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By baruk on May 24, 2011
your war is your own. your victory and celebration is yours, and the ecstatic chanting of your name. yours is the power. and the glory. yours the collateral damage and the bodycount. mine? mine is the empty. the alone. and the wishing. but your war, your war is your own.
By baruk on May 20, 2011
By baruk on May 17, 2011
i’ve never quite understood ‘travelling’ as it is often done today, the main purpose of which seems to be to rush from one place to another, with more photographs of a place than memories. i seem to prefer the slow journey, where you spend months or years in a place before moving on. it […]
By baruk on May 14, 2011
doors open. and shut. and slam. and are locked. and are broken down. and open. walls just stand there, fixed and stern, like charity. and windows sometimes offer more hope than fulfilment. but doors, they open.
By baruk on May 10, 2011
There’s something inherently beautiful about rust. It is a vivid reminder that nothing we make will last forever – not our great machines nor our many fences. It may take a million years, but in the end, green leaves and sea water take it all back. We will all die, and others will stand where […]
By baruk on May 6, 2011
Long long ago, and far far away, there was a mountain. At the foot of the mountain (sorta near the big toe) there was a stream. It was a long and winding stream, and was very famous in certain circles. By the side of the stream, just after a very bendy bend, was a rather […]
By baruk on May 3, 2011
We could not see you, Though you stood right there, In a bright red dress. We could not hear you, Though you broke your voice, Screaming into our ears. Instead we chose The facade of smiles, Blind our eyes, To that which made us uneasy, Itched under our skins. And when your smile turned […]
By baruk on April 28, 2011
not that any of this is particularly original. or clever. or funny. but hey [shrug]. and for the record, my experience of racial stereotyping, condescension and prejudice in aotearoa new zealand has not been any more (or less) than my experience in mainland or north-east india.
By baruk on April 22, 2011
commit your mortal dreams to that undying flame, and scream. the rabid angel’s song is fading on the rise… the eyes, the eyes! soaked in washed out wrung, and hung to die. NOTE: this is a tidied-up version of crucified, probably written around 1993.