The Art of Chase

Tired from the sex, so sleepy.
What time is it?
I'm too cosy under the sheets with you to care.
Your watch lies somewhere on the floor.
I see the veins on your hands.
Long arms, strangely slender wrists, holding me as I try to sleep.
It's been awhile since I last spooned.
And my heart is beating crazy fast.
I'm a junkie on cocaine.
You see, just like you,
I'm playing with fire too.
So risky, like our sexual misadventures.
Can you feel my heart beat though?
Do you care?

Lovers in their infancy, sleeping together for their first time.
And yet there's a strange sense of comfort.
Satiation.
There's no hurry to wake up and run this time.
But it will all be over soon, I tell myself.
Don't fall for it.
Don't fall for it.

You're gone before I can catch my breath.
You fill me up with hope for a second only to snatch it away.
I don't know what to make of what you really want from me.
Sex?
Love?
Company?
Say it.
Say it or I'll never know.
Or maybe you never will.

Maybe the moment has passed already,
I waited,
I waited for you,
then I grew tired and weary and stopped.

You go your way and I go on with mine.
Impasse, or is it?

Sola Sistim

The universe works in mysterious ways. Sometimes you need a sign when you're lost. I found mine today while working on the pre-production of a new Ganesh song. Album 2 will take some time sure, but I noticed how I've grown (hopefully into a musician?) since the last record. I swore to myself that I'd get my act together before the next set of songs and acquire enough skills to not just write better but arrange and ideate better. So I worked worked worked to reach a simple goal: enough skills to play every damn instrument (except drums, which I programme) and make complete songs, instead of just a basic chordal structure with lyrics. I've been focussing on upping my production/arrangement game instead of being a chick "who sings in band" because she has a pretty face and a passable vocal texture. It helps a great deal that I'm blessed to have been working with someone who's worked with some of the best in the fucking world. When someone with that level of expertise pushes you and brings out the best in you well then you really have no excuse to not believe in yourself. Some of my older songs make me cringe so hard, I literally want to go back in time and un-write them. I like where all this new material is coming from, for both GT as well as the grunge project. They're strangely intimate, these songs make me feel rather naked. I've put it all on the table, this is who I am. My songs are possibly the only way to get through. Maybe, just maybe, to one person out there. One who will understand me and more importantly, love me slightly more than I love them.

I don't know if I'll ever record the songs with the grunge project, let alone play them live. It contains some of my most intimate thoughts and feelings so far and maybe the world won't even ever know about them but that's alright, I'm not here for bullshit reasons. I wrote these two songs called 'Ugly Girls' and 'Downer' which make me want to cry at my vulnerability and naivette. Is that a good thing or bad? I don't know.

The GT songs on the other hand are angry. Think about it, India has failed us as a country and nobody wants to do anything about it. Why not? What are we so afraid of?

Say My Name is for the youth. They must think. Now is not the time to settle for this b-grade society, the youth possesses the power to write history. Why must we forget?
The grunge project has some songs which I know people will either love or absolutely hate and whatever the reaction, I don't care. It's me, in my truest form. If the listener has a hard time accepting me then I can't really help it now, can I?

My one concern is the lack of women songwriters/producers in the country and I have this incessant need to reach out to young girls out there and tell them that it's okay to have an imperfect body, they are beautiful regardless. It's okay to be awkward and graceless. If someone as mediocre as me can be at peace with herself despite all the shit that life has thrown at me then so can anybody else. There are a few gems in the "scene" but somehow the number isn't multiplying as rapidly as one would think. Why would it, it's a nightmare to be a female musician in this country. You are judged, at every step. Anything you do and say will be held against you. You will be called a prude and a slut at the same time. You will be judged for your body and your face and nobody gives a shit about where your music is coming from. Some women have been trying to change that for quite some time now. They're my heroes and always will be. However, it's time I stepped up my game a little bit as well.
I've been working really hard since the release of In Technicolor and those who've been working with me have in fact complained that I need to chill the fuck out and take some time off sometimes.
My body feels broken. My head is in a perpetual haze. But lord knows how hard I've been working. I have nothing to prove to anyone, it will all show in my work.
Also, will people be able to handle a female perspective on sexuality and intimacy? I'm dying to test the waters, I feel no fear in being judged.

