For Want Of A Better World

And when did you last go to Goa? When was the last time you decided to break off all connection with the rest of humanity and go wandering off among the waves; the sea and the sand your only refuge as you made your own lonely way to peace and salvation? When was it that you thought you had had enough of living your life through the lens of someone else's perception and decided you had to get back in touch with the only person in the world whose actions you wouldn't first be cynical about before accepting? I last went to Goa when I had faith in myself. When, through some series of fortunate events, I had ended up having the confidence to believe in my existence and a rainbow across the promised land where I would have lived the way I always thought of myself as having envisioned to be. When I had a basis of survival, and something had reminded me that no experience in the world is undergone in isolation; that there always have been and always will be people who have lived a...

I wish I could write like Stephen Fry. To lovingly, liltingly flow through words, a caress here, the most delicate of touches there, and paint verbal pictures that make even the most cloacal of matters look like meadows lit by the dew on a crisp halcyon morning.  I wish I could write like Wodehouse. To pick pen & p., and charge out to the terrace in a swift walk. One that would make Usian Bolt feel like the old church-going lady you must make cross the road every time you happen to meet on the sidewalk. On one of those days where nature's holy plan seems to involve quite a bit of a nap, and the clouds above seem to yell, "Say it with ink!" Or maybe I could write like Bukowski. It shouldn't be hard, shouldn't take long to write about the assholes who probably couldn't tell the difference between a love gone sour and the rugged, swirling defecation of humanity splattered across a barstool, waiting for another dirty glass of shame. I wish I could fall ...

It was merely a chance occurrence by which we happened to be in that place, at a time of the evening where people who would have a claim to life would be more interested in remembering why they should bother to wake up again next morning. The night was one of the more squalid things about the place, where one of the many degenerates who frequented it could get a fix by sniffing the mushrooms that had started growing in the cracks on the wall, if only they bothered. It's not a surprising coincidence that the drunken lout is not the sharpest tool in the shed. The place was lit by a single light three feet to the left of where it should have been, throwing dull, yellow haze on a chalkboard that held the menu up for inspection, though I doubt many there could read. There was rum, a bit cheaper than you could find anywhere else, even at the liquor store where the old man would give you whatever you wanted from behind his wire mesh cage, as long as it was whisky. There was also '...

Spent, tired across waters unknown, Driven from your old, warm nests, Biting winds, bone-clinging, unyielding snow, This is not your home. Who sent you here, where we live and die? With your head held high you stay in my lands, What do you come as? A raider from the desert, slave to the sand, Where mountains you made dust with the wind in your wings? Ran away from the sun, like A refugee running from war,  With your lands burnt, scorched by someone you knew, Who meant you no harm What did you hope to find so far away, In this stark stretch of cold that never ends? You may want to live, but we preserve This is not that village in the hills, With a green lake in a sea of white banks Where you perch in the temple when the sun goes down, Worshipped like a faceless god by a man of many shapes and a broken heart he hides from you Here, it's cold.