Do you understand, my dear friend? You will reread it and you will see that the one who will love you until his death wanted to sign it with his blood.
De Sade
Thursday, December 29, 2005
Thursday, December 22, 2005
1979 Smashing Pumpkins
Shakedown 1979, cool kids never have the time
On a live wire right up off the street
You and I should meet
Junebug skipping like a stone
With the headlights pointed at the dawn
We were sure we’d never see an end to it all
And I don’t even care to shake these zipper blues
And we don’t knowJust where our bones will rest
To dust I guess
Forgotten and absorbed into the earth below
Double cross the vacant and the bored
They’re not sure just what we have in the store
Morphine city slippin dues down to see
That we don’t even care as restless as we are
We feel the pull in the land of a thousand guilts
And poured cement, lamented and assured
To the lights and towns below
Faster than the speed of sound
Faster than we thought we’d go, beneath the sound of hope
Justine never knew the rules,
Hung down with the freaks and the ghouls
No apologies ever need be made, I know you better than you fake it
To see that we don’t care to shake these zipper blues
And we don’t know just where our bones will rest
To dust I guess
Forgotten and absorbed into the earth below
The street heats the urgency of sound
As you can see there’s no one around
On a live wire right up off the street
You and I should meet
Junebug skipping like a stone
With the headlights pointed at the dawn
We were sure we’d never see an end to it all
And I don’t even care to shake these zipper blues
And we don’t knowJust where our bones will rest
To dust I guess
Forgotten and absorbed into the earth below
Double cross the vacant and the bored
They’re not sure just what we have in the store
Morphine city slippin dues down to see
That we don’t even care as restless as we are
We feel the pull in the land of a thousand guilts
And poured cement, lamented and assured
To the lights and towns below
Faster than the speed of sound
Faster than we thought we’d go, beneath the sound of hope
Justine never knew the rules,
Hung down with the freaks and the ghouls
No apologies ever need be made, I know you better than you fake it
To see that we don’t care to shake these zipper blues
And we don’t know just where our bones will rest
To dust I guess
Forgotten and absorbed into the earth below
The street heats the urgency of sound
As you can see there’s no one around
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Hymnhum. Suckmarrow [ashtory next chapter]
[This to the lord of the void.]
I submit meself in thy puppetual servitude—A Sonsinking dreams of a patern with velvet wavelets and shimmering darkness—semper in angaria, Of Slavation that beasts upon thesires, haramonizes infinite nymphs within a single rhapsody and all creation hymns the song of solomoan. A metamorphic metaphor in search of themeaning in an impassable impasse, the words and mazes, stretches its implications from pestilence to damnation. This fading façade will soon disappear love and there’ll be nothing left of me, nothing but the carving on that wall [eia, quis me amabit], where you stand and watch me dig holes, souls. And you hymnhum litanies of your god’s love oblivious of the luciferous waltzes of those forsaken souls… Of one soon I’ll be. Who will then cherish the memory of embrace, of hands in hands, of bodies pressed into eachother, of lips inseparable for that moment that lapsed eternity, and travel on wings of abaddon? What death this life conceals in its lap, shroud, enigma and mythology?
[But this again is a story, only a story…]
We slashed our palms, blended bloods, and farewelled, up till the moment of readiscovering, with healed scars and charred faces, clothed in paper—suicidal notes written in each other’s name. And curled us into a homogenous conglomerate, annuled individualities, abandoned for an embrace—for ambrosia.
Please believe there is no falling apart.
Please… Believe … These rivers of fate on my hand, this palmystery doesn’t nourish a judas within its depths.Ma chere, you were of faith, remember? I was of little; I needed to touch the flesh to believe. And how you resurrected me, sundered me from Thomas, inch by inch, limb by limb… What isn’t a story, you and me as functions of time and space, the age old question of form and substance, written by the mighty creator on pages of eternity?
I submit meself in thy puppetual servitude—A Sonsinking dreams of a patern with velvet wavelets and shimmering darkness—semper in angaria, Of Slavation that beasts upon thesires, haramonizes infinite nymphs within a single rhapsody and all creation hymns the song of solomoan. A metamorphic metaphor in search of themeaning in an impassable impasse, the words and mazes, stretches its implications from pestilence to damnation. This fading façade will soon disappear love and there’ll be nothing left of me, nothing but the carving on that wall [eia, quis me amabit], where you stand and watch me dig holes, souls. And you hymnhum litanies of your god’s love oblivious of the luciferous waltzes of those forsaken souls… Of one soon I’ll be. Who will then cherish the memory of embrace, of hands in hands, of bodies pressed into eachother, of lips inseparable for that moment that lapsed eternity, and travel on wings of abaddon? What death this life conceals in its lap, shroud, enigma and mythology?
[But this again is a story, only a story…]
We slashed our palms, blended bloods, and farewelled, up till the moment of readiscovering, with healed scars and charred faces, clothed in paper—suicidal notes written in each other’s name. And curled us into a homogenous conglomerate, annuled individualities, abandoned for an embrace—for ambrosia.
Please believe there is no falling apart.
Please… Believe … These rivers of fate on my hand, this palmystery doesn’t nourish a judas within its depths.Ma chere, you were of faith, remember? I was of little; I needed to touch the flesh to believe. And how you resurrected me, sundered me from Thomas, inch by inch, limb by limb… What isn’t a story, you and me as functions of time and space, the age old question of form and substance, written by the mighty creator on pages of eternity?
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
Monday, December 5, 2005
Friday, November 18, 2005
Metamorphosis
Life is about to be changed forever, once again. Tomorrow at the stroke of midnoon, I would have finished the last paper before I graduate... And then mundanities will never be the same again.
Last four years have been eventfull if not anything, and though love came to heal all in the end, i still cherish the old flagellations. 'The transition is beautiful', Someone said 'There is a softness about you which was missing forever til now. ' And I laughed. Laughed my heart out. The cynical rogue learned to laugh, and to cry, and to feel.For all the bitterness I collected over the first three years [Vestige of which still lingers, may linger on forever], at the end of it all, I am happy. Regrets are nothing compared to this elation.
Thank You, my-wish, thank you my love.
Last four years have been eventfull if not anything, and though love came to heal all in the end, i still cherish the old flagellations. 'The transition is beautiful', Someone said 'There is a softness about you which was missing forever til now. ' And I laughed. Laughed my heart out. The cynical rogue learned to laugh, and to cry, and to feel.For all the bitterness I collected over the first three years [Vestige of which still lingers, may linger on forever], at the end of it all, I am happy. Regrets are nothing compared to this elation.
Thank You, my-wish, thank you my love.
Wednesday, November 9, 2005
Reading an unusually sesquipedalian testimonial one sophomoron wrote to another, I couldn’t help admiring the farrago of all so many alien words in 10 lines. It was amusing to see that there were some six/seven words I never heard of. Proud in my own verbiage at language [Of course before 11th May Happened], I wondered at that person’s eloquence, though detested how she tried to jumble up all her verbosity in a single testimonial. Googling for meanings, when my faithful Oxford and even http://www.m-w.com/ betrayed me, I came across a page of supposedly Superior Words. Haha, all of those alien words were borrowed from a single webpage. I wonder who is fooling whom and why … The incorrigible supposed-superiority-complex is such a fun thing to observe, though hard to stay away from.
P.S
Few visit this page, but for benefit of all, who may consider them seperior this way, if not another, here is the link.
http://www.physics.ohio-state.edu/~wilkins/writing/Resources/essays/superiorwords.html
P.S
Few visit this page, but for benefit of all, who may consider them seperior this way, if not another, here is the link.
http://www.physics.ohio-state.edu/~wilkins/writing/Resources/essays/superiorwords.html
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Ash-tory. Unfinished yet
Prologue:
This is where I asked myself, if I knew myself. Along minuscule vicissitudes in tender hearts, I placed the seeds of a catastrophe.
I owed death a life: I became my death.
It’s a fun memory, reminiscence has never been so pleasant, never had the past—the past been so beautiful.
Wait. This is not the apt course; I have to start from where it began. There had to be symmetry. Chronometry. I have to seek origins, and the roots. I have to. I have to find those first, or at least construct those—assemble the assemblage of origins. The genesis of this narrative shall be chronicled in an order. Nostalgia with the benefit of innovation is creativity. So let me think, Oh no, let me recollect, let me go down back in the forgotten lanes. Yes! That is scary, but still so soothing. Yes! Its dark yet so illuminating. In the cul-de-sacs of my conscious amnesia… life before I find the end, and the beginning, I find the origins.
