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Pulp Fiction

I want you to know
tonight if I die in my sleep,
do not forget to switch the AC off tomorrow.
Bread, butter, jam will be on the table
and oh yes, keys in the hall.

I want you to know
tomorrow if I do not wake up,
Remember what is left of us is under the bed;
Photos, letters - memories and a whole lot.
Do not just leave me like any other day.
Coming back will be a discomfort.

I want you to know
tonight if you be more indifferent,
I would not mind.
I am used to your late night whispers,
pretensions conveniently termed 'office calls'.
You were never a good liar.

But, tomorrow I may just wake up
as if I have changed my mind
And burn this letter.
Its the hundredth time.

What you won't know is,
Like that piece of paper,
I have only dreamt of being read oneday.

There has never been a pulp fiction.
Perhaps there never will be.

SoUmY@

Comments

Aayushi Mehta said…
Quite an amazing write...love the sentiment expressed...
Cinderella said…
SO much in this one piece...hundreds of thoughts and emotions floating across.

Beautifully conjured. I have a soft corner for this kind of poetry, poetry that outs a weight on your heart and and brings a discordant unrest to your mind.

This piece resonates with my soul.
Loved it.
this one is awesome.....very touching
Anonymous said…
Hahaha.. see, this is the reason I call you LORD. .. Loved the narration, buddy. . And yes, the concept is pretty interesting :)
Tamarind~ said…
Oh God, what a wonderful write. Each word talked to me..! It touched my depths.. there's pain filled in these lines! Its haunting, mate.. really!
Anonymous said…
beautiful..loved it!!
Usha Pisharody said…
And here, you step up the pace, go all punky, yet the soul of the poet is intact, hurting, and poignant!

Beautiful!

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Untitled

Wish I could be a cloud one day I will love to be grey if its you To whom, through whom I traverse. Transparency is optimum; For I know you are unattainable like the sand escaping from the fist like the meaning assumed from the gist. look, oh yes, I can rhyme too. If you wish I can artify our world. Inspiration never needs a permit. You had asked, Why do I vomit blood. Interruptions in dreamy un-realism doesn't suit me. I know. So I write. So that I can breathe you in and breathe dreams out. Live long, you had wished. (Wished), did you? honestly? I will let it pass like just another Failed attempt to face reality Finds itself en-route to contamination. Oh! then what is pure? you may ask. Purity is not you, not me, but us. Purity is the way verses traverse. I will vomit to death one day. Do not pray for me. Pray for my poems who are quiet. Let them borrow my breaths. Let the poetry for us live. (And the footnotes conclude:) You - a miser in love Me - a happy lender. SoUmy@