Sometimes you are at some place, terribly inspired and under the impression that if you write something just then you're going to whip up the best shit you've ever written. The sun, the sand, one of the your most favourite people sitting across the table, a constantly breaking heart, the best apple shake you ever had...the setting's perfect. And then you start to write a poem. But it doesn't turn out quite the way you would've liked. In face, it doesn't turn out at all. This happens to me all the time. Sitting at my favourite shack in Gokarna at the most peaceful time to be there (2 days before season started) with my closest friend, all I could write was the shbby outline of a poem. It never came to anything. The moment was gone. So I'm posting it as it is.

Waves crashing against rock reminds me of the fond sound of pails of water being thrown onto cement porches.Weed crackling in the mouths of foreign men. The smell clings to my skin. I touch my face, ear lobe, hands. I feel it all - the sand, grit, residues of sweat beads, salt and already re-surfacing hair roots. A dog with an infected eye sits nuzzled at my foot. He looks at me with one gruesome, bloody, pus-filled eye, the sadness in the other more gruesome. I turn away. Sadness is not on the agenda this time. I sip on my apple shake, exchange awkward smiles with the bearded artist always drawing at the next table. We are two estranged lovers. Behind him, at a distance, a boat sailing is a blemish I could rub away.