Tomic Riter

Tag: writing

  • Enters the evening.

    enters the evening with a couple of old songs
wind fills the vacuum
as I wait for my place in the operation theatre
I have learnt it the hard way
I cannot control the passage of time
nor can I have more of it
sooner or later I'll be gone
I share with the wretched world
but only my own wretchedness
the very silence that would put me to sleep
now comes to me to chop me into pieces
I am not yet ready to take the big knife
through my gut
how far is the end if there's any
to all of this.

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  • Fog, Me, You.

    dense fog
no world beyond hundred metre radius
an hour into wakefulness,
I still cannot think straight
waiting for another fifteen minutes to pass
maybe that will lift the fog 
in my head formed from long uninterrupted sleep
it's strange how cold can sedate one
into such a state
twelve more minutes of waiting
my eyes still sealed by sleep dirt
Warhaus playing in the background

Love's a stranger until I see you again

what's left of the fog seeps into my bedroom
through the half open window
despite the freezing weather, 
I am wearing nothing
my feet turn colder
the back of my neck begins to ache
you are awake now 
as awake as I am, maybe more
and you tell me,

I dreamed today and it became too real
and I woke up

I find it beautiful,
sad but beautiful
I write it down
and keep listening to you.

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  • Begin again.

    late night
done with all the red wine
and half of dinner
hopping from one song to the next
craving for a smoke
it's been a wet day
it will be a wet week
new addictions wait for me
new destructions
I lifted my one foot long ago
I am still climbing that one step
imagine my joy upon finding
that I haven't reached anywhere.

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  • Late one evening.

    thought I got rid of the pain
it's back again and it's back late
in the evening when almost all is done
and I am about to retire to my corner,
the frigid corner of my home
Johnny Cash sings Highwayman from his grave
the charm lives on, the melody
melodious than ever and you want something
like that when you're in this kind of pain
an evening warmer than the ones that passed
my love is in the other hemisphere
drowning with sunset
my nights do not make me tremble anymore.

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  • An evening and Kafka.

    Cold evening. Early return from work. Nothing to do until tomorrow morning. I had this urge to read Kafka again, and so this evening, I began reading his diaries. Some music in background kept playing. It was slow music. Not classical though. It might have been blues. On the other side of street, one man talking loudly to another. I can hear his coarse voice despite all the windows and door of my bedroom staying shut. What’s the point in talking so loudly. People often mistake loudness with clarity. It’s foolish.

    An excerpt from the diary –

    “Finally, after five months of my life during which I could write nothing that would have satisfied me, and for which no power will compensate me, though all were under obligation to do so, it occurs to me to talk to myself again. Whenever I really questioned myself, there was always a response forthcoming, there was always something in me to catch fire, in this heap of straw that I have been for five months and whose fate, it seems, is to be set afire during the summer and consumed more swiftly than the onlooker can blink his eyes.”

Excerpt From
The Diaries of Franz Kafka
Copyright protected.

    Approaching night. Red glow on my face. Itch in my hair. How much more will be read this night. How much more will be written before the morning knocks me down once again. It’s something even time cannot tell.

    – Tomic Riter

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  • An update.

    Few more lines written in journal this evening. Now, time to take a break, smoke a cigarette, listen to piano music in the dissecting silence of this cold night. I wish I wore lesser and felt freer. Of course the act won’t set me free, but better to feel that feeling before I am dead and gone. A book shall be out by December end or January coming year – a book of prose. For unknown reasons, I keep coming back to all this writing business like it does matter to me. I do not know if it matters to me. I might be just another hypocrite. Whatever the case be, I have been writing without a break since two months. It’s surprising how I can bend the language in my way and churn out one sentence after another even after all this time. Grateful for it.

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  • Why indeed.

    Why talk in beautiful verses when I am gifted with such a foul mouth?

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  • The trick.

    the trick is to leave the poem alone,
make it an orphan by choice

the trick is to treat a poem
like an open wound
left to rot on some maniac's thighs
held captive in a abandoned asylum

and finally, you come around to it
after days, maybe weeks or months
or just a minute later
and you put a full stop.

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  • Before cleanliness.

    the ache continues for the fourth day
waiting for the ice to turn to water
so I can pour a bucketful over my dirty head
and begin my day
a sunny day, that's two sunny days in succession
sometimes, life can't be more rewarding 
savour the sunny days while they last
the clouds can gather around anytime and fuck you up
or be a buffoon and ignore all of it - 
the clouds, the sunny days, this life
outside, bird screeching continues
I am starving already
I feel like chopping my head off
my ashtray sits like dead jackal on my table
its many tails burnt, froth out of its many mouths
its ass destroyed by swords
it won't come alive again.

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  • This poem is just another lie.

    another evening
victim of the invisible hand
this night won't be any brighter
or colder
but colder nights are coming
coming
colder nights are coming
I am running out of songs to sing
I have been left dry in the brutal sun 
for so long
I could take my chances any night
not tonight
tonight, I am just a plain coward
scratching the surfaces
on which beautiful things grew
this poem is just another lie
I write truths only in paragraphs.

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