Blood dances wild at night. Flesh groans for mercy. Here stands the man ignoring pain. Here stands the man who can’t sleep w/o a hunt. World had seen a Glorious past but now is a witness to haunted circumstances. Small lights of the city glimmer and so does his eyes. Peace was the last thing on his mind in this planet of merciless and dark.

Survival is what everybody has been fighting for, ever since the turn of the century came around the corner. After the last invasion from the iced Plutonian, world has turned into the much-awaited global village of its own form. All life forms attending the schools of self-defense imparting basic training in the various arts of death bringing. Some are using them for fighting against the invaders, while some preferred to use it against each other. The way ‘the block’ was using all its power. ‘The Block’ as commonly known, came into being through a series of incidents.

It was not what the spiritual leaders of the ancient thought had in mind while creating it. The world has been left devastated by what was called the last clash b/w the mighty Allies and the rest of the Fanatic Islamic world. The battleground was Israel. The Jewish state has left no stone unturned in calling extermination over each and every Palestinian & Iraqi head around that corner. Mossad went as far as assassinating terror groups on foreign land with zeal never seen before. Osama entered history in the year 2008 when the Indian & Pakistani troops bombed the ravines of Baluchistan where his followers had taken a last stand. The British forces and U.S. marines liberated Syria and Jordan in the same way Iraq and Afghanistan saw the light of democracy.

What one might think after reading the opening of this book is, whether the writer is Tom Clancy or Robert Ludlum? Balls. The writer is an asshole. A self defeated dumb ass that is searching for some fortune to turn up his way. At dawn, I find myself still in my sneakers, which sheath my ever-stinking socks. I was unable to develop the habit of washing them. Whenever I felt that they needed a wash and took them off, which was normally after months, even I found the stench unbearable. So the easiest way I found, was to dispose the old and buy a new pair to suffer. In all directions my life sucked till this man one day turned on my door and asked me ‘are you the one who plays the guitar?’ The first thought which came to my mind was that this is my new neighbor and he is going to kick my ass to pulp for the loud sound that emerges out of my axe at night while am practicing. ‘Well, yeah sort of’, I replied. ‘I have a band and we need a guitarist cum vocalist. You game for that?’ he asked me with a voice, which seemed pretty serious and the kind one would feel interested to listen to. ‘ Don’t you think we need to talk about this more elaborately? As I guess I would like to meet your other band members and discuss the musical notes your troop is into.’ To which he agreed and left telling me to be at the Brickbats on Saturday by 1700 hours. He grinned savagely and the size of his wrist told me that he should be the thumper of the band. Brickbats is a place where all the rock n’ roll and metal freaks turn up for some loud music, beer and obviously not a very funny amount of dope. I made a mental note of it and went back to my new Batman comic book.

It was just another day for me. Sitting amidst morons and part time screw-ups. Red skirt is rolling up and up and a little more. Thou shall not think dirty. Not even think. I still remember my moral science teacher in grade eight telling the class that how divine the world of sex is, if it is happening with the same person for the rest of your natural born life. In my mind I had mumbled ‘fuck you and your family’. Candidly I am enjoying what I am doing which is practically nothing. Lets get out of this perplexed thinking of mine and get into this new copy of ‘MAD’ I picked up. Oh! How coincidental can the world be? Here I take out the ‘MAD’ and the red skirt got rolled down & the bitch left swinging her butt for the audience. We need to understand that in ones life one has to walk the way one chooses to. Some run, some stroll and people like me drift in wonderlands.