The beginning begins with Sin, like the Original beginning. Moist. Rosy. Creamy. Irresistible... What if the devil was still the angel? Yes, there’d have been no story—no colour. Somewhere, I’d say, the drunken old bitch was right. I hailed him: The devil be damned. An Aeolian harp he played and we danced along, it was such ecstasy, it was so divile. Its such a fruitful doom, for devil to be damned. Apples and taste. Now everything turns to ashes in the mouths. Isn’t it malady? For nothing compares to forbidden fruit you offered and I devoured. I am trapped with the booby Nightmares.
Nudity. I wonder whether divinity needs clothing. But that’d be dreaming in dreams, the extermination of the facts, the truth. Four deserts in the way, dues still to pay, yet there’ll be days, I tell you my dear, there will be days. Days of heavy breaths, bodies enveloped in sweat—in mist. That’s what I ride upon, the panacea of pain. The end of a beginning, and beginning of eternity.
[And I fucked chronology again.]
I am not sure I want to tell the story, I am not sure that I shall be Lazarus. But I have been raised, I have been touched.
Ah! The devil be damned.
Its not my choice, never was, never will be. Lazarus doesn’t have choices.
Abracadabra, lightening and blizzard:
This was supposed to be a song: a catchy tune and melodious rhythm. I am so sorry for this disappointment, converse is the case. This is the shrieking of hounds juxtaposed scrannely with howling of wolves in the moonlit nights, when hunters hunt and moaners moan: Everyone owns a personal Shaam—e—Ghareeban . But it was about the spell. Not howls, not moans. Of abracadabra…
The words didn’t mean a thing. Every one could sing it. There was a secret of which I had known very late and still I remain incapable of exploiting it—I could be messiah otherwise.
Let me shoot it straight, I am bad with suspense: The eleven words of abracadabra sung with the eleven words of nothingness with ten iterations. Twenty two words in total. Ten iterations. I know that seems outrageous. It is so. But singing those eleven words of nothingness takes all the breath your body can gather. Try that, and you’d see, like Lazarus, Messiahs are chosen too.
What happens when the sorcerer… I mean messiah ofcoarse, off-course … anyway what happens when the spell is complete? Bingo, you guessed it right. Thunder rubbles, Lightening strikes. They hang here, they don’t burn them on the chair, and so what knoweth thee of the burning veins? And of thunder? Terrible screams of devils in hell, or of hell? And what will explain to thee what this is? Fire Blazing fiercely!
Sadomized—Me. I needed hell to run ‘into hell and back’. And a thread so thin to pull me from me, to her.
Out of the frying pan into the freezer.
C’mon don’t frown. Yes that is the most appropriate analogy I can juggle. [Pardon my frailties, my lost eloquence was washed away in the downpour of sin, and I don’t even miss it.] The coldness, the pain, the peace; Indescri—bable. From hell into the hands of blizzard. You know what happens when you burn and freeze simultaneously? No, you don’t get brittle.
You Live Again.
Haha. It seems so exhilarating right—reviving from the dead to the undead? It is not. ‘To be born again’ means a newer death. Death, again. New arrears to pay or be held in contempt forever. Forego. And there you sniff, dogs are incorrigible. They’d be loyal, and trade off their loyalty by sniffing your air. Men’d sniff too. Poke their noses in none-of-their-business, waiting to trace a hint of bad air, a vestige of filth. For what? Curiosity? Since I was the dead I know what they kept clandestine: The reality of Avagon, the transfiguring of souls—all men are dogs, all dogs are men. Our race is the despicable farrago of manhood and doghood, no wonder angel scorn us for kicks.
But I am losing the track again. I must, yes, I must relate the relevant. Yes the realevent.
But I guess, I fucked chronology again.
A-soul and Holes:
[Begone and forgotten, the gods of ancient cry out aloud for a little attention]
For the lovers of innumerable taboos, forbidden fruits will ripe out again. The inherent incongruity of paradise will haunt you and me for ages, seven ages my love and thus I’ll write immaculate dreams of illicit passions: imaginations. Heavens mock us if that closeness be. Regret drinks from our blood if that closeness be. Isn’t it mocking the inability to be close? The rays will fall again and melt us away. No matter what the want wants from two souls, the fear of dissolution will dissolve us away—anyway.
Lets master the art of letting go everything—everything but an us, a-soul, my soul. Let the two be Donned, into the two arms of a single soul.
[But that was the monologue my dear. Erase it if you may, for the story continues from HERE. I seem to be carried away in my soliloquy, and let that be a lone voyage, because it was one always. ]
The next significant honorable mention shall be the holes. Black-holes. True blackholes the suckers of energy, the seekers of light. It’s a great calamity to have one in you, believe me the void generating voids, the holes digging holes can be a pain. Lazarus died with the hole. And the messiah came and touched it then. An insertion, the act of completing—the kiss of life. Calmity is even a greater calamity and I induced one, received one.
You know what is the greatest pain of being complete? Submerging into each other? You can’t get enough, you can’t let go and the scissors in the hands of Sol will cut your fiery wings again, a flight too high will be blasphemous you see, and then the sense of incompleteness will prevail. Rebirth is a disease with symptoms of fear—of death, of voids, of incompletion. Rebirth is rapacious, the hunger to be born again, again yet not die is cruel. Can we be born again, if we never die? Miracles need no explanations messiah. All is plausible with the touch, with the sin.
The unfilled holes are excruciating, they stink with the moist air and seep puss; they are loathsome. What of filled holes, one of which I conceal under the hideous scars? What of the absence of pain inducing pain? The looming fear within ecstasy, the violent mutiny of being against what it loves, originating from a jaded inside, devoid of all colours it once absorbed. The fear lies there, lurks and lingers. And yet it resuscitates the dead—the desire, beseeches the unfilled holes to be filled.
And then the rebirth finally shapes up, takes its form, the inevitability to take forms clasps desire and shakes it through.
I become A soul without holes. Dependable, weak and shuddering for the touch, again, again. Forever. Forever.
But that’s too fast; I haven’t yet told you the story of death. What will you understand of rebirth if you won’t know/told of death? I am fucking chronology again.
Forest of fabrication and Pyramids of promise:
I was lost, lost was I. I have been in this hiatus since long, long enough to lose my sense of time. The interim between death and the after life, only few would know that it is the wait of ages. Dumped in a forest of fabrications, you see yourself infront of you without a mirror, disintegrating slowing until you face becomes mush and you become another fragment in the forest. It sounds horrific, it sounds frightening but believe me so you don’t feel a thing—dead don’t feel a thing. And there you came, I looked at you and you held my hand. It was you who sang a song and promised me pyramids of promise. You promised me it’d last longer than this intermission, longer than life, longer than eternity.
I took you hand, I had to take you hand. You crept under and over the pulp of my existence and swayed, asked me to sway along. I remember the song, love, I remember the tunes, and the stories you told. You said you’d be behind me, and I trusted you. I trusted you—never looked back. Orpheus never looked back and Eurydice sung him songs. You did that, your methodology rewrote mythology and I gave in as you caved in.
You brought me here at the foundation of this grandeur—this pyramid of promises and poemised immortality. What of the tremors in this remunerated febrile body that still shakes in disbelief—the slaves be buried as pharos.
[You said] ‘Tell me what scareth thee? ’
[I said] ‘Memories’
‘Tell me what shaketh thee?’
‘The fallacy of dreams ’
‘What mocketh thee? ’
‘Hope ’
‘What deceiveth thee?’
‘Touch’
You touched and made the tremor disappear.
‘Till when’ I said
You said ‘Forever’ and made my necromimesis gone.