I will do my bit and raise some questions that matter. Anybody who questions my motives should get ready to apologise profusely to me, not for hating on me but for thinking I'm like everybody else.

I'm not.

I'm here for a reason and I will go gracefully when it's time.
I care about money and fame as much as a poor man cares for caviar. 

Love.

It's the only thing that keeps us alive, gives us a reason to live.
I'm a junkie and always will be.

I have experienced too many horrific acts of savagery and hate. I will not let this perpetuate.

It ends here with me. 

I will martyr myself for love.

For I know that it exists, it's right there in the future waiting patiently for me. 

Love.

It will tear me apart at every step. But I'm an obstinate person, I will keep going till I find it. I will embellish myself with all the experiences life has to offer along the way.

Love.

I believe in love.

I'm not afraid to express it.

For Pete's Sake, Fuck Me Right

Maxi Priest-Close To You

Lo Fidelity Allstars- Battleflag

The Dandy Warhols- Bohemian Like You

Marilyn Manson- Personal Jesus

Tv On The Radio- Satellite

Sneaker Pimps 6- Underground

The Rolling Stones- Rain Fall Down

Underworld-Sola System

Goldfrapp- Ooh La La

Groove Armada- I See You Baby

Iio- Rapture

Britney Spears- I'm A Slave 4 U

Air- Sexy Boy

Madonna- Justify My Love

Lenny Kravitz- I Belong To You

Justin Timberlake -Sexy Back

The Pixies- Where Is My Mind

Bryan Adams- Inside Out

Chris Isaak-Wicked Game

Deftones- Sextape

Broken Social Scene- Lover's Spit

Touch & Go- Straight To Number One

Nine Inch Nails-Closer

Led Zeppelin- Whole Lotta Love

You Were The Last High

"And I have known love like a whore,
from at least 10,000 more.
Then I swore when you were the last.
You were the last high"

And I lie awake in bed, recollecting snippets from the past. Well, sex, more precisely. It kills me to think that the intimacy I once found with someone will never come back in my life. What if 2014 was a sort of sexual peak? 
Everything went horribly wrong, but it does not take away from the fact that there was once a man who fucked me so hard, so proper that it left some permanent scars on my body and my head. It felt liberating, raw and most importantly, real. It felt like he was helping me slay the demons of my past by inflicting the cruelest acts of savagery. But the yin to the yang was the extreme moments of tenderness that we enjoyed sometimes. It was long, emotional, intimate. I don't even look for that intimacy anymore. 
What's the point.
Slap on some makeup, smile coyly.
Be a girl, flirt a little.
Show some skin, feign interest in their boring tales of conquest.
Even though I want to ask them to shut the fuck up and take their clothes off.
It's so easy to get laid.
But I don't want shitty sex.
I want what I had with him and just that.
And it's only because I know I can't have him.

My hormones are through the roof for some reason. Maybe because of the drugs? I seem to have this massive urge to swallow.It's been a while I sucked a man dry. The next person I fuck is going to get very, very lucky.
I wonder if my lovers reminisce as fondly as I do. Does A remember the blowjobs? (how else would you say it without sounding crude?) Lovers are the luckiest people on earth, those who have experienced the act of physical love. For A and me it was always very animalistic. With him there was this strange sort of comfort. I mean I actually liked blowing him. I had a vivid dream about the two of us in his car, fooling around and some. This wasn't uncommon for us. We fornicated like rabits. All the time. All the time. All the time.The antics of us deranged lovers included romps in the car, on rooftops, hotels outside the city, a fucking tent in the middle of nowhere and what not. It was different each time and strangely satisfying. I don't think I ever wanted him to pull out, on some of our god days. I really could write a novel on our sexual adventures. Unfortunately, It's all in the past now and that makes me sad.

I don't know if I'll ever find that connection with anyone else. Honestly, I don't even want to because the comedown is the worst, it hurts too much and I don't have the strength to do it all over again.

"you were the last high"

You know when I fuck the next guy, I'm only going to do it because my body needs it. I fell in love with you hard, harder than anything else in the world. To compensate I do my drugs now. Maybe if I do a lot of drugs, the pain will go away. 
I don't know.
This seems to be the only way out.
Fuck them all just because I can.
I don't care if that makes me a slut.

My heart is broken, my lover's made a whore out of me.

End Note

Girl, in man's world. All of a sudden it hits you how alone you are.

