an insipid, watered down state of mind

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  • illicit_skunk 8h

    to live is to write a verse on flower extracts that exudes a newfound absence of meaning

    wisps of dust
    on disheveled guesses;
    all things eventually take a stale turn.
    the need to keep up
    with the rate of dissociation
    turns me into a cheese-less wheat disc
    topped with minced meat
    and olives.

    a smoke crammed,
    posh, Calcutta based bar
    and a mixologist
    entrancing people with his spirit play;
    soaked in a thick haze,
    i wonder if you'd like my heart
    done tender
    with a slightly charred exterior.

    the likes of you and me
    aren't exactly alike
    but if the two, scour through
    basic degrees of coffee roasting
    they'd prefer theirs brewed
    with dark roast beans;
    and when served so,
    they'd like it flung across the room.

    a figment of my mist laden imagination-
    a vagrant with intense eyes
    crafting supple leather lodgings
    for a rich woman's maquillage
    bought at extortionate rates.
    i accidentally let him get pulped
    by a machine in the tannery
    whilst he dreams of better days.

    the background music in my life
    is a wild mix of genres
    and i'm not yet a fine music maker
    but i'm good at raising hell
    and smothering myself
    with the most bizzare expectations.
    tying the reality to me,
    is a delicate, translucent tendril
    and it snaps
    just as I start to get the hang of it.


  • illicit_skunk 1w

    glossy worms

    three pet worms, till date.
    two of them green.
    one spotted amongst a bunch of chillis
    bought from the local vegetable vendor,
    the other one crawled onto my finger
    out of a pile of stray flower petals
    placed as an offering for Maa Saraswati.

    another, pink;
    from a bundle of onion flower stalks
    (we call them peyajkoli in Bengali).

    serene. glossy. wiggly.
    always eating. always shitting.
    crawly. mute.
    those worms.
    basking in solitude.
    away from their natural habitat but
    watched, fed, taken care of.
    i still wonder if my care
    ever made a difference.

    each of them lived for a week.
    i loved them. i love them still.
    if i could, I would
    have pumped them back to life;
    but there's this beauty in letting go,
    a strange ache
    in giving into the ruthless flow
    of life
    (which anyway shreds you
    into an unrecognizable mass
    of melancholy,
    if you refuse to do so).

    there's an absurd twinge in letting go
    and nothing settles it.
    no assurance makes up for it.
    it's on you, whatever you make of it.
    there's a new void and this void shows.
    this void is yours.
    it's indisposable.

    i live with many such voids.
    voids where people should be;
    seconds fleeting by,
    where moments should be.
    i will be a void one day.
    a glossy worm,
    eating away holes in a chilli.


  • illicit_skunk 6w


    there's a valley of unseen flowers in full bloom.
    there are seamlessly unending green fields
    with not a soul to be seen.
    a dark grey shroud
    of rain-bearing clouds
    and cold winds;
    a hitch-hiking poet in October
    meets another
    and then they go their separate ways
    so that they can keep writing verses,
    so that they can keep meeting each other there;
    but not here.
    "you won't understand," they tell me.
    of course, i won't.
    to understand, one needs to know
    and to know, one needs to experience.
    i have always been robbed clean of mine
    by the vain matriarchal pursuit
    of a generational, superimposed dream.

    the Indian dream is the American dream
    if dreamt of
    with the rigid, orthodox conceptions shed.
    it can't be said whether foeticide is worse
    than belittling and strangling a demi-adult's
    opinions, aspirations and freedom.
    responsibilities are to be taken like an adult
    but you shall be chided like a child.
    privacy doesn't exist
    in the otherwise secretive household
    and each eye turns blind
    to the surface level abstinence
    of an average trickster.

    the collective consciousness
    (that is nearly absent in a third world country)
    allows access to the central processing unit
    from several terminals simutaneously.
    the globe is circular
    suggesting that the heavens don't lie above,
    for 'below' and 'above' are subjective terms
    and the devil becomes the god
    with due alteration of details.

    but there is a valley of unseen flowers in full bloom
    and i shall wait here
    to see more hitch-hiking poets meet and part ways
    as they leave a longing in me;
    a longing to drop the pretense
    because time
    (despite being considered a hypothetical social construct),
    will drag me away
    into the realm of the deceased
    and that will be done easily
    as a result of me being a transcendental hotchpuck
    wearing a subconscious, paranormal cloak
    to switch and escape realities.