The Mountain:
[Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, vanity of vanities; all is vanity]
The mountain where I sojourned for centuries was written in moments. I flew to the top, on wings of thirst: the unbearable thirst of the ancient vampires. With exaltation of immortality, the pride of strength, I built myself a castle there in less then seven days, and murdered the sheep, castrated their self righteous shepherd. To demonstrate [much to myself, than anyone] the impossibility of reversal, I made there a huge fire, and burnt the bodies, and sprinkled the ashes in the in the arid air. The temple had its first immolation. I planned to live forever in the castle, never to die, never to feel dying. I buried my head in the infinite lap of the solitude and started the worship. It wasn’t easy you see it’s never easy, to choose one side, abandon other dimensions, whatever you choose to abandon, whatever you choose to cherish… One way or the other, the agen bit of inwit, clutches even the most blackened of hearts. Then finally when I thought the rituals were complete, the salvation accomplished, death came incognito to crumble the whole fabrication of salvation. I remember the stern face, the solemn imploring request for the shelter of one thousand and one nights. With eternity on hand, such little was the time, and the craving for a momentary cohort was irresistible. I offered her in, to share the taste of eternity with me... The mountain stood, so did the temple, yet Eternity crumbled. The same treasured lap of solitude became stench with the unholy blood, called itself loneliness. Incarcerated in the chains of self conscious choices, I embraced death, held her close and made love to her. She imparted me with the Red blackened with acrimony, and played with my toes, made them ashen.
I cant tell till when we lay together, I cant tell when I realized that I had died, but I did sometime, in one of those perpetual nights and she forsake me craving with desire of deathlove. And then the earth shattered below my lovebed, the mountain fragmented to petite figments of imagination and thus began TheFall.
This is where I asked myself, if I knew myself. Along minuscule vicissitudes in tender hearts, I placed the seeds of a catastrophe.
I owed death a life: I became my death.
It’s a fun memory, reminiscence has never been so pleasant, never had the past—the past been so beautiful.
Wait. This is not the apt course; I have to start from where it began. There had to be symmetry. Chronometry. I have to seek origins, and the roots. I have to. I have to find those first, or at least construct those—assemble the assemblage of origins. The genesis of this narrative shall be chronicled in an order. Nostalgia with the benefit of innovation is creativity. So let me think, Oh no, let me recollect, let me go down back in the forgotten lanes. Yes! That is scary, but still so soothing. Yes! Its dark yet so illuminating. In the cul-de-sacs of my conscious amnesia… life before I find the end, and the beginning, I find the origins.
The beginning begins with Sin, like the Original beginning. Moist. Rosy. Creamy. Irresistible... What if the devil was still the angel? Yes, there’d have been no story—no colour. Somewhere, I’d say, the drunken old bitch was right. I hailed him: The devil be damned. An Aeolian harp he played and we danced along, it was such ecstasy, it was so divile. Its such a fruitful doom, for devil to be damned. Apples and taste. Now everything turns to ashes in the mouths. Isn’t it malady? For nothing compares to forbidden fruit you offered and I devoured. I am trapped with the booby Nightmares.
Nudity. I wonder whether divinity needs clothing. But that’d be dreaming in dreams, the extermination of the facts, the truth. Four deserts in the way, dues still to pay, yet there’ll be days, I tell you my dear, there will be days. Days of heavy breaths, bodies enveloped in sweat—in mist. That’s what I ride upon, the panacea of pain. The end of a beginning, and beginning of eternity.
[And I fucked chronology again.]
I am not sure I want to tell the story, I am not sure that I shall be Lazarus. But I have been raised, I have been touched.
Ah! The devil be damned.
Its not my choice, never was, never will be. Lazarus doesn’t have choices.
Abracadabra, lightening and blizzard:
This was supposed to be a song: a catchy tune and melodious rhythm. I am so sorry for this disappointment, converse is the case. This is the shrieking of hounds juxtaposed scrannely with howling of wolves in the moonlit nights, when hunters hunt and moaners moan: Everyone owns a personal Shaam—e—Ghareeban . But it was about the spell. Not howls, not moans. Of abracadabra…
The words didn’t mean a thing. Every one could sing it. There was a secret of which I had known very late and still I remain incapable of exploiting it—I could be messiah otherwise.
Let me shoot it straight, I am bad with suspense: The eleven words of abracadabra sung with the eleven words of nothingness with ten iterations. Twenty two words in total. Ten iterations. I know that seems outrageous. It is so. But singing those eleven words of nothingness takes all the breath your body can gather. Try that, and you’d see, like Lazarus, Messiahs are chosen too.
What happens when the sorcerer… I mean messiah ofcoarse, off-course … anyway what happens when the spell is complete? Bingo, you guessed it right. Thunder rubbles, Lightening strikes. They hang here, they don’t burn them on the chair, and so what knoweth thee of the burning veins? And of thunder? Terrible screams of devils in hell, or of hell? And what will explain to thee what this is? Fire Blazing fiercely!
Sadomized—Me. I needed hell to run ‘into hell and back’. And a thread so thin to pull me from me, to her.
Out of the frying pan into the freezer.
C’mon don’t frown. Yes that is the most appropriate analogy I can juggle. [Pardon my frailties, my lost eloquence was washed away in the downpour of sin, and I don’t even miss it.] The coldness, the pain, the peace; Indescri—bable. From hell into the hands of blizzard. You know what happens when you burn and freeze simultaneously? No, you don’t get brittle.
You Live Again.
Haha. It seems so exhilarating right—reviving from the dead to the undead? It is not. ‘To be born again’ means a newer death. Death, again. New arrears to pay or be held in contempt forever. Forego. And there you sniff, dogs are incorrigible. They’d be loyal, and trade off their loyalty by sniffing your air. Men’d sniff too. Poke their noses in none-of-their-business, waiting to trace a hint of bad air, a vestige of filth. For what? Curiosity? Since I was the dead I know what they kept clandestine: The reality of Avagon, the transfiguring of souls—all men are dogs, all dogs are men. Our race is the despicable farrago of manhood and doghood, no wonder angel scorn us for kicks.
But I am losing the track again. I must, yes, I must relate the relevant. Yes the realevent.
But I guess, I fucked chronology again.
A-soul and Holes:
[Begone and forgotten, the gods of ancient cry out aloud for a little attention]
For the lovers of innumerable taboos, forbidden fruits will ripe out again. The inherent incongruity of paradise will haunt you and me for ages, seven ages my love and thus I’ll write immaculate dreams of illicit passions: imaginations. Heavens mock us if that closeness be. Regret drinks from our blood if that closeness be. Isn’t it mocking the inability to be close? The rays will fall again and melt us away. No matter what the want wants from two souls, the fear of dissolution will dissolve us away—anyway.
Lets master the art of letting go everything—everything but an us, a-soul, my soul. Let the two be Donned, into the two arms of a single soul.
[But that was the monologue my dear. Erase it if you may, for the story continues from HERE. I seem to be carried away in my soliloquy, and let that be a lone voyage, because it was one always. ]
The next significant honorable mention shall be the holes. Black-holes. True blackholes the suckers of energy, the seekers of light. It’s a great calamity to have one in you, believe me the void generating voids, the holes digging holes can be a pain. Lazarus died with the hole. And the messiah came and touched it then. An insertion, the act of completing—the kiss of life. Calmity is even a greater calamity and I induced one, received one.
You know what is the greatest pain of being complete? Submerging into each other? You can’t get enough, you can’t let go and the scissors in the hands of Sol will cut your fiery wings again, a flight too high will be blasphemous you see, and then the sense of incompleteness will prevail. Rebirth is a disease with symptoms of fear—of death, of voids, of incompletion. Rebirth is rapacious, the hunger to be born again, again yet not die is cruel. Can we be born again, if we never die? Miracles need no explanations messiah. All is plausible with the touch, with the sin.
The unfilled holes are excruciating, they stink with the moist air and seep puss; they are loathsome. What of filled holes, one of which I conceal under the hideous scars? What of the absence of pain inducing pain? The looming fear within ecstasy, the violent mutiny of being against what it loves, originating from a jaded inside, devoid of all colours it once absorbed. The fear lies there, lurks and lingers. And yet it resuscitates the dead—the desire, beseeches the unfilled holes to be filled.
And then the rebirth finally shapes up, takes its form, the inevitability to take forms clasps desire and shakes it through.
I become A soul without holes. Dependable, weak and shuddering for the touch, again, again. Forever. Forever.
But that’s too fast; I haven’t yet told you the story of death. What will you understand of rebirth if you won’t know/told of death? I am fucking chronology again.