Realisation happens at a 1am cab ride home alone, when you're high as a kite, wired out of your mind etc etc. 

There's nothing you can do but cry it out once you get back home maybe.

Your heroes tell you that your new songs aren't infact shit, as you were dreading. You feel temporarily satiated. But next what? It doesn't take away from the fact that you're on your own, completely alone out there. You literaly have no love in your life, everything is just a formality.

You fall in love with men who promise you the world and ultimately break your heart. They abandon you at the first opportunity you get. "Stay strong", you tell yourself. But then what?

You're still alone, even though you've tried so hard to adapt yourself to their needs

I tied a noose around my fan and thought of ending it today.

I don't know how much longer I can fight the feeling to kill myself.

My depression has reached a new peak. I think this is it for me.

Honestly, I just want to record these new songs I've written.

The leave.

I think I've sufficiently expressed my state of mind.

Ian Curtis was my age when he off-ed himself by the noose.

My time is up when I am done recording these new songs.

This world has been cruel for me. 

My heart is too broken to recover, possible.

I need to go now.

Goodbye, world.

The Time She Got Raped

He watches me burn away.

Burn to the ground.

He says he'll kiss me and make it all go away.

But he does nothing, only watches silently.

My first kiss.

I have dreamt of this for a long time.

I am so infatuated with him.

I can't believe he's kissing me.

Why does he not stop there though?

He takes my t-shirt off.

I am in my training bra, he squeezes my non-existent breasts.

Calm yourself, there is nothing to worry about.

This is how adults express love.

He kisses me all over.

It feels good, I won't lie and say it doesn't.

But I'm so uncomfortable and my body is starting to shake.

I break free from his grip but he pulls me close to him again.

This time I am scared.

He takes all my clothes off.

"this will hurt a little"

Why is he putting his finger there.

It hurts.

"you're so tight"

"It's making me horny"

"Do you love me? Why don't you show me how much?"

I won't let him see me cry, I can do that once he leaves.

"Touch it, I'll be very happy if you do"

He takes his dick out of his pants.

I'm naked to the bone, he's still got all his clothes on.

"I know you want it"

Ah, the textbook line for rapists.

"I love you"

He lies. 

I am instructed to put his genitalia in my mouth. I am confused and scared. This was not part of the plan. 

I want to run away, there is no escape. 

He's fingering my undeveloped 12 year old body.

It hurts.

It hurts so much. 

I've never believed in god but I pray anyway, for this to end.

He makes me sit on top of him.

"Give me a hug"

He enters me.

In and out.

In and out.

In and out.

In and out.

My eyes are shut. Maybe this will all go away if I keep them closed for a long enough time.

But the humiliation is not over yet.

"Suck it"

He ejaculates in my mouth.

"You're such a good girl"

"Let's keep this a secret, okay?"

Post Coitus, In Utero

There is an end to every beginning,

Is this our peak?

Did you orgasm already?

And I'm not even the slightest bit turned on yet.

The indifference attacks my soul and hits where it hurts the most.

That's alright.

I tell myself.

I'll just go away, like I've done every other time. 

I won't lie and say that I don't feel cheap.

I feel used.

Disillusioned.

This heartache was not required though, you could have been so much more gentle.

Your inability to love breaks my heart and it hurts me.

But thank you for triggering me to write possibly my most favourite song till date. 

If fate has it, you'll one day realise what you have lost.

If not then I don't even care, you were just a mistake I made. 

I'm going to spread love.

So much love till it drains me out.

Love that could have been just for you, but oh well. 

Monsoon Is For Making Love

Sweet, sweet loving.

No pain.

No melancholy.

Endless kisses.

I don't want to forget.

But the taste of you in my mouth feels bitter now and all I want to do is forget.

Afternoons in your room.

Making love.

Making conversation.

Making more love.

Endless love.

Sometimes fucking for recreational purposes. 

Hot sex, cold wars.

But always in sync.

The beauty of two souls finding a connection.

It's hard to reach that level of intimacy.

Tell me you've found that with someone else now.

Tell me you're over me.

Tell me you never loved me in the first place.

The first time I dropped acid,

It was surreal.

I couldn't stop kissing your face.

I was in love.

I was in love with you.

You kiss me and kiss me some more.

Kiss my face.

Kiss my body.

Kiss my soul.