They made a workafuckingholic out of me. And now they tell me goodbye. I don’t know why can’t I just sit in my room till I’m given a specific assignment. Well, I’ve got to keep calm. There are people counting on me...sorry I did not mention anything about the complex word ‘people’ to you. Everybody according to the ‘Red Pill’ theory has been generated for a certain purpose. These are just programmed to maintain the waistline of their inflated egos with dedication. So people are counting on me. I’ll keep my eyes open and if I see something suspicious, I’ll report to others. But for me there are no others. I should remember to make some more friends next time I get. Next time is as in The Tibetan Book of Dead. Maybe if I walk a bloc or two we’ll run into some of the others. How far have they gotten? Maybe this is a part of the scheme. Maybe this is how one happens to hallucinate after lots of x-rated pills and vodka. The son of a bitch is already late by 45 minutes. And Lord knows why is at Brickbats the sound of def leapords still alive? I respect Mr. Cobain’s vocal abilities and song writing and also the composing. He should have been just the vocalist of the band and kept a guitarist in the lines of Jerry Cantrell.

I can see the dick turning up along with 5 odd women and 3 men. All in mid twenties I suppose. Being a rocker a man gets fame, communication through music and literature, lots of dough if you just have been on the charts for; say 3 weeks and women of all kinds and types. But when this life, for some it doesn’t, is on the verge of turning into history. That point of it is sad to look at. It is a case in all forms of art. Especially the modern form art has taken. Whether it is painting, writing, music, orating, and everything that can be called art. Just it should not have the boundaries. Mr. JACK DAIN, the man who had scheduled the meeting became also the first man who shook hands with me that evening. Then second hand came forward from the lead guitarist who calls himself FROST followed by the bass guitarist, Mr. TOMMY WIRED. The names were ringing some bells in my head till Jack told me the name of the band. BLACK FROST, it was. The band, that was a few months ago, and still somewhere there on the charts. Yes, I had to admit that the sound was tight and I liked it too. OK, now I get the picture. Few days back I did read it one of the Stones that the vocalist left. Oh yeah I know Mr. Frost and his work on the axe. ‘Alright why me? And where was I spotted?’ Frost told me that he first saw my shredding with band right on street fully plugged and raw. And the second was my solo that I played on request in DREAD, something like Brickbats. Well the opportunity seemed interesting and asked all of them to sit. ‘So how do we go about it’?

School Nights Jump!

I was just a kid
And it was another day
We were a crazy lot
But only with our music
With notes on the fingertips
& The gear tuned tight
We were the schooldays pump
And rocking school nights jump

Girls were coming and going
Twistin’ and shoutin’ to us
Screaming, gleaming some and groaning too
It never turned up or down
Or let the beat skip
‘coz we were the schooldays hump
& yeah we were, we were the rocking school nights jump

Spoke in songs
Brought the neighborhood to the ground
Money was hard to find
But the weight of my axe I never felt
Ears used to the shattering amps
Creation, celebration, desperation and
Came separation
But we were the schooldays dumps
And the rocking school night jump!

After reading this song that I just wrote, in say 5 minutes alone, one of my very close literary friend said ‘ hmm...good for kinder garden.’ It was a complement I received for the first time ever since I started writing. My motive was met. I can manage to write for kids too and not just for morbid rockers and epitaphs. Life makes one sick of life at some point of time in everyman’s life. But the part of my story that I actually admire is that my pencil still rolls. As a matter of fact that’s what keeps me going. Recording incidents in my little book and also the visions & opinions makes my inner self come to the surface. And trust me it helps a lot for a person who has given up the word called hope.

Secret way lies ahead
Walk if you can
But the sacred thorn will get you
And the master of the sky
Will not shed a tear
For she finds amusement
In your pains
Mystery in the sounds
That move out of the flower you carry
Its calling my name
The fair leg did move once
Fortunate was the petal
And the water sprinkled
Across the stone
Its calling my name
Rest in peace
& Rest a little longer
for the time is yet to come
But the wind is swift
I think its calling my name......

Well to be precise I consider myself more of a poet. But this poet is in harmony with his music. I hate Shakespeare for adhering to music as food for love. Its for the soul where all the senses of any animal get involved in order to feel the pleasure, pain, anger and other forms of emotions. And on top of everything music and fooling around with words gets me the money, I should say enough for survival. But at the end of this tunnel called BLACK FROST I see light. But at the same time I found something unusual about the members. Something, that was not very crystal to my understanding. I have never killed a pig. Slaughtering is an art.

