Tomic Riter

Tag: story

  • I am not.

    I am not a poet. I know nothing of rhythm or rhyme or imagination. I am like Henry Miller. I am a talker and I talk through words. I hate my voice, those repulsive vibrations of my vocal cords. I would rather not speak. Ever. I would rather decay in my plastic chair on some evening sitting by the window. The sky is holding nothing much. My plate is empty. My grandfather hangs on the wall in front on me, and next to him, my grandmother. He was a real son-of-a-bitch. His mother was a labrador and his father a pug. Imagine the union! He was a real scumbag, a real man of God, a real hand of the Devil. He destroyed everything and hence, nothing fruitful will grow for the next hundred years. He was a real pain in the ass and I remember watching him on his deathbed, his soul was barely hanging by a leg bone. I wish I strangulated him long before that, but that privilege I couldn’t have. Which leads me to think, why the hell am I talking about my asshole grandfather? No idea.

    I am not a poet. I cannot produce much except a lot of semen and a lot of sweat and a lot of shit. The last time I looked at my blood, it was bright red, all sealed in a thin glass bottle. It took those fuckers five days to test my blood. FIVE DAYS! All the virus could give me was vitamin deficiency. If I could miniaturize myself and enter the quantum world, I would catch the virus by its neck and smash its head in some cupboard.

    I am not a poet and the year is 2021 and I have come quite far. I have come so far, I cannot see shit. I have stepped beyond the horizon in my green shoes and brown hat. My hands are melting down and my cup is overflowing with the most bitter coffee. I need a buffalo ride to the supermarket. I need the infection. Again. I am lifting you up and putting you down. I am walking and dreaming and talking and walking and drinking. I am scratching my drooping mustache and staring at my cock. ENOUGH OF POP MUSIC. ENOUGH! This night requires jazz and a global catastrophe. I am playing some whiskey jazz now, and waiting for this insidious plague to butcher us all.

    If anything bad happens, please do not pay attention to it. This is my little playground. My devil’s triangle. My home from where moon and sun and the stars and all that has vanished. I am standing at the edge. I am opening my mouth to a cruel storm. I am igniting the burner of life in me. I am alive and well in this conspiring desert as I talk to the dead on some nights.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • No more tonight.

    Opened a new page. Let’s see what have we got tonight. A packet o biscuits and no dog to feed. A water bottle half empty. A pair of lungs half collapsed. Let’s introduce ourselves gently to the matters of death and life beyond dying. Let’s open our legs and bare our backs to the harsh hunter of this night. It has rained tonight. Nobody drowned. I got wet a little but that’s all. That was my little adventure. And then I returned home. I am weak and loathsome and mad. Let’s pop another vitamin pill and unscrew our limbs. Let’s lie down anywhere and stop breathing. Poems of Bukowski. Poems of Carlos Williams. Songs of Cohen. Stories of Raymond Carver. I read all that in two days. Imagine the state of my mind. I can vomit all day and night and afternoon and evening and not develop a slight headache. Can you believe that, you tongueless frog? Can you? You cancerous froth? Soon I will be gone, and later I will be back. What a feat. What an astounding feat. Pandemonium everywhere. Somebody needs oxygen, Somebody needs a syringe. Somebody needs a bed. Somebody needs a fucking life. GODDAMNIT!

    How long before God stops wiping his ass and gets down here. He’s been wiping his ass for so long. He’s been on it since the first big bang. Oh yes, there have been several big bangs. And he emerged like a giant cock from the singularity and then he grew an ass on himself and he started wiping it. He does not care. He is smuggling coke to reckless Harlem. He is supplying women to the damp brothels of Kolkata. He is shaving the heads of his fairies and pushing them in fire. He is the greatest con artist but his tricks are being exposed and they are failing day by day. I myself would have stuffed him in some jute sack and submerged him at the bottom of the Pacific. But I fail to find him. He has run away, again, like a two-faced rat. Let’s forget him and return to my miserable life.

    It could have rained a little more tonight. I have been waiting for rain since long. I would love to think about something else, but I fail. I fail repeatedly. I fail like no one else. The sweet voice of mild rain is filling my brain, shutting down my eyes, sending my nose into a frenzy. I better go now. I better go and lock myself in a suitcase. I better cut off my tongue and smash my eyes with some rock. I better go now. I better not write another word. I better not.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • Deep in the night.

    Wasted most of my evening time watching stupid films on television. Now, lying awake deep in the hollow pit of this night. Alone and weak and faltering like a soldier with three arrows through his chest and one through his ass. I lay down like a corpse in the coffin that is my bed. I watch through the window. It was a moonful night few hours ago. And now, nothing. Only grim darkness. My room is growing colder and colder with each passing hour. I cannot help but wonder if this is the end. I cannot help but wonder. I might be ahead in time than you but it doesn’t matter. I ate as much as I needed to, probably more, and I read as much as I could, but I get this feeling that something that I could have done today still remains to be done. I do not know what that something is. Maybe I do not care much about that. Maybe my ass just needs some beating. I need to get my brain dry cleaned.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • Sitting on my ass.

    Another day. Who would have thought. But it’s here. It’s always here. It’s spreading its eagle wings, opening its dinosaur mouth. It’s going to devour me today, just like it did yesterday. I am tired and weak and there’s something in me which is incurable. I write my blogs inside locked bathroom, on the toilet seat, on the wet bathroom floor. I write on my cellphone because I have got time for nothing. It’s not like I got anything to do. It’s just the way I am. Just the way I am. And it’s fine. It’s not that bad. I brush my teeth in the morning. Isn’t that enough doing for a day, when all days are just the same? I know there’s an escape and it’s not some poison or hanging by a cloth. I know that there’s a painless escape, a one-way route, the only route to true freedom, to salvation. Salvation? What the hell am I writing about. I get distracted sometimes. What salvation? I can hardly boil rice. I can hardly cut my fingernails. There’s no salvation for me. There’s nothing for me. Just these words and these sentences that I am trying to make. I am a clown. I am the saddest clown on this planet. I am one of a kind. Headache again. I will torture myself later. Now, I better take a shower.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • Dead and more dead.