And I'll match your intensity.

Orgasms with you were different.

Probably because I was madly in love.

I'd like to think you were in love with me too.

I console myself thinking that at some point you probably did love me.

Not for my body but for who I was as a person. 

I go on my own adventures now.

So do you.

Two straight lines meet at some point but only once.

They separate.

Never meet again.

We met in fall and separated in spring.

I wish we'd spent one monsoon together.

It is my favourite season.

Note To Self

Hello naive girl,

If you've woken up crying the next day after fucking someone, then you should probably stop fucking the said person. He will probably make you feel the same every bloody time, I wouldn't count on things to change. If you feel bad about having sex with someone instead of reminiscing fondly, then no good can ever come from that. There's absolutely no need for you to martyr yourself every time a lost cause comes along. He'll figure it out on his own without you, if not then too bad. You can only go a certain distance, he has to be willing to keep up with you.

Life is hard.
It's harder if you're stupid.
Get your shit together, get over it.


Love,
Me.

This is going to be a no-drugs month. Strictly. I've got to get my shit together before the gigs.

Life is hard but I always pull through.

You won't see the breakdown.

No one will see the sadness in my eyes.

I'm superwoman.

I can do it all. 

Daily Challenges

So I deactivated my facebook account for a week or so last month and it felt absolutely fantastic!

This time I'm planning to stretch it for a month. I'm tired of too much information about everyone all the time. I don't want to know, it makes me hateful and bitter to see other people happy or worse, content.

I have a sinking feeling that my birthday-depression will kick in soon, although it is over a month away. 

I can't believe it's July 2015 already, time sure does fly when you're leading a semi-charmed kind of life.

They say you do for the rest of the year what you do on the first day. From what I remember that would be playing a gig to end the year and subsequently having sex with my now ex-boyfriend. 

But I guess that saying is not a 100% accurate, I mean I do have gigs lined up in these coming months with GT but I'm not so sure about the fucking bit.

I have not had sex in almost a month now and it's starting to make me clumsyfidgetyanxious and all those things. 

What to do, girl needs her lovin from time to time to stay sane. It's probably my biggest vice at this point and I'm only saying that because drugs are available in abundance, just a phonecall away. 

I can see myself become a coke-head  when I hit my 30s at the rate I've been going for it. Or worse, dead. But I'm far too narcissistic to let that pretty little head of mine go to waste, which I think is a good thing at this point. 

For the next two months, I don't want to think about playing any more gigs. We're on the road September onward anyway. No time to breathe then. I just want to focus on the new stuff with GT+ the other incredibly exciting projects.  If I don't creat now, tell the stories now, then when? 

I want to listen to music, play guitar and just write.

This new Apple Music's got me hooked like a junkie on crack. That and my friends's daily poetry/art newsletter called 'The Alipore Post' which feels like an ealry-morning shot of quintessentially feel-good poetry and some art.

We need more poets.

More musicians.

More artists.

More thinkers

But most importantly, more dreamers.

I'm tired of my constant heartache.

Sleepless nights that never end.

You don't get to break my heart.

No, you don't get to tear me apart. 

I'll abuse you like a muse,

Then abandon you.

I will destroy you,

Instead.

But oh so beautifully, oh so gently.

You won't even know till it's too late.

Goodnight and Badnight

After three nights of being awake and strangely wired, I finally fell into a short but deep slumber in the wee hours of the morning. But it wasn't as comforting as it sounds, I curled up into my usual fetal position and bawled my eyes out till sleep came. I think I may have had a particular song playing in loop, I can't quite remember. This entire weekend was bizarre and just a haze. I was living and breathing alright, but my brain was dead with only its ability to process sadness remaining intact.

I don't remember my blog post from Saturday, I mean I did type my incoherent thoughts out, but my memory of it is fuzzy. Much like most of my misadventures.

I tried to recollect happy times with someone and I couldn't think of one instance where he was affectionate towards me. I don't remember him kissing my face but only my lips. I don't remember him holding my hand, holding me. 

Because he did none of those things.

He never asked me any questions, tried to pick my brain.
He never ran his fingers down my skin.

I waited and I waited, but he never did any of those things.

I offered all the warmth of my heart, but I guess it wasn't enough to break down his cold walls.

 What causes people to be so cold? Will I become like him someday?
It's sad to let people go from your head and your life sometimes, but you have to do it for yourself.

