Cherry Flavoured Antacids
Prose, Poetry and Random Musings.

Bouldered Love

By Homer Simpson!
Your husband walks out on you in the middle of the road, your kids are at home wondering where on earth is their mother. The car is dangerously low on petrol and you don't care because you're shit-tired of life.

The chamber was dreadfully hot, and the quilt comforter was ignored in a crumpled heap miles away on the deck having been forcefully thrown. The fat carpeting on the floor seemed needless. Lisa imagined that each fibrous molecule of the dull brown matting trapped the heat leftover from the sunny afternoon. Heat that now radiates silently, suffocatingly into the box of a hotel room. This shouldn't be happening, thought Lisa. This room is air-conditioned; even the excruciatingly low-priced two-star hotels have air-conditioning, or at least some adequate and satisfactory form of ventilation. She said- "I am in this brand-new, lavish five-star, paying hefty grands a night in their cheapest room because the lounge area has an impressive collection of paintings and there's a cafeteria with a chimerical name".

The real heat was probably from the blood gushing through her veins. She was twenty-seven years old and trapped in a nightmare, between two shores, between a husband who belittled her over nothing and herself. She began to believe in the fact that the man she loved would never accord her the respect and love she deserved, but still expects her to forgive him the morning after.The house had become a brewing cauldron of tension.

Giving up all thoughts of sleep, Lisa sat up on bed and gave the room a gaze-over. Although the commodities were basic, as far as interior decor went it was flawless. Sprinkling of luxuries here and there, coupled with the apple-green walls made it stand apart from the monotonous theme of most hotel rooms. There was a dress-table with a slightly unqualified looking-glass, a small study with a sleek pen and a writing pad as well as the usual tourist guides, and a wrought-iron balcony after the glass panel overlooking the city. There was also a statue. A staggering white marble statue that had been carved in the ultra-pragmatic likeness of a handsome nude youth that had just reached manhood.

She forced herself to believe that there could be none better that him. To a connoisseur of classical sculpture it would have been deemed anatomically perfect, the languid beauty, a tad Romantic. But lacked originality except for the brow, which held a fierce indescribable emotion, even if the eye beneath it was blank and pupil-less. The colossal statue was staring right into her face. Colossal not in size but in the beauty it held. To Lisa, her seven-year-old sons pencil squiggles made more sense, it was another of those life-size monstrosities that were blatantly carved and put on places to remind humanity of its anatomical stains. The statue stood there and either the ambiance or the marble gave it a shade of pink. It gave the statue a lifelike aura; in the soft tungsten light it challenged the appearance of skin. The artist had paid such immaculate attention to each detail that the embossed circles on the chest were actually hued a darker shade. Its body was stark masculine and then there was something feminine about the softness of the drooping shoulder, a languor that couldn't be possibly achieved by an indifferent artistic soul. Lisa's observation which was excellent when it came to directions, but nonexistent in most artistic things, made her move into a keen ease. Perhaps this was the light-headedness that came after a gust of anger. Perhaps her rationality was simply at its lowest. Other matters blurred into inconsequence. This naked thing, this captivating hedonistic obscenity stood there in all its majesty and egoistically demanded her attention. Void of absolute conscience and a statue is now controlling your senses. The bloody thing can go fuck itself Lisa said.

It had just started raining outside. Tomorrow again would be an obscenely hot affair, and once again the fact that the universe was against her would make itself audaciously pronounced.
Lisa did not care. She was decisively unconscious, not peacefully adrift in slumber or blissfully conked out, not asleep but just unconscious and propped against the two pillows stacked on top of each other. Her mouth was slightly open and there was a layer of sweat on her skin that was evaporating with the sad air-conditioning. For two hours it seemed that her soul was temporarily missing, and this body wrapped in a Chelsea FC T-shirt and Pj's was far away from being existent.

