False Flags, by Massive Attack

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New Dark Age, by Nikola Jankovic

We going way back to 2009, Febuary when this track hits the box office. Composed of Regular resounding chords, more overlapping, like the ringing of echoes, crosfeeding  the silence, which otherwise would have all been the verses, an honest bargain, verses resplendent as the spring itself. Warm sun and beer, somehow managed to avoid the grease stains, camouflaged under self assumed glamour, like life is a monkey chasing business, for the ace at shooting the sling.

 

There is perhaps even an uptempo, bass heavy version to the song, gratefully justifying the depth that is contained in the lyrics, which by all means, in no small measure manifest the title. False flags. The way perhaps even nature demonstrates itself. The calm before the storm. The harvest after the drought, like an enduring autumn, like the grease stains in spring. The way it was always,  strike, spark and you know when a wish comes true. The way how mankind adapts and evolves,contradicting and misinforming itself. 

The complete piece perhaps better understood whilst given a quick glance over, rather than listened to as a piece of audio with musical accompaniments. Yet there is no harm that a bit of looping could do to the song, or the listener.

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Autumn in My Heart, By Ana Mutavdzic

The video to the original, slower version to the song, with great elaborations demonstrates from the lighting of a flame with an aristocratic cigarette lighter, to the passing of the flame onto the wick of a molotov cocktail. A good part of the entire composition constitutes of the conclusion where the chords and the notes play out their predestined, fading, simmering symphony. While the video plays out the hurling motion of that piece of creation of chemistry and patience. Botteled fuel,soaked, lit, momentary motives fulfilled. An emblematic vision the whole arrangements A sight of the human expression of violent rage, plated with soothing ambient sounds. The video to the uptempo version to the song at its best artfully depicts the exploits of the band through the ages.Of which it dates back to the year 1988. Hailing  from Bristol, England is Massive Attack and what they got for you is trip hop.

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Love, Sugar, Self

I went scavenging for the meaning of love, no philosophy here, simple words that put a thought to context. As vain and vile as the first result on GOOGLE search. I’ve been tracing my pattern of an upsurge in love, inversely proportional to how consuming any activity is at that point in time. I felt severity, an all obsessive need for destruction, the all or none, the need to go all the way till the end and race back to start like you never existed, in this universe or my parallel one. It’s a game you see, a kind of politics where there’s indifference or destruction. I choose to not know you till you follow me halfway across my doom. Then, I surrender to your whim and start scraping you hollow, inch by inch, nook and cranny, till I’ve become you and inanely in love with this self I create. Then, as you begin to retreat from my hook, I dig my claws deeper until you’re nailed to my door like the inanimate collar of a comfortably worn out sweatshirt. Warm, habitual, homely. Then, it’s time to go. To run from you like anathema, like an empty cake tin that has been licked clean without any trace, nothing to offer except the faint waft of vanilla essence. The sugar in my blood has ebbed, the danger is diluted by your lack of mystery and attention, my interest wanes and I selfishly go chasing another cookie or caramel or chocolate even. The curse of our times love, is the idea of soul mate, monogamy, ritual and habitual love. It begins like freshly baked bread performing with an extra swell in the breast on a well stocked table till crumbs rest unattended to feed vermin. How can every fiber of my being sync with your scattered vibes? How can you satisfy flesh that is naturally designed to lust after rainbows? The body can’t eat bread and soup in a lifetime when there’s sweetmeats of unending range to offer. It tears me to love you and want you knowing you’ll only be that bakery display I yearned for once on a sugar high.

This body will decay, age, turn into a shrivelled bundle of loathing and repulse. When you begin to mark your journey in the creases and marks in the folds of your sagging skin, you would’ve arrived at your daily doze of optimum sweetness, maybe an artificial sweetener. Spend yourself on me like saccharine to boiling water. Blend and dissolve in me, leave me like I’ll leave you. A bitter dessert, sweet bacon, burnt caramel. I’ll remember you for the way you left and trace it back to the sugar you left me tasting on my lips. While craving strawberry compote.

Priyanka Charan

 

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Artist: Ana  Mutavdzic

Artwork: November Rain

 

Contemplating the road ahead – Part 2

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Author: Priyanka Charan

Artist:inkadelik


Dear Qi,

Do you remember that day when we waltzed down the village market nibbling on chocolate? There was a hailstorm in the forest that night as we shivered in the shade of a concrete lined tree. We stood staring for hours, our memories jogging back to that disconcerting amble down the familiar dirt track hidden in the lap of the mountain. You stood there in all your elaborations, tattered trousers with the seams giving way, browning at the edges after the sweat and toil in the dump yard where we planted fond saplings.