    Listening to crap hip-hop songs. Another half day gone. Nothing written. Bring me an axe, I would like to have my head chopped away. How loathsome can one man be? When I sit down and think about it, I begin to find some answer in myself. I want to shoot myself at the very back of my throat. How about you bring me a gun and I teach you how to load it? How stubborn can one man be? How utterly stupid! Winter is gone. Absolutely gone. You cannot find it anywhere around here. You can try. It will bring you only disappointment. Winter is gone and it has flown with dragon wings out of my world. Drank some sweet water some time back. The doctor said it would solve the problem of dehydration. I want to sit on his neck and bite into his windpipe until he begins to speak truth to me. But really, who am I expecting truth from? And what truth? HAAAHHHH. We all are gnawing at the same piece of stale bread, drinking the same poison. I wonder if I will ever start writing. The chances are slim. I would love to die in sleep. Alas, sleep only raises my blood pressure and does nothing worse. What a loser. What a shameless loser. Nobody is going to read you. You are going to rot under the pile of your own unread books. You think you are some bigshot? You think you are so cool? You are nobody. Your writing is bullshit. Your books are pathetic. PATHETIC! How come you are still standing here. How come you are still writing. Have you got any sense in your stupid head. Who are you writing for. There’s nobody. You can scream all you want. You can have your eyeballs exploded with bombs. Nobody is coming for you, for your words, your sentences, your books. You will go down. But before that, let’s drink lemonade. It’s just too hot.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • Lord, give me that if not this.

    I couldn’t write much in the last two days. I was reading Bukowski and listening to some shit music. My legs are better now. Atleast I won’t die from their aching. Yesterday night, I realised that I am not writing as much as I need to write every day. I need to be disciplined, otherwise I am not going to make it. There’s no way. There’s no alternative to it. My mind wanders to places, and there’s a story running in my head since a week. I need to write it down today. I need to write it down otherwise it will die a lonely death inside my head. I want to give it a better death. But before anything else, I need to take a walk in the sunlight. The damned virus has made me weak to some extent. I need to get back in the game. I need my horsespeed back. And I need some way to ward off this recurring feeling of hunger. Can I be left to starve for half a day? I loathe my wellwishers because they are going to kill me by keeping me alive in the most dead of the ways. If I leave everything on them and I do as they say, then it’s better I drink the toilet cleaner now and overdose on it. A comatose of 5 years wouldn’t be that bad Total blankness. And after that, I rise like a bad jesus, with an ache in my head and the baton of unemployment stuck deep in my asshole. I will scream and I will go mad and that life will be far more interesting than this one.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • Just taking a walk

    A mother running with her girl on the dry evening grass. Two lovers busy in their cellphones. I look around, click a few pictures and stamp them on the ass of this blue world. A signboard says dogs are not allowed. Thank god! And then I see a man with a dog walking through that signboard. He won’t be fined. It’s just a signboard. Nobody looks at it. I guess I am the first one to look at it. I look somewhere else. A man standing in the balcony of a flat under construction. What’s he doing there? And then another question comes to my mind. What am I doing here? I am just taking a walk. I was born only yesterday. I do a few pushups – 10 in all. I bend my legs at the knees as I listen to some jazz vibrations. I walk another step, take another breath.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • Before the shower.

    He is cleaning his gods’ faces, brushing their teeth. He is washing his hands. He is a man devoted to the useless. He is old and still caged. He is roaming around, calling random people and talking crap. An hour ago, he ordered a dead animal. It should arrive around midday. He is sitting in the toilet, filling the bucket and then emptying it in his throat. He is turning the knob, locking the door, disappearing. He is spitting in the ocean. He is burying the birds under his red carpet. His brain is working but it doesn’t matter. He has lost it. He lost it long ago when he began thinking that he was right in everything. Nobody is right in anything. We do what we do.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • Rubbed my eyes and gave up.

    Staring at the ceiling. The fan whirling. Sunlight painting the curtains in red. Red blinking on the digital clock that hangs beside the toilet. Listening to an old voice. Listening to no voice. Listening. My fingers are all bent, like I am transforming into a new creature. But I am not. Looking at the cold red blanket covering my legs, my cock, my waist. Listening again to an old voice. Nothing painful, just the usual blabbering. Nothing serious. Nothing. Feeling my legs heavy. It’s because of the walk I took this morning. Listening to the pressure cooker whistle. Again. Again. And again. One more time. It keeps whistling. I lose track of count. Something so stubborn must be boiling inside. Time doesn’t exist when I write. Everything is here and forever. Nothing dies.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • Falling into you.

    Yawning in my chair like a rattlesnake. I still haven’t gone for a walk. Maybe tomorrow morning. But that’s light years away. Dave Brubeck playing some cool jazz for me. It won’t rain tonight. I keep the television on mute. It’s always some bullshit playing. Same bullshit playing every day. Something like an engine running in the neighborhood. Always at this time of the night. What the hell. Somebody shoot that man and sell his liver. I feel like I haven’t slept in ages. But I slept only yesterday. Thinking of jumping into the bed and crawling on top of you and we kiss and hug and write stupid shit together for some time.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.