Forest of fabrication and Pyramids of promise:
I was lost, lost was I. I have been in this hiatus since long, long enough to lose my sense of time. The interim between death and the after life, only few would know that it is the wait of ages. Dumped in a forest of fabrications, you see yourself infront of you without a mirror, disintegrating slowing until you face becomes mush and you become another fragment in the forest. It sounds horrific, it sounds frightening but believe me so you don’t feel a thing—dead don’t feel a thing. And there you came, I looked at you and you held my hand. It was you who sang a song and promised me pyramids of promise. You promised me it’d last longer than this intermission, longer than life, longer than eternity.
I took you hand, I had to take you hand. You crept under and over the pulp of my existence and swayed, asked me to sway along. I remember the song, love, I remember the tunes, and the stories you told. You said you’d be behind me, and I trusted you. I trusted you—never looked back. Orpheus never looked back and Eurydice sung him songs. You did that, your methodology rewrote mythology and I gave in as you caved in.
You brought me here at the foundation of this grandeur—this pyramid of promises and poemised immortality. What of the tremors in this remunerated febrile body that still shakes in disbelief—the slaves be buried as pharos.
[You said] ‘Tell me what scareth thee? ’
[I said] ‘Memories’
‘Tell me what shaketh thee?’
‘The fallacy of dreams ’
‘What mocketh thee? ’
‘Hope ’
‘What deceiveth thee?’
‘Touch’
You touched and made the tremor disappear.
‘Till when’ I said
You said ‘Forever’ and made my necromimesis gone.
The Mountain:
[Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, vanity of vanities; all is vanity]
The mountain where I sojourned for centuries was written in moments. I flew to the top, on wings of thirst: the unbearable thirst of the ancient vampires. With exaltation of immortality, the pride of strength, I built myself a castle there in less then seven days, and murdered the sheep, castrated their self righteous shepherd. To demonstrate [much to myself, than anyone] the impossibility of reversal, I made there a huge fire, and burnt the bodies, and sprinkled the ashes in the in the arid air. The temple had its first immolation. I planned to live forever in the castle, never to die, never to feel dying. I buried my head in the infinite lap of the solitude and started the worship. It wasn’t easy you see it’s never easy, to choose one side, abandon other dimensions, whatever you choose to abandon, whatever you choose to cherish… One way or the other, the agen bit of inwit, clutches even the most blackened of hearts. Then finally when I thought the rituals were complete, the salvation accomplished, death came incognito to crumble the whole fabrication of salvation. I remember the stern face, the solemn imploring request for the shelter of one thousand and one nights. With eternity on hand, such little was the time, and the craving for a momentary cohort was irresistible. I offered her in, to share the taste of eternity with me... The mountain stood, so did the temple, yet Eternity crumbled. The same treasured lap of solitude became stench with the unholy blood, called itself loneliness. Incarcerated in the chains of self conscious choices, I embraced death, held her close and made love to her. She imparted me with the Red blackened with acrimony, and played with my toes, made them ashen.
I cant tell till when we lay together, I cant tell when I realized that I had died, but I did sometime, in one of those perpetual nights and she forsake me craving with desire of deathlove. And then the earth shattered below my lovebed, the mountain fragmented to petite figments of imagination and thus began TheFall.
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
I promised her chocolates last Eid. She was angry whay i dont come to see her. She was 15, the only younger sister i ever had.
I wasn't there even when they buried her. The quake had her.
Mishi, I am sorry. I had been such a bad brother.
Forgive me.
I'll not call this Eid like it had become a tradition: I was always the first one who called. You were always the one who piched up and said'Eid Mubarak Badar bhai', and i always asked'What if it wasn't me?' . And you always said 'Its always you Badar Bhai'.
Mishi I love you, I am coming to see where you lay now. And I am crying.
Forgive me.
I wasn't there even when they buried her. The quake had her.
Mishi, I am sorry. I had been such a bad brother.
Forgive me.
I'll not call this Eid like it had become a tradition: I was always the first one who called. You were always the one who piched up and said'Eid Mubarak Badar bhai', and i always asked'What if it wasn't me?' . And you always said 'Its always you Badar Bhai'.
Mishi I love you, I am coming to see where you lay now. And I am crying.
Forgive me.
Wednesday, October 5, 2005
A portion from Rushdie's Midnight Children
No!-But I must.
I don't want to tell it!-But I swore to tell it all.-No, I renounce, not that, surely some things are better left…?-That won't wash; what can't be cured, must be endured!-But surely not the whispering walls, and treason, and snip snip, and the women with the bruised chests?-Especially those things.-But how can I, look at me, I'm tearing myself apart, can't even agree with myself, talking arguing like a wild fellow, cracking up, memory going, yes, memory plunging into chasms and being swallowed by the dark, only fragments remain, none of it makes sense any more!-But I mustn't presume to judge; must simply continue (having once begun) until the end; sense-and-nonsense is no longer (perhaps never was) for me to evaluate.-But the horror of it, I can't won't mustn't won't can't no!-Stop this; begin.-No!-Yes.
About the dream, then? I might be able to tell it as a dream. Yes, perhaps a nightmare: green and black the Widow's hair and clutching hand and children mmff and little balls and one-by-one and torn-in-half and little balls go flying flying green and black her hand is green her nails are black as black.-No dreams. Neither the time nor the place for. Facts, as remembered. To the best of one's ability. The way it was: Begin.-No choice?-None; when was there ever? There are imperatives, and logical-consequences, and inevitabilities, and recurrences; there are things-done-to, and accidents, and bludgeonings-of-fate; when was there ever a choice? When options? When a decision freely-made, to be this or that or the other? No choice; begin.-Yes.
I don't want to tell it!-But I swore to tell it all.-No, I renounce, not that, surely some things are better left…?-That won't wash; what can't be cured, must be endured!-But surely not the whispering walls, and treason, and snip snip, and the women with the bruised chests?-Especially those things.-But how can I, look at me, I'm tearing myself apart, can't even agree with myself, talking arguing like a wild fellow, cracking up, memory going, yes, memory plunging into chasms and being swallowed by the dark, only fragments remain, none of it makes sense any more!-But I mustn't presume to judge; must simply continue (having once begun) until the end; sense-and-nonsense is no longer (perhaps never was) for me to evaluate.-But the horror of it, I can't won't mustn't won't can't no!-Stop this; begin.-No!-Yes.
About the dream, then? I might be able to tell it as a dream. Yes, perhaps a nightmare: green and black the Widow's hair and clutching hand and children mmff and little balls and one-by-one and torn-in-half and little balls go flying flying green and black her hand is green her nails are black as black.-No dreams. Neither the time nor the place for. Facts, as remembered. To the best of one's ability. The way it was: Begin.-No choice?-None; when was there ever? There are imperatives, and logical-consequences, and inevitabilities, and recurrences; there are things-done-to, and accidents, and bludgeonings-of-fate; when was there ever a choice? When options? When a decision freely-made, to be this or that or the other? No choice; begin.-Yes.
Monday, October 3, 2005
Wait...
On the staircase of sephiroths in the imagery of life, i heard him mumble, felt him tremble. To amaze my amazement, he gave me an eye. It was such a tricky situtauon, believe me-- to be eyed upon by the man who knew it all.
I stumbled a little, confused as I was, asked his confusion. And he held my hand and asked, 'Eli what took you so long?'.
Its been quite sometime, quitesometime, quietsome time, that I am the man now, who knows it all. Waiting for the next one on the stair below.
I stumbled a little, confused as I was, asked his confusion. And he held my hand and asked, 'Eli what took you so long?'.
Its been quite sometime, quitesometime, quietsome time, that I am the man now, who knows it all. Waiting for the next one on the stair below.
Sunday, October 2, 2005
Hell-elujah
All satans will be laughing their hearts out in hell, Beelzebub stole the crowned goddess.
Hell-elujah... Hell-elujah...
This voracious beat of drums, this tempestuous Fandango.
Hell-elujah... Hell-elujah...
Every one hums along. (Finally in hell) its the party time.
Hell-elujah... Hell-elujah...
Dont mind cherubim's scrambling feet, its just so irresistible today.
Hell-elujah... Hell-elujah...
Yeah only the Devil knows how to play
Hell-elujah... Hell-elujah...
Hell-elujah... Hell-elujah...
This voracious beat of drums, this tempestuous Fandango.
Hell-elujah... Hell-elujah...
Every one hums along. (Finally in hell) its the party time.
Hell-elujah... Hell-elujah...
Dont mind cherubim's scrambling feet, its just so irresistible today.
Hell-elujah... Hell-elujah...