They broke through toxic lines of waste germinating with the hope of new life. You sucked deeply at the end of your local ‘bidi’ and remarked, “I’ve been working in this village for over a month now. The locals sometimes look at me in amusement, sometimes with familiarity. Some eyes welcome me quietly while others question my presence.” No matter how much you tried to fit in you always stood out, with your grey brown dreadlocks, your white tan that is our coffee brown one.

What you didn’t know was you were as much a stranger to this place as I was. You felt the need to keep your guard, wander with watchful eyes as curiosity singed your skin with sterile stares. I have always felt like a foreigner in my own country because I’m a woman. Maybe that’s why you haven’t yet been enamored with stories of female solo travellers singing praises alone of our hospitality.

Yesterday I called up a dear friend to tell her of my unplanned travel. She was livid and mortified at once as she warned me against spending too much time in the capital. “But you’re a woman! From Mumbai. You don’t understand how terrible the situation there is. I smiled, where is my neighbourhood then? Where do I belong if not on this planet. This poor ecstatic girl was unaware of how she sounded like a verbatim quote from some moronic media report, if not from experience.

I feel loved, cared for listening to her worry for my well being. I’m blessed that way you see. I’ve had the comforting cocoon of your wisdom equally matched by friends in Delhi who are at daggers drawn to keep me in the warmth of their hearth and their heart. I don’t even know how long I’ll look around in the ill reputed city that was once home to me in my formative three years. Maybe my feet won’t stop within the limits of this cemented skyline and I’ll gallop to the mountains immediately. Maybe I’ll stay, just to test waters, to sense how much this city can hate a free spirit trapped in a woman’s body. I don’t wish to accomplish anything at the risk of my safety, I just want to find one more place to call my own. A place where I won’t need a chaperone in broad daylight, where I don’t feel violated for being the person my parents cradled into this world, where I can walk like a man without ever looking over my shoulder or plugging the noise out with my cell phone. Maybe I will find home here to long for once I’m tired from trudging the hills. Be happy for me, my dear Qi, I know Delhi will be kind.

Your anxious story bearer,

Pride and Pain

once upon a branch tethered to a brook
 drifted upstream, heart nestled overlooked
on the rapids, with floating debris
 Pummelled, polished as ever he could be

The  ground beneath his feet
  sprouted sage in the temperate heat
 and blossomed the finest for all to treasure
 and snapped  each time, beyond mistrust measured

 He ran from his shadow with the mirror of his scars
 He prisoned his emotions encage without bars
Pride and pain engraved upon his banner
and words and emotions and virtuous manners

Yet he lost what he had, his affection as a gift
for no droplet could seep the old bark adrift
 Washed from his fruit he wilted on a shore
 The forests sang an ode to a tree that was before

Priyanka Charan

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Art-Hard Reality

Artist-nidzoni

Raftaar

It was a standard morning on a roman countryside. It was just another day in the life of a six year old Gladiator.Alejandro. It was after the days since the Colosseum had shut down. There was not much elements of interests in the day to day life of people, except, what except. There are no exceptions. We all do drugs. Yes drugs, the only form of recreation unless prescribed, which was for the gladiators, specifically were. There was LSD also known as acid, drops, blots, papers, grain, pixel, sniff, wuff, wurr, specially prescribed for those competing to be among the fastest. Now a particular requirement during experience of LSD was the smoking of hasish, as Anderso would say. The thing with LSD was that it was in plenty, available in nature, only need be tapped by the overbold of conscience. Hashish on the other hand was a product of the industrious, scythed by the contemptuous for the utter fulfillment of the life.

It was to be a tight rope race between the two gladiators where each would mount their rides, either on a green vespa, or a grey one. The prize of the race was to be a brick of the finest hashish, that would had been skinned out of the strongest of the stallions.

And so the legend goes, even among the followers of the usurpers. Alejandro, dressed in his hound armour, Anderso, bald as ever. Their vespas, tripping on their own throttle, their own anxieties, gyrating like the swirls of hookah, or at least that was what Anderso was pretending to be doing.  As for Alejandro, it was a matter of life and death. He had popped mushrooms thirty grams of sand ago. It had taken him a complete ninety grams of sand to gather all his score. He was in need of the herb, as bad whisky is in need of water. Anderso, the pretender in the mean while was quietly chewing on a gram from the hash that was to be the prize.

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[ n♠te: This perhaps is an extract from a larger piece in progress, perhaps just a piece to spike the imagination of the reader.] [ PARENTAL DISCRETION NEEDED ]

raftaar
Artwork by: Rollen Lasrado