Then she bolted up. The soul was back, but lost, confounded, and raw. Like a woman half-lost and half possessed, she moved across the room to the sculpture. The more she looked at it through glazed eyes, the more flesh-like it became. The more real it said it was. The circles on the chest were darker than ever, not stiff marble but hard flesh, and the blank pupil-less eyes were burning as feverishly as her skin.

Lisa got close enough for the blushing halo to brush against her breasts. She suddenly drew herself back. She took out a hand to slap the dexterous statue. It did not retaliate. Did not even flinch. Of course it cant. Its a statue! She liked it. This realization hit her. You're a moronic statue and you're helpless and defenseless! Thwack. Thwack. Another slap. It swayed with the impact, but not enough to topple. All the frustrations came pouring out. When her palms began to sting, she threw herself at the graceful halo, then watched in horror as one arm, the left one that was held at an angle with the fingers brushing the cheek, broke off. It fell with a thump to the carpet where the hand came off, scattering powdery bits of marble at her feet.

Taken aback she said "Oh my God!! What have I done? I'm so sorry! So sorry! I really am."

Shut up, woman. Who are you apologizing to?

She raised her eyes to the statue again. Missing an arm, it suddenly looked more pregnable, less arrogant. Through her wide-eyed stare, the whole appearance of the young man was whimsical. The lips were now luscious. The fingers of the intact arm did not look frozen. In the midst of movement she almost wished it would move. So that she could clasp it and take comfort from it. Comfort she needed so badly. Sobbing, she clung to the statue and willed the cold stone to become more yielding to her touch. The marble piece on the deck was still lifeless. Still made of stone.

She said -"I'm so sorry. Sorry for being such a silly ass."

Stop apologizing. You are a stupid and ugly soul. Where is your self-respect?

She said-"I just want to be loved."

Suddenly she was overcome with an irrational yearning. If he did not want her, she would make him want her. She tore off her remaining clothes, damp with sweat. Then she pushed herself against him with a thrust. Want me, love me. With another thrust, she had him inside her. She bent her head to the left to meet his lips and sucked hard on them, wanting to make them bleed. The world disappeared slowly. She was joined in union with a stranger. She opened her eyes to see a human face, cheeks afire with blood, mouth open, begging, wanting. She was alive again, alive and in the embrace of a beautiful man, a man who worshiped her and loved her as a woman. She felt him melting in her arms. She felt her hot tears of release on both their faces. Their legs intertwined, moving to that sacred rhythm when the heartbeat drowned out everything.

Lisa springs into an upright position. Everything seemed new, yet was the same. She was a raw hatching reborn in this mess of crumpled sweat-scented sheets on a hotel bed. Nameless. Spent. What the heck had happened?

It was a dream, wasn't it? She hadn't really made love to a statue. That was unthinkable. That was.The ceiling spun in spirals, disorienting her. She squeezed her eyes shut until orange fireflies filled her vision, then opened them again. Her gaze fell to the statue. She said "See? Flawless, looking every bit the same. Isn't it?".

She said to herself: "It was missing an arm. So what? I have been careless before. Marble is delicate. I don't know what a goddamn statue is doing in this tiny room anyhow. What time is it?"

Lisa had to squint and move a few inches back for the blurry needles on the mounted clock to focus. 5AM.

She said -"Ive been asleep for roughly four hours". She had no memory of how she had crawled back to bed after her short-lived hallucination. All she knew was that she needed a cold shower. To wake her up and bring her back to reality.
As the numbing gush of water poured down her back, Lisa had a feeling of being watched. She half-expected to turn around and see the naked marble man peering at her from the door, which she had left open. She actually didn't.

Well, what can it do? It's not much with only one arm. And it knows I'm strong enough to break the other one. Yes, strong enough. Lisa hummed to herself the lines of her favorite song as she showered, imagined she was being watched by a mysterious voyeur. Her hands became the hands of a lover, exploring the curves of her body, curves she forgot she had. After more than ten years, she felt her femininity coming out in warm, dark pink bursts. Femininity which graced her face. She almost sobbed at the release, but chose to smile instead. The ice-cold droplets ran down her breasts.

