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Don’t move. It’s snowing. | 'Neath the Halo of a street lamp.
https://epicureansdesert.wordpress.com/2013/01/19/dont-move-its-snowing
039;Neath the Halo of a street lamp. Spilled ink and some Jibber Jabber. The glass on the dining table. The God at the end of my wall. →. January 19, 2013. Don’t move. It’s snowing. Posted in Notes from the Thames Deck. There are days when the wheels don’t turn. When the television network refuses to tune in any channel. When the hot water tap in your kitchen stops living up to its name. When the very fragrant milk in your Pasta Sauce curdles and makes a tragic way to the litter bin. There’s a Pause.
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The God at the end of my wall. | 'Neath the Halo of a street lamp.
https://epicureansdesert.wordpress.com/2013/02/26/the-god-at-the-end-of-my-wall
039;Neath the Halo of a street lamp. Spilled ink and some Jibber Jabber. Don’t move. It’s snowing. Waiting for Spring. →. February 26, 2013. The God at the end of my wall. Posted in Notes from the Thames Deck. It was five months ago that I brought my God to London. Since then, I have talked quite a lot to him. I have taken him out of a box and made him listen. He, in turn, has made me do many other things. Like, walking a few doors and two elevators, everyday. That’s how far A lives. I have been a sexist.
epicureansdesert.wordpress.com
Making eggs. | 'Neath the Halo of a street lamp.
https://epicureansdesert.wordpress.com/2013/01/05/making-eggs
039;Neath the Halo of a street lamp. Spilled ink and some Jibber Jabber. Would you like some tea? The glass on the dining table. →. January 5, 2013. Posted in Notes from the Thames Deck. It was dinner time. A called to remind me. We had promised to meet after a two hour study schedule. 8220;What are we cooking? 8221;, he asks. I make a face. Too vague a question. The fridge whimpers in the kitchen. Like a child trapped inside a dungeon. It screams everyday. We get worried when it doesn’t. We sit down, fr...
epicureansdesert.wordpress.com
Scattered notes | 'Neath the Halo of a street lamp.
https://epicureansdesert.wordpress.com/blurt
039;Neath the Halo of a street lamp. Spilled ink and some Jibber Jabber. Still Blue blood. Scarborough Fair. Drunken love. Violet fields. Rosemary dreams. Wet palette. Smoke breaths in cold drapes. Rolled up bus tickets. Silent pockets. Rainbow rain. Reused reels. Flash and a smile. Leave a Reply Cancel reply. Enter your comment here. Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:. Address never made public). You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. ( Log Out. Join 435 other followers.
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The glass on the dining table. | 'Neath the Halo of a street lamp.
https://epicureansdesert.wordpress.com/2013/01/08/the-glass-on-the-dining-table
039;Neath the Halo of a street lamp. Spilled ink and some Jibber Jabber. Don’t move. It’s snowing. →. January 8, 2013. The glass on the dining table. Posted in Notes from the Thames Deck. It walks all day. With Tall Starbucks Lattes and powder pink strolleys. It walks so fast that you blink and miss the sun. Admiration, you see, where one can raise his eyebrow, nod his head and pretend to follow that, in near future. D even talks about walking as fast. And, she is not kidding. We love London Winters.
epicureansdesert.wordpress.com
This time, I seek Allah with you. | 'Neath the Halo of a street lamp.
https://epicureansdesert.wordpress.com/2013/08/08/this-time-i-seek-allah-with-you
039;Neath the Halo of a street lamp. Spilled ink and some Jibber Jabber. August 8, 2013. This time, I seek Allah with you. Posted in Notes from the Thames Deck. Remember the first time we discussed the shade of blue? We had shed a few layers and tied a ribbon around a few food baskets. It took us six months. Six months of waiting. And one day, we woke up to gold. We made our own colours till then. Added a little water. Bought new brushes. We were quite the artists. I guess, that always gave us the edge.
epicureansdesert.wordpress.com
Would you like some tea? | 'Neath the Halo of a street lamp.
https://epicureansdesert.wordpress.com/2013/01/05/would-you-like-some-tea
039;Neath the Halo of a street lamp. Spilled ink and some Jibber Jabber. Making eggs. →. January 5, 2013. Would you like some tea? Posted in Notes from the Thames Deck. For a lot of people that I know, London would make their eyes twinkle. Sipping tea in a London flat, might even glisten them a bit. Probably when they think about it, they see an ivory cup. And the tea a lot hotter, and fragrant. They can smell it, yes? We don’t have those. We’re in London though. It doesn’t matter, you see. You are comme...
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epicureansdesert | 'Neath the Halo of a street lamp.
https://epicureansdesert.wordpress.com/author/epicureansdesert
039;Neath the Halo of a street lamp. Spilled ink and some Jibber Jabber. August 8, 2013. This time, I seek Allah with you. Posted in Notes from the Thames Deck. Remember the first time we discussed the shade of blue? We had shed a few layers and tied a ribbon around a few food baskets. It took us six months. Six months of waiting. And one day, we woke up to gold. We made our own colours till then. Added a little water. Bought new brushes. We were quite the artists. I guess, that always gave us the edge.
epicureansdesert.wordpress.com
Waiting for Spring. | 'Neath the Halo of a street lamp.
https://epicureansdesert.wordpress.com/2013/02/28/waiting-for-spring
039;Neath the Halo of a street lamp. Spilled ink and some Jibber Jabber. The God at the end of my wall. This time, I seek Allah with you. →. February 28, 2013. Posted in Notes from the Thames Deck. I walk with a pen. Or maybe a twig. Something that can make an impression in the sand. My house is right by the Thames. Quite a lot of sand to write on, you see. Some, immensely accurate. The water isn’t too efficient each time. When you cross the bridge, you’ll see. This wasn’t the original plan, though.
epicureansdesert.wordpress.com
'Neath the Halo of a street lamp. | Spilled ink and some Jibber Jabber. | Page 2
https://epicureansdesert.wordpress.com/page/2
039;Neath the Halo of a street lamp. Spilled ink and some Jibber Jabber. January 29, 2012. Dancing to the caprice of desires,. In the subtle grasp of her fingers. His eyes on her,. A sly tenderness,. She sat unmoved,. As he bathed,. In the glare of her dark eyes. Rhythm to lustre,. They were singing,. And yet, she sat dry. His fingers strumming,. The threads of air. While she looked around,. Did the grass in her garden turn purple? It couldn’t be. For the dancing strands of her hair,. For she was in love,.