Yeah only the Devil knows how to play
Hell-elujah... Hell-elujah...
Monday, September 26, 2005
Thus madness was born.
Out of many fathers and many mothers, madness was born. In the Immortal city of echoing inhabitants she remained immortal—yet alien forever. All what others knew of her was that they knew nothing of her; all she ever knew of herself was that she knew nothing of herself. She remained the childless child of many, some believed all. Nothing came out of her, but diaphanous laughter and screams which were her father and mother as well. She remained atavistic mother of her own ancestors.
It is the strangest of cities, within each city. It took its first form in Adam and then in eve and now in billions of us, there is one of these. At old times, it is presumed that, madness wasn’t born. Some believe it to be a dormant larva then, others say it came later with evolution of languages and semiotics in the other sphere in which these cities are located. Many tried to penetrate it, through tools of language and hence the names they gave to its people. Collectively these were called emotions. Emotions were the people of these cities where yours/ours truly madness resides.
The story is of an endless futile search by somebody to penetrate the city to delineate madness and her parents with an absolute certainty. As just told, the end of story is the futility of the search, what good is a story if its end is told. Then why should stories be good, they are stories after all.When Somebody encountered madness quarantined in its own city, like they used to do with leapers in other sphere, he asked her what she knew of herself. Madness couldn’t answer. Whatever Somebody tried to name the expressions on the face of madness, transient as they were, he named it one of its ancestors, fathers or mothers. Whenever Somebody tried to separate her own identity of that of her ascendants he found himself unable to do so, but he couldn’t even match her with any.
The story ends, madness remains the childless child. Of many fathers and many mothers.
It is the strangest of cities, within each city. It took its first form in Adam and then in eve and now in billions of us, there is one of these. At old times, it is presumed that, madness wasn’t born. Some believe it to be a dormant larva then, others say it came later with evolution of languages and semiotics in the other sphere in which these cities are located. Many tried to penetrate it, through tools of language and hence the names they gave to its people. Collectively these were called emotions. Emotions were the people of these cities where yours/ours truly madness resides.
The story is of an endless futile search by somebody to penetrate the city to delineate madness and her parents with an absolute certainty. As just told, the end of story is the futility of the search, what good is a story if its end is told. Then why should stories be good, they are stories after all.When Somebody encountered madness quarantined in its own city, like they used to do with leapers in other sphere, he asked her what she knew of herself. Madness couldn’t answer. Whatever Somebody tried to name the expressions on the face of madness, transient as they were, he named it one of its ancestors, fathers or mothers. Whenever Somebody tried to separate her own identity of that of her ascendants he found himself unable to do so, but he couldn’t even match her with any.
The story ends, madness remains the childless child. Of many fathers and many mothers.
Friday, September 23, 2005
Friday, September 9, 2005
Untitled til now, unfinished as well
So what would you want from me?
Nothing.
Nothing?
Yeah! Can you give me that?
Nothing is too hard to give, its too hard to give nothing.
When did I say it was all easy?
You didn’t, I presumed I guess
You guess?
Maybe.
What is with you and all these maybes—uncertainty? Somewhere between us there should be some reality.
There would be, let the time elapse.
Absolutely?
I didn’t say I was going to be all real or absolute, did I?
I made believe then I think—no I don’t think; I know I made believe.
You do?
So are you getting me that?
Nothingness? I guess I may very well be able to.
You were a hard man.
What the hell is that?
I don’t know for sure, maybe I know but cant explain, whatever you were when we met.
Aint I the same now?
People change dear.
I aint people.
You are capricious too.
I hate to hear that.
Do you?
Can we ever, ever trust in anything we say to each other? Not questioning it.
Can’t we?
A question again.
These are inevitable. Just like the change.
Then your eye could be capricious as well. Maybe I am still the same, its only your eye.
Maybe again…
These are also inevitable.
Then the question of trust, in all that uncertainty is irrational.
Haha! That was hurtful.
See now it hurts too.
It always did.
You never told me, never made it that perspicuous.
I could say it’s again your eye: I wasn’t ever impervious.
So it hurts now, it hurt then; why tell me now?
I never hated it before.
Do you hate it now? I always thought you were incapable of actually hating anything.
What is your point? I am missing it. C’mon you look better with scalpel in your hand.
My point is, do you actually hate it now?
I’d like to believe in that.
Would you Like to believe that I don’t love you?
Why would you ask something, you so desperately want me to refute?
I need depressions maybe.
Or they need you—us.
Forget it; it’s a beautiful song, isn’t it?
Which one? The shit that they are playing at the moment? You call it beautiful.
Yes I call this shit beautiful.
Haha no wonder you are with me.
No Wonder? I thought you always did.
I underestimated your threshold maybe, or my repulsiveness.
And now. Do you believe I was meant to be here?
No. I believe you want to be here.
Isn’t it the same thing?
I don’t think it is.
People—women could die for you.
I want them to die, not for me, just die.
You are sadistic. You make me sick at times.
Don’t you love it… sometimes?
Sometimes out of sometimes maybe, not all the times.
You are growing, you are getting convoluted.
You are contagious.
I am just confused.
Happy?
I want to be. See! I cant, nor can you make US happy. None can take the sadness away, yet I am here and so are you.
I fear being all alone.
You wont be, I am here.
For sadness? People are together for happiness love.
I couldn’t be that naïve.
I wish you could be.
What is this ?
What?
The music, I think I heard it before. Isn’t it Chopin?
No its Rachmanionov. Rach 3. And you know it, don’t try to run. From what?
Sadness.
Whatever brings us near, takes us away. What would you call that?
Irony?
Anyway, I hate when they play the dead.
Music never dies.
It doesn’t? I thought it never lived. I wonder how we can’t agree on anything.
But to be together.
Is this your idea of being together?
I don’t know.
No you are right; you are here, so am I. Ever contemplated why we are together—as you say. What keeps us that way?
What?
Sadness.
I said, people are together—in love—for happiness.
We aint people.
Words…words. You are lost in words.
I tried to take you along. I tried to share the odyssey.
I too feel lost.
Not found?
I don’t know, I don’t know anything.
You hate me?
I don’t know.
I do. I do hate you.
Why not leave me then?
Neither can I have you, nor leave. I hate you for that. 'I cannot let you burn me up nor can I resist you'
That’s beautiful.
Yeah! Because, someone else wrote it.
Regrets?
Many.
Then?
I prefer these, at least I feel alive.
You are masochistic too.
Me? Or us?
I sometimes think I was better off without you.
You were. Anyway isn’t it Beethoven?
You are running again.
I aint, I just don’t want to ruin the day. You were born today remember?
I don’t. They told me. No one remembers being born.
That’s philosophical, I like that.
You are contagious.
Infectious would be precise. Anyway I lost my eloquence.
No its all there debating with other beautiful women.
That makes you jealous?
I think it does.
Flatter yourself, believe that you dumbfound me.
I can, but not for long—this long.
When was the last time you cried?
What kind of question is that?
My kind.
You want to see me cry?
I can see it; don’t know if I want it. Don’t. It’s your birthday remember.
Wow what a way to baby me?
Doesn’t it help? I thought I was rather soothing.
Who is better with scalpel? Me or you now?
I mean to appease, can’t help it if my hands are crude. And look at these; I don’t have any dagger hidden. My close fists don’t have dirt for you. It’s just that they are dirt.
You are hurt again.
No. Not this time.
Gosh! Over all that time I never touched your hands. I need to see how crude they are.
I was speaking metaphorically.
I aint.
I am supposed to give you nothing today.
I know you’d find a way for that—you have a way for that.
Not giving you anything doesn’t mean I give you nothing.
I know that, we’ve been together just enough for me to make these discriminations.
Fuck that, fuck everything, how much time do you have?
Thirty minutes maybe.
Let’s make good use of that then?
What’d be that?
Haha fuck. I hate the fact they don’t have motels here.
What is wrong with you? You know I always hated these sudden mood swings. I don’t like it when you swear.
I don’t give a shit anymore.
You never gave a shit.
What do you want me to do? Preach? Recite you a lullaby or what?
You were never good at both.
I was never good at anything. Had I been, you’d not have Thirty minutes. What do you think I am, dying for the occasional alms from your time?
Are you blaming me for anything? You have your life, I don’t want—No—I don’t deserve any piece of it, all I ever asked were some moments every once in a while. It’s me living on the remains of your time. Its … me … I shouldn’t have been here.
