Brain Pizza — It Ails me, It Cures me; One Slice at a time
A lot has been read, a lot needs to be said.
The thoughts in my head, kneaded around like bread.
With dollops of cheesy cheeky spicy tangy lame uncouth.
Somethings and nothings thrown in for a lavish spread.
I’ve sung them in my head. Oh! All that was said.
A man as me. Unread, uninitiated, unbred.
I crave to be as Yeats and Keats.
But promptly switch to prose instead.
Poetry is a talent. I have very few talents. Poetry is not one of them. Holding one’s silence is not one of them either. Words on screens? Maybe, but only a very limited talent.
If you are still wondering what hit you, wonder no more! Not because I am about to enlighten you, but because no amount of wondering will yield answers. The jury on this one has been out for so long that even the cows have come back home, but not they. So, wonder no more; just be here and enjoy yourself while you can.
Because by being here, you have subscribed to an active participation in the cacophonous rampages of my inner being.
har aadmii mein hote hain das bees aadmee
jis ko bhi dekhnaa ho kaii baar dekhnaa
Now who is to explain to Fazli Sahab that my visage is in the possession of not just das bees aadmi, but das bees (and possibly more) raavans; my thoughts have thoughts.
This is the space I have designated to consecrate? desecrate? with my thoughts, ideas and everything existential.
This is not a drill.
They will always be served on a delectably hand-tossed base of the insane absurd sardonic and borderline profane.
There will always be dollops of cheesy puns and cheeky pokes.
And the toppings? Well, they may come in white, black or fifty shades of vibgyor. No promises.
Every slice will be fresh, cooked just right, and sufficient to ruffle the right feathers.
If it burns you, for the cheese and cheek may at times be too hot for your palette, you must still always come back. You never know, the next one might be garnished with soothing herbs. Just what scalded palettes want.
And now, while I wrestle with the choice between story and satire for the first one, go smell some roses for now, and count your blessings while you do.
P.S.: Post Scripts are absurd — Why say something when all that was to be said has already been said?