I was walking the same avenue I walk every morning with my newspaper & the dog. A boxer who makes it a point to go through the newspaper before I do. I get some bits of news to lay my eyes on. Drags keep the headlines in his intestines. And he enjoys that way. Drags, my dog, one of the vicious & affectionate of his breed I’ve come across. He is purely a one-man K-9. So much of it that he once bit my old lady, and she still has the gnaw scar. She was trying to get me out of the bed. I have never seen a rising sun in my life. Daddy never went across the oceans like Mr. Roger Water’s father. I had some pretty tough time with him with the stick around. God made my life miserable for he created me. This existence had become unbearable until one day along with my gear, a suitcase, and a trunk full of books and my music collection; I walked out of my parents’ house. And now here I am living in a little dungeon of mine with lots solace. My love affair with mythological & very many herbal intoxicants are at least 7 years old. A kind of affinity for them, I should say.

I took up a job as a content writer in a small time advertising agency. After work and on weekends I played at one of these junkyards. I sleep for 4 hrs and rest of my time is spent in conversations with music and words. Well some hidden fears are there but I guess that everyone keep them that way. The people at my workplace are caricatures right out of one of the Dilbert’s. Being on the charts as the number one Rock acts of all time wasn’t what I wanted. Yes but I want my music to be appreciated by people who understand music. Its simplicity and as well as the complexities. But also get paid for that too.

The band sounded tight on the first day of our jam. I liked the sound and more than that, the attitude all the dudes carried. And after a couple of more jams they figured out that my belief lied in music.

NO MORE!!

Silence is a virtue
And I possess it
Nurtured, controlled and
Violent
All are looking at the madman on the street
Naked, isolated, conspired and banished
Desperately I ran for shelter
No raindrop did fall
No stone did hurt
No fear did turn
No tear did sail
No mind did think
No soul did live
No screams
No rescue
No escapes
I am a happy man with a stick as my leg
They blew it up in one of the wars
My body can be sometimes seen walking
Through rows of my brothers lying in the graveyard
I can’t see hope in this social air
No hope for the educated and they call me a cod
No hope from you I need
No hope from you I need.

Our friendly neighborhood Priest!

Is there a dream lying somewhere? Here, I am talking about my mind. Yes the few verses from the Holy Scriptures about which we give just damns. My fate would be saved said the Priest. It is again a question for the world to ponder. The nails clawed the pastor’s back and blood streaked to his pedophilic pleasure. She was just 13. The body turned cold and lungs stood still. But how did the Priest come to know about the incestuous relationship his son beard with his wife. Sin prevails. Maybe just in the newspapers, but there is Sin that existing within each of us.

The first gig that our manager got was a dream come true for any freaking band around at that time. It was to be held just for major musicians in the British embassy. What else should I say? We got a standing ovation at the end of the show. My vocals and sound of the axe were never so jazzy before. Our band manager was going mad after he found himself surrounded by a couple of investors. But Frost & I were still under the state of oblivion, that we were as tight as a bike chain.

A peep into the past.........

My cousin had a very bad habit of digging his nose. I picked it from him. For me it was meditation until I found that the art is supposed to be kept a secret. So I practice it in isolation. A pleasure trip I must say. Every nose-bearing creature should, and am sure they do, dig their respective noses once in life.

A strange kid-hood one had and candidly I came to my senses after the first drag of hemp. And this sadism what people might interpret about me, is that I acquired after I took the livers out of my parents body with my favorite stiletto. Traces were impossible to locate by the finest of the detectives, as all left was char and soot. ‘ Oh Lord! Somebody please help my parents they are still trapped inside their bedroom...aaahhhh...’ Phew! To some I might be somebody next to Lucifer Himself. But what would a human being end up doing if all his actions are dictated by certain rules, which do not make any sense to his life? And if somebody pushes me too hard, the wall breaks. I stood and served as a punching bag, a perfect victim of perpetual humiliation and taker of all the sermons under the irrelevant Sun for 9 horrifying years. Even after I shifted myself to my grandparents’ place, it did not stop. Somebody had to do it, so destiny chose me. Hey! I am just a prisoner who escaped. Lets say someone who is and was as normal as anybody on this planet. I do not believe in suffering. The weak suffer.

