Nº. 1 of  42


I like to walk.



Beck Cooper - “The Gutting”

"Sometimes, it is easier to believe you deserve it, to believe you owe it to him, to wake up the next morning and serve him the pulp of you he scraped from your bones on a breakfast tray."

Performing during the Last Chance Slam at the 2014 Individual World Poetry Slam. Subscribe to Button on YouTube!

So much gratitude. Thank you buttonpoetry for filming & posting this poem. 

Yes, please.

Yes, please.


The Art of Indianism

I was skimming through a few of my mother’s old cotton sarees recently, pieces she’s picked up from different parts of the country over a span of almost 20 years.

I was excitedly gushing over how pretty and unique they were, and that was when it struck me that we hardly see girls/women our generation in these gorgeous traditional ensembles anymore.

We’ve been so strongly influenced by the Zara, Forever21, Mango, etc wave that’s hit our country, that we’ve almost lost our own ethnic style somewhere in that chaos.

 I’m not a fashion extremist. I personally love these brands that I just mentioned. But I also love the gorgeous traditional styles we’ve had around us for centuries. So many colours, such vibrant gorgeous prints, and breathtaking jewellery!

 I immediately feverishly started googling Indian fashion blogs to see if there were bloggers who’d made an attempt to incorporate any ethnic elements into the looks they blog about. Unfortunately, I found no one.

 The Scarlet Window, was hence conceived out of an eager desire to revive our native styles, and fuse it with the new-age trends to created wearable, contemporary Indian looks.


It’s all vivid still, and there is probably no getting away from the feeling.


This year we will stroll through the local station, find a
worn out Iranian restaurant, take the Berry Pulav to the nearby cemetery
so we can feel the grass crush underneath, and write
a poem by a grave.
It’s a lot like listening. And breathing. Except breathing is an easier process.
It’s a lot like hearing urban noise amidst the greenery and extremely focussed quietness.
And a bit like spinning stories from only the visible parts
of people.
We wear a dozen skins together and once we’re done I slowly see these fade away into a moment of pressured logic. 

Cut to today. A day like the 4th. 

Scandalous day

One night I decide to write. 
A room of darkness, just how he likes and few other ferociously hot moments that every person dreams of. A list of friends on a piece of paper compiled for a party that’s not supposed to happen, but I have to impress the other world I live in, so the party is just an excuse to what is filth, in my head.
The only sound that disturbs at this point of time is a Tibetan flag that the boss got from Leh this year, and its hard end. Which is probably made up of wood. I don’t know. Makes a lot of sound when it hits the wall. 
I realize how I like reading Wood’s characters with special powers. Or sometimes, plain aliens used in the most obvious, yet unnatural way. A strange looking creature waiting for you outside, if you just peek outside..
A moment lost so hopelessly in seeing that. I got up and saw outside. Its a fail sometimes, most of the times. 
I just closed everything and saw down in the darkness again. With the list and an unpredictable head. One night I decide to write, and every little dirt that’s on the ground is stuck to the ceiling now. Congratulations to me.


Lydia Davis, “Men”


Lydia Davis, “Men”


1922 | Peter the Tramp | Erik A. Petschler

A View From Brooklyn II.By Rudy Burckhardt, 1954.

A View From Brooklyn II.
By Rudy Burckhardt, 1954.

Black on Black.


A woman kneels on the street amid tear gas during a demonstration over the fatal shooting of black teenager Michael Brown by a police officer in Missouri.
Aug. 18, 2014


A woman kneels on the street amid tear gas during a demonstration over the fatal shooting of black teenager Michael Brown by a police officer in Missouri.

Aug. 18, 2014

(via widespindriftgaze)


"Hasta Siempre" — Soledad Bravo. 

Characterized as a protest singer and a forerunner of Latin America’s nueve cancion movement, Soledad Bravo is… unparalleled? Remarkable? Fantastic? None of those words may be accurate, but on a rainy day in gray New York I feel quite comfortable employing hyperbole. Regardless, Bravo is widely considered one of the best voices of her time and place.

"Hasta Siempre" is her cover of a Cuban hymn written by Carlos Puebla for Che Guerva, but, although, beautiful, it does nothing to match the quiet urgency present in songs like "Qué dirá el santo padre." From Cantos revoluionarios de america latina. Listen.

(via atributos)

Keaton Henson - Elevator Song (Ulrich Schnauss Remix)

Will you bring me the notebook tomorrow?

Asked Caroline. She always asks that before a crucial day.
The person mentioned here would look like a short, petite, two pony
tailed girl but this picture was a wasted frame
With bad hair and bad clips she wanted to gain my attention
Wait, bad everything. That is Caroline. 
Instead of saying “No, I don’t think I would want to give you my book, because nobody really talks to you, so will I not.”
I say, “Sure! Of course! Do you even have to ask? You can take my book any time!”
Why, isn’t sharing a good deed than to just show yourself
to be an ignorant bitch because that’s what the world calls ‘cool’
and you feel a tremendous pressure to achieve that level of ‘coolness’. They say. Everybody says. Sharing keeps you satisfied and full.
I say to myself when Caroline asks for my notebook. 
The notebook thankfully consists of blank pages and few doodles by
my ex boyfriend who is not a living person anymore because he had to ‘find his way’ and this life for him held nothing. I sometimes think he
did some sort of voodoo? Is that possible, I think. I only live on his suicide letter his old grandmother passed down to me because she
saw me crying one afternoon when I was holding my abdomen and looking myself in the mirror. Stomach cramps. Not him. Who’d tell
the old lady?
And that evening, I asked for fried onion rings and chicken
lollipops because you know, why not, food. It was overdone and oily.
Just how I like it. She, the old grandmother of my dead ex boyfriend, asked me to get some tea and I broke her chinese teapot.
"This is not my home, I need to rush!"
I wanted to blow my brains out and think about a white
page and few blobs of ink on my face covering certain spots
on the face, its extremely weird and casual if you think.
"Banks are extremely depressing." I say. 
Now I see blobs of ink on people. The sexy woman from the neighbourhood, with her unimaginably horrible push up bra
(that her breasts didn’t seem normal to me) and blobs of ink
pasted on her nose, cheeks, lips. 
Or the schizophrenic kid from the third block who once threw a shoe
at me because I refused to kiss his neck. 
He says, “Yo, stay away maybe.” and handed me over a perfectly
made joint.
That’s all right, I realized its only a way of caring. An elusive form of sharing.

Or maybe..


Being good to each other is so important, guys.

Nº. 1 of  42