Cameo and Nulliet - back from the dead

Act IV Scene I

At the end of the road, right in front of the great clock with some god’s face engraved on the dial.
They had broken up for the 4th time six months back but with Cameo’s feigned luck and a tough kick-in-the-balls from his rebound, they are in the same city.

Cameo : I guess it’s time to go

Nulliet [cozying up on the park bench in an entirely different city] : How I wish you never had to depart?

Cameo : Well, seriously? You talk like our creator trying to fit  fancy words in the most inappropriate places [looking dejected. Putting up that prudent face like Robinson Crusoe or Jason Statham… anything that befits the imagination]

Nulliet : If I ever meet that bastard or fuck-turd or maybe a tad extremely closer, rather bordering on the line of being an asshole – I will ask him why us? We never did him any harm [antagonistic to put things mildly]

Cameo [dumbfounded]: Oh My God… who put so much of brains in you? I mean now I definitely wish to meet him and you do sound like him on an entirely different level. [Smug smile… peace prevails]

Nulliet : Gone is the era when humour was his preferred genre. We sort of kept his circle laughing. I doubt whether he is still within its circumference [classic contemplation]

Cameo [face-palm… as expected, trying to live the last few moments before Garfield’s Monday] : Darling, we will not see each other in this week. Do you get that? You have a night shift and I really need to reach office by nine. Can we talk about more important things? [A little needy here]

Nulliet [getting the point since 2010] : Yes dear [looks at the clock and spaces out]

Cameo [bewildered] : You’re lost. What is wrong?? [The question thrown in a rather hysterical way]

Nulliet [playfully] : Darling, why don’t you calm down or do you need help here? [the twinkling eyes twinkling since four years]  

Cameo [delighted] : Don’t you always get it?

Nulliet[twinkle twinkle twinkle] : Do I not cater to your Sunday night blues ‘MoMo’ in my own naughty way? [mock sulk] You never understand only…

Cameo [waiving the victory flag] :  You know…

Nulliet[cutting him off] : No.. [infuriated] I don’t want to. You come back after six months and… [burying her face in her palms] what was I even thinking.. Men like you…. [sobbing]

Cameo [the gravity of the gratifying moment needed some of his theatrics] : You are absolutely right. [the classic pitch] I deserve this sort of treatment. I have taken after the worst architecture of man. In the past six months I have even realized that your beauty has transcended all the divine boundaries known to mankind. [produces a handkerchief like an English gentleman]

Nulliet [making sure that the handkerchief needs to be burned later] : So, so you think I have surpassed Juliet[her sister who apparently heads the missing person list] ?? [classic puppy eyes]

Cameo [unflustered by the rather known tone] : Of course. Six months have had an adverse effect on you my love. [inching closer to her] Should we continue with some wine?

Nulliet [apprehending since 2010] : Dushtu[and with an evil grin]

The rest is nesting on the lush green gardens of the Garden City and dangling from the ever more lush green trees of the Pervert’s mind.

P.S : Let’s get back to the start

P.P.S : P.S is no longer followed by an “I Love You” rather displaced by “love is blindness”

Corridors

Dear Prudence, 

Your lack of speech was not appreciated this time. Well, your ever changing address is another pressure point in some adipose infested part of my body. 
To tell you the truth, truth seems a little too acrid these days. Hence, I invest upon fonder means of vacant entertainment. 

Yes, times, they're changing. 

There is a piece of news. The sort which has already being partially imprinted upon the mind by unavoidable facts or coincidences and needs a mere confirmation to be rendered valid.

Yes, I am back to my former place of dwelling. There is a unique sense of liberation and all that jazz. To cut the crap-cake, it’s just a trick of the presumptuous mind. All we need is an invasion of that carefully curtained corridor which is best left to the onlooker's imagination. If like a pungent fart, someone gushes into it, the grass automatically burns green on the other side. All the more, being a fanciful and phony stoic, I will never listen to the hungriest of tides.

In flute induced corridors did I find a recluse looking for a way out? You patted him, didn't you?
Did you ever bother to utter a single syllable? You are a diplomat, ain't you? You smelt it, like a seagull smells carrion. There was winter in you veins. You scripted it. You scripted my March before January could smirk.

These days, when I am left to what I the best, i.e., loathe, I visualize corridors. Even when I am writing this letter (not to see if you're better), I think of you in a corridor, waiving to an obnoxious neighbour.
You waiving to your neighbour. How can I even think on such material terms? Touché.

Started with sills that too rusty, now I have this ardent need of landing up in a corridor. Everything seems so tranquil in a corridor.

However, each corridor is excruciatingly empty if the doors are closed.


Regards,
Abani

The Infinite Causeway

The infinite causeway allured me

Aided by her dissolving sun’s lisp;

On wings of forlorn words, we rode

Into the ambivalence of the night

Haunting us were bruised echoes

Of relics that endured time’s betrayal

And of youth that was sucked out

To accommodate the daunting wisdom

Embers of her seasonal vagaries

Are well guarded in the archaic urn

Crescendos of her country songs

Are well guarded in her unkempt glares

Lurching alongside, I awaited

The indolent intermittent glance

As the half-dried brook struggled

To meet the weary sea

We stumbled upon the night’s womb

With the burdening moonless-sky

Pressing the weight of vacant innuendos

On our exhausted shoulders

And she glanced with the Gladiola’s bloom

To answer famished eyes and husked sighs

The faraway brook squealed past

To proclaim the end

“The clouds showed me the way”

“I followed the vagabond’s gut”

“Now that we are here”

“The canvas seems vain”

“It was never the causeway”

“It was the quench”

“For epochs have I wailed"

“Should we depart?”

