O, Human Karma!

Qweeeeeeee!
Like the call of a nightingale
Only worse
Bleed in the nose
(And the eardrum).

Enters belly
Follows human
Fat-fingered
Abominable snowman
(Sans snow).

Drone
Unfinishing
(Un)like a bee's
A wounded beast
(Pooh at best).

Stubby arms wave
Unfinishing
Powerful
Tension in the air
(And elsewhere).

Enters boredom
Lots of
Drives most to vice
Amidst a sea of slouched backs
(Unfinishing).

Vex

Unsettling,
Not knowing where things are.
Knowing they're not where they're supposed to be.
Worse,
Knowing they're where they're not supposed to be.
Torment.

Conflicting Minds

We have, from time immemorial, been mystified by the unexplained. Dreams have always fascinated me, from my childhood days; some of them deathly frightening, others wonderfully pleasurable.

One of the earliest dreams I can remember having was one where I was a construction worker being devoured by an oversized smelly Shrek-like creature (Not friendly). And as one would expect, I didn't like the idea of being eaten alive, and woke up pretty unnerved. But that was not the last I would see of Sir Reeksalot. He did visit again, a little under half a dozen times between then and now, and what interests me is that every time (after the first), I was able to control the dream and prevent the monster from detaching my head from the rest of me, one way or another.

A dream is the battle between the conscious and the subconscious. This is something I would like to call " The Theory of Conflicting Minds ".
The subconscious is a sick kid and starts it, and throwing up anything it eats. The conscious is a janitor. At some point, it realizes that the floor is too puked up, and decides to clean up. Conflict. Two options lie ahead.

Option 1 : Squeaky clean
C : Wake up! This is weird.
S : [Alt-F4]
C : Oh, that was just a dream.

Option 2 : Perpetual Filth
C : This is a dream! Wake u... No wait, this seems interesting!
(S happily continues dreaming, oblivious to C's presence)
C : This sucks. I'm going in!
(C butts in; overrides S. S quickly regains control. But the damage has already been done.
C continues observing.)

Option 1 is what happens most of the time. Janitor cleans up; sends the kid back home.

Option 2, though, delivers infinite possibilities. Janitor cleans every now and then (or chooses to watch from a distance and not get his hands dirty), kid pukes every now and then. A dream can be controlled in bits and pieces, and although the level of control is minuscule, it makes a world of difference.

Try it, it's an exhilarating rush!
My sympathies to those unfortunates who sleep dreamlessly.

Care for a shave gov'neh?

Barbers are the most powerful people on the planet.
Luckily for you and me, they're merciful.

On Pets

I have often been asked, "Are you a cat person or a dog peron?" .

First of all, my head makes it sound something like, " Are you a batman or a spiderman?", which sends me in an instant to a state whacky laughter, while the more socially aceptable side of me tries to wrestle with my muscles, making me look like a confused retard more than anything else.
Secondly, and more importantly, the question invariably pops into my head, " Why would anyone be a cat person?"

Dogs kick cat-butt on most grounds.
I can conclude just this about cat lovers: Either they're scared of dogs, or they don't like that canines can be a little unclean, or they're plain queer and prefer to have thankless creatures as pets.

Whacking day

This is about a particularly miserable day at IISc.

Come quick!
The Dark Lord does beckon.
Relocate your slothful self.
Mercy he shall show today, I reckon.

Chapter one
Idiots! What have you done?!
Shabby comebacks,
Bruised ego.
(Mumble mumble)
Off with their heads!

Persons few,
(Precisely two)
Thou asketh who they be?
Can't say. Won't dare!
Alright here's a hint:
One of them's a friend of someone who's a friend of me.

A day killed,
Well, half at least
Meandering, disguised mostly,
Away from watchful eyes.

Noon comes, not alone though.
Brings Him to us for good
And come with Him does His minion,
Watching, waiting,
Ready to strike with taunting tongue.

Crack! Crack of the whip.
A forked tongue tastes the air,
"He treats you well",
The minion doth quip.

Noxious fumes, vision spiralling.
'A drink would do good, perhaps'

Deluded thought, that might have been,
Tasted not-so-bad, but it still stings!
Sardonic snigger, sadistic.
Nearly choked, he did!
Hope, momentary deception
"Slave away!", the Dark Lord sings.

The sun has gone down,
'Tis time to rest,
Lest the Devil
Puts them to another test.

Pleading tones.
Relentless scoff.
(With orders for next morn.)
And as his slaves, obey they must.

And obey they will, (willingly almost)
And go to sleep.
For know do they,
(Like most today,)
That as they sow
So will they reap.

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