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The Merlot-Ponty Circus

A dark humour. Some (mostly me...) would say its like a banal copy of The Hitchhikers Guide to Galaxy with PTSD.
SNIPPETS

The Holy Fuck
12/SEPT/2020

Adarsh Jamadandi


Sometimes perhaps only in Death you can experience the Divine. That is why God invented Cancer. That is why, sometimes people wage war and blow things and blow buildings. Sometimes they blow themselves up and sometimes they fly planes into the buildings.
Just so that they can experience the Divine.
- Adarsh Jamadandi 


FastLane
13/SEPT/2020

Adarsh Jamadandi

The car came to life with a deafening sound. Fucking ramshackle of an engine. I hop in… An old-school 50 pound boombox spitting tunes.. melody strewn. Frail lyrics slipping through the cracks. I start driving, doing a 90 on the freeway. I am startled by something. Something hurtling across the highway, following me with almost at the same speed. I get anxious and check the rearview mirror. A sigh of relief escapes my chest… “Phew.. its only my PTSD. I thought they were cops or something”. 

Tortured Genius.
15/MAY/2021

Adarsh Jamadandi
Sometimes my imposter syndrome gets the best of me. I wish I didnt have to rhyme every time I wrote something. But I like doing complex involuted compound rhyming syllables. Sometimes I like to play with words till they morph into cringe raps or poems. 

Here I go again..

I’m back at this mundane wordplay.

Cringe at best... product of my discord mind melée..

Some would call it just another inane prattle. A fucking twattle.

From a twaddling wannabe (H)Em’ingway.

Yes I know I’m no Hemingway...

Yes I know I keep twattlin 

Like typewriting Mark Twain 

High on a bottle...Refillin (his ink bottle duh) on his triflings...

But Shouldn’t you start penning em ?

When the fucking walls start whisperin gems , 

You can call them Musings for the front row Mens and Dames.

Rattling their jewellery... Cheering my ingenuity in some faux-awe applausery...

Crowded room full of People all jumping off their seats..

Listless languid deceitful elites...

Revelling in their fetishes and fetes..

Expecting me to spit new verses I have never even writ....

I guess it’s the curse of the standard..

Making me feel like an imposter, a fraud...

My minds a dumpster, sometimes sinister pet name Dexter...it’s flawed...

You got a syndrome...beneath that facade..Blame it on the chromosome! quips Freud...

As I feel like I’m hitting my mark...

I find myself back in this abyss... 

Soliloquing ...pickin apart all my coup..

I bully myself because I don’t seem to do what I put my mind to..

Muttering to myself “Damn. I’m a crook”.


                                                               

She was like a Midsummer Nights Dream...
06/AUG/2021

She was like a midsummer night’s dream. I was scared if I woke up… She’d disappear without a trace.

I’d wake groggily… startled.. stumbling, fumbling, foundering, floundering hurriedly to write down the essential details.

Because quivering words were the only crutches, I could rely on to make this thing tangible.

Unfortunately, I could already feel bits of her slipping through the cracks and getting lost in the oblivion of my mind, where sometimes I visit to get out of my head…

So I cheat.

I paint this thing with my words.

These words, like my thoughts, are obsessive and incessant and perpetually zeitgeist-y to the point of suffocation, pages after pages I write spiraling out of control like tentacles that drag you into this darkened abyss…into abysmal nothingness… a chasm….

And I think I write a lot about her than I should…


                                                                        - Adarsh Jamadandi

I don't have a cool title for this... Yet.
29/JUNE/2021

Adarsh Jamadandi
I think this is one of my best pieces. Simply because of the metaphors I have used. I hate it when I have to explain it. But the first time I posted it on my IG, I didn't get any feedback, good or bad. That was a little disconcerting to me, Well, I guess nobody really has time to read stuff now do they? Or maybe my writing sucks. Well I will leave it here, let me know what you think... Especially if you figure out the deep, philosophical stuff I have hidden amongst my carefully crafted metaphor... :D




Back on my bullshit, my back to the wall..
I can’t turn my back on it I admit..it’s really banal.
Back to these frail lyrics… slipping from the back of my mind…
Back to splitting my words...
Getting em twined so that they kinda of a rhyme…
On a scratchy vinyl.

Back at the yard of my mind..
Digging for words I can mine...
Mostly corpses of rhyme.
To trickle a slow flow of endorphin brine…
Like a Mormon preaching his sermon
With a wicked dose of a wine …
Thinning his herds… his shepherd be Jack Kevorkian…
But that’s Thy Design.


My to-do lists be like...
15/JULY/2021

Adarsh Jamadandi

“I remained too much inside my head and ended up losing my mind.” — Edgar Allan Poe

Trite Twain Traipsing Around...
09/October/2021

Adarsh Jamadandi
Recently I came across poems by Meenal Jhajharia. Each poem I think is a masterpiece. I was really inspired by her poems and it sort of prompted me to write this. Few lines that I have incorporated are directly from her poem/s.
(Photo : From my Berlin Trip)



On most days I barely notice this hanging thick around my window. It’s seamless.
It’s always bubbling, ichor-like, smouldering cauldron
Oozing out of the crevices of chasm that I think is loneliness…
I don’t know how deep this void of listless nothingness exists
But this I know… this I know that it lives.
Living this life on a lease…Sometimes it leaves… do you hear that rustling?
Leaves… this life of caprice…
Smothering…Stifling… Sultry and sometimes Sulking into a crescendo…

No no I’m not seeing things. It’s just Nature abhors naked singularities…
I know it’s there… it’s there like a tottering turret on a castle of glass…
It’s hard for me to explain… it’s hard because I think these words…
These insipid words… they are just tired… tired of me I guess…
I am sorry I abused you… I had to find ways to subdue this phantom silence…
So like a trite Twain traipsing around,
I threw my words nonchalantly, carefree like I used to throw around my apologies…
And now every time I want to tell you, these words… they form a knot in my throat leaving me gasping…
I think they are no longer interested in our dreary dysfunctional rendezvous,
Now who am I gonna offend?

On most days I barely notice it.
On most days I wake up with stale aftertaste like a wicked dose of wine in my throat..
the kind that is cold as ice but burns like rum on a fire… how does it know?
Maybe it is because I lay awake on this casket that I call my bed draped in whites, writhing, as dreams that I never had slither and reek out of the rifts of my casket that I call my bed.

For a brief instant when the curtains are flying hither and yon…
untethered and unhinged by the shackles of my window frames…
i think you can make out distinct shapes…
Like a nascent pareidolia humming itself to sleep…
But mostly I am back at the yard of my mind…
Digging for words I can mine…
All I find are corpses of rhymes drowning,
Hunkered down by the...
Asphalt bracelets like clinkering handcuffs
All neatly tied up in metaphors that I don’t remember…
As I said… on most days I barely notice it…








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