You shouldn’t have been. Anyway don’t cry. It makes me hate my fucking impotency.
How does she look?
Who?
You know whom I mean.
She is beautiful. I have my sympathies. And just for your peace of mind, I haven’t yet started screwing her.
Are you on some rampage of revenge against all women because of me? Why won’t you kill me once and all?
I want sadness to prevail. I want you to burn as I do.
I am already dead.
Nah! Ask him, I can bet he still loves fucking you all night long.
That is enough, I am leaving. I will not see you again.
You said that last time. So stop masquerading, you aint fooling anyone but yourself sweetheart. And of course you will never want to make a spectacle here. You never could bear eyes on you.
I can’t stand it—stand this—stand us—the way things are—any more.
You will survive. I am. …………. We don’t have much time, say something, don’t waste it. People have written about love, passion, sex and all, I’ll write about us… what shall I call this? Frugal Love maybe.
When was the last time I read what you wrote?
I don’t remember.
Ah I am not privileged enough to read now.
No. its not that. I don’t need to recite my scriptures of flagellation to take you to bed you see.
That is hurtful; you desecrated your writing even. What for?
Was it me, or you? I am not the one sleeping in someone’s bed everynight.
Oh yes, you do that occasionally, and some-ones change.
I hate this place; nobody plays classicals anymore but this godforsaken café.
That’s what you loved about it…Once.
Once.
Its Satie again: its gymnopedies.
I need to hear thunder, not moaning winds.
I need to hear a story, any story that you wrote.
Darling, I don’t memorize those, and btw, I am writing about whores after you.
What are you trying to imply?
Nothing, I am telling you what I write. Still eager?
I am afraid. I am afraid what may happen. I am afraid, they, he’ll become suspicious.
So what difference would it make? This sporadic togetherness will die away.
I told you, I fear being all alone.
You have people.
People are not you.
We never had each other.
Why don’t you understand? I know I was never spontaneous, never verbose, never able to tell you, but I thought you knew. I don’t have anything but THIS—you.
You watched a lot romantic movies in your teens I guess. You are hallucinated. Come out of these deliriums, I am only flesh and dirt, and NO… I aint integrated in your soul or anything, if that even exists. Let me say it, once, beyond selfishness that shrouds me, get rid of me. Start living.
I don’t want to, I cant, wont. And besides, I have a feeling; it is you trying to get rid of me, still shrouded by the same selfishness.
You want to live in delusions, rather a delusion: me. Reducing me to that. That is so humiliating.
I cherish this, love this more than everything, I live for it. And still, you say I disregard you.
Arghhh. Fuck all that. Its your birthday remember. The day without which, nothing of whatever the hell this is would have been possible.
How good that would have been, for you. I am sorry.
We all are, stop being a goddess.
I am not one.
Let me get you something, you look scrawny.
No I am trying hard not to throw up already.
Haha I am that nauseous?
Its not you, its me, its me inside me. Its sadness maybe.
Inconsequential beings we are, wedged in our bonds of sadness, madness, and angels so love raping us for kicks.
Don’t say this, God is Just. Its just we don’t can’t apprehend.
Then try justifying this so-just justice mother Mary.
Ah, you are so good with sarcasm, I told you, and you are the one better with that scalpel.
I know where it hurts; I hurt myself to uncover this myth of pain love, I sacrificed.
The coffee is turning you on; you look so – so good in self indulged babbling.
Nah, I am irresistible, I am getting a great number of good fucks lately.
Do you do the same with others? Or am I still the privileged one, unworthy one to get such disdain?
No, though I do fake sadness, that’s my coup de grace: sad love, sad lovers, tears and a gloomy zero bulb, and smoke in bed. All-together make a lethal dose, believe me.
I believe you. Can we change the topic?
We can but tell me, how does he like it? I want to know. Tell me stories of your nights love, I need to know.
Please… Stop doing that…I’ll die.
Ah finally the tears roll down, I am much moved madam, I can now sell my soul to devil for you, or whatever is left of it.
--
People will see, and so he will know, the redness prevails in your case. Don’t cry.
No one is different, all are vultures. You, him. Eat me away, but for heavens devour me soon, it’s unbearable.
Dead don’t complain.
Yes I shouldn’t…. You look tired and drowsy.
Insomnia.
Why can’t you take care of yourself?
I remember you telling me you loved my voice when I am drowsy.
Yes. Coming back from some distant place, intermingled with echo, its own echo, so charming, each line, each word.
I am not good with compliments, especially when the ah-so-gracious tongue is chomped by someone else.
Fait Accompali… you are staring at me.
I am memorizing you, to have you once This ends, the same silhouette the same lines on your face, gloom in your eyes, tremor in your body.
You trust your memory?
I don’t trust reminiscence, its not that diaphanous, its mean, manipulating.
What are you thinking? Precisely now.
I am reciting something I once read, in a story of two secret lovers, much like us, though it was the girl who said it.
What?
O lente, lente currite noctis equi… ‘Run slow, run slow, O horses of night’.
Why would you want time to run slow, don’t you want it fast, faster, so that whatever is going to happen, happens.
Not until I preserve you, in memory. Let the hammer of que sara sara wait, it can wait. I could, if I had the last laugh.
I wonder at times, you could be happy. Hadn’t it been me.
You are having those self righteous, god-like delusions again. That is so kind of you, I want to appreciate it but NO. I detest it.
You hate kindness?
No, when people, men and woman, try to be kind. Pretentious motherfuckers, making a fool out of themselves. I prefer… I always preferred you mean.
What didn’t you prefer in me then?
Timidity, venglessness, and what brings it all. Fear.
So you mean to say, you are fright—less.
Did I say that, but I can always hate me.
And me.
Bach is so depressingly rapacious.
What?
He eats hearts, sinks. These cello suites made me cry in old days.
I have to go
Everyone has to. Anyway how did you plan and all?
I’ll have to call him, sometime soon I guess, I’ll tell him where to pick me up. He is nearby today.
Call him here, I can always change tables. Haha cellular revolution has helped infidelity for sure if not anything.
Can I touch your hands?
What do you imagine, a thunderbolt sweeping across the body? A shudder in the spine, that feels so scared, and divine? Its all bullshit my love, we remain flesh, those romanticists just fucked up your mind.
You don’t want me to touch you? If all that is nothing then why do you fear?
Maybe I fear the thunderbolts myself. That’s what you wanted to hear, alright?
I feel ugly.
You are beautiful; people always told you that, so did I. I am sadistic dear, I want longings. Besides I am giving you nothing today.
The music is really depressing, can’t they change it?
Haha, this is more than a deep meaningful line, just think about what you just said.
I am not into linguistics, I can’t deconstruct, and I don’t mean what you supposed I do.
Wow, seems someday is bored of a psicko-foolosophical overly ostentatious piece of shit.
How can I be bored of something, I never actually had. Anyway I am calling him, to pick me up from here.
--
--
Nothing.
Nothing?
Yeah! Can you give me that?
Nothing is too hard to give, its too hard to give nothing.
When did I say it was all easy?
You didn’t, I presumed I guess
You guess?
Maybe.
What is with you and all these maybes—uncertainty? Somewhere between us there should be some reality.
There would be, let the time elapse.
Absolutely?
I didn’t say I was going to be all real or absolute, did I?
I made believe then I think—no I don’t think; I know I made believe.
You do?
So are you getting me that?
Nothingness? I guess I may very well be able to.
You were a hard man.
What the hell is that?
I don’t know for sure, maybe I know but cant explain, whatever you were when we met.
Aint I the same now?
People change dear.
I aint people.
You are capricious too.
I hate to hear that.
Do you?
Can we ever, ever trust in anything we say to each other? Not questioning it.
Can’t we?
A question again.
These are inevitable. Just like the change.
Then your eye could be capricious as well. Maybe I am still the same, its only your eye.
Maybe again…
These are also inevitable.
Then the question of trust, in all that uncertainty is irrational.
Haha! That was hurtful.
See now it hurts too.
It always did.
You never told me, never made it that perspicuous.
I could say it’s again your eye: I wasn’t ever impervious.
So it hurts now, it hurt then; why tell me now?
I never hated it before.
Do you hate it now? I always thought you were incapable of actually hating anything.
