simon_rock_pujari

I'm just a rock n' roll rebel

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  • simon_rock_pujari 18w

    Within you; without you

    What's so mysterious about these evenings?
    That conspires my mind dangling
    in around the same question

    What if?
    I told you
    that i still miss you

    Would it still matter?

    I feel like walking down the same old road
    that leads to nowhere
    not even trying to find the answer
    But just asking myself

    When the days been hard
    When the Sun don't shine
    When the things i do, start to lose it's meaning
    making least sense - for whom am i doing it at all?

    There's nobody waiting home. . .

    But, there comes a big twist of "but"
    Alike in each and every story
    Percolating rainbow through the dark and heavy cloudburst

    That shows me
    It's not over, yet!
    there's still something left to it

    something for you to linger on
    maybe
    in a lonely cup of tea,
    sad Narayan gopal songs,
    on silent evenings
    a few hopeless love poems,
    a little bit of sunlight,
    a rainbow

    Making sure that
    however times maybe

    I'll always carry you around
    somewhere in me

    a part of you in a part of me

    "A-part of you in A-part of me"

    तिम्रो साथ नभए पनि साथ छौ तिमी

    ©simon_bhusal

  • simon_rock_pujari 18w

    H-A-R-A-M

    Blood?

    Yeah, it was the very first time
    i had seen so much blood
    gushing out from my body
    to be very precise
    "my genitalia"

    I was panicking
    shivering
    dazed and confused
    In that blood red paranoia

    You didn't know?
    I was a pretty shy kid in school
    Soft-spoken, dumb, lost, disturbed
    A coward

    I was 7 years old
    when the ladies of my commune
    took me to a tiny, dark room
    where i was told about a lot of
    unheard, unspoken, unseen things,
    things a 7 year old hardly needs to care for

    they asked me to lie on that messy bed
    circling around me
    someone grabbed my hands
    patted my head
    covered my mouth
    spread my legs
    pulled down my under pants
    And breaking that circle
    vividly i saw my grandmother
    with a blade and a tattered piece of cloth
    in her hands
    ---------------------
    Closed my eyes
    Blade
    blood
    blade
    cut
    Pain
    Tears
    blood
    Scream
    Red
    blade
    unconscious......

    Traumatic!
    feeling a stinging pain between my legs
    Feverish i woke up feeble
    To the sound of the ladies
    congratulating my mother, aunt, grandmother

    "She has been circumcised"

    Imagine a 7 year old girl in that situation
    hating her ultimate state of existence!
    Unsure of what was wrong with her?

    Vague-Vulnerable-Vagina

    Then my mother came
    explaining, comforting and lying
    the whitest piece of truth
    *period*
    - there is or there was
    a certain piece of flesh in my body
    that is or that was sinful and filthy
    which the God didn't liked

    [The supreme creator of the entire universe
    the divine God himself
    the creator of earth, moon, mount everest, man, blue whale, dinosaur, stars
    Had a problem with
    a tiny bit of flesh
    At the most inappropriate part of my little body?]

    The thing is
    There is no such thing as "Consent"
    in force feeding religion and it's distorted practices
    or be it sexual orientation or caste
    you were born with it
    you die with it

    It is everybody who were once somehow cornered by somebody
    at some junction of life
    repeating the same action to the other somebody

    And they all spend their entire lives
    standing in a 'grey' area
    No black, no white, no wrong, no right
    Peforming - genital mutilation, violence, mass murders, rape, infanticide, massacre, taboo, sacrifice, genital mutilation
    like a puppet - calling it
    "The will of God"

    So, that was
    "The story of my circumcision"

    That felt like, as if -
    All the prophet of righteousness
    were chanting the name of God
    In a casino, betting Derby
    drinking beer and a pork leg
    Screaming to death
    cussing, cursing
    that my "clitoris" is or was a
    H-A-R-A-M

    ©Simon bhusal

  • simon_rock_pujari 18w

    He calls himself a self made man
    Working nine to five, as an office clerk

    Got married as soon as he got the job
    coz that's what being settled is called in the Indian society

    He smells stale, old and hopeless
    Shaves with the same old razor for the past thirteen years
    His children doesn't talk to him, neither he cares
    Goes to the office with a straight face
    follows the same orders that seem meaningless
    and pretends to be contented

    While on his way back home,
    stops at a liquor store
    buys a quarter pint of a cheap Rum
    You can call it his
    privilege
    compensation
    relaxation
    A birth right!

