside;
For your not clutching a waiting hand;
For your lips not brushing across a hungry pout.
All seems destined to oblivion,
Yet there is so much to live for
And a life of free choices bound by principle,
Forever is for how long I pay my penance.
- 15 May 2007
Thunder reason
Clash of thunder,
The gods play;
Lightning bright,
Thunder loud.
Rain pelting on arid land;
Gazing up towards a shortened sky,
Merry-making pitted patter
As death cycles by.
Wonder lust in reason,
Sudden release of raindrops
The size of dinner plates;
Crashing onto the ground,
Washing away sins of dust,
Cleansing the tired,
Revitalising all passion and glory.
Parting along ravines of streaks,
Running streams of lines,
Across the frail leaves on trees
Almost stopping to listen
To the sighs of relief,
The sun unmercifully hanging above
Silently watching, and waiting for her time.
Today there are smiles,
From ear to ear among the faces
Rejoicing in the mercy of cool waters.
Those cascading drops coupled into release,
Of passion but not purpose;
Of dreams but not reason;
Of forgetfulness but not forgiveness.
All around the grass seemingly pray in unison
On this dark, seasoned night.
The passion fruit of seduction,
Hovers in the air
For nights like these
Are for surrender
To one’s unspoken fears.
Ne’er a night like such comes twice in a lifetime
In a hurry to relinquish the sacred touch
Of a forbidden want
That revels in emotions.
Churning restlessly like the clouds above,
Stirred by wind forces
That lies invisible to the casual observer.
Unremembered occurrences,
Caught in the eyes of forever.
Bursting were it not for the rainfall.
The heavy fears of humanity,
Tossed around like a coin in a tin cup
Ironically from the nervous habit
Of an unfulfilled dream.
The clouds clash
In claps of thunder;
For the gods play
Beyond the distant moon rising
Yet under the eyes of the wavering sun;
Which, but for the clouds
Would seek its revenge.
What of the light that shines
In the lonely rooms,
Scattered among the living?
Peppered like careless salt flakes,
From the casual brushing hands of uncaring gods.
The demented and the denied,
Share a defiled place along the windowsill.
The rain that falls,
Anoints with equal fervour
The chosen and the unworthy;
Almost like a holy man
Who acts with neither rhyme nor reason.
The anointment washing away the sins,
Of a presumed guilty conscience.
As the rain pauses for breathe,
To let up in some way
And gather its strength to an encore,
The unreformed mortals look up at the sky to see,
Whether after all that unrelenting beating
If the squeaking of wheels can be heard
As death cycles by…
- 07 June 2007
The gods play;
Lightning bright,
Thunder loud.
Rain pelting on arid land;
Gazing up towards a shortened sky,
Merry-making pitted patter
As death cycles by.
Wonder lust in reason,
Sudden release of raindrops
The size of dinner plates;
Crashing onto the ground,
Washing away sins of dust,
Cleansing the tired,
Revitalising all passion and glory.
Parting along ravines of streaks,
Running streams of lines,
Across the frail leaves on trees
Almost stopping to listen
To the sighs of relief,
The sun unmercifully hanging above
Silently watching, and waiting for her time.
Today there are smiles,
From ear to ear among the faces
Rejoicing in the mercy of cool waters.
Those cascading drops coupled into release,
Of passion but not purpose;
Of dreams but not reason;
Of forgetfulness but not forgiveness.
All around the grass seemingly pray in unison
On this dark, seasoned night.
The passion fruit of seduction,
Hovers in the air
For nights like these
Are for surrender
To one’s unspoken fears.
Ne’er a night like such comes twice in a lifetime
In a hurry to relinquish the sacred touch
Of a forbidden want
That revels in emotions.
Churning restlessly like the clouds above,
Stirred by wind forces
That lies invisible to the casual observer.
Unremembered occurrences,
Caught in the eyes of forever.
Bursting were it not for the rainfall.
The heavy fears of humanity,
Tossed around like a coin in a tin cup
Ironically from the nervous habit
Of an unfulfilled dream.
The clouds clash
In claps of thunder;
For the gods play
Beyond the distant moon rising
Yet under the eyes of the wavering sun;
Which, but for the clouds
Would seek its revenge.
What of the light that shines
In the lonely rooms,
Scattered among the living?
Peppered like careless salt flakes,
From the casual brushing hands of uncaring gods.
The demented and the denied,
Share a defiled place along the windowsill.
The rain that falls,
Anoints with equal fervour
The chosen and the unworthy;
Almost like a holy man
Who acts with neither rhyme nor reason.
The anointment washing away the sins,
Of a presumed guilty conscience.
As the rain pauses for breathe,
To let up in some way
And gather its strength to an encore,
The unreformed mortals look up at the sky to see,
Whether after all that unrelenting beating
If the squeaking of wheels can be heard
As death cycles by…
- 07 June 2007
Friday, 30 March 2007
Cycle of touch and go
Forever is long time,
Time waits for none.
None but the poor soul without options;
Options only to wait or not,
Not promised, yet not surrendered.
Surrendered day in and day out,
Out of nothing hope lingers.
Lingers only as if by ghostly presence.
Presence of mind to know or deny;
Deny everything, yet deny days.
Days to months to years,
Years to a decade;
A decade much in touch and go;
Go, but never distant, yet always far.
Far from over, yet always close to ending.
Ending with a peck of resistance.
Resistance to goodbyes;
Goodbyes that mean hellos,
Hellos yet that do not mean farewell.
Farewell without sense, yet in full sanity
Sanity clinging to hopes,
Hopes that cannot flower;
Flower sweet truth and distinct scent,
Scent that power imagination or dreams.
Dreams that seemingly last a day, yet stays for forever…
– 16 March 2007
Time waits for none.
None but the poor soul without options;
Options only to wait or not,
Not promised, yet not surrendered.
Surrendered day in and day out,
Out of nothing hope lingers.
Lingers only as if by ghostly presence.
Presence of mind to know or deny;
Deny everything, yet deny days.
Days to months to years,
Years to a decade;
A decade much in touch and go;
Go, but never distant, yet always far.
Far from over, yet always close to ending.
Ending with a peck of resistance.
Resistance to goodbyes;
Goodbyes that mean hellos,
Hellos yet that do not mean farewell.
Farewell without sense, yet in full sanity
Sanity clinging to hopes,
Hopes that cannot flower;
Flower sweet truth and distinct scent,
Scent that power imagination or dreams.
Dreams that seemingly last a day, yet stays for forever…
– 16 March 2007
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