Curves and Carves – Trailer 2013

In a little time period, a journey has helped me to understand the human essence in art form. My father who guided me to understand the jewel art work that he had contributed his skill throughout his life. Conversation with him made me to travel to those places where he had worked. During this travel, I’ve met people who shared their candid thoughts, intellectual pursuits, opinion on their traditional values are leading towards hope. And it helped me to understand the beauty of human relationship to continue.
– Ramalekshman, Director

Posted in Film | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

iN thE middLE oF A converSaTioN

In the middle of a conversation

Image | Posted on by | Tagged | Leave a comment

At thE bEginninG oF A cOnvErSatioN

at the beginning of a conversation

My other poems

Rainy Day Notes
And then I…
No Poems
The naked words
At thE enD oF A cOnvErSatioN
A Patch

Image | Posted on by | Tagged , | 2 Comments

At thE enD oF A cOnvErSatioN


My other poems

Rainy Day Notes
And then I…
No Poems
The naked words

Posted in poem, Structuralism | Tagged , | 2 Comments

sUmMEr daY nOteS

Posted in poem | Tagged , | Leave a comment

On Alenka’s Thousand Ice Cubes – 3

Never recreate from your memory. Always imagine new places.
– from the movie ‘Inception’

Zanirza was spotted by many camera lenses, showed the world the meaning of gorgeousness.

Zanirza smiled and was asked to smile, sometimes only plastic smiles. But it was a beauty, beauty of innocence. Becoming disseminated and the shadows on magazine covers. Sometimes, time had pushed her to run towards the edge of felicity and estrangement. High heels were changed each times without any warnings. Learned to walk slowly in bare foot. smooth toes felt the wetness of earth. Need a deep breathe to understand the power of pause. Lacrimal glands taught the silence of time. At a time, only the pillow was the companion. Moving inside the wheels, there is a world unseen that made to explore new spaces. Was in love, in love, will be in love are in some strange meanings that really made to arrange deep thoughts. Lime lights were more rude to melt the skin, it opened the eyes to see many faces. The obliterated corners were laughed at her to pull all her unknown past. In Safer hands, thanking hands, caressing hands, blessing hands, this world is still breathing fresh air with smiley faces. Holding each others hands and dancing around the bonfire.

‘Caesura’, another short story of Zanirza.

She accepted the blood and never screamed for it. Her reddish hair allowed the doctor to handle her skin. Always skipped to count her wounds. She slept with her boyfriend. Sucked his organ to make him sleep, always. She again read the same book to get some sleep at that night. she teared some pages and cried a lot and tried to find the reasons. She wrote some poems and got published it. She received letters and awards and kisses. She sold her words again to buy her pills. Looked for hands to hold, looked for shoulders to rest, looked for smiles to share. She wrote new theories. She laughed at outdated constructions. Fascist government planned to slit her wrist and cut her vagina. But she always fly away from her nest to find another land. It’s easier than before to get out from the door. There is no lock neither keys. She knows about her felicity and its extends. It’s not important for her to contact others wishes. Her words are made up of candles. As she burning herself to create words, it’s melting without her conscious. Her smiles are very expensive that no one can buy unless they are seekers. She always laughs along with innocent meanings, though she is investing her smiles too. She is not she, but she is symbolism of her views. She saw her body was hanging on the roof garden. Not an illusion but a vision. Vision of framing the shadow of sun in the pond water. Sun is not rising and stars are falling, that is the reality. Her rough skin have started to spread all over the space, but the moon have burnt again and again in her sky.

The world war, poverty head lines, hidden genocides from history, Cuba after Castro, Pablo Neruda poems, Naxalism, someone is smiling from somewhere, accepting the touches of raindrops through a window, a lonely old person in a park, a teen girl staring at the mirror worrying about her look, black and white forms of scenes has made to construct a castle inside the heart with strong walls. How could we react if someone says that they born in this day? Mostly we contribute our smile without any meaning. I do always. Here I am sitting with a person who has the same of name of another girl. She is in the same skin and eye color is light brown. Staring at the table really made me run to find a person to make her laugh. Thinking about another girl, then the pain helped her to have a smooth transition to see things, but not so obscure. Spoon had accepted my fingers to have a tasteless food with tasteful people. Many things are merely anything in any structures. Trying to heed the mind’s debris, not ready to feed the love, like prises. Eyes have been closed to see the libertine. She got the third hand to ruin the serpentine, always hard rain inside her sun that is increasing the heights of her sky. Spending time to find the factors and some new chapters.