    Just like an unwanted pause to a happy song,
    the entire house halts to silence
    as soon as he walks through the door.

    His wife is in the kitchen
    The children are in their rooms with an AC
    (the only room in the house with an AC)

    Nobody has asked him yet,
    how life has treated him?
    his back pains, head aches and he smiles the saddest smile ever - when it really hurts
    A mark of his masculinity to prove the world that
    Men don't cry

    He has no future plans, life goals
    Dreams....
    Well dreams there were a handful
    That got bound to the nine to five vintage clock of a government office
    which sometimes out of the blue,
    Goes late

    The way things have been with him,
    he is no more himself now
    but the reflection of the same old bloody vintage clock
    who trapped his dreams and gulped his entire youth
    vomiting old age in return as a gift!

    Only remembered, when it's needed
    Helplessly running and running
    serving it's purpose
    till the very last
    sunrise to sunset

    And when it finally stops working,
    gets replaced and forgotten
    normalizing changes

    like every other sad story....
    of every other common man

    "A-working-class-hero"

    ©Simon bhusal

  • simon_rock_pujari 66w

    They will fuck you up badly
    They will rape you
    They will strangle you on a broad daylight,
    forcing you to march naked in the middle of the street
    and there people will mockingly laugh at you -
    unaware - of whose reflection that they are actually laughing at

    They will fill your head with all the filthy things that they have ever created
    They will make you listen to obscene abusive words & curses
    They will make you speak - not what you want to say but rather 'what they want to hear'

    they will force-feed you dirty promises & oaths full of treachery
    they will drain your humane blood & flush sewage water inside your veins

    they will butcher your opinions
    they will deform your mentality so bad that - it won't be able to regain it's natural humane shape, ever!
    They will make you a part of genocidal masses
    Destined to kill humanity brutally
    in the name of
    "the father, son & the holy spirit"
    in the name of
    "allahu akbar"
    in the name of
    "jai shree ram"

    As if the higher power
    The ultimate creator in whose hands the whole universe lies - needs their protection,
    in front of whom they are not even a minute grain of salt

    In the name of saving their religion
    they are spreading their vicious faith across the continents
    by holy scripts written & engraved with the ink of blood

    killing lively people for their lifeless figurines & idols - death of humanity

    In the name of holywar
    They will bring out their swords & guns
    Their brahma-ashtra, nuclear power & atom bombs
    composed with poisonous conspiracy of
    Hatred and religion
    and myriad other weapons
    to kill humanity and save their faith

    For a thousand years, they have killed themselves for their faith
    For a thousand years they have placed their faith above humanity

    "So shall it be written, so shall it be done"

    - Simon bhusal

  • simon_rock_pujari 66w

    Old forgotten road

    In the sands of my time
    In my time of need
    when i unwillingly, uncertainly
    look back
    at the old forgotten road
    Where i was lost
    Road where there was only a faint line of good & bad to intervene
    no black! no white! a grey area
    i get shrilled to the bone
    shrilled.. like when the rusty needle stings
    percolating in through your skin
    flushing intoxicants of 3rd grade heroin in your veins
    and there the angel of death wraps you warm
    singing the lullaby of death

    when the memories suddenly flashes
    like the flickering headlights of a battered down car
    driven by a dead drunkard,
    which just passes by
    without caring for you a poor hitchiker left all alone
    On the old forgotten road
    where no soul cares or even dares to trespass by
    and there you just have to move on
    just fuckin' move on

    i cannot help but stagger terrorized
    trying to sift through the cold
    collecting the shattered fragments of forgotten deeds
    hurting my own fingers, dripping blood like tears
    harressing & carressing each particular piece
    so that i could just clear it off & throw it in the sewage bin!
    For no one to see it

    coz cold are the forgotten things lost in time
    and old are the wounds that doesn't heal