What is your point? I am missing it. C’mon you look better with scalpel in your hand.
My point is, do you actually hate it now?
I’d like to believe in that.
Would you Like to believe that I don’t love you?
Why would you ask something, you so desperately want me to refute?
I need depressions maybe.
Or they need you—us.
Forget it; it’s a beautiful song, isn’t it?
Which one? The shit that they are playing at the moment? You call it beautiful.
Yes I call this shit beautiful.
Haha no wonder you are with me.
No Wonder? I thought you always did.
I underestimated your threshold maybe, or my repulsiveness.
And now. Do you believe I was meant to be here?
No. I believe you want to be here.
Isn’t it the same thing?
I don’t think it is.
People—women could die for you.
I want them to die, not for me, just die.
You are sadistic. You make me sick at times.
Don’t you love it… sometimes?
Sometimes out of sometimes maybe, not all the times.
You are growing, you are getting convoluted.
You are contagious.
I am just confused.
Happy?
I want to be. See! I cant, nor can you make US happy. None can take the sadness away, yet I am here and so are you.
I fear being all alone.
You wont be, I am here.
For sadness? People are together for happiness love.
I couldn’t be that naïve.
I wish you could be.
What is this ?
What?
The music, I think I heard it before. Isn’t it Chopin?
No its Rachmanionov. Rach 3. And you know it, don’t try to run. From what?
Sadness.
Whatever brings us near, takes us away. What would you call that?
Irony?
Anyway, I hate when they play the dead.
Music never dies.
It doesn’t? I thought it never lived. I wonder how we can’t agree on anything.
But to be together.
Is this your idea of being together?
I don’t know.
No you are right; you are here, so am I. Ever contemplated why we are together—as you say. What keeps us that way?
What?
Sadness.
I said, people are together—in love—for happiness.
We aint people.
Words…words. You are lost in words.
I tried to take you along. I tried to share the odyssey.
I too feel lost.
Not found?
I don’t know, I don’t know anything.
You hate me?
I don’t know.
I do. I do hate you.
Why not leave me then?
Neither can I have you, nor leave. I hate you for that. 'I cannot let you burn me up nor can I resist you'
That’s beautiful.
Yeah! Because, someone else wrote it.
Regrets?
Many.
Then?
I prefer these, at least I feel alive.
You are masochistic too.
Me? Or us?
I sometimes think I was better off without you.
You were. Anyway isn’t it Beethoven?
You are running again.
I aint, I just don’t want to ruin the day. You were born today remember?
I don’t. They told me. No one remembers being born.
That’s philosophical, I like that.
You are contagious.
Infectious would be precise. Anyway I lost my eloquence.
No its all there debating with other beautiful women.
That makes you jealous?
I think it does.
Flatter yourself, believe that you dumbfound me.
I can, but not for long—this long.
When was the last time you cried?
What kind of question is that?
My kind.
You want to see me cry?
I can see it; don’t know if I want it. Don’t. It’s your birthday remember.
Wow what a way to baby me?
Doesn’t it help? I thought I was rather soothing.
Who is better with scalpel? Me or you now?
I mean to appease, can’t help it if my hands are crude. And look at these; I don’t have any dagger hidden. My close fists don’t have dirt for you. It’s just that they are dirt.
You are hurt again.
No. Not this time.
Gosh! Over all that time I never touched your hands. I need to see how crude they are.
I was speaking metaphorically.
I aint.
I am supposed to give you nothing today.
I know you’d find a way for that—you have a way for that.
Not giving you anything doesn’t mean I give you nothing.
I know that, we’ve been together just enough for me to make these discriminations.
Fuck that, fuck everything, how much time do you have?
Thirty minutes maybe.
Let’s make good use of that then?
What’d be that?
Haha fuck. I hate the fact they don’t have motels here.
What is wrong with you? You know I always hated these sudden mood swings. I don’t like it when you swear.
I don’t give a shit anymore.
You never gave a shit.
What do you want me to do? Preach? Recite you a lullaby or what?
You were never good at both.
I was never good at anything. Had I been, you’d not have Thirty minutes. What do you think I am, dying for the occasional alms from your time?
Are you blaming me for anything? You have your life, I don’t want—No—I don’t deserve any piece of it, all I ever asked were some moments every once in a while. It’s me living on the remains of your time. Its … me … I shouldn’t have been here.
You shouldn’t have been. Anyway don’t cry. It makes me hate my fucking impotency.
How does she look?
Who?
You know whom I mean.
She is beautiful. I have my sympathies. And just for your peace of mind, I haven’t yet started screwing her.
Are you on some rampage of revenge against all women because of me? Why won’t you kill me once and all?
I want sadness to prevail. I want you to burn as I do.
I am already dead.
Nah! Ask him, I can bet he still loves fucking you all night long.
That is enough, I am leaving. I will not see you again.
You said that last time. So stop masquerading, you aint fooling anyone but yourself sweetheart. And of course you will never want to make a spectacle here. You never could bear eyes on you.
I can’t stand it—stand this—stand us—the way things are—any more.
You will survive. I am. …………. We don’t have much time, say something, don’t waste it. People have written about love, passion, sex and all, I’ll write about us… what shall I call this? Frugal Love maybe.
When was the last time I read what you wrote?
I don’t remember.
Ah I am not privileged enough to read now.
No. its not that. I don’t need to recite my scriptures of flagellation to take you to bed you see.
That is hurtful; you desecrated your writing even. What for?
Was it me, or you? I am not the one sleeping in someone’s bed everynight.
Oh yes, you do that occasionally, and some-ones change.
I hate this place; nobody plays classicals anymore but this godforsaken café.
That’s what you loved about it…Once.
Once.
Its Satie again: its gymnopedies.
I need to hear thunder, not moaning winds.
I need to hear a story, any story that you wrote.
Darling, I don’t memorize those, and btw, I am writing about whores after you.
What are you trying to imply?
Nothing, I am telling you what I write. Still eager?
I am afraid. I am afraid what may happen. I am afraid, they, he’ll become suspicious.
So what difference would it make? This sporadic togetherness will die away.
I told you, I fear being all alone.
You have people.
People are not you.
We never had each other.
Why don’t you understand? I know I was never spontaneous, never verbose, never able to tell you, but I thought you knew. I don’t have anything but THIS—you.
You watched a lot romantic movies in your teens I guess. You are hallucinated. Come out of these deliriums, I am only flesh and dirt, and NO… I aint integrated in your soul or anything, if that even exists. Let me say it, once, beyond selfishness that shrouds me, get rid of me. Start living.
I don’t want to, I cant, wont. And besides, I have a feeling; it is you trying to get rid of me, still shrouded by the same selfishness.
You want to live in delusions, rather a delusion: me. Reducing me to that. That is so humiliating.
I cherish this, love this more than everything, I live for it. And still, you say I disregard you.
Arghhh. Fuck all that. Its your birthday remember. The day without which, nothing of whatever the hell this is would have been possible.
How good that would have been, for you. I am sorry.
We all are, stop being a goddess.
I am not one.
Let me get you something, you look scrawny.
No I am trying hard not to throw up already.
Haha I am that nauseous?
Its not you, its me, its me inside me. Its sadness maybe.
Inconsequential beings we are, wedged in our bonds of sadness, madness, and angels so love raping us for kicks.
Don’t say this, God is Just. Its just we don’t can’t apprehend.
Then try justifying this so-just justice mother Mary.
Ah, you are so good with sarcasm, I told you, and you are the one better with that scalpel.
I know where it hurts; I hurt myself to uncover this myth of pain love, I sacrificed.
The coffee is turning you on; you look so – so good in self indulged babbling.
Nah, I am irresistible, I am getting a great number of good fucks lately.
Do you do the same with others? Or am I still the privileged one, unworthy one to get such disdain?
No, though I do fake sadness, that’s my coup de grace: sad love, sad lovers, tears and a gloomy zero bulb, and smoke in bed. All-together make a lethal dose, believe me.
I believe you. Can we change the topic?
We can but tell me, how does he like it? I want to know. Tell me stories of your nights love, I need to know.
Please… Stop doing that…I’ll die.
Ah finally the tears roll down, I am much moved madam, I can now sell my soul to devil for you, or whatever is left of it.
--
People will see, and so he will know, the redness prevails in your case. Don’t cry.
No one is different, all are vultures. You, him. Eat me away, but for heavens devour me soon, it’s unbearable.