Indifference is strange and hurtful, most people don't even realise when they are doing it. 

"You've got to spend some time with me. I will possess your heart"

Or maybe I'll just walk away before my fire for you escalates like a wildfire that I cannot control.

Bad Decisions

The last line I remember doing was probably at 2am last Friday night with a bunch of my homemen and women. So this is my 30+ hours of being wired. 

But why would people do this to their bodies willingly day in and day out?

What causes one to become so dependent, a junkie?

It's probably to fill a void? More often than not it is to escape reality because we're cowards, we're bored and maybe even a little insane. 

If you wanted, you could write a book out of my life so far. Maybe reverse Sylvia Plath of the modern day, post de-humanisation period. Wouldn't that make an interesting read?

Except with horrendously generic rhyming words instead of real poetry, real art. 

So much adventure, definitely kinkier than Fifty Shades, (shoutout to exboy A for this, yea I know you'll read this) enough to break down even the severest of the conservatives. 

I live for a few things, like an animal. We are not much different from the others. Our needs are very basic- food, shelter, sex. We literally have nothing to worry about except to nurture our body and mate. Money is important, yes. But there will never be an end to that dream, it's a blackhole. We need to connect with each other and live with our universe, not modify it to suit our needs.

Anyway, the drugs make me digress, I feel my body scream in pain at the mindfuck that I have been undergoing. I'm rapidly falling down the rabbit hole and I doubt there's a way back up from this thing.

At some point in life, there will come a make or break stage. If you're the manic-depressive, high intelligence type, this basically means that at some point, you will break. Only two things can happen from there. You could either stay inside the boundary and play safe all your life or completely drop your sense of self and start over again. 

Now I'm what you would call a junkie.  My addiction doesn't always have to negative, it could be something like yoga or reading. I need that constant rush of adrenaline in varying doses. A safe life is not for me. There mere thought of it depresses me. So much that I would rather live a b-grade life in a b-grade city and go about my daily misadventures than whore myself for normalcy, like I really belong.

But the problem with being left of centre is the severe sense of alienation forever looming around you. It makes you want to kill yourself. You're too much of a coward so you choose something less lethal like party favours and maybe the drug of choice of the bourgeoisie: acid.  In your head you have two lists: do, don't do. Needless to say, manure like drugs you would never do. Some you would try once/ multiple times. It's all about remembering that none of it is real, it's all so you can maybe enhance a sense or two, feel a few funny feelings but never to alter your sense of reality for extensive periods of time. That is dangerous territory right there. 

Somehow, these self-made substance abuse commandments that I have developed over the years sound rather loony when I put words to the idea and think out loud. But hey, I need my safety cable in case anything goes wrong, one can't joke about stuff like that.

Substance abuse, for me, has always been easier to control because the addiction concerned is a material object,  right there in front of your eyes. You can see, touch, taste it and something about large quantities, the mere visual, scares you more than it excites you. A whip is cracked, you tumble back to your senses. It's hard, but with time you learn to control your impulses. "Don't give in to the ID", or something like that according my 11th grade psychology textbook.
What happens, though, when your addiction is more deep rooted, perhaps physical or worse, emotional? 

I get addicted to people, I get addicted to their ways, their habits. But my obsession goes away just as quickly as it comes. It's not even about sex anymore, or atleast the physical bit of it.

I crave for orgasms, intimacy and I've said this so many times before that I'm now starting to bore myself.

At 23, I'm stuck at being in the middle of teenage delinquency and sappy adulthood. It's all fun and games to be a part of both clubs till you realise that you don't really belong to either. You're an orphan without a home.

Some people are kind to you, so you love them and constantly want their validation.  But there aren't too many people out there who're willing to make space in their hearts for you. The world is a cruel place, a cruel cruel place.

Whatever designer shit went up my nostrils has made me shaky and cranky. 

So I pick up the guitar, write and play.

Write and play.

Just write and play.

My back hurts from the heaviness but I'd rather feel physical pain than the quintessential sinking feeling in my stomach.

I can hear a song by The National playing in my head, I think this is probably what insanity really is. Drug-induced insanity.