  • illicit_skunk 6w

    beetroot and red pee

    the year end trots towards us
    with it's festive skies
    and yet again I feel myself
    getting overwhelmed by the enormity of it all.

    they smile, they celebrate;
    I'm 19 and a celibate
    with no purpose or intention
    that could possibly be highly regarded
    by the feminine parent;
    the only one that's alive.

    diced beetroot
    forcibly stuffed into my system
    turns my pee red
    and that's satisfactory to a certain extent
    after not having bled for almost a few years now.
    the meds help but I don't bother taking them or running further tests
    because I don't have it in me to set another foot out
    in pursuit of getting back
    a few more fractions of life.

    the crackers will go off again;
    reminding me that everyone has someone
    except me;
    that this throbbing loneliness
    will run cold into the vastness
    of the space and that of the
    the air thinned, palely gravitated skies;
    that my existence and the value it holds
    is infinitesimal.

    I am losing it, myself and everything that I thought I'd never lose-
    and there's nothing to be done
    and I'll disappear soon and it will all be okay.


  • illicit_skunk 6w


    wringing freshly washed clothes

    as the air smells of detergent; 

    the water trickles down my elbows.

    the microwave beeps for 5 times

    and the song on the radio switches

    to 'be there still' by Woods.

    the afternoon light leaks in

    through tiny ventilators and windows,

    filling the rooms up.

    rustling of papers on the floor

    as the puppy finds comfort

    in laying on the sketches i had made

    when i was younger.

    one of the sketches is half of someone's face. 

    we could have been so many things.. 

    but i'm here now.

    planning another trip to the mountains.

    never realized i had stopped writing

    after the autumn of '21.

    probably because the need had expired.

    a tightrope walker who lets go, 

    i wanted to float away 

    and wash my throat with menthol. 

    wanted so bad

    to leave that dimly lit town behind

    and reach for the cities buzzing with survival streaks. 

    wanted so bad

    to be free 

    and strong. 

    when all i wanted was to live a little more. 

    i am breathing 

    as the dusk approaches. 

    i have always found

    fall and dusk similar. 

    every other day, 

    i stop doing something at dusk;

    sometimes, i stop thinking about specific people; 

    never to think about them again. 

    to be laying alone in an empty house, 

    thinking about people

    who are now just memories, mostly bad, 

    doesn't exactly help me breathe. 

    a friend has come by. 

    a guitar and a few songs

    brought to the table. 

    his presence makes me aware 

    of my loneliness. 

    hours go by, he smiles and leaves. 

    i wait for another morning. 

    hours go by. 


  • illicit_skunk 10w

    like poles repel

    together, we're a shipwreck.
    the two pieces of a magnet
    once whole,
    won't ever reconcile the same
    because they've formed distinct poles.

    when you drop that rogue exterior
    and your eyes soften at dawn,
    you'll hear a lullaby;
    but the voice will be someone else's;
    mine's holding grudges.

    I'm drifting far away
    in search of a place called home
    having dug the shape and form
    out of you,
    where I couldn't find an abode.

    revelations are like morning newspapers.
    I collect them only to leave them at the table
    for you to read while you sip
    your cup of tea;
    which, is anything but me.

    it is only when you leave
    that I tiptoe towards your empty cup
    to read the leaves;
    to touch the crockery with my fingers and my lips
    exactly where yours had touched it.

    you write letters to me
    addressing them to anonymous identities
    only to crawl back into bed
    with pocket full of empty envelopes
    to be stuffed inside me.

    my wrist is like the neck of a mockingbird
    which you keep snapping;
    a heart like that of yours
    is worn at the sleeve
    and it keeps breaking

    together, we're a shipwreck.
    the two pieces of a magnet
    once whole,
    won't ever reconcile the same -
    so be the wilful dole.


  • illicit_skunk 10w

    typewriter 404

    I should buy myself a typewriter 

    but I am leaving this apartment

    and striding out into the unknown

    with no money. 

    it might turn out to be 

    just like my grandfather's story 

    when he left home at fifteen;

    left his mother behind 

    who died shortly after;

    left with almost no money

    and became a soldier in the Indian Navy. 

    he once told me that no one 

    but his mother

    had loved him

    and that I look like her.

    I didn't know I loved him then;

    I love him now

    but he's gone. 

    maybe he left a little of him in me

    and maybe that will be enough to carry me through whatever lies ahead. 

    when I look around, 

    I see no one

    who would hold the parts of me

    that are falling apart. 

    they'd rather dust 

    my crumbs off their shoulders

    and make sure I - 


    who would build with me

    and cut out a little on the ecstasy

    when they have the leisure to be melancholy? 

    luxury sinks deeper than a beast's fangs

    and love is but an abstract noun. 

    I have been dragged past all these


    and made to believe that

    I am undeserving of them. 

    there's a new centaur in the stable

    aiming for the fish's eye

    and in all probability 

    has shot mine. 

    little does he know

    I'm resistant

    to all these archers

    and their ephemeral love. 