    For what is the use of these remorse?
    casted down fallen from the grace of mankind

    Dark deeds that were cast aside a longtime ago
    to ressurect those dead, dead deeds
    is futile!
    For what can it give? more than
    terrible sleepless nights in a sort of dazed & confused paranoia
    immersed in the darkest despair of COLD TURKEY

    ©Simon bhusal

  • simon_rock_pujari 70w

    The desolated streets
    The tourist less bazaars
    The tired eyes of a labor with no means to earn
    The street dogs sleeping undisturbed on the main road
    The silhouette of a silent town which once lit with bright city lights
    The solitaire traffic constable
    The daily hubbub of rumours overfed by the news channels
    The people's faces laminated in a face mask
    The empty playgrounds with no merry laughs to hear
    The scent of pungent sanitizers & disinfectants lingering in the stagnant room air
    The echo of distant sirens hampering the sound of silence
    Is cautiously whispering something,
    Isolation.....

    - Simon bhusal

  • simon_rock_pujari 70w

    The desolated streets
    The tourist less bazaars
    The tired eyes of a labor with no means to earn
    The street dogs sleeping undisturbed on the main road
    The silhouette of a silent town which once lit with bright city lights
    The solitaire traffic constable
    The daily hubbub of rumours overfed by the news channels
    The people's faces laminated in a face mask
    The empty playgrounds with no merry laughs to hear
    The scent of pungent sanitizers & disinfectants lingering in the stagnant room air
    The echo of distant sirens hampering the sound of silence
    Is cautiously whispering something,
    Isolation.....

    - Simon bhusal

  • simon_rock_pujari 73w

    A happy ending

    If life could be a
    Black & white movie
    English weather
    A cozy corner
    Johari window
    The sound of silence
    The drizzle of rain
    Golden slumbers
    Old true love
    A warm blue feeling
    Skylark's singing
    Ten years gone
    Long lost promises
    An abstract art
    Classic books & stories
    Sad songs
    Fairytales
    Pure country air
    A long deep breath
    Fragrance of earth
    Smokes of cigar
    Darjeeling tea
    Eternal lost music
    A happy ending.....

    ©Simon bhusal

  • simon_rock_pujari 75w

    Lost words

    Some of them are left unsaid
    Some of them anxious for the ears to listen
    Not every story has a well versed sweet lines to bewilder
    Not everyone wants to express themselves being a writer
    You wont find everything written on a piece of a paper

    Words
    There maybe a zillion of them lost
    Beneath the mire of unpleasant tales
    Crippled inside the pang of isolation
    Underneath the deep hidden scars
    Suffocating inside a silent heart, still searching for words
    Waiting for the listener to arrive
    And after it's too late
    Tired of waiting
    Some of them choose not to exist
    Embracing extinction
    Followed by forgetfulness
    Pretending....

    ©simon bhusal

  • simon_rock_pujari 75w

    Jumped the gun
    chasing unrealistic dreams
    Talked about things that dont change
    Hit the roof
    Didn't brushed my hair
    Sitting ideally - in an existence of dilemma
    Situations stucked up in a jam
    though with a vigorous nausea
    Digested guilts & misfortunes of my own delight
    protecting me from myself
    Like a beedi burnt till the end
    A wonderful story almost complete
    But at it's last few pages the writer dies
    Life is beautiful!!?
    It's sentimental, old & not funny anymore...

    ©Simon bhusal