::~::Life::As::A::Bog::~::By::Gob::~::

Gob's Bog - The Boggy Blog : A Lyrical Tryst With An Alternative Life

Gob
A Gob's Eye View

On a Boggy Tuesday, August 31, 2004...

Vicarious Villainy

Boggy highlight: The Jesse Factor

Gob now reaches the world page of the fourth estate,
The Boggy newspaper reports, an interesting date

With a rather innocuous curly haired kid
Donning a bandanna and an attitude, unlike Sid

Gob peers at the little chap and wonders a little
"Don't be fooled!", the headline goes, "He's bristly as a nettle!"

From taking on Presidential candidates, to trashing pop stars
He has done it all, and that too, without any flashy cars

Letting his virulent pen, run wildly amok
Giving all his peeves, an eye-bruising sock!

Spewing out acid, and glorifying free speech
Sucking out the blood from even a stray leech

However, Gob does note, Jesse never loses his humour
Even when spreading his tentacles, like a malignant tumour

An undercurrent of twisted wit, runs like a vine
Through his posts, which with polemic, entwine

Acerbic to the core, but engaging all the same
Wildly over the top and never quite tame

Intense, but yet loaded with muted sarcasm
Bridging the width of a dark, but expressive chasm

Hooking in interest, shocking another moment
Churning up the evil depths of an infernal ferment

For a fourteen year old, that's quite impressive
Gob thinks of penning him a lyrical missive

But bursts into a spate of uncontrollable chuckles
Reading yet another "Jessescapade" hanging by the buckles!

Yesterday it was a saintly sage, today its a winsome villain
That's Gob's world page for you, under a boggy fickle pen!

On a Boggy Saturday, August 28, 2004...

A Nicotine Free World

...Gob's song of hope

Onwards to the third page of the fourth estate
A colourful little banner reflects from Gob's shiny pate

"A world, nicotine free", it merrily announces
That awful sooty pollution, it wordily trounces

Who is this eloquent and enlightened noble scribe?
Fearlessly battling against the odious nicotine tribe!

Who but Bertelsen, yet again, writing an ardent piece
With his persuasive style and cleverly penned litotes

One who has experienced the pain of being addicted
Only knows how hard it is to quit, and avoid being convicted

In the pathological court of fine tissue and blood
Nicotine wrecks havoc like a devastating flood

Soot, its ugly and filthy companion at arms
Spewing out the chimneys of evil fag farms

Together they slowly paint all the pinks to black
If one is not careful, one may hit the permanent sack

Ah! The defiant may bawl, it's just a fancy of the nerd
To make us smokers, behave like the rest of the herd

Oh! So if you are so unbelieving, go and dissect your lung
So black it will be, that you may forget what you ever loudly sung!

Along with the soot in the background, there will be cancers too
Malignantly swarming out and insanely devouring the tissue

Once poor blood, which was being enriched with oxygen
Now finds itself being stripped of it, by dragons in a sooty den

Twenty years and you will be coughing out in wrenching pain
Afflicted with COPD, your heart pump headed down the drain

But, it need not be so drastic and such bleak an end
If from nicotine slavery, you strengthen your will, to defend

Grit your teeth and pull out your sword to fight
Know that nicotine is wrong, and you are always right

Spare your loved ones, the sooty misery
Give the wretched fag up and set yourself free

In Gob's heart, this little refrain brightly resounds
"Put down the loathsome and depraved nicotine hounds!"

Oh so delightful, will be those smoke-free hours
Does it not now, find an echoing answer in yours?

On a Boggy Tuesday, August 24, 2004...

Introspection

Gob peers within...

Debating universal trends, may sound very fine
But has Gob ever tried to look inside, and seek an outline?

I'm afraid, that has rarely crossed Gob's mind
But now that it does, surprisingly, Gob does find

A soul inured to the bog's bizarre ways
A spirit blind to hope's illuminating rays

For, as Corey says, so blunted is our faculty
We have ceased to use it, under a myopic fealty

Given in to the misery of a sightless existence
Without even realizing its festering purulence

So caught up are we, that we resignedly accept
Every fad in the air, as a controlling precept

So eager to conform, so easily lead astray
The little stifled soul inside, has lost its way

When good thoughts come by, we do get inspired
But the moment passes so quickly, we forget what transpired

The dull lead of burden, comes to rest instead
In our heart, in our work, in each homestead

So reflects Gob, and wonders, if there is a cure?
Can we ever go back, to a state more pure?