Another morning and my usual intake of caffeine were brewing slowly, but to a very high degree of strength. The ‘Black Devil’. Yeah, that’s what the name some people gave it after a sip of it, followed by a leash of puking. For me it was my morning fuck. Griping and relieving, like a tight snatch. I took a small, a very small peep indeed from my study’s window. Ouch! The Sun. If there were a torture customized for me, then it would be exposing my carnivore eyes to the rays this star.

After coming to terms with it’s emit, I gazed at the street. Going somewhere, coming from somewhere in the endless manner of movement. There was this old woman, mid 60’s, I presumed. She was wearing a polka shirt and black pants. Something about her invited my interest. With my past experiences of gore & visions lost, I knew she wasn’t just another bystander. A yell inside my mind buzzed that she knew more about me than I did. And without any kind of search present in her eyes, she picked up my window along with my eyes, in that unreachable array of ghetto windows. I wanted to slip the dark curtain back, but was held back by this sudden gush of powerlessness. A message she wanted to deliver. The shrill of the kettle whistle made me turn around. When I looked back out, there was no sign of her. Vaporized. That pale face & eyes, as pale as death.

Too much of intoxicants, I thought. Still gloomy about the delusion, I poured the coffee into the brass mug. It wasn’t the usual ‘Black Devil’. It tasted like Sin.

Honestly, I do not remember the dates, the times, the hours or the bars. And to talk a little further, I do not regret that. I personally detest remembering. I take it as a word meant for waste-bin developer. It was shower time and to get into my working attire.

The water was warm; though cold, it felt warm. I guess that’s the way it should do after the body is through with 45 minutes of workout, and some serious thinking about ‘to remember, not too remember’ bit. Thinking...hate.

Grey day it was, and I was driving my 150cc LML, which serves me in best possible ways as far as commuting and the speed I do is concerned. There was some jazz in my earplugs along with a haunting twang. Twang, that said my guitar is lying in the umbra of my apartment, without me.

Envy, that people carry is one of the most common reasons for death. Do not envy, as it is only a sin, and it is also not very sensible thing to do. Logic does not allow one to envy. Neither it does to anybody who is not I. It should not exist. Envy that humans do.

In the first place, why do we take anyone apart from ourselves under consideration? I don’t have control over my own or rather say navigation over my own being. I am yet to configure myself out. Then how in the name of Energy can I dare to think about anyone else? And on top of that estimate, pass judgments or work on someone who is, again not me? I do not believe in this direction. If it is in me then with each day I live, I tend to improve. It saves lots of mental moil.

Everything in life, I think should be left at their respective places, as they themselves try to do. Remain in Calm. Else DND - (Disturb and Die).

Gunpowder, Gallows, Treason and Plot
Which should I pick of the Lot?

Changes take place for good, they say. Here I am telling people something, which even I do not have any idea about. God, yeah it’s the Almighty, Allah, Ram and all the others who look upon us with eagle eyes. Our movements of all nature, whether mental, physical or metaphysical, are being watched. Do you believe that? I look in the mirror everyday and question myself that will I be ever forgiven for what I have done? The mirror tells the truth. No.

I kill cause I find it satisfying. It gives me pleasure to see a corpse. Once after slicing of this woman’s head, I slept next to her headless body. Well it wasn’t what I actually wanted; it was something she had asked for. I was sitting backstage rolling a joint and this woman walks up to me telling me that it was wild act that I gave up there on the stage. The next thing she asks me is that whether it is just the stage or it’s the bed to. Another one. All right, I said to myself and we drove to her apartment. One thing that was amazing was the collection of meat knives in the kitchen. That was the end of all her beginnings. But I gave her a clean death. It did not hurt, just killed!