Incomplete and Everything – II


She had a brighter side for her story.

It’s a second chance for her to explain and

explore his mindfulness,

He was in a dream, a long drive through

the mountains,

She was deterministic with the sequence and

How she would instil her story to him.


A Sick Boy’s Figment memory


© 2018 Sreejith Jayachandran


13:12pm January 20th, 2017

these stereotypes, am already sad of my consideration- disqualification- you don’t fit into the character- you choose- you want to be,

My starboard side is broken- don’t know where am heading- insecure enough to drown myself-

How many like for the next selfie- I call out the differences over the border disputes-

And am on repeat, a single song- and I dance-off to the weird noises-voices, inside my head-

Clap boy to the rhythm- to the self you see in the mirror without a vocal fold to shout- concern- bedtime stories that

I have never heard are in my dreams, These are my figments of memories these days,

The unconventional side wakes in me- like a sick boy- stands firm on his libs- open-

Make a call and remain connected- the utter darkness you see, when the windows are open- I can’t

Handle your sense of entitlement- I’m spacing out, isolating from my life’s worth-

I ask you for admiration- no criticism- pull me up- stop telling me am fine-

Or take it easy-peasy, I ain’t no mistake, under these differences -I’m still breathing and prepared with

Strategies under the same roof- narcissism-

A disorder inflated by itself, just mingle with these different dispositions- do you like them-

they are my religion- an epitome of character assassinators- iron fist smashing the walls, headlamps they keep flashing- in a loop, This is not me-

I’m an obsession, don’t pucker your face, continue- kill them all- one after the other- a standing ovation to one who claims to burn my memoir,

All these figments, just break them, and take a pause-

drift- travelling back to my memory archive, quiet room stacked up disks of electromagnetic tapes- fidgeting vigorously in shattered pieces- crushing me to my knees, it ain’t pretty-

I know it ain’t pretty anymore, these days of total blindness, I know I have to take it forward-

Am in love with this cliff side beach and these super dried and cracked-up concrete cells, which overlooks the sky and sea over the tree top and I know it’s green and I love the grey in between, the chilling wind and sunny January.

am happy after all these figments of perplexed reminiscence.

these are my faded floaty fragmented feelings for those fine fascinating fetish fantasies.

Texting My Ex

A snapshot of E­gor Kraft’s video titled ‘Beyond The Surface’


texting my ex back again,

It’s a paramount of things to swallow,

It’s a rough chat with two-just-friends,

cause am doing my best, to be pleasable.


the common things just have disappeared,

we are out of our mind, playing quiet with emoticons and words,

I don’t feel the grip, the impeccable phrases and sentences,

the style has changed,

it’s just two people terrified of the things that split them,

expecting them not to have happened.


the downpour was strong, my mistakes were the ones you knew,

ones you always saw,


you never tried to explain yourself, you never spoke a word,

and instead stole mine too.


and you are silent now, away from me,

hiding, all because you feel you are guilty,

like you did something sadly wrong,

being dishonest to me,

something that can’t be said or spoken,


why don’t you try me,

talk to me,

and tell me what it is in reality,

how it felt like to lie to me,

I’ll forgive you for that,

and i promise I’ll love you back again,


you never did listen to my ending words,

‘ I’ll love you back again ‘, you just kept hiding

your fault.


and am not surprised and it’s okay,

somebody does eventually leave you at some point in time,

it was you this time,

being honest and loyal isn’t the trend now.






Photograph by Elise Mesner; Source: Ello

anxiety, swinging swings inside,
sliding the slides, and rooms bit darker now,
walls painted black, my lamp shades broken,
dimmer are my days, light never falls,
we in the faded stories and I’ll never learn how to swim now.

take time to remember my name, you spoke and my tongue
twist like fluid, drooling, melting candles and on the other side of the sea
on top of the cliff, the lighthouse keeps flashing, waving back at the sailors,
and I stood there in the dark, alone in this island, staring at the light,
the rays did give me some hope, an eternal hope, a never-ending thirst to be human.

love people and live like the rest, be like others and am not,
strangers stare and I feel isolated in a big dark space,
why? I ask myself with a swinging mood, agonizingly bedazzled voice of my face,
trying to contempt the condemn the fact of my being is fake,
you don’t owe to tell me what I am and am not.
be sane, he said.

November 11th


 ‘Rain‘ by Ilya Kuvshinov; Source: Deviantart


This was a fine morning,

I woke up, and my brother

told me quick quick quick,

Get ready you gotta go,

Pray, thank and

ask now-something-new to get done, 

What else and why so inward-looking,

Selfish, I knew I was agreeing

that it wasn’t a good idea,

Asking for more, a hysterical laugh,

Someone under my skin really laughed out loud,

Still, why? it was inside me like fluid, the dubiety.

But never was so biased,

I’m a lost boy running around

the reality like a deranged scavenger,

That day was bright,

Bright as those smile of yours, oh darling!

I would sing for you, with you.

Our social day went more than it usually was,

It became pieces of the picture of our memory,

The day, lighter now better and calm,

Rooting to the soothing silent waves in one’s head,

I was happy, and this might be

the only piece I write

like a free-spirited tranquil self,

Those five whys don’t be any more,

But I would explore the cause-and-effect

Because all alone deep-damn-down,

I know it will be back,

But I embrace this moment of total summer,

Blissful and am blushing.

Because I cross the line here for you,

But I still love you,

And your blue jean.



The Line



It is meant to be the way it is to be,

deeper it goes, better

cutting yourself with a butter knife, it hurts more,

I don’t want to breath up those things that i got wrong,

I turned on to the wrong pages,

and am stuck in that page itself looking,

somewhere in between the lines,

or the quotes,

or the verses,

that read, “I deserve not be hurt”.

I walked across those thousand pages,

for that line,

but never was it found in the paragraphs,

that never ended, continued with commas,

now i want to write it myself down, on it,

It is meant to be there.

maybe I’ll burn it, or let it go,

release the sickness, be free,

let it be what it is meant to be,

just let be, ride back home and sleep.



Am Fond of Him


learning to control

the fondness for little things that i share

with people, strangers though,

i got no rules, i got no limits.

everything is the same,

i could recognize a pattern,

am on repeat, the same song on the radio,

a million times,

like am addicted to being fond about,

like i make a fool out me,

i try to bring in my territory,

deserted inside four walls, frequent sandstorms,

i rot, but my gut let ‘em in,


am flooded, swept away with the ice cold water,

am wet now, wept off half of my face,

i bring it back again,

eerily out of reality, too much spaced-out,

am a fanatic for fondness, the madness,

and all that lavish fucks,


the time 23:23, fuck, it’s late,

late for my hands to please me,

my control is evicted, it’s ruined,

am in a drop, learning to be in my limits,

to bail out of this.. this…