Where we are free to think, what we really want to
And not what we are fed forcibly, immured in an unlit zoo

Not what catches the fancy, of a mass of mindless sheep
The cattle will move on soon, and leave us to weep

Their influence may be unseen, but insidious all the same
Seeping into the spirit, like a smouldering flame

That is not life, Anti; just a well-disguised prison
That we have created for ourselves, for want of a vision

It is time for Gob, to work around this handicap
Time for rebuilding and getting past the energy sap

And so will it, for all the dear friendly souls, Gob hopes
Time to see the bog anew, through colorful kaleidoscopes! :)

On a Boggy Saturday, August 21, 2004...

Thought For The Day...

.. Or Gob sees the dilemma, the cafeRg way.

Just as Gob's finicky mind decides to call it quits
Eyes stray over a piece of cafeRg's wits

In black letter, is, "cafeRg's Thought For The Day"
Fitted in neatly into the second page outlay

"No-one notices substance, if not for the style",
"Once they are hooked, though, substance wins the smile"

Gob wonders, just why this is universally true?
Is it so hard to give credit, where it is is due?

Why is it, that a mere shell, to us all, is so alluring?
Why do our senses ignore values, deeper and enduring?

On a Boggy Wednesday, August 18, 2004...

Gob Reflects On Bertelsen's Thoughts...

...and on some boggy economics

Leaving the essay, Gob flips the page
Responding to flippancy, with a justifiable rage

Comes upon a gem of an article, which sends thoughts flying
A piece of exquisite utility, a lease for the dying!

Bertelsen, the savvy epitome of perfection
He, whose name alone, would serve as an apt description

Whose journals on the web, blaze time itself
Writes today, and his words just leap from the shelf

For, words well written, often have the best impact
They value substance, and don't distort a fact

Substance, as one may or may not agree
Comes in many ways, but always for a fee.

Style on the other hand is actually cheap
Afforded, even by the poorest of sheep

Why?, you may ask, doesn't it sound contrary?
If you asked that, you do yourself credit; being wary

How much do we pay for the love that we receive?
From dear ones, from friends, even from a pet peeve.

We pay a lot, my dear friend, we pay with the mind
Loving them back, we pay quite richly in kind

"Ha!", you may still argue, "Not a penny departed my purse!"
Halt right there, Gob has plenty to say about that infernal curse!

Why do we measure everything in a monetary balance?
Has money in itself got some chemically attractive valence?

That, we talk about it frequently, and passionately so
Other topics get from us, a priority quite low!

One defiant voice shouts, "Gob! Money even makes the mayor go!"
"Why, I can use it to effectively bribe you or the venal foe!"

Keep silent, dear friend, the Bog has no use for such cash inflow
That, you make such assertions, and spell them out, cheekily so!

Substance takes many forms, love not being alone
In each, when compared, style is a cheaper clone

Be it the Google Navbar or the flimsy essay
Everywhere, style comes off, cheaper in pay

For, however snazzy the vehicle may be
Style cannot, a performance, guarantee

The same can be said of a thoughtfully given gift
Would you rather have use for it, or through its packing, sift?

Everyday, we are lured to our decisions
Deceived by appearances, led by our faulty visions

But do we ever, Gob wonders, stop to analyse?
That, trusting style over substance, cannot be very wise?

There is, however, an occasional shining ray
When, this theory, in practice gives way

Along with the shine of style, sometimes substance is chanced
A moment of discovery, when the unknown is romanced

But, Gob concludes, such moments are rare indeed
Like precious flowers, overrun by a bed of weed

Ambiguous, though it may seem, Gob chuckles
A mischievous gleam, in Gob's eyes, twinkles

Stops and stoops to smell the aromatic flower
I think Gob will keep it, though not its entire bower!

