Thursday 27 August 2009

Word Ogres

I mix up words all the time.
Got thrown out of English class
for saying "accomplice" out loud.
while the girl in my head cried,
"Companion! Companion!"

Completely dyslexic
in the order of numbers while calling a lover,
the cacophony of cries while running for cover,
while quoting from poems, befuddled, I hover.
Completely dicklessic.
Like the friend who said he had penis ennui.

I limp through words,
lisp through life,
freeze over fricatives;
my diphthongs take lives.

When I bick the kucket,
having accidentally come in contact with a double-edged words,
they will berry my bones,
curry my poems,
write on my gravestone:
"Anoopa Anand. Born with a silver spoonerism in her mouth."

The number you are trying to reach is busy

The new world
with its weird wireless ways
has taken the zing out of friendships, relationships, romance.

On meeting a boy,
his dimples plugged into your brain
like a shiny new i-Pod,
the memory of his five o'clock shadow colours everything,
and you realise you can't call him at all.
So you text him.

Text.
A word stripped of context,
having lost its glory in academia
over smart kids, drunken nights, bad sex.
Where is the literature,
the verbal prowess,
the confidence,
the dramatic beginning of silver screen romance
in "it wuz nic 2 meet u. c u soon. tc."
And so in the bravado of badly written words,
he will say things,
you will say things.

The second date is on e-mail.
Do you dare to spell right,
to punctuate,
to use the evasive sentence case?
Do you dare,
when you are building castles in the air
and the man next to you in the internet parlour
has discovered breasts in his vicinity?
You don't.

But the e-mails go so well,
he is so witty, so pretty,
you can't wait for what's next.
GTalk friends, Facebook friends,
common friends, friends of friends.

And somewhere in the frenzy of an electronic world,
where a power cut could announce the end of a relationship,
you glance left at a little column below his Photoshopped picture.

This
is
how
you
find
out
he's
In A Relationship.

Even a fling these days is devoid
of the delicious
eyes-meeting, hands-grazing, lips-smacking.
Even a fling
is a long-distance thing
played out in Twitter updates and status updates and no dates whatsoever.

Thank god you never got around to calling him.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
Please hold the line, or try again later.

Neevu dial maadiruva number saddhyakke kaaryaniruthavaagide.
Dayavittu swalpa samayada nantara prayatnisi.

For Christmas
I want a real boy without a cell phone.
Not Pinocchio with his long
thick
hard
nose.