There is a fear in me, it always passes faces to me, How could I ask, “Would you like to have sex with me?”. How many have we lost the secret times? Kisses all are burnt by our silence. We don’t believe in adherence to soft touches. It’s a good theory to have a pause all over our meanings. Sometimes I would like to stay in frozen times. Frozen times are constructed by an inevitable situations. The clear pitch can also be absorbed if we really open the uncountable reasons. Thus it is vary from different minds, it could be contaminated by the unreal self. Though the thoughts have been revolves so fast during the frozen times. Closely observed parts were hidden by new meanings. Some words are totally scared to stay and listen to the real meanings. Every pixel of time were already tuned up to different sounds, because the potential parts were also lost its capacity to continue with different meanings. In the time when I switched off the light in my room to go to sleep, the words are crying like a new born. So I always sleeps in light to avoid word cancer. This is what I called as frozen time. A pencil treat in the dark is a new suggestion made by my mind. Unwilling parts are to accept the same color of dead words. Like an emotional penis or breast nipples which are allowed itself to get dominate by the facts. The facts that are really developed by the real frozen times. Meeting points were cheating, silent touches were loosing its grip, forgotten the taste of time, let the gorgeous things be gorgeous. Let the dreams be dreams. Time is an illusion in dreams. Touches and smooches and kisses and sex and smile and laugh and ‘and’ things are all illusion. A glass is filled up with sunlight, he pulled all his strength to pour it into the sea. Sea is slowly melting inside him to take him to the unreal world. The beautiful stones were already demolished by his smooth fingers. Am I dreaming in someone’s subconscious?

Zanirza’s ‘One of my death’ was published in a magazine.

The sound of broken glass had woke me to think about the shadow war. Living in this city, a lovely dusty city, a dark and light city, caressing my eyes by lies and truths. And this city is running from my heart and it clears all my expectations. City of dying insects inside the rotten eggs. City of lipsticks and designed belts and shoes and masks. Nude legs are walking on the air and ghost smiles are peeling my skin very slowly. Have you seen this city at midnight when the owls and wolves are hunting each other? This city, is a, was a, as a, like a city. Cat walk, smelly cat walk, was it skin or fur? It has rubbed all over my face. My tongue licked the toes and ate the nails. Someday you might smile at the pieces of my body. My smelly fleshes will teach you the aroma of death. Have you ever stand between the scattered bodies? That will show you the essence of death. Smiley face of death.

My angel! Let us betray this night along with fire beetles.

Posted in Structuralism | Tagged , | Leave a comment

On Alenka’s Thousand Ice Cubes – 2

A Picture is perfect:
Mola! Don’t close the book, more to read, more to write, here where we had left the stories, stories inside stories, never get tired to read it again and again. Don’t close the book, here where we had left many lies, Lies inside lines, never get tired to repeat it again and again. Try a new orange lipstick and you can do your lip service for your new stories.

Zanirza’s last few lines from her last short story “Back to my lines”.

In this story, Mola passes many comments on her dream experience. Her dreams are more into forming a new world. Introducing new colors that can be determined by any minds. Her thought were polished and sharp nails were not the exact start to draw the lines, until to get the distinct. Length of the mind has to follow the steps, but it occurs due to the forward watch. Bewitched symptoms were already dissolved not to connect with polymer. The literary attention always termed as slant, as I think so. Heartening is to rewrite the programs to sip another name of coffee. Wondering and appreciating them for the invention of binary codes. Ventured into the world of silicon chip and random access memory to find the exact evaluation to get the result. Driven by the syntax to enrich the lines and to occupy the space in points. Never seen by dancing doors to agnize the dilated seasons. Mola! There is a room inside a waterfall, no questions are inside any dying bubbles, charisma chromes into the bulb of wicked spleen, double side mania sick with the echo lame. A pinch of sound sliced in a violent validations. Sucking the thumb in the sweetness of saliva tempted to grow another sky. Forced water makes to feel the chilled touch of day time ghosts. The picture of pirates burnt to lock the neck of rhythm.

Mola’s constant dream:
Constant voices are floating on my mind, unspecified methods are melting, cruel touches were stopped. Warning my mind to stop spitting words on my dreams. Pinching kisses and ragging lust developed to form another episode. Lazy geek I am to fly over the clouds. Changing rhythms in my music notes, no one yet realized. I am crying and crying and crying, and stopped to wipe my tears. Heights of happiness, the feathers are growing day by day. Designs of face changing at its own choice. Met the time at first time to manipulate the lines. I am laughing and laughing and laughing, and stopped to wipe my cheers. Painted the shadows of lights, my gills are waiting for poison water to lie inside the colors. My sweet poison dragged me to the edge of mountain to show me the light inside the stone. Caressing strange fingers, unknown doubts trained to pull outside the colors from me. It obtained to be nothing. One last time the mountain invited me to pass the truths and ruthless truths. I wish I could talk about the another meanings, but I am not revealing it. One animal’s blood stains on my face. Aroma of pain in my mind. Peel the hard skin of my mind, stick it on your body, laugh like thunder. Never free my soul, tie it on your leg, spit on my face and give me that rational look. Slice my sound by your vicious nails. Can you? You can carry my fleshes to feed the animals inside you and me. Their tongue, hungry tongue, smelly tongue, felt the heights of lusty tongue. That’s my bone, my tough bone, made up of hard metal bone. No dog teeth can bite it, crush it, chew it. It’s a shining bone, no boner can hold it, laughing at those boners. It’s not too late to swim from this world, water world. Filled up with green leaves and white clouds, floating above my head. Dead heads are grinning at me to bribe me. One last chance, if not, there will be some one to continue from somewhere. Calling moods, chanting the same names to remember, that is waiting for the day to forget. Splitting the minds to find the different paths, in fact, it has to be done. In the time, in a specific time, is there any specific time to call? No is ruling the questions. The situation is pouring all the essential decorative acts and makes it more dramatic than before. Here, consolation of preparing the ends. End of all in a cerement.

