burn

he is a very special guy
he can even fly
he won’t talk about it though
you’d have to know him to know

but he has got no luck
every time he flies,
comes off looking like a duck
he could fly higher
were he a harder trier

he is an impressionist, too
there are days when you
think he is you
but he claims to be true

one day he turned up
looking like my still-born son
only he was not faking
just flew a little bit close to the sun

numbers

one for okay, two for good
everytime you nod
i think about the things
you told me yesterday

one for okay , two for good
everytime you blink
the only thing i call
what you told me day before

one for okay, two for good
everytime you sigh
i know it happens, not why
i just think about
what happenned before you

one for okay, two for bad
is that all we ever had
numbers one and two

-------------------------

A friend asked me who I was writing about in this. I told her it's about no one. It comes from a Radiohead song where I heard the lyrics - Blink your eyes/One for yes/Two for no. She said I just flicked the whole thing then. I beg to differ but it seems only fair that I mention it.
The song is called Bodysnatchers and it's on Radiohead's In Rainbows album.

19

nineteen years after 1983
when my lungs were clean
not lined with nicotine
and there were several things
i hadn't heard or seen
and curiousity killed the feline
in me and in me died the dreams
but now at times i walk to the sea
knowing not all is torn at seams
but i can't wear what they see me in
not even if i was nineteen again
then my lungs used to be clean

ringing

in a Thane-bound local train,
on route to platform no. 2,
before departing to the carshed,

a phone rings rather loudly

startling me from my sleep

all eyes in the silent bogey turn

why is it so silent i wonder

waiting, so close to home,

for the lights to change

i close my eyes again

ignore the ringing phone

laundry

you could see it from a mile
and with good eyes
from even further back
it used to be a sooty shelter
a slightly slanted plane of carbon
now it is neat, a red clay hue
like the village kiln
it had to be the rain,
the free power laundry
gave a clean roof to Dadar station.

Campions d'campions!

Enough said.

Fun

Barcelona played away to AC Milan in the semi-finals of the Champions League last month, we were moved out of the hotel we had stayed in for the Milan v Lyons match two weeks earlier and had to travel across town to a less lovely hotel. I was happy with the reason: Barcelona were staying in our old hotel and they needed our rooms.
A couple of journalists and broadcasters did manage to keep hold of theirs, one of whom was John Helm, the commentator. On the afternoon of the match, John decided to grab a bit of shuteye and nestled down for 40 winks. He was in that lovely zone in between deep sleep and wide awake when he was roused by a thud like noise every few minutes against the wall by his head. There was laughing and joking going on outside the room so he got up and poked his head outside of the door, ready no doubt to be a bit cross with whoever was disturbing his rest. In the corridor about four hours ahead of kick-off were Ronaldinho and his team-mate Ludovic Giuly volleying the ball back and forth to each other, heading the ball to various parts of the other’s anatomy and having about as much fun as schoolboys in the playground. John smiled and went back to bed. What else could he do? Confiscate the Fifa Player of the Year’s football?
Football is why Ronaldinho does this job, not fame, fortune or recognition, but playing the game he adores.

Excerpt from http://www.timesonline.co.uk/article/0,,762-2181496,00.html