“Let’s wait for the arrogant dawn”

“Rekindling regrets?”

“No.”

“Then?”

“I want to see the enslaved animal”

As the nakedness of the brook

Crept slowly in the line of our vision

And the flushed sky bellowed

I stood there ablaze in her stare

As she slowly withdrew

In that ludicrous causeway

Some spirit still enamors

The embers of that brook

.Dots.

Dear Prudence,

Today, while easing into this mesh-nylon chair, staring indefinitely into a monitor and playing first fiddle to servitude, a faraway murmur of thunder cruises through the varied rough-edged sounds into these ears taking me back to the years of seasonal-lapses and etcetera.

I came across a torn trouser and tattered tune lying unabashedly on the floor wanting to be chided upon. They remind me that the days of the deity are nearing the corner. Memoirs of the bigoted bus and its constant refusal to speed up; the sudden rains mixed in perspiration; the yellow mellow taxis and a shared table.

The delightful daisies, struggling against the weed of inept lands near my house spoke up. The rotten cockroaches have outdone Mr. Samsa. There is no doubt over the fact. This is an incorrigible loop and just like my broken music-player, they will come chasing me every-time Samson takes up his saxophone in refute. Then again, every Samson dies of starvation; in search of salvation.

The hoard is clearing up. The bags are being packed, the screens shut down.

I think I will stick around for a couple of hours pondering on how to kill a dragonfly. Talking of dragonflies, I suddenly feel like gawking at the watch and stay still. I do it often these days. Nothing much to explain as the days filled with innuendos and sarcasm are long gone.

What steads ahead is an apparition with a dog collar bearing my photograph. A photograph which seldom resembles me and seldom do I venture to think like him.

Enough said for the day. As it turns out, you have actually stopped receiving these letters and your door knob, as Bob said is still intact.

So long, old mate; so long!

Regards,

Abani

The Reminiscent Cat

Dear Prudence,

While drifting down the alley way like Mr. Simon, I came across a few iron gates which were conviniently resting on the face of our urbanity like relics from a more profound darker era. I wrested out a few vivid faces from the past which have benevolently strided forth. Faces - inside out. Like the ballads of Chopin, they too rippled through to inconsequential delights. The beauty of faces forgotten lies in its reconstruction. Deconstruction can only lead to reconstruction as vapourisation leads to rain... as the leftover midnight coffee leads to a tango in the dark which in turn leads to the fresh morning brew. The road which led to the relics in Cambodia has been shut long back. The secrets run astray in the ashtray and in nocturnes.

The last lashes of smoke gently caress the ceiling in another futile effort to abscond. They remind me of you and your last words of floating through to the Greek isle. Do you still walk alone in the half deserted causeways to find wild strawberries?

Facing the waking dawn, I remind myself of the quaint conjectures and receeding smiles... Miles and his saxophone takes me back to the sepia streets which twirled round your conscience to a saw-dust consequence. The path left. Memory fails me today. 

I will not partake in a voyage. I will not yield to the winds. 

Tonight, my dear Prudence I will join the carnival of tramps.

For tonight, you spoke of the dire river that led me to you. 

Regards,

Shamik

Chasing Pavements

There was stale wine in the pitcher, when Abani decided to drink. He pondered on the whom to raise the toast to. There was a bunch of bucolic flowers, handpicked to wreath a garland of pastoral enchantments and innocent love. "Love", thought Abani. The slow rain, as if chided upon decides to wreck havoc. When was the last lost isle annexed to the mainland? When did the French see Corsica? "On certain delusional days, when reason's treason resurfaces" Abani was cynically sound yet there were certain emotional engravings, which weren't ready to fade away. He had scampered out of parks, he had taken leaps - degenerative leaps... He had fought monotony with melancholy. Introspecting the very existence of the word 'love'. A sudden peal reminds Abani of pathos. He pours the ale when another sullen noise, which would have been unheard had not Abani been very skeptically inclined towards sounds and syllables. He deemed it right to seek the source in his marooned house - often haunted by ghosts of realization. Down below in front of the main door there stood a cloak-groped figure. Abani invited the haunted guest in. The cloak slowly figured out its uselessness in this situation and decided to leave. There she stood beside the cactus and dark orchid. There she stood in vile forebodings and veracious exhilaration. She stood there on the verge of a soggy dawn. Was she the incarnate illusion for which Abani waited? She had the strength to break the shackles. Would she invoke dark pathos yet once again? Abani decides to abandon the unfamiliar familiarity. He would rather ostracize his oceanic reveries and dwell in the causeway. Its better to be the indiscernible than the vainglorious lover. However, she wouldn't let him take a firm step. She entwined like nocturnal wilderness. She was perilously alluring. She was the angry river and I was the helpless twig. She was the dawn and I was the early morning blue. She was the appropriate derivative of lysergic acid and I was John Lennon. She was morality and I was a man of scruples. Abani had long endured the silence. Well, this time he decides to articulate. Thus coalesced the two raindrops on the same lavender. Abani showed her the way to the empty room. he knew one thing for certain that this room would not be empty again whether someone resided in it or not.

You Know Who I Am

I am misshapen chaos


I don’t believe in anti-matter


I am thin blue smoke


Homogeneous and sporadic


If you acquiesce
I will indulge


If you disagree
I will lure


If you evade
I will fetter


If you abolish
I will entwine


Sometimes I gush
Otherwise I meander
I am morality -
Leeching into this era
Live by me
To endure.


Who am I?