Mola waiting for the first line:
Waiting for the first line, waiting for the words to shine. Sitting alone on the grass I am waiting for the first line. I heard a voice behind me. I didn’t turn to see who it is, that voice is taking a chance to make me happy. Tomorrow the inner face may change to make me shabby. That voice is asking me to go right away. Now I felt the voice fade. I know it’s leaving far away from me. I can feel the paining shade. I can think my life without that voice. I can’t think my love without that voice. I turned back. I saw the nature’s tears in the tip of the grass. Let it be there, to see my real face. Looking for another touch that will be the last breeze. I am not turning my eyes to see the lost breeze. I will never give up, ready to talk with the voice. But I am waiting for the first line, waiting for the words to shine. Sitting alone on the grass I am waiting for the first line, always.

Mola’s celebration of missing:
Deeds are interrupting in a small room and your calls were missed by my pathetic ignorance. Not intend to hear your defensive voice again. It gave me a lot of pain that you can’t notice it in any time. Time is nothing, our ‘isms were all ruined already before ages. It is the only presentation of our pessimism. As an anti-altruist the point of my mind pointed out not to spend. Burnt over ninety-seven books after reading with biliousness. They are all lying by arranged truths with some manipulated ‘happened’. All the days has its own successful lies, it will take a lot of time to realize it. Playing only with my insiders by my corrupted, disgusting, filthy mind. It would continue up to the level of natural possession. Our words are still burning, let them. Dear Fishing Mind, There will be a chance for everyone to overcome someone without knowing the moment which is always against us. Still we like to elaborate our scenes with some slight distance and with political correctness. Can you remember the time when you acted like a head-shrinker to measure the brightness of my eyes, my acting, my artificial intelligence? Anyway you do always. Your waxed legs really tempted the savage inside me. Then the promised knowledge of mine taught me that you are a waxed genius. Dear Comrade, Fame is the mate for us. Killing all the glittering stars. Sometimes it is not easy for me to propose my rusted offers to help you or share or care. Sticky mosquito, will stick on your body if you try to kill me. My bad blood would spread on your body, it might grow day my day on your belly button with lots of black and orange words. A day is keenly waiting to ask you to say my dialogues. Like every day you will melt your smile, you might write or read an unfamiliar poem, you will crush your dead cigarette by your sexy toes. “Fleshes are floating on the island, there is no ersatz trees. The place is covered up with calm clouds and birds are in different colors. A miniature volcano is melting into the beauty of orange. Children are playing with stars. They are trying to catch the light to trap it in their pencil boxes.” This is how my novel starts. Elaborated with palindrome theory. Have we discussed about the possibilities and lineament of ancestry? We should discuss that subject next time after ordering a pitcher in that smokey place. But don’t compel me to take more than one mug. Beer is only to extract a large content of urine from our body. Last time, without conscious that particular situation dragged me to have one and a half pitcher and my body became so tired running to rest room for several times. Remember, it’s not a calculated mail. You can easily observe the tricky shots of it. Consider “This is one of the” or Smile with “I know you, dude” or stare at my words and correct the errors or decide to say “You are not up to my mark” or remember my weight or borrow a book or ask a question that you know the answer already or tie up your hair and go to sleep and try to skip the question, “Are you talking to me?”.

Mola hates ghosts:
The same sea, still heard the voice of that dead person. Here it is, this was the place where that person committed to death. Smiling at that place to feel a smile on my face. Full of salt water, washed my face, my legs are trembling in that cold water. It’s so wet, so cold to get through my scary heart. Slowly walked into the sea to bury me. Tough for me to believe that I am standing in a place where that person died. Blood from the nose, that eyes were laughed at me, long hair floating upon the water, fingers were very short and beautiful. When that gorgeous body was floating on the water is like a kite, a pinch of silence killed the peaceful act, a genius circle in hard head. Ghosts are the only link between the parts of notes. Staring ghosts’ eyes were clear edged versions, double cut motivations due to the simple method to run. It’s a great sequence to consider some delicate positions. In the sunset, ghosts were sitting along with their lies and some truths. That orange sky never taught anyone to fly to sketch the clouds and birds. Decorated frames and finger prints ate the dust to spit stars once in a while to find some partners. This ghost stories have been wished by the plants not to be in secular state.

Mola’s lime tea with honey:
Whence the poem lost between my muteness! In the midst of the silent watch, between the touch of leafs, between the pinch of light, those all dissolved in naught. Went upon the hill along with an old witch to taste the cherries in the mood of nights. The days and nights are watching our breathe, sound is crucial to win over the cruel sound. Rising towards the end of silver lines, that is not really enough. Bubbles, it’s all bubbles on the steps, where all the drops were kept. Waiting for a wet touch of yellow rain at the left.

You are right where you left me.

Posted in Structuralism | Tagged , | 2 Comments