On a Boggy Tuesday, August 17, 2004...

Gob Is Googlified!

Does Gob want style or substance?

Big words, complicated style; that's the way it was
The essay below, much to Gob's disgust, was filled with unbelievable gloss!

It began nowhere, it lead nowhere, it just went around in circles
It could very well have been a monograph, about sea-faring barnacles!

Who wrote this piece of junk?; how in the bog, was it published?
It looked as though every sentence was left, intentionally unfinished!

It wasn't related to the coal sketch above, neither did it give a faint clue
It just specialized in jumping, it seemed, to unrelated topics like a kangaroo!

Not unlike the new Google Navbar, which adorns the space above
For it, I'm sure Gob doesn't have, even a shred of lost love!

The essay, as well as the Google Navbar, don't really do their job
No proper references, no comprehensive search, just the presence of a snob

Of what use is an essay, which defeats its own cause?
Just a waste of acreage and an irreplaceable time loss!

Why peruse the essay or for that matter, the new Navbar?
When alternatives exist, far better than an empty cookie jar!?

On a Boggy Saturday, August 14, 2004...

A Coal Sketch


On the grainy newsprint, is a sprawling image
Taking up, in black and white, the paper's acreage

Underneath a caption screams, "Trail Of Grauballe"
Followed by an eloquent, and wordy long essay

May be, to a Bog Soul, it might not have accounted for much
However, it holds Gob, by the hair, in its stirring clutch

The image is just a grayscaled bit, of the mysterious blue scroll
It seemed as if someone had scrawled it, with a piece of coal

But Gob does note that something is terribly amiss
Besides the colour, the markings, as in the original, just don't exist!

On a Boggy Thursday, August 12, 2004...

Morning Blues...

...And a shock!

How does one cope up with the morning blues?
Gob's mind is filled with contradictory views

Should Gob get up now and start the daily grind
Or stay in bed and, for an hour more, unwind?

Knock Knock, the doornail sounds; the mongers are here
What's Gob to do now, but answer; what a fate! Oh dear!

The streamers are exchanged for the roll of news
Today the mongers also deliver a packet of fresh brews

Ah! Surely a sign that Gob should shake out of sloth
Fix a hearty breakfast and shake up the table cloth

So humming a piece of melody, picked up from a boggy jaunt
Gob drags aching feet to the familiar morning haunt

The kitchen has been sleeping for almost a day now
Gob presently bustles around it, and indolence takes a bow

Finally, the kettle is whistling and the morning meal is done
Gob settles down at the table and chews on butter and bun

Why not join the dots today and see what the sage has to say?
Gob thinks, and unfurls the paper, but is blown away!

The front page of the paper leaps to Gob's consciousness
Whatever sloth was hidden inside, now makes a speedy egress!

On a Boggy Tuesday, August 10, 2004...

Saturn's Boggy Sojourn


In Gob's metaphysical world, we take a peek again
Journey to a reality, in a different ethereal plane

Though Gob sleeps peacefully, inside there is chaos
A huge saturnine visitor, is planted in a field of moss

Boggy creatures buzz around, in the aestival night
As, resplendent in a bluish glow, the guest arrests the sight

Smooth and shaped like a globe, streaked with pearly white
A encircling luminous ring levitates, in a size just right

Gob is among the multitudes, who have gathered around in awe
"Why has this thing come to our bog?", asks a yellow macaw

No-one knows the answer, no-one attempts a guess
Of this brilliant stranger to the Bog, no-one knows the address

Gob watches from a corner, and is puzzled as can be
Vaguely wonders how nice it would be to have a cup of tea!

The globe suddenly ruptures, sends out dazzling rays
They hit Gob piercingly and directly on the face

So intense is their brightness, that Gob can't stand the strain
Wakes up and sees the sunlight streaming, in from the window pane

On a Boggy Monday, August 09, 2004...

Its Tough...

To sleep on a bed of moss!

