Ghost writing

I used to be interested in the arcane
the otherworldly
the not known by everyone.
And so I never learnt the normal things
Names of trees, flowers, stones,
architecture, poets, rock bands.
Except the very basic
Rose, Eliot, U2.
Just to get by, to not sit blank through every conversation.

My interests were other people’s interests.
In an Omnibus, a burnt CD, a website
a patient crash course on a drunken evening.

But these too are gone.
Not only am I alone I am self contained now
literally, entombed by myself.
Alone, uninterested, cut off from the world
its media, its people, its low concerned voices.

And I pity myself
not just because, I for having no interests, am no longer interesting.
No it’s not just for the loss of vanity
it’s for the loss of life, liveliness, spirit.

And I wonder how I go by all these years
shamming interests when there weren’t any.
When the only abiding interest was myself.
And now that I pause and look inside
that too is gone.

Another Rant

Or another alcohol induced
moment of clarity

I've identified the cause of my death
it's a small and simple word
'Great'
wanting being it projecting it
Wanting more than anything else
that this would put an end to all the insufficiencies
inadequacies
inequalities dealt out by nature, circumstance or a benign God

It's an opaque word for me
with no dimensions
no depth to analyse, no sides to consider
and unfortunately, despite being opaque
not having a shadow I can locate

Just a deep desire
a desire fuelled by nights such as these
with wine, women, words
expensive wine, rich women, wasted words
Where one wishes to offset
the S-Class with a joke
the Cigar with a quotation
the Armani jacket with a self deprecatory comment

But alas the words only get under my skin
The words
and the lack of reaction
the lack of recognition
the anonymity
the middle-class loneliness in a who's whose kids' Delhi
the belief in literature or art or history
that somehow
that all that one believed in
was not a lie
not hollow
not empty.