Tomic Riter

Tag: poetry

  • About other places.

    I hardly go anywhere. I go everywhere. I do not go anywhere in the manner in which most of them go. Oh how they go. Trash people. I prefer to stay away from all of them. But sometimes, things aren’t in my hands. That’s life. Nobody owes me anything. I owe nothing to anybody. I’ve got my own way of living and it doesn’t go well with most of them. I do not give a damn. I cannot always make myself understandable to anyone. Those days are gone for me as well as for them. All they can do now with me is disagree with me. I prefer their disagreements. I prefer they disagree with me and leave me alone. There’s no growth in being with them or around them. They belong in the herd and I hunt alone. Trash people are hard to deal with. An army of trash people is impossible to deal with. The best course of action is to be a patient listener and ignore their trash and do whatever the hell you feel is the right thing to do.

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  • Failures and failures and failures.

    After two failures in publishing book, I sometimes ask myself, how many more failures will come in my way. But I ask that only to myself and that too only sometimes. It’s not a hard question to put before someone else, but no they probably won’t understand.

    The failure isn’t that I haven’t published. Only I couldn’t make the sale that I was expecting. I can tell myself that it was never about the money. But then, I would be fooling myself. Somewhere, it is about the money. It is about the money because all I want to live on is writing. Wish I understood the significance of money earlier. I would have participated more actively in my own endeavours.

    As I write and write, I also look at what is selling these days the most. It’s mostly trash. Trash poetry. Trash YA books. Trash fantasy novels. Trash motivational books. Realism is dead. Brutality is dead. Rawness of the writing tied upside down and screwed like a pig. Their books are made of feathers and foam. Sleep on them and throw them in the bin the next hour.

    But they make a selling. Well, people are the kings. They elect their oppressors, and trash is what they want to read.

    I cater to a small group of readers. The mad, insane ones. The leftovers. The outlaws. The wicked. The ones who are beyond the law itself.

    I can never write what sells. I write what I write. I cannot write like they do, but then, they too cannot write like I do. We can never meet in a common space. That’s a bitter truth and a final one.

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  • Where have I been.

    Haven’t read a book in two years. Haven’t been anywhere. Haven’t met any artist. Haven’t felt anything exploding inside of me. What will it take to bring me back to life once again. My life isn’t over yet. It’s just torn apart and it keeps tearing up more and more. All these lines probably mean nothing. The sun rises and falls. Our forests catch fire and burn down before dawn. One song finishes and the other begins. The water tank empties itself and fills magically every third day. I am alive by the devil’s grace. I am alive in his heart. I cannot keep track anymore of what all I have lost. He is remembering everything for me. As the night engulfs me, what is left of me, I retire.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

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  • A quiet noon, writings, and songs from the road.

    I remember the day when I made this blog. I am not sure if it has been a year or two here. I have been writing poetry since last five years. I have published two poetry books till now. They are available for purchase on Amazon Kindle store. There’s so much more that I have written in private pages that wait to see the daylight. There’s so much more to write. Every time I sit down to write, I have always succeeded in putting down a few lines. So far, my own mind hasn’t defeated me, at least not in this.

    Around some time last year, I started focusing more on prose writing. I start thinking about what kind of prose would I write if I ever decide to explore it. Whether it’s prose writing or poetry, I have found that it’s easier to write in the moment than to excavate past. I hardly ever wait for the lines to come out. It’s like the lines are all there inside my head and all I need to do is slowly turn on the tap so that drops fall out and down on the paper one at a time.

    Journal writing did help a lot in developing the prose style. I’ve been writing journal since last six months. A major portion of my next book will be constructed straight from there. About the rest of it, well, I cannot say anything. Whether prose or poetry, I want my lines to hit the readers as if they are nuclear missiles. I hate extra words. I hate lengthy sentences unless it’s Dostoyevsky who is doing the writing. Dostoyevsky did it best. The others, not as good as him. His death is a real loss. All the good ones like him died even before I were born. Now, I can only mourn as I read their books. I am nowhere close to my gods. My gods from hell from whom I learn.

    I’ve started reading again here. It will take some time to catch up with everything that I’ve missed in the last couple of months. I am getting there. Also, good to write here again. This place always makes words just fucking flow out of my fingers so effortlessly. I am also thinking about what new I can do on this blog. I’ve got ideas. Started doing a little bit of photography a month ago. Thinking about doing some video shoots. Getting in good shape, the shape I were in four years ago. A lot is going on and twenty four hours seem enough if managed well.

    It’s another burning day in my life. I wait for the night so that I can step out for a while.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

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  • Back again here. Back for good.

    I had been away from here. Away for two whole months. Work kept me away. Also, the writing itself kept me away from here. I have been writing mostly in my journal these days. It’s forty six minutes past midnight as I type these words and prepare to shoot them all at you. Reading Miller now and then. Listening to jazz tonight. Wes Montgomery. Haven’t had a proper meal today. I am remembering that only now. What the hell was I doing all day.

    Finished writing almost 130 pages in the last four months. 270 more to go, and then I can start editing. It’s a long journey and one that’s possible. It’s going to be my first book of pure prose.

    Rest all is fine. Lost my domain, but now it’s back and up and running fine. I will be posting here much more regularly now. Looking forward to catching up with everyone’s posts here.

    Until then, keep writing and keep sharing.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

    CLICK HERE TO VISIT MY AMAZON AUTHOR PAGE AND PURCHASE MY BOOKS

  • Disturbed.

    This night, again, I have opened the doorway to you. How we lay next to each other. Close. Your breasts ripe with warm blood, reaching for my skin anywhere, everywhere, reaching for my lips wanting my tongue. I hadn’t lost my head in a long time. Now I am fully insane and alive, my ears red and on fire, my hands my legs mad dancing with the warmest parts of you, my tongue out and dripping on you. This night, I want you all to myself.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

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  • It won’t stop anywhere.

    the acidic smell of love sends me in a vertigo
your teeth feasting on my tongue
I have let you in before
I am letting you in again
my arms are open, my chest is bare,
my skin is in flames, my wine is sour
my head is pounding for your touch
I could hold your face between my palms
and kiss you until I get reduced to skeleton
it won't stop there
it won't stop anywhere
I will send us both right in the operation theatre
it won't stop there either.

Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

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  • An update.

    23496 words and still running. This piece of text might very well form the basis of my next book. Another year is near. The idea of a new year is thrilling but only until the moment when the clock strikes midnight. Once you’ve entered the year, it begins to feel all the same. Why. It won’t be wrong to say that I haven’t done enough to change the course of my life in my favour. It’s another thing that I feel no regret about it. I squeezed each moment as much I could. For as long as I am alive, I cannot fail. Or maybe I have failed in so many avenues all throughout my life that one more failure wouldn’t matter.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

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  • Out for too long.

    basking in 11:47 sun
Liszt crazy on his piano
my life is a poorly crafter art film
besides, no audience
Liszt has gone to vomit
soon, clouds gather and strike the birds down
my mind a sea of toilet water
in my garden, a peacock getting fucked 
by the neighbour's dog
a cat sleeping through the day's uneventfulness
I have been out in the sun for far too long.

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  • Towards sunset.

    I've cracked open a beer
I've put on classical music
I have entered this evening
thoroughly unprepared
outside, noises of various kinds
they'll die down in an hour
the stray cat will run away
to a warmer shelter
I won't see her until next morning
what has really happened to me
why does everything that I write
takes a tragic turn
am I so incapable of writing
anything pleasant.

Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

    CLICK HERE TO VISIT MY AMAZON AUTHOR PAGE AND PURCHASE MY BOOKS