yellow cap and mr.maudlin
Some friends I know only in the swimming pool; some friends I only know drunk.
In.so.mania
I am going mad just now. Loopy. In a good way 
The city is mine you know. I just gotta have the cycle between my legs. And just watched Hancock. It was more fun than ‘I’m not there.’ Great acting Cate Blanchett. But how can you beat a hot rough guy with a stubble?
It’s night. Or let’s say morning. Can’t sleep. Not a wink. Not a peep. What do I do now? Now? now? Great works of art? Great ideas achieved by toil and labour at night? On the anvil of determination?
The book I want to read is never around. A ship is sinking in the book. It’s damn gripping. Should be read in flow for a complete dose of horror and fright. But damn. I feel 10% horror in the loo, 20% in bed at night, 30% on a Sunday. That’s not how a book oughta be read.
Night now. Will scrunch my eyes. And force some sleep into my system. So that when I am at work tomorrow, I don’t feel like walking around in flip-flops and my bedsheet, shoving a toothbrush in my mouth and getting my boil-boil chai just right.
CAN do ANYTHING
Earthquake maker. Mixie shaker. Pestle dropper. Smasher. Durga Shiva. Wrath and Fire. Mars in paint, racing across the wall to bludgeon an annoying fellow-God to obedience. Neptune storming, writhing, wrestling, knocking footballs off his chest, doing headers and ship-wrecking kicks. Music. Not making a spasmodic crane of you. But throwing you in an eiderdown blanket to throw over your head, catch the sunlight, stuff it and capture it, sit on it to let it escape at night, in bed, when a spot of sunshine could live a little in your room. And then modestly die.
If you yawn, the piano teacher will slap you
“Oh thee my lord
The giving god
My thirst soul doth pine
Oh when shall I behold thy face
Thou ma-a-aa-jesty divine
Why restless why cast down my soul
Daa dee dah dah dah dah
The glory of
Is now is now
And thy refreshing grace…”
Eyes closed. Saying the Os and As properly. Singing out. Stretching. Enunciating. A batch of girls in the auditorium. Tunics and ties and hands behind the back. Mrs.Madan at the piano. Banging the keys furiously, her petite frame shivering. Lazy afternoon passing by. Sports field empty. Someone’s geography class going on. Someone’s needlework class. Someone's biology teacher throwing the aorta and ventricles heart diagram across the class. Someone making a moustache on another with a green marker. Someone reading Great Expectations aloud while everyone builds a low opinin of Pip and wishes to be Estella. Someone dropping a little Hydrogen Sulphide and releasing 'rotten egg smell'. Someone sharing a crepe bandage smeared with Soframycin. Somewhere the art teacher with a pearl necklace interrupted by plastic strawberries, teaching a student how to let the purple flow into the pink to make the most real looking sweetpea flower. Sweetpea stalks on everyone’s desks heaving and sighing. Dying as they are painted in the heat. “For next week children, we will do the cosmos flower.”