    I'll play along 

    while the sweat runs over 

    my open wounds

    in the scorching battlefield;

    thirsty for something

    that makes my ink run wild

    under a new moon in September. 

    I had my blood raging 

    against the emotional unavailability

    until I became the very devil

    I dreaded past three

    in the morning. 

    though leaving 

    after everyone has left me behind

    makes no sense, 

    I won't stay back to watch

    those old nightmares being projected 

    on these very walls 

    that I've finally managed to erect. 

    I'll also buy a typewriter

    and smash my head with it. 


  • illicit_skunk 11w

    self talk after pot brownies

    September 15, 2021
    two hours and four minutes past noon

    I was never written about.
    never the muse
    but the possessor of a mind so obtuse
    that I wrote all the obsession out of me
    until there was none left.
    layers of iron laden water
    stood still in my basement,
    in the buckets and the washbasins
    creating an obscene tune of utter stagnancy.
    but I had to return
    leaving the momentary escape behind
    to scrape the stubborn rust stains
    off the wet floor.

    this beginning tastes different
    and I have a delta attached
    to the left of my soul;
    and to whatever is left of this soul.
    I was led on and on to dead ends
    only to breakthrough and make way;
    to sit back and breathe in solace.
    with my perspective, everything has changed.
    I'm the strongest when alone
    with the fresh mountain air speeding past
    and thrashing against my face;
    peeling off all the masks that I've ever worn.
    there's something rough and fierce
    about honesty and tenderness;
    about loving with all your heart
    and bending till you break.
    but I choose to channelize that love towards myself
    because I've seen myself standing alone
    against the worst of times
    when people were too busy
    hurting, blaming and accusing me;
    when they were too busy
    drowning shoulder deep in self pity
    and using it as an excuse
    to do what they did.
    but i have forgiven myself
    and everyone I've come across.
    I've chosen to walk out of the dark places.
    I'm not looking for love.
    for, if it's there, it'll find it's way to me.
    I refuse to be consumed by trivialities.

    I'm waiting on miracles
    and I believe in magic
    and the fact that smiles heal us.
    I'm ready for massive changes,
    prepared to combat any darkness that stands in my way.
    I have never been written about
    but will soon be -
    in history and in the minds of masses
    who would look up to me
    and say, "if she could, I can too."


  • illicit_skunk 13w

    yours alone

    ~there's such a sense of strength in fighting your toughest battles alone, in going through the lowest of your lows -alone. there's immense pain and that is what makes you strong~

    did you fight with hope on your mind
    or did you drag through
    despite the dying light?
    knowing you're speeding towards a dead end
    but falling apart isn't an option;
    did you have a shoulder to lean on
    when your knees gave way
    and you couldn't go on?
    did you fight with hope on your mind?

    was there love
    when you needed it the most?
    where was the sun
    when you were scared of the ghosts?
    was there a friend,
    was there a hand to hold
    or did you come down crashing all the way
    all alone?
    did you stay up nights,
    did your cries turn to roars?
    how wounded were you
    when you decided to soar-
    towards the blue sky?
    you're coming alive now.
    you were always meant to.

    did you go on
    when they shut you out?
    did you want to set yourself apart from the crowd?
    did the pain make you want to scream out loud
    -when you couldn't?

    did you fight with hope on your mind?
    or did you drag through
    despite the dying light?
    take a deep breath,
    you made it out alive.
    show me that big smile,
    your soul's beaming;
    your next battle will again be yours
    and yours alone to fight-
    so kick it in the balls
    it ain't fight or flight;
    it's fright and fight
    and then the striking sight
    of a victory.


  • illicit_skunk 14w

    cuisses d'argent
    [silver thighs]

    to solder silver rings that hold uncut rocks
    as we sit by a gushing river
    trying to scream songs louder than it's roar
    - I've wanted to do that for a while now.
    the grass is soft, so is your smile.
    where do you get your tenderness from?
    a collective chant of hymns rings in the air
    and I grow fonder of the mountains.
    my heart is tired
    but you bring good to this Russian roulette of a life.
    you don't write verses
    but you make them with me -
    so, I'll write for the both of us.
    you let me own you,
    sit you down and consume you
    like the murk consumes a flickering flame.

    there is a lot of damage
    and silver ores
    but I'll be tearing my lungs apart
    and I'll be laughing.
    my obscure vulnerability
    smells like the fresh flesh of aloe vera -
    looks funny when you rub it on your jaws
    and render me transparent.
    I won't perish without you;
    I have been balancing my existence
    on these cuisses fortes for nineteen years
    but you're allowed to squeeze them like plushies
    and have the last laugh
    as long as you can afford to keep the tinted glasses on my nose.