It's past midnight and the Bog crickets are wailing
In dark purple puddles, queer insects are sailing

Gob awakens with a jolt, to realize
That, sleeping out in the open, has its price

Nasty little creepies have crawled up Gob's face
Licking every feature and finding their spiral ways

The heavy green moss from the boggy bed
Sticks persistently, to the back of Gob's head

To make it worse, a light drizzle has started
The clear deep blue, from the sky, has departed

Getting wet is one thing that Gob can't bear
So finally, Gob gets up and hurries to the lair

It's been a long day and Gob longs for a cup of brew
Something to eat would be very welcome too

But who will now go and fire up the cooking stove?
Cut up the veggies and grind up the clove?

Gob isn't inclined at all to work up a sweat
When one is extremely tired, hunger is easy to forget

On a Boggy Saturday, August 07, 2004...

Icarus At Night...

Spellbound by the deep blue wealth of the skies
Unwilling to leave, bewitched Gob lies

Gazing through the stardust, with enchanted eyes
Gob's soul is imbued, with their myriad dyes

As the landscape of the heavens, enthralls the mind
Unexplored niches, Gob's eyes, ceaselessly find

Whizzing giant dragons, blinking little tots
Falling graceful angels, seven-rayed dots

Luminous greens and vibrant new violets
Merge into blues and celestial epaulets

The angel of sleep now graces the screen
Serenades the clouds, in a robe of aquamarine

Gob's eyelids droop, as wings sprout from behind
Wave about and flutter, like a venetian blind

As Gob soars off, into the land of the nine Gods
Helios and the Moon applaud, and wave their magic rods!

On a Boggy Thursday, August 05, 2004...

Crow's Feet

Among The Stars

The Bog is verdant underfoot, with tessellated vines
They creep and twist on its floor, cloaking the peat mines

Gob dreamily staring and marvelling at José's smiles
Trips now over one of these, treacherous Boggy tiles

Down, down, down, the drop goes on forever
Till Gob comes to lie facing the star spangled sparver

The vast welkin seems to be alight with them tonight
Dotted and milky, strewn with gems sparkling bright

Wispy clouds, who'd rather not come down as rain
Float around playfully, amidst the giant astral chain

For Gob's eyes, a panoramic accidental feast
Who could care about getting up now, in the least?!

Tracing majestic outlines, Gob now espies
Orion, with his panoply, raging in the skies

Does not the hunter's eyes twinkle with merriment?
Jagged wisps of crow's feet adorn his lineament!

What a delightful trick of nebular illusion!
A minute of fantasy; a joyous delusion!

On a Boggy Wednesday, August 04, 2004...

What A Smile!

At "Pluck"...

Gob smiles a smile of happiness, now that a stamp is stuck
And takes a nightly stroll to the delivery-service, "Pluck"

On its front is a calligraphed billboard, letters stencilled on a frame
Wooing the denizens with a 24-hour service,"Pluck" lives up to its name!

A bunch of gutsy toads of the Bog, handle the dispatch
In the small rickety Bog-Post-Office, its ceiling made of thatch

As Gob walks in, a croaky welcome resounds the air
Gob is their frequent visitor and quite well known there

José, the head postmaster flashes Gob a massive grin
It stretches and makes more obvious his funny double chin

"Hola Gob!, ¿Cómo es usted?", he croaks out in Spanish
"Estoy muy bien", Gob answers and sees José's eyes vanish

How does one, Gob wonders, put their whole heart into a smile?
So the whole face transforms in a stroke of joy, so very versatile!

José has one such charm out of his many, that transcend
The barriers of language and borders, they effortlessly bend

To be flashed that very charming smile, Gob had learnt the phrase
Of the language, which sounded, so full of lyrical intensity & grace

Some day, Gob wished, probably touching a life of nine decades,
To be well-versed in twenty tongues, and their varied shades

On a Boggy Tuesday, August 03, 2004...

Dear Danny...

Gob writes to say...

Gob curiously picks up the mail; who in the Bog could it be?
The letter, as it is flipped, gives a faint scent of the salty sea

In neat flowing alphabets in blue ink, it spells out a familiar name
Ah! Gob is relieved that it is not spam, or a weird guessing game!

Danny, The Poet, writes from an exotic land, beyond the great blue sea
For Gob, stuck for aeons in the Bog, it's not at all an event, wee!