Come to me and grace the water drops with your sunshine.

The air was empty, yearning

Come and play and splash and love

Something stirred alive

Look at me the way I want you to.

She felt him coming

I want you with me. Come fulfill me.

A feeling of apprehension seeped into her whispering heart, strengthening into anticipation.

Look at me the way I want you to.

Inanity, except for the lonely sound of the shower.

Come love me again..again like never before.

Then she felt him behind her, the lone arm on her shoulder.She smiled and closed her eyes.

Demented Insomniac

By Homer Simpson!

Insomnia -[in-som-nee-uh]

1.inability to obtain sufficient sleep, esp. when chronic; difficulty in falling or staying asleep; sleeplessness.

Far-Flung jelly eyes impinge the ceiling,
with the blank innocent virgin white patch;
that stares back with the ferocious might.
Of black holes gaping wide enough onto
within the universe, dark.The cryptic plight

The blindfold of elusive rest ransacking my mind
in some unreachable dimension of the pillow,
unwisely laid below, under my bed, unconscious.
Irksome sleep teasing me. 4 AM. Clock's easing me.
Eyelids shut. Eyes wide open. Isn't it obnoxious?

My head of stone. Prosaic arms.
This mind does not live here anymore
This mind does not live here anymore
Until the blackness comes shouting,
This stone-head can’t hold me anymore

Oh Morpheus, you never blessed me with wings,
 to fly upon your night. The veil that separates the light
from your oblivion to the conscious fight.
I wish my soul to rise from hell. Deep into the day
Dreams inverted. Sleep perverted. Perverted freight.

Flowing is the potency of nonexistent null dreams.
Running away from reality into the ocean of imagination
My sanity has ended with the day raping the silence
With my mind resorting to fighting tomorrow's night,
And win. Not lose. To die. Leave behind an extra pence.

My head of stone. Prosaic arms.
This mind does not live here anymore
This mind does not live here anymore

Until the blackness comes shouting,
This stone-head can’t hold me anymore
I slowly disappear...Disappear somewhere...Amen!

Insomnia -[in-som-nee-uh]

-I don't care!
1. The phenomenon of dangling suspended between the world of the disordered living and the peaceful dead. About finding unexpected inspiration from a numb listless mind. Being Involved in defying hallucinations. Making love to the fire flies.

Crush Re-invented!

By Homer Simpson!

From a premature "Crush" to a relatively mature "Crush".

Drive in: A sequel to one of my older posts "This Crush". Try to relate the Her and the Him parts with each other and with the older post. Read the prequel if you haven't. Its not all fiction but I've tried to portray the proceedings in the relationship.

Her: Three years gone amidst coffee and the smokes
and I’m still as gawky as you once accused me to be
beneath your concrete gaze and around your deep figment
reminiscing the clumsy chronologies and the passion.
You and me. Not half a cup gone, between inquisition
I’m spilling the drinks,the beans, myself into your lap;
I’m mixing up pronouns, smelling up the infatuation into
Marveling upon how time smoothed out the grooves between....

Him: Time gone & The glass door shielding us against the world
Still Erect. Still Spotless. Still Virgin. Still Narcissistic.
The delusion wouldn't leave and The infatuation still hypnotizes me
Seductive shivers.Oppressive claims.Deep breaths.Clueless me.Flawless you
Those brushes, the blushes and the claims procreate a resounding thud.
Get Ahead. Come back. Lean over. Look for me. I adore you. Reverence.
The memory cherished all over the heartfelt three years still dwells
The fleeting speculation has gone astray. Reassuring "yes" sways away....

Her: ...How the famine of friction causes these slips of tongue and guard
With you it’s always a rainy evening with me tripping over my speech and my feet.
With you it’s always an easy silence as I fumble indefinitely for words and attention

Him: ...A monocratic crush. Long forgotten and extensively and genuinely profound
With you its been an unfeigned attraction with the purple faced sun shining on me
With you its been contrary to something as awkward as Neon Paper and Crushed Ice.