left handand poetry

DevanshuNARANG

DRAWINGS

Preface

This book isn’t for an unmentionable ex girlfriend.This is for Dylan Moran, who inspired me beyond

a point of containing it within myself and expressthe merciless bountiful hate I may have at one point

sheltered in the hearth of my soul. This is for anybody getting over.

This took a while; longer than I expected.Just like the break up.

Contents1. Last Call

2. Remedies

3. She Used To Dress Nice

4. Mimic

5. Regression

6. A Kind Of Blue

7. Endeavors

8. In Passing

9. Decay

10. Panic

11. Closure

12. The Middle Man

13. The Lull

14. As If

15. Not The Sun

16. No Rotten Thought

x Argyle

x Trash

x Faces

x Bully

x Complex

x Questions

x Bar

x Lonely

x Fight

x Dance

x Hipster

x Proof

x Power

x Abuse

x Notice

x Improvise

x Death

Left Hand Drawingsand poetry

- 2 01 3 -

even let me die.

already occurred.

Joyousness,

I nay have seen you in a while.

Why do you visit me today?

In my weakest,

when I cannot appreciate you enough.

Blue in Green.

The most beautiful dream came to life.

With Davis orchestrating with his saxophone,

like a serpentine, spirally swirling,

a dance she did with me, against the lamppost.

The glow!

She couldn’t look any more pretty.

The way she moved, so gently,

with such subtlety.

I hate to love you but I do.

You don’t come around very often.

Do you?

I’d love to see you, the virgin,

the pure and the noble.

I brave your apprentice, just see you dance,

as I lean against your victim,

that once flourished but like everything else,

now perished.

A Kind Of Blue

You have never looked this pretty,

The pearl glaze you wore today

took my breath and froze it right before me.

The tear that fell out of my eye,

was not because you weren’t here before.

But because you are now.

It’s time to move.Stood in these testing waters,far too long.The skin is soft and wrinklyand it hurts like a bitch.Everything does.Moist towels perch on nails.Musky after the Herculean task,still not satiated.The oven looks forlorn and begsto leave the pan inside.The stove is jealous.Time to pack stuff in boxes.Boxes of damp cardboard that smell,like burnt hair and grandmothers.The stoic alarm clock stareswith a nonchalant attitude.So do the walls.“You fought tooth and nail!”The painting on the wall shrieks,as it comes down.The helplessness in its cryshowed hopes of fruition.Wept in the back of the car.The night flames away.Passing cars bade farewell and sputtered,and sighed “fucking finally.”

Endeavors

The headlights travel a bit furtherand become from swords to soft circles.Just like a goodbye kiss.The sun is about to rise.The broken mirror in the restroom,seemed nothing but happy.It casts a shadow of its ownor is it of me?That’s what I leave behind.Nothing more, nothing less.

it was good to once be alive;when i knew you, when I spoke,then you listened, now I copeas you distended from meleaving no voids, just viscera.

it was good to once be in love;to have a frame of referencefor comparing the filththat I am going to cover myself inas you wash your hands off me.

your silence is a cracked mirrorready to fall into fragments;some that reflect meand somethat just make me bleed.

skinny fingers and bad eyesthe timid touch you usually used to convince me of the liesmy liesand yoursmy mouth is still not as souras souras yours

In Passing

Decayopen wide.this lip serviceyou give meis not going to workany more. i wont sufferon your behalfand avoid your eyesto stare at the floor.you callously coughedan apologythat I haven'tyet accepted.there's a denton my shoulder where your head rested.i will not restand i haven't yethad a sleep withoutyour face floatingin free spacelooking over mebecause i can't tellif i'm doing this to meorthis is what you wanted all along.

i have had my wine and songi learned slowly to be alongmyself and others, happy,only to be told i am wrong.i have learned from the flamesthat engulfed your belongingsyou left behind youfor me.i still don't knowif you're that cleveror that naivethat your purposeplayed perfectly through,whether you were thereor not.

Just a pin

prick

gushing

blood.

Bit the tongue

sucking

on it

worryingly.

An eye lash

in the eye.

All,

at the same time.

This doesn't

get any

easier.

I don't need

your help

to get off

of this.

Panic

You took my gardens,

you whore,

and turned them into toxic wastelands.

A sewage full of hate and disgust

for your name

courses through my veins.

You pissed upon my ashes,

whistling,

through lips that screamed

bloody murder.

The knife looks so good

in your hands,

it suits you.

Just like that glare upon your glasses

which covet your dementedly vengeful eyes.

Shot me down,

yelling

rise.

Shushed into silence,

my screams

by your cries.

(contd.)

Closure

I am the monster.

The monster you chose to love.

The monster you chose to change.

The monster you chose to enrage.

The monster you chose to leave,

behind in a cage.

I am, I am,

I know.

But should I call you Lucifer?

Should I call you an old lover,

should I call you an acquaintance,

should I call you a friend?

I see your mouth move,

the words fall on deaf ears,

the lip service, I believe,

shall go on,

to the end.

These thoughtscan travel onthe next train.A few festered,late as they were,still sitting silently,waiting for the next chance.Some stoppedat the crossingbetween the heart and the mind,at the mouth,at the tip of the tongue,at the edge of the eye.Travelers,carrying messagesof love and hateand other pains,often wearyoccasionally beat.Somefrequently miscalculated,someforcefully ejaculated;some that flew forthwith the cigarette smoke.

The Middle Man

(contd.)

Some went down with the wine,

some came out with it,

while some just lingered

underneath the tongue.

Some bitter as vinegar

coated in cotton candy

herding the back of my hand.

