Every night on my porch
...at times I almost dream
I too have spent a life the sages' way,
And tread once more familiar paths.
Perchance I perished in an arrogant self-reliance
Ages ago; and in that act, a prayer
For one more chance went up so earnest, so
Instinct with better light let in by death,
That life was blotted out-not so completely
But scattered wrecks enough of it remain,
Dim memories, as now, when seems once more
The goal in sight again...
The other day I saw
John J in the park.
don't u know him?
him with the broken heart?
Clinking shards move around
the empty rooms up in his skull.
He wanders all day like a ship;
yes, like one with a broken hull.
Down at the bar, we talk of him at times
and i hear he was always a loon.
But never so far gone,
to walk among the graves at every full-moon.
Until ofcourse he met the girl.
Fell in love and went mad.
No, not mad enough yet
You see, the curse upon the village not come had.
They would see him grinning all to himself
with people, or all alone.
Would talk think dream see her
His melancholy seemed foregone.
And then came the night.
The night, surely you've heard?
They found the girl out on the moore
lying dead on the ground, murdered.
He was silent when they arrested him
and buried her under the cross.
While he being a loon was let go
to roam in the night and lie on the moss.
Well that's when it started, the curse;
the curse, sometimes takes away a lass
and he smiles n laughs to himself every time
a mad light blazing in his eyes of glass.
Gave me the chills he did
when under a noon day sun
his empty eyes locked on me
and reminded me, how anyone
with a mysterious smile,
by a twist of fate.
how anyone at all
could be John J.
Alright, here's something to tickle the ol' funny bone ;)
Head over to www.jeffdunham.com for some more fun :)
On popular demand, here are the lyrics ;-)
dashing through the sand,
with a bomb strapped to my back
i have a nasty plan, for christmas in iraq.
i got through checkpoint A, but not through checkpoint B
that's when i got shot in the ass by the U.S military.
Oh
jingle bombs jingle bombs mine blew up, you see.
where are all the virgins that bin laden promised me.
Oh
jingle bombs jingle bombs U.S soldiers shot me dead
the only thing that i have left is this towel up on my head.
i used to be a man, but every time i cough,
thanks to uncle sam, my nuts keep falling off.
my bombing days are done, i need to find some work
perhaps it would be much safer as a convenient store night clerk.
Oh
jingle bombs jingle bombs i think i got screwed
don't lough at me because i'm dead or i kill you
"जी हाँ, अब उसकी दाढ़ी उग आई है। यह दाढ़ी वाला आतंकवादी कंधे उचका उचका के चलता है, और पुलिसवालों को देख के हाथ हिला हिला के कहता है भाई ।"
Ok, don't be freaked out. I have not affiliated to some news channel. This is how they were talking last night when they were talking about Kasab on the news. The so called "breaking" news was about the terrorist Ajmal Kasab's beard. They told us in great detail how his hands were still wrapped in bandages and he couldn't eat with his hands (umm... depute a dog for him? To break food and chew it you know), and how he is given short clothes lest he should strangle himself.
Enlightening, isn't it. Ok, here's a question, what is more relevant to the garden variety joe watching the news, Kasab's beard or something else?
Talking of current events. It is so much fun watching the leaders both India and Pakistan taking their respective people for a ride in their own respective ...umm... well, rides. It's such fun watching our great imposing leader "try"to seem tough. On the other hand, is Pakistan, war-mongering with their loaned dollars (Picture the sheer absurdity of the situation. A bloody failed almost-bankrupt state threatening to take us on. Join me for a moment of jeering please ... 1 .. 2.. 3.. go "Haa Haa Haa". Okay, carry on now).
Like seriously, just listen to General Kiyani talk about a jaw-breaking response within "minutes" of surgical strikes by India (Ooooohhh... I think we all just wet our collective pants). How desperate are these people to save their terror camps. Why don't they just spend it on giving food to their people? If they like to keep theirs hungry, they can give us the money. We can feed many children here in India, or in Africa, or anywhere else as for that matter. Hell, give it to me, I'll have a big new year party ;-)
Meanwhile, we have our own dear exalted elected leaders killing an engineer for extortion. and apparently they are ably assisted by the police, no less. Indeed, "With You, For You, Always".
Newrotica has stayed away from current affairs as a rule of thumb. But now with the creative spirit hitting me les and less, I guess the time is ripe for shooting my mouth off about everyday happenings. If Carl Marx look alikes can do it on the tele, may be I can too. What say comrade?
If you get the time, and the inclination, go to some place remote, far away from the city. I somehow keep thinking of Sariska. There's an RTDC hotel there, called 'Tiger Den'. Sit out on the lawn late at night, and listen to this
Where were you when I was burned and broken
While the days slipped by from my window watching
Where were you when I was hurt and I was helpless
Because the things you say and the things you do surround me
While you were hanging yourself on someone else's words
Dying to believe in what you heard
I was staring straight into the shining sun
Lost in thought and lost in time
While the seeds of life and the seeds of change were planted
Outside the rain fell dark and slow
While I pondered on this dangerous but irresistible pastime
I took a heavenly ride through our silence
I knew the moment had arrived
For killing the past and coming back to life
I took a heavenly ride through our silence
I knew the waiting had begun
And headed straight...into the shining sun 
(David Gilmour)
Don't you wish it was easy coming back to life? Don't you wish, it wasn't hard to kill the past?
Perhaps one day we'll all meet on the dark side of the moon :) (I do seem to love that place don't I?). Meanwhile, keep listening to the Pink Flloyd Sound.
Still flutters
a shackled bird
with a broken heart
and a broken soul
stretching out his bloodied wings
reaches for shattered dreams
with eyes closed but watching
all the days by gone.
Every once in a while
one of you
come claim another bite
another pound of flesh;
yet another stab of pain.
Watch him reduce
even more.
Watch him die
even more.
You watch your greed
eat your victim alive
watch him struggle
and you say,
but isn't it my right?
And carry your righteous self
away from the gore
and you tell each other
'oh, he's difficult but we love him ever more'.
You should know,
and I think you do.
But I'll still put it into words.
That walking dead bird,
hates you.
