slightlysardonic

Happy person

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Happy birthday by slightlysardonic, literature

Literature

Happy birthday

Just as every year, the minutes leading to midnight were pregnant with disappointed expectations. Expectations that carried within them the knowledge that nothing was going to happen. "Happy Birthday!" I knew those words were coming, but they felt empty - just like a lame "take care". Her intention probably wasn't empty, but words are like that sometimes. My "Thank you" was worse, like a vacuum sucking in the following words, whatever genuine thing it could've been.

Dawn by slightlysardonic, literature

Literature

Dawn

You sit forlorn, mist lining your faces Your deplorable, despicable faces - dull promise running through them like an unobtrusive strand of hair. The moon melts into an angelic face, the stars come together to mend your heart. Bolted to your seats, tired and dazed, you await the perfect sunrise. But who will mourn your loss? How will you relinquish your pain? There are no authors left to write of such fatuity anymore, for they're all drudging to pawn off their own pain, weeping like children, carving into tree barks, vomiting outside cheap bars, drunk, penning away in the hope of respite. So go home, and change that lightbul

A poet's crime by slightlysardonic, literature

Literature

A poet's crime

I've committed a single crime, far too many times. I hid it in my pockets till it burnt my fingers. I held it inside me, like a mother protecting her child from evil. I nursed it within me till it grew, moulded it into its best form, carved it into my veins. One morning when I woke, my head remained drenched in a darkness saturated with cries. To have held on to a poem until it finally died, escaping my veins, my pockets, my memory. That is a crime. And I have a history of crime hiding behind my ears.

Penpal by slightlysardonic, literature

Literature

Penpal

You always write, from a country that's too far away. You tell me of your sins, your relationship with your brother, your best traits in bed. You send me coins; I picture you a different face on each of them. I hold one to my chest, smell it. May be you smell like coins. Or freshly laundered sheets. You send me mix tapes; I listen in the bath. I can't read or watch insects surround street lamps, without you tip-toeing through my head. Do you dream of unspeakable things? Does the sound of velcrow somehow comfort you? Do you also watch railway tracks converge and diverge, struck by its beauty? These are things I want to

Another one, another time by slightlysardonic, literature

Literature

Another one, another time

The stereo is vomiting our every song one by one. But there is a silence, thick as custard that tells a story of two lovers and twenty thousand loves. You are here with me, listening too. Climbing on to my collar bone, licking my earlobe and teasing my every sense, before you settle, lodged between my ribs. I think always, of how it would be if we stayed close enough to touch but not kiss, to discover what we loved and hated before we separated. I wished that in the whiteness of your room, I found a space next to you, just by your side - to see the world the way you saw it. Staring at the ceiling didn't feel the same witho

Black and white by slightlysardonic, literature

At the balcony by slightlysardonic, literature

Mute by slightlysardonic, literature

City by slightlysardonic, literature

Literature

City

City of dreams city of profligacy. Tall buildings loom over me like hungry vultures over a corpse Salty waters surge at my feet, trying to sway me, shake me, and lose my grip. There is no poetry here. Words that creep out of road-side flowers and man-made fountains shrivel up like raisins under the sun. Rhyme that drifts in ethereal melodies falls flat to the ground like birds shot dead. People walk about like weary robots in spurious contentment. Sweat and grease traded with air-conditioned nights. There is no poetry here. The days stretch on like an ocean of waste, too vain to be salvaged. City of dreams, City of mak

Aspiration by slightlysardonic, literature

Literature

Aspiration

I visited Rajan today, nestled merrily on the patio and shuffling his deck of cards. His turn had come. He lived the life of his peers’ envy. Government job, lengthy marriage and three charming kids. “The man has everything” they said. He was happy. Retired. Every afternoon, he sauntered onto the porch with his dear deck of cards, asking someone for a game or two. His wife was by his side with a plate of pan and the children never tired of his story about the May of 1969. He laughed and beamed with all his heart, his toothless smile all but empty. I smiled and chatted too, like everyone else. After all, l

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Happy birthday by slightlysardonic, literature

Literature

Happy birthday

Dawn by slightlysardonic, literature

Literature

Dawn

A poet's crime by slightlysardonic, literature

Literature

A poet's crime

Penpal by slightlysardonic, literature

Literature

Penpal

Another one, another time by slightlysardonic, literature

Literature

Another one, another time

Black and white by slightlysardonic, literature

At the balcony by slightlysardonic, literature

Mute by slightlysardonic, literature

City by slightlysardonic, literature

Literature

City

Aspiration by slightlysardonic, literature

Literature

Aspiration

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Broken Sonnet by studd-muffin, literature

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Broken Sonnet

Echoes of morning glory linger under the petrol rainbows Crimson skies cascaded by her long black hair The decadence swallowed by her jasmine tinted body The emancipation in her voice All immorality effaced at the moment of embrace The texture of love is the skin on her stomach Her kaleidoscopic eyes projecting slides of utopia A kiss that makes him feel beyond himself. To render himself wise he has to grow out of his own skin Create his own world beyond the carbon rain Etch his own destination Find the truth and wisdom in love Build a ship and set sail...

About slightlysardonic

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Artist

India
Deviant for 15 years
obsoleteletters.blogspot.com; http/asmerryasme.blogspot.com
She / Her

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My Bio

Current Residence: Bangalore, India
Favourite genre of music: Rock 'n Roll.
Favourite style of art: Surrealism

Favourite Writers

P.G Wodehouse, Kafka

Tools of the Trade

Keyboard, fingers (I type with 2 fingers. Weird, I know), pen and paper

Other Interests

Reading, writing, Faffing

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slightlysardonic

Jun 11, 2010

Pit-stop

0 min read

My life is at a pit-stop right now. I quit my job, got the love back, started doing things that I love doing but never had time for, once again. I hit the pause button, gathered all that I am, all the bits and pieces and made a new me. A whole me. For the first time, it seems like there's a little bit of everything, and in the right mix too =)

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slightlysardonic

Sep 27, 2009

Just so

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Someone told me once that you can never grow as a person until you learn to leave your comfort zone behind. I took up a friend's challenge recently: to read an Indian Chicklit book, cover to cover. It was painful and time-consuming, but I did it. But why would I put myself through that? Because I've developed an intense hatred towards any kind of routine. Also, I realised that I tend to stagnate. The work of P.G.Wodehouse is my cul-de-sac, my convenience. I love it so much so that I forget to explore other writers/forms of writing. This tendency is exactly what made me see most of my life in black and white. I loved the colour black so much

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slightlysardonic

Jun 29, 2009

Strange taste

0 min read

I've been on a mental Woody Allen film spree! It's crazy. I downloaded at least 10 of his films and watched them back to back the past few days. And I'm in love. It's strange how my 2 favourite comedians are completely different from each other. Woody Allen is a real, American, Cynical, overly pessimistic genius. While Bertie Wooster (played by Stephen Fry) is fictional, British, Extremely optimistic and an idiot. I don't know how I can thoroughly enjoy both types of humour, but I do. One day, I will marry a very charming British boy.