The whole bad behaviour stereotype we associate with musicians is sort of true. There's nothing cool about the sex-drugs-rockandroll lifestyle of ours. It's all just a facade. But you only realise that when you've stepped into the quicksand and there's no way you can take a couple of steps back. What do you do then, stay in bed and cry? But for how long? After a point you'll try to shake it off, fix your face and go out for the night looking for cheap thrills. 

I would rather snort shit through my nose than let some random average mediocre man stick their genitalia in me. Atleast I don't have to fake orgasms that way and pretend like I had a good time, while secretly wishing that he finishes quick and just leaves you the fuck alone. 

Boytoys are a thrill only in erotica. In real life men come with a lot more baggage than you'd think. They want me to blow their minds. They want their thrill, like it's on me to make sure they have a good time.

Everybody is forever looking for a thrill. 

I'm looking for mine. 

Constantly. 

Once a junkie, always a junkie. 

Maybe I spoke too soon.

Momentary ecstasy, endless gloom.

Lovers in monsoon. 

Incoherent Thoughts. Please Bear With Me.

Love, money, drugs.

Ain't got the first two, but the third one is always available in abundance. 

Please don't patronize me, I can pay for my own drugs, thank you very much. I'm probably going to outrun you in all races of your own choice.

I may not be the sharpest or the most attractive tool in the shed, but you'll know how much you need me only after you've lost me forever. Go ogle away, you fool. That's all you're good for anyway.  

Girl in an adult world.

So young.

How young is too young?

They'll include you in the Big Boys' Club but your contemporaries will hate you. Good. Give them a reason to hate you, those assclowns. 

Come back home, still wired.

Plug in and play.

Play.

Play.

Play.

Write.

Write.

Write.

I'm embarrassed of some of my songs all of a sudden, they seem juvenile. I can't relate to the person I was two years back. Not only was I extremely stupid, but cocky about it too. After a while it becomes inexcusable to pass off rubbish as music. 

So many people cheating their way through the maze, breaking the system. That's okay though, fads don't last forever. 

Stand up tall.

Stand up for what you believe in.

I should use that pretty little head for more positive things perhaps? 

But my pity party can wait for another day. I can't say I've been the obstacle to my own success. I'm trying, dear lord, you know how hard I've been working.

I've been pushing myself to write better, more meaningful music these last few months. I've been gathering life experience and holing up in my room like a junkie-playing, playing, playing. Writing, writing, writing.

I write not to have a hit song on the next record that will make people dance. Once was good enough for me.

It's easy to forget why you started out sometimes, you lose your soul bit by bit chasing new dreams, superficial dreams. There is no end-game, a continual process of working for something and being severely disappointed on not getting what you want. 

I don't need drugs to fuel my creativity. All of that substance dependence bullshit is a weapon for the weak.

But maybe I am weak.

Atleast today I am. Or maybe it's all the drugs.

I want to play guitar. I only want to play guitar. My hand hurts but I want to play. 

I want someone to roll me a joint.

I want to sleep.

I want to make out with a good kisser.

Maybe not in that order.

I want to write a love song. Or two. Or twenty. Or twenty million.

I wrote only one today though, for my strongest love. I feel strangely satiated. Bottle up your feelings for obscene amounts of time and your hate will age like fine wine.

I use my rage. I use my rage kick you out of my head.

I don't care much about being loved anymore, it feels like my life has just begun.

Catterpillar becomes the butterfly, remember? 

I am a moth.

Fierce.

Strong.

Gentle, but ugly. 

They lust for me, they want to stick their genitals in me.

"Come"

I open my legs.

They all run away in fear. 

"Sex with you is so great"

"You are the best"

Yea, I've heard these rehashed lines.

I'm not some fucking sex trophy you can display on the mantle. 

They pretend like you are an everyday occurrence. 

Generic lines to further prove that you aren't special, an everyday bang. Ordinary, climax-less.

Performance gives them anxiety.

Fucking virgins.

Spineless.

Passionless.

Indian men. It's always the emotionally unstable generic Indian man with undying love for their mother, ex-girlfriend and that one female friend they won't shut up about. Dicks throbbing for a release. Just that. 

Girls are drugs.

Does that make me smack or pure heroin? 

Lick me and see.

I dare you. I double dare you.

But I will cut out your tongue and gouge out your eyes if you stray.

Don't come to me to kill your time, because you have nothing else to do.

I am not your fucking playtoy.

I will eat you alive.

