Patterned thoughts and rhythmic paths stride their way to the mental asylum..

I tried to look out of the cob webbed window just to see the crooked smile of the adulterated few

In the mirror like image of those, was the one whom they called “the better off”

Crowned, robed with a pointer in his hand and the corporate anthem running in the background

He tightened his sleeve, as crisp and white as it could be, tried to hide all that was black around

The word mazes, the small grid lines, as small as they could have been, set a checkered outline

No leakages of thoughts were allowed as they packed themselves in the well defined boundaries

The Dunhill smoke, the plasma, the light from the projector…all set…set to kill!!!

Mind fucked POB…

I remember our unison amidst the distorted visions…

But still a complete portrait that we painted together What they call “picture perfect”

The picture in which I laughed And you chuckled beside me as I threw my head behind With self proclaimed vanity.

Like the sea princess did I come to you ...

As you shyly expressed your desire to taste the salt on me…

And we swirled in the vortex of passion….as we dived again and again in each other.

We discovered what lay within our skins … Something that breathed and loved… What they call “divine”…

While you covered me with the sand with your artistic but strong fingers…

Did you pick up the brush and painted me rainbow…. And we both lay beside each other….one with the sand Gazing at the stars…still searching our Andromeda galaxy…..

In remembrance of the portrait we painted together…

The bohemian mind took a leap to find itself amidst the deep blue oceanic turbulence of self. The aroma of the freshly crushed chicory along with the cocoa beans filled the lungs with a surreal context. Mind raced against the dimension of time trying to break all the Meta physical concepts and take refuge in the arms of a nymphet.

This masturbation of thoughts often yields nothing productive, on contrary leaves behind a residue, pragmatically called as “deep shit”. In the era of “economic slowdown” a must know terminology or an in vogue terminology, I fail to figure out what actually is losing pace. A slowdown of the racing thoughts can effectively bring about a peak in the graph of human deterring factors.

The fluctuations seem to be worse than the ham radio I was planning to make. Have I crossed the sanity perimeter to take a peep at the fantastic, maddening, illusionary world of non metallic concurrence? Or the symphonic cubicles sway to the robotic composition of shackles created by small chips, and all our minds can be incarcerated to that small chip.