Tag Archives: sad

Radiohead, You And Me.

We reminded me

Of Radiohead songs

In the manner with

Which, we swayed

Against the tide of

The several instruments,

Soft and mellow, one

Second, and blaring

Our beings, to each

Other’s naked ears,

In another. Tracing

Words and worlds

That spelled


In oddly placed

Riffs and refrains,

Upon our bare and

Corroded chests

With our chilly, bony

Fingers, making each

Other bleed verses

That could only succeed

As songs of defeat –

In love.


Radiohead, Danny Clinch, 1994.

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At breakfast,

you read to me, from your favorite newspaper,
articles about intended duplicity. The World was
quiet for the Dawn to unfold, in its mellifluous
entirety, and the only sounds I could make out, in
my state of hungover reverie, were,


your muffled sighs, hmm and ch ch ch, escaping your chapped lips like the whispered whistle of my antique electric-kettle, expressing your discontent with the unlikely turn-of-events that haunt the modern World,


your words, de-st-ruc-tion and car-na-ge, carefully let out, each syllable, made love to, uttered with affection and regal gentility, with due care afforded to each of their individual fragilities, like baby birds, unfurling their wings and chasing the dawn for the first time,


and, the gentle tapping of your feet, tak.tak.tak, on our concrete floors, like morning dew, falling, leisurely, on dried and withered autumn leaves


and, the clatter of your teeth,(it was slightly chilly) a monotonous tone with no ups and down, like the clamor of those thousand pairs of feet, rushing for the first metro, trying to avoid the curse of traffic and imminent banality,


and, the crunch of bread under a blunt butter knife and a melted condiment, shining in morning shades of amber, just as in verse and rhythm as the drowsy and cursory pleasantries of children being dragged to school at ungodly hours,


and, the rustling of the cheap recycled paper stuck in between your sweaty thumb and index finger, the rustle of leaves from the first gush of the wind that heralds a new Spring every December, and,

the beating of my heart against its bony cage,

nothing but a silent observer.


It was then that I decided if you were ever to be

a figure of speech, you, darling, would be Onomatopoeia.


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A cloud of uncertainty above me,
While I smoke away disappointments.
A homogenous mixture of alcohol and sorrows, served on rocks with a sour olive.
Drinking alone in a stone cold bar, sound of a stone cold heart in my chest.
Going through pictures of the days past, I come across us in all our glory.
You with your summer smile. Me with an unscarred hand and a soul.
We had the time of our lives together, atleast that is what I thought uptill now.
Today I understand the truth, your unseen emotions and your shallow smiles. Why the roads we drove on were barren for miles.
Why you were the first one to leave my hand and how you always remained a step back or forward.
Why your lips never curled when they touched mine, why you never blushed when I kissed your forehead.
Why you lay still every time we made love and later smoked furiously enough.
Why your love was never loving enough.
Why your words were never articulate enough.
Why your heart was never vulnerable enough.
A cloud of uncertainty, a drink of sorrow. Scars of fear and a heartbroken tomorrow.

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