Some as sweet as sugar,

communicate like the cane;

some as light as clouds

beating against

the edge of the brain.

Some of them are quite mad.

But just like us,

the mad are quietened

by the powerfully average,

the plentiful mediocre,

the instinctually primordial;

and just like us,

we will never know

if the mad were right.

(contd.)

I tire myself mediatingthese trivial disputes,fighting forcesthat birthed out of thin airand exalting them into the same.Some wake up earlier than me,some kick me out of their worldand convince me it never happenedonly to do it over,and over again.Like lullabies to little childrensome soothe me into sleep,some rouse me with the apocalypse,still perspiring from the heat.Some kept me awake,‘til the first rays of dawn;some fled like bullets from a gun,at the slight sight of a fawn. My thoughts are worse than I am,happier than I am,and of course,more thoughtful than I am.

The deafening sound

of your nothingness,

you screeching shroud.

You,

the harbinger of

sordidness,

the besmircher

of hallowed ground.

You, you ball of cork

smothered by weathered leather.

You, a murder of crows,

cackle at severed tethers.

You, the antonym of a muse;

you, the messenger with

always the bad news.

You, you and your yellow;

me, me and my blues.

The Lull

Sat still in the car

with the drivers side door open

saw the moon

get eaten and vomited

back to back by black

and grey clouds

Hours hit like featherweight

pugilists pounding punch

after punch after

punch

The noggin collapses

on the headrest

and all that runs through it

is how that fucking thing

is a fucking misnomer

I go back to staring

at the moon holding it's own

if only for a matter of seconds

and it beams through the

'voiture' windshield (contd.)

As If

as if screaming for help or

as a metaphor for resilience or

as just another happenstance

That is what I've come to

think of my existence-

a mere happenstance

subscribed to too many -isms

prescribed to too many schisms

a speck of dust reflecting light

through too many prisms

The whipping wind cracks

through the swarthy calves

as insults

as if the only relief to a soul

conditioned to optimally perform

under the fear of abject humiliation

as a direction, when it runs

through my palms

subtly altering

my lifeline

(contd.)

I can count the puncheson my two handsusing the eyes as a stylusas if they were made for the purpose of counting down hours and I've got about twenty more days in me twenty more nights and a chance to fleeI am calm in my obliterationas I cherry-pick the choicestof excruciating memoriesas I reduce my existence to a mere matter of human hoursand I contemplate ifnothing had gone wrong,would I still feel the same?How many causes can I vicariously link to my name?I don't want to give upand it's not that I am,I feel I will live bestif I no longer can

5 am

I am scared

Successfully masterminded

And weed whacked

My own path to destruction

Lightning strikes

In the distance

The thunder is silent tonight.

Soon the clock

Will tick six seven and eight

I'll down something my throat

To barely breathe

Another tomorrow

Asking myself

The same fucking question

When will I ever learn

Smoke down another pack

In 3 hours

Nine ten eleven

I will completely forget

The panic (contd.)

Not The Sun

Running now through my fingers

And my frigid shoulder blades

And hit the return key

Thrice instead of once;

as I burn the tips of the filters

I will

Because the rest of me

Is oblivious to the other pain

I'm indulging in

Spazz out

And call it a panic attack

Lie to myself a little more

I guess

The dogs of war all bite the same

And sleep till 6

And start panicking

All the fuck

All over again (contd.)

These clouds should reignBut noNot the sunI don't want the sun I don't want the hopeI don't want to knowThat today was beautifulI don't care if I was toldThe grey in the mind will live

As it has.

As I let it.

As I rain.

And pour away into another sunset.

Two dozen oldWith two cents to pitchSix pence none the richerAnd zero fucks to give

It's all a numbers gameAnd growing up I was toldMath wasn't that important (contd.)

Tell that to the loansharkTell that to the bursarTell that to motherTell that to the me that can't keep Track on how many days ofTorment

I will treat myself to.

Tell me I'm wrong

I wished you’d make concessions with me

like you did with kids and drunks

and showed me the same

kind of empathy mothers have

for other peoples’ children

I wished you’d have the patience and drive

of a hunter in a deer stand

and used me at just the right time

I wished you’d agree with me

while bullshit poured out of my mouth

incessantly

as if I were creating a universe.

I wished that instead of your hand

in my hand, it was your heart;

and you’d let me toy with it

as I pleased,

if I dare did.

(contd.)

No Rotten Thought

I wished you’d cry when I walked away

from you

time and time again

and you’d cry

every

damn

time

I wish I didn’t wait for these words

to come out of YOUR mouth

Three years and

Twenty some kilos later;

Four pints down on

the eight fold path

I wish you were nothing

but a happy memory staring

at an orange sunset with

eyes made of moons

(contd.)

Just burning away below the horizonbright enoughto create the mirage of the angelI made you out to be.

I wish you the best.I wish I was more honest;I wish I could tell youto go fuck yourself onelasttime

I wish I cared.

I don’t.I am glad I don’t.

Devanshu Narangas one does,

currently lives in Sioux Fallsin a state of constant questionwith hand to mouth finances.

He is wondering why he is writingthis in third person for any other reason

besides giving you the feel that someone else could’ve been botheredto make up some shit about him.

He can be approached when he is asleep, if you’re careful and quiet,

at

devanshunarang@gmail.com

If you like what you read,

please share with your friends.

If you don’t like it,

please share why you don’t like it

with your friends.

If you’re feeling neutral about it,

email me with the subject line

“I want my time back,”

and I will demonstrate how I

couldn’t possibly be bothered to give

a shit.