Breaks open the seal with unstifled haste, as excited little eyes seek
Musings of tragic verse, unexampled, even in classical Greek

As Gob scans through Danny's letter, disappointment creeps right in
The Poet has written in to say his journal would now, only hit the trash bin!

The reasons he gives are even worse; he actually thinks it's boring!
Oh for the love of the Bog, does he not see that it sends imaginations soaring?!

Gob grabs the soggy pencil and furiously scribbles out a reply
Such matters are not to be ignored, or left off with only a sigh

Dear Danny
, Gob writes, ...And how do you do today?
Hope the cheerful sun in the sky hit you with its sparkling ray!

Nasty things in life abound, which might make us very sore
Many souls and circumstances which make us rage like a boar

But giving up writing is not a cure for such coughs and hiccups
For, writing is truly an art which perseveres through downs & ups

In dealings with your wild world, you've no doubt been bruised
Your verse is your weapon against those, by whom you've been used!

You fear, if your decision were revoked, you would be "perceived as a liar"?
That is so entirely laughable, it sounds funny even in my gloomy mire!

Do you even know how many of us fans are out here waiting for your prose?
So we could do our best to cheer you on and, to your life, raise a hearty toast!

According to a little snippet I read, there are two Billion souls on the web
A miniscule of 'em had had a chance to read you and yet, you choose to ebb?!

"Attention Seeking", you say; young sir, you definitely are NOT!
Do you go about the lair-tops screaming that you are about to get shot?!

Worse, do you go about mailing spam highlighted in sickly yellow?
Or do you secretly combine nitroglycerine with inflammable tallow?!

To hell with the judgmental idiots; your life is, but your own
Leave 'em to rot till their carcasses turn a grauballine roan

The beauty of life, my dear friend, lies not in finding sorrow
Do what you can today and forget it 'cause there is still a morrow

If you have to toil and sell your soul to make it, in your brutal world
Don't you repent 'cause it has long been, that with lady luck, you twirled

For, she is a fanciful mistress and also a fickle-minded old dame
When you think least about her, she'll be back in your game!

Cheer up Danny boy, the toads in the Bog are a dancing
Rework all your strategies and learn some crafty romancing

Your journal is your friend through the thick and thin of your blood
Don't abandon it, especially now; don't give in to a grumpy flood!

Fight back & drive those demons of doubt far away, into gloom
They'll never dare to come back to you; they'll crash to their doom!

On a Boggy Monday, August 02, 2004...

The Ninth Sense

Gob's Art...

The fronds slowly weave together, almost magically, as one
Some ornately patterned after crescents, and still others, as the sun

Caressed by almost a divine touch, they flow out like a rivulet
Reflecting Gob's mood just as the waters mirror the sunset

In Gob's Bog there are nine senses. No, they don't come in fives!
The ninth one is kinesthetic, for which every Bog-soul strives

The sense of touch and of position, combined in a unique way
They open the window of the soul to every perceivable outlay

Before ye think it is a "gift" of birth, let me hurry & clarify
The ninth sense of the Bog is, by most, easily passed by

For, it comes with happiness and an extraordinary will to love
Thy work, spirit and most of all art, peerless as a pure white dove

The streamers are almost done now, they are hung by the window
Giving out the luscious perfume of a dew-soaked spring meadow

As Gob prepares to go back to the scroll, in peals a chime of tin
The passing night-mail-mobile chucks in a letter sealed with paraffin.

On a Boggy Sunday, August 01, 2004...

Dusk

Gob Toils...

It is nearing dusk, and the sky is overcast
A gloomy grey duskiness reigns over, unsurpassed

Soon the night will envelope all vestiges of light
There will be just dark olive green everywhere in sight

In Gob's little lair a lamp burns its wick out
Gob is working at something, with an attention devout

Intertwining strands of moss curl out from the desk
Intricately showcasing a beauty romanesque

But Gob's countenance is full of impatience
The air is laden with the dusky bog incense

It is surely a demanding job and well, it must be done
If Gob were to have tomorrow's news even before the sun