Once upon a time was written a poem,

With a cliched beginning and improper grammar;

With no rhyme sequence and no proper order

On absurdity did it border.


Written was a poem once upon a time,

With a beginning cliched and grammar improper,

Thank god, the poet thought,

I can now find words that rhyme with time.


What do I do next? He thought and thought,

About what it was that he sought

“What can I make of this?”

Pondered he, when he realized that “this” rhymes with “bliss”.


But is a rhyme sequence all that a poem is about?

Could there be more to a verse, oh could there be more?

This question did torment him, and he was all at sea when he cried out loud

“Serendipity, I love thee”; the truth had washed him ashore.


This is what it is about, he told the reader,

His eyes dancing in ecstasy, he knew he held sway;

He started speaking when the skies were azure

And he didn’t stop till the day became night and the night became day.


“A poem, oh, what can I say, I am at a loss myself

Tis’ what you get when you string words, those little stars

Not as words, but as beautiful little pieces,

Whose sum far exceeds the parts.”


He then continued his spell, and to them he went on to tell

That “Words can be more real than reality itself,

More magnificent than magnificence itself,

And more alive than life itself, and that, my friends

Is the story every poem tells.”


Spellbound, charmed and transfixed they were for long,

Upon hearing his wonderful song,

Then said a young boy “But what do you get out of this, my dear bard?”

His eyes twinkled,and he said,  “My dear boy, poetry is its own reward.”

The Dramatic Universe

This is what happens when an unstoppable hyperbole meets an immovable understatement. A mildly interesting sentence which aspires to only do one thing: to restore the balance of the universe.

One side effect of reading too much sci-fi is that you can’t think straight unless you’ve got your “brainwave linearity up-scaling  Multivac powered metaphysical helmet” on, and I can already see the immense potential this sentence has to disturb the balance of the universe, triggered undoubtedly by the reader wondering if this sentence reeks of Sci-Fi, in which case it should appear either straight or contorted depending upon the reader’s inclination to believe in the existence of the metaphysical entity named earlier it this sentence, which in turn leads to






*Vision dims*

*Breath slows down, not in a good way*

*For a change, cannot hear distant screams of horror or see teary-eyed apparitions of loved ones.*

*It is time. Said time.*

*Papers fly around in a spiral and eventually out of sight when the curtains fly apart and the window-glass shatters, because that’s what they like to do. The patent obviousness of the fact that A4 sized sheets have conciousness collides devastatingly with the ostensible presence of human intelligence and powers of observation* *Heavier things start to move, but not arbitrarily. The universe preserves protocol, even if it is collapsing. The table lamp rattles first, then falls down breaking the bulb. The paperweight goes next, followed by the desktop whose usually inextricably intertwined wires magically align themselves to the will of the universe and let the keyboard fly at the monitor, shattering it. At this point, the universe pauses and thinks if it is making it’s fetish for shattering glass obvious, but shrugs and continues anyway because it is self destructing anyway. Yay! The movies got this part right, atleast.* *People start getting tugged towards an arbitrary point in the universe. The universe, a great lover of drama, lends numerous metallic poles to numerous people to cling on to, temporarily making them the windsocks of their suction runways. The author believes that the universe’s predilection for drama is also the reason for the existence of the human race, which would in turn suggest that the universe’s indulgence is what brought about it’s impending ruin*

BTW, this is a windsock: Windsock *I feel the pull now. But I’m fat and boring and the opposite of photogenic, so I don’t get a metallic pole. I accelerate. Its a blur now. I can barely feel any part of myself. THUD. I wake up to see a 16 feet version of my (former?) self. But I am not dead. And all around me are objects that the universe had swallowed. The bubble glass paperweight looks like a test tube now, but the bubbles are still there, as still as ever.*

Back in my desk , I complete the story.

This is the part where I tell you how I saved the universe from imploding.

It choked on me and spat me out, as the implosion had originated from a human who was a product of my imagination.

Not anymore, because you’ve read this now. It is all a little confusing at first, but you’ll come around, trust me.

I guess the universe, being the great lover of drama that it is, played out another one.

Only this time, it was EPIC.

P.S: This is what happens when an unacceptable writer meets an impossible story. A blog post.