You're finally alive again, Syd.

Shine.



Yesterday at the bar,
a plastic blonde on tv said
you were 6 feet under and breathing dead.
All those chemicals in the soil, finally-
would the lads strum your song at the funeral,
or just sit there in black, jack?

But the blonde carried on;
said you were a founding member, but left
after some "drug trouble".
Others were surprised you lived so long, till
Tom the bartender said you had been dead
a long time already.

You grew old, syd, and plucked potatoes
from the seeds in your mind. Tea at 4 'o' clock?
Did you paint in the shed outside,
next to the garden hose and rake?
(Is your pick at the bottom of the fishbowl
and will you still guide my lost n' lonely soul?)

You died as Mr. Roger Keith Barrett. I stared
at your picture, as you glared at the camera
you were too tired to chase away. Death's happening all over,
like it always has. But somewhere for me, Syd, you're finally free.
The druids at stonehenge wait with your Fender, and once again
you will write music, not just poetry.

Of Songs on the Radio, and other things I have been learning

The fact is, the radio is a god. A god, or a toked up caterpillar sitting on a hoard of mushies. Only for one reason, ladies, gents and other assorted reptilia.

The reason of course, being that the radio always knows how to time songs. You have noticed this yes?

You're in your car driving alone, cursing yourself for the lack of cigarettes and a girlfriend, and some retard jockey mumbles a line and then this song starts, and its Brian May with Too Much Love Can Kill you.

You pick up your ex's skanky best friend at the club, and Alice Cooper starts singing Poison.

Your best friend's girl dies of cancer, and he's on the phone with you, crying like the day his dad flushed his still-live turtle down the toilet, you are groping for words, parked on the side of the 101, and Black starts playing, and you cry as Vedder howls.

You're in bed with a man you love, and the day suddenly gets colder when you start talking about the fact you haven't been talking, and Nickleback starts in with Someday.

Yeah, there's a radio god. He lives in your stereo. He has a bitch sense of humor, and he's into being the dom in this aural relationship.

Ok that's one thing I've learnt. The other is that relationships do more than russian roulette ever could to increase your pain threshold. Physical only, mind you. I'll leave the more lavender whinings to the women and men who do it better than me-- Call Dr. Phil, yo, I hear he's on tour right now. But seriously...

Pain. Sensations, more like it. For instance remember the time when you were 6 and ran into your first highly polished glass door?

You fell to the floor. Behind your closed eyes, the map of texas flashed psychedelically. But with the uncontrolled lachrymal secretions also came that rush of endomorphins, and you lay there, and suddenly-- smiled. That kind of feeling, the increase in the threshold for accepting that feeling, can come only with glass doors and excitable teeth. I hold a fondness for both, so sue me. And how great thou art, Radio God: I type this and Def Leppard starts up with Love Bites.

I think I need another smoke.

Ok that's more a realization than something I learnt new, so having cheated and rambled, let me carry on further... am sure there's a point to this somewhere.

Ah! Yes-- I've learnt that Tenacious D are truly righteous, and are the chosen ones to rock the kali yug into the next shining white trip that has been written of. Google 'Tenacious D- Tribute- Video' and watch what comes up.

I've also learnt that its the timing of the cigarette after the meal that determines whether you need to take a dump or not. Truly righteous. Screw thy prune juice, Mrs. Jones, nothing works for that feeling of moksha better than a well-timed smoke. The perfect moment is usually 7mins 45 secs post chowing.

And then-- summer holidays in America are very different from summer holidays in India. Maybe it's the amount of time you get, or maybe coz it's the only time of living sun that this country ever really gets, so all the reeling-dealing-mad-burnt-rubber-wheeling that can be done only gets done at this time. 3 months of mirages and myriad frutifulness. People do their own thing come summertime in Yankville. Everyone finds a groove,gets a tattoo, throws up on a beach, names a tree after their grandpa, finishes an internship, et al.

Me? I just live. I watch. And learn. And time smokes after meals.

I've learnt that I'm afraid of fire escapes.

I've learnt that my favourite line for today is from a Tom Waits song: " I smoke my friends down to the filters"
What I like about Tom Waits is that he's quaint like an 18th century absinthe house, and just as addictive. I could OD on Tom Waits.

I've learnt that I don't give a camel's snort for national holidays and reruns of famous sitcoms. I do however, have a thing for paid programming slots.

A wonder of American TV. For half an hour, smiling blondes and well educated black folk sell you cd collections and exercise videos. Spent the past 3 nights rocking out to Time Life's Soul and Disco collections: 158 of the greatest hits of the 50's and 70's, for only $9.95, money back ga...

yeah well. I aint seen you come up with an anti AIDS serum yet, so don't you DARE judge me.

I've learnt that sleep deprivation makes you more miserable than warm jello and loneliness together ever can.

I've learnt that writers must write or die.

I've learnt that the one person you really love, and this despite 2 weeks of close nose to nose and armpit types contact, is the one person you can never write a poem about.

Never ever. Ever never.

I've learnt that bell peppers taste good with swiss cheese and rye.

I've learnt how to cook the perfect pot of rice.

I've learnt all the lyrics to Black.

I've learnt that one shouldn't blog after ages of self-imposed silence, because one tends to ramble. I've learnt that one shouldn't say one.
Coz it's presumptuous.

That's just me though. And what do I know? I don't have a favouritest sandwich, and I listen to The Darkness.

Oh yeah... one final thing. The only way to deal with the bitchy Radio God?
Cut the volume, holmes. He gets the message.

Night be kind. Go on now. Git.