Spit out the bones for vermin to feast on.

You don't know me.

I am vengeful.

I am cruel.

I am a mirror.

I merely reflect back what you show me.

Narcissists are the worst kind of humans, close second only to the abusive ones.

A lover in every flavour.

Oh my, what fun!

But wrong wrong wrong, all wrong. 

Drug addicts, psychopaths, compulsive liars, abusive future wife-beaters, smooth talking cheats.

But my favourite kind is possibly the kind which douses me with a strange kind of animalistic passion, sets me on fire and watches quitely as I burn away. 

They don't care, no they don't.

Just about anybody with a mouth could suck their limp dicks. It does not matter. They wouldn't be able to get it up anyway. All the details of the sexcapades they bore you with-you feel pity for them. You don't even feel about about being used by them, you pity them and their inability to love. 

Fucking lowlifes.

I'll write that tell-all book when I'm old and senile, because let's face it, I am such a cliche. But I'll never kiss and tell. The As and the Bs and Ys and the Zs- they could all be the same person. Usually they are the same person, although in different bodies. 

Anyway, I can't believe we've digressed from the point completely. I guess I get carried away sometimes, even more these days. I can't focus because my brain is on a drug climbdown.

Agony.

Anger.

Fatigue.

So the young, bright, boys and girls of Calcutta usually gather during weekends. They form cliques. They always do.

We feel like royalty in this slum. Envied by so many, looked down upon by most. Most people can't stand us because they can't quite understand us.

We stick together because in reality we're the outcastes.

Aliens.

Unemployed, on pen and paper.

But we still play our music. 

We keep playing.

Till the sun comes out. 

Pat each other on the back, go home.

Smile.

Try to sleep.

Feel so inspired. Write a bunch of mad new songs. 

Will your song change the world?

I don't care.

Will your song make someone feel?

That's all I dream of.

Chords. More chords. Not complex, but a million different inversions, all with a million possibilites. Every song has a story to tell.

It can be the greatest fairy-tale you'll hear.  But don't try to look for the origins. Don't read too much into it. You might get your heart broken by the reality of average men and the average sex they have to offer.

I smoke my pot and act like my life is a movie. It's all just a figment of someone's imagination where they're possibly imagining the best sex they could, but unfortunately for me, it's not good enough. Midly satisfactory, at best. 

Fuck you.

You stand so tall. You act so proud. 

All these cloaks of security, to hide your flaws.

You pretend every day.

You pretend to be a big strong man when you are just another child.

A brat.

An absolutely generic, average brat.

I have seen so many like you, what new do you have to offer?

So easy to read, predictable, outdated.

You don't have possess the capability to understand and experience pleasure. You're too consumed in your own bubble to enjoy the state of bliss my body has to offer to you. 

Go ahead, think about all those women you've fucked as you stick your dick inside me. 

How does it feel, warm? Tight? 

Are you having fun shutting your eyes and picturing someone's face on mine?

Yeah, please just ejaculate already and close the door as you leave.

I just want to get this done with.

And then throw you out like the piece of garbage you have proved yourself to be.

Standing ovation for you.

Don't worry, it happens to other guys too. As often as you. 

Haha.

No it doesn't, I'm just saying that to make you feel better. 

You may be the star of your show but for me, you are my circus monkey. I observe and I sit patiently. I will go away when your tricks are over. Forget that face, all the details, till you're just a memory. 

Insipid, uninspiring.

Yawn, every time I think about your pathetic sexual prowess.

"Atleast the face slapper would bloody fuck me right"

 

Fuck you and your bullshit machismo. 

You have no heart. You have no soul. You are incapable of love. You don't amuse me anymore. There's nothing remotely attractive about you anyway. 

Just a pity fuck. 

Before your time's up.

Don't flatter yourself. 

I'll suck your limp dick for you. 

Till it's no longer limp.

I don't love you, I don't even give a shit about you actually.

Just like you don't give a shit about me.

But don't worry, I'll play along and encourage you to believe that the shitty sex you have to offer "totally rocks my world." 

Sex-god?

You're a joker. 

I drop them clues around like a master criminal.

Bonobo.

Sex. Sex. Sex. 

Don't forget just yet. 

If I die tonight, you would die with me too.

Wouldn't you?

Stick like glue.

So tight.

Dendrite.

Let's get high.

One last time.