Dead don’t complain.
Yes I shouldn’t…. You look tired and drowsy.
Insomnia.
Why can’t you take care of yourself?
I remember you telling me you loved my voice when I am drowsy.
Yes. Coming back from some distant place, intermingled with echo, its own echo, so charming, each line, each word.
I am not good with compliments, especially when the ah-so-gracious tongue is chomped by someone else.
Fait Accompali… you are staring at me.
I am memorizing you, to have you once This ends, the same silhouette the same lines on your face, gloom in your eyes, tremor in your body.
You trust your memory?
I don’t trust reminiscence, its not that diaphanous, its mean, manipulating.
What are you thinking? Precisely now.
I am reciting something I once read, in a story of two secret lovers, much like us, though it was the girl who said it.
What?
O lente, lente currite noctis equi… ‘Run slow, run slow, O horses of night’.
Why would you want time to run slow, don’t you want it fast, faster, so that whatever is going to happen, happens.
Not until I preserve you, in memory. Let the hammer of que sara sara wait, it can wait. I could, if I had the last laugh.
I wonder at times, you could be happy. Hadn’t it been me.
You are having those self righteous, god-like delusions again. That is so kind of you, I want to appreciate it but NO. I detest it.
You hate kindness?
No, when people, men and woman, try to be kind. Pretentious motherfuckers, making a fool out of themselves. I prefer… I always preferred you mean.
What didn’t you prefer in me then?
Timidity, venglessness, and what brings it all. Fear.
So you mean to say, you are fright—less.
Did I say that, but I can always hate me.
And me.
Bach is so depressingly rapacious.
What?
He eats hearts, sinks. These cello suites made me cry in old days.
I have to go
Everyone has to. Anyway how did you plan and all?
I’ll have to call him, sometime soon I guess, I’ll tell him where to pick me up. He is nearby today.
Call him here, I can always change tables. Haha cellular revolution has helped infidelity for sure if not anything.
Can I touch your hands?
What do you imagine, a thunderbolt sweeping across the body? A shudder in the spine, that feels so scared, and divine? Its all bullshit my love, we remain flesh, those romanticists just fucked up your mind.
You don’t want me to touch you? If all that is nothing then why do you fear?
Maybe I fear the thunderbolts myself. That’s what you wanted to hear, alright?
I feel ugly.
You are beautiful; people always told you that, so did I. I am sadistic dear, I want longings. Besides I am giving you nothing today.
The music is really depressing, can’t they change it?
Haha, this is more than a deep meaningful line, just think about what you just said.
I am not into linguistics, I can’t deconstruct, and I don’t mean what you supposed I do.
Wow, seems someday is bored of a psicko-foolosophical overly ostentatious piece of shit.
How can I be bored of something, I never actually had. Anyway I am calling him, to pick me up from here.
--
--
Friday, August 19, 2005
Thursday, August 4, 2005
A VALEDICTION FORBIDDING MOURNING. by John Donne
AS virtuous men pass mildly away,
And whisper to their souls to go,
Whilst some of their sad friends do say,
"Now his breath goes," and some say, "No."
So let us melt, and make no noise,
No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move ; '
Twere profanation of our joys
To tell the laity our love.
Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears ;
Men reckon what it did, and meant ;
But trepidation of the spheres,
Though greater far, is innocent.
Dull sublunary lovers' love
—Whose soul is sense—cannot admit
Of absence, 'cause it doth remove
The thing which elemented it.
But we by a love so much refined,
That ourselves know not what it is,
Inter-assurèd of the mind,
Care less, eyes, lips and hands to miss.
Our two souls therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to aery thinness beat.
If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two ;
Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if th' other do.
And though it in the centre sit,
Yet, when the other far doth roam,
It leans, and hearkens after it,
And grows erect, as that comes home.
Such wilt thou be to me, who must,
Like th' other foot, obliquely run ;
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end where I begun.
P.S
For someone who wouldn't know until i say so, this poem is about distant lovers. Distant Lovers. Distant. Lovers. Distant. Distant. Lovers. Distace and lovers.
Before it gets under your skin, the distance, I recite this as the reassuarance of my centre. [Mine. Centre.] "I end where i begin"
And whisper to their souls to go,
Whilst some of their sad friends do say,
"Now his breath goes," and some say, "No."
So let us melt, and make no noise,
No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move ; '
Twere profanation of our joys
To tell the laity our love.
Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears ;
Men reckon what it did, and meant ;
But trepidation of the spheres,
Though greater far, is innocent.
Dull sublunary lovers' love
—Whose soul is sense—cannot admit
Of absence, 'cause it doth remove
The thing which elemented it.
But we by a love so much refined,
That ourselves know not what it is,
Inter-assurèd of the mind,
Care less, eyes, lips and hands to miss.
Our two souls therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to aery thinness beat.
If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two ;
Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if th' other do.
And though it in the centre sit,
Yet, when the other far doth roam,
It leans, and hearkens after it,
And grows erect, as that comes home.
Such wilt thou be to me, who must,
Like th' other foot, obliquely run ;
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end where I begun.
P.S
For someone who wouldn't know until i say so, this poem is about distant lovers. Distant Lovers. Distant. Lovers. Distant. Distant. Lovers. Distace and lovers.
Before it gets under your skin, the distance, I recite this as the reassuarance of my centre. [Mine. Centre.] "I end where i begin"
Monday, August 1, 2005
A portion from Wharton's The Age of Innocence
"Is it your idea, then, that I should live with you as your mistress--since I can't be your wife?" she asked.
The crudeness of the question startled him: the word was one that women of his class fought shy of, even when their talk flitted closest about the topic. He noticed that Madame Olenska pronounced it as if it had a recognised place in her vocabulary, and he wondered if it had been used familiarly in her presence in the horrible life she had fled from. Her question pulled him up with a jerk, and he floundered.
"I want--I want somehow to get away with you in to a world where words like that--categories like that--won't exist. Where we shall be simply two humanbeings who love each other, who are the whole of life to each other; and nothing else on earth will matter."
She drew a deep sigh that ended in another laugh."Oh, my dear--where is that country? Have you ever been there?" she asked; and as he remained sullenly dumb she went on: "I know so many who've tried to find it; and, believe me, they all got out by mistake at wayside stations: at places like Boulogne, or Pisa, or Monte Carlo--and it wasn't at all different from the old world they'd left, but only rather smaller and dingier and more promiscuous."
The crudeness of the question startled him: the word was one that women of his class fought shy of, even when their talk flitted closest about the topic. He noticed that Madame Olenska pronounced it as if it had a recognised place in her vocabulary, and he wondered if it had been used familiarly in her presence in the horrible life she had fled from. Her question pulled him up with a jerk, and he floundered.
"I want--I want somehow to get away with you in to a world where words like that--categories like that--won't exist. Where we shall be simply two humanbeings who love each other, who are the whole of life to each other; and nothing else on earth will matter."
She drew a deep sigh that ended in another laugh."Oh, my dear--where is that country? Have you ever been there?" she asked; and as he remained sullenly dumb she went on: "I know so many who've tried to find it; and, believe me, they all got out by mistake at wayside stations: at places like Boulogne, or Pisa, or Monte Carlo--and it wasn't at all different from the old world they'd left, but only rather smaller and dingier and more promiscuous."
Sunday, July 24, 2005
Something Poemish, raw still...and Incomplete )
The night, night voluptuous crawls
Over and under his citadel .
Such a lycantrophic being is he;
A bricolage made, of moon and moans,
Seasoned with an orgasmic fright.
To the textual gods, he pays his homage;
And lonliness and the sorrowful delight.
Cried in jouissance, didn't die;
And wades through his trampled walk
Along common loves and uncommon lovers
And labyrinths converge-- at silence and Mozart
The prayers were said-- fables told
Of dead mothers and estranged brothers
Of Trivialities and wars lost
Such a rendezvous, such disscociation
Mirrors, images, and that was all.
Over and under his citadel .
Such a lycantrophic being is he;
A bricolage made, of moon and moans,
Seasoned with an orgasmic fright.
To the textual gods, he pays his homage;
And lonliness and the sorrowful delight.
Cried in jouissance, didn't die;
And wades through his trampled walk
Along common loves and uncommon lovers
And labyrinths converge-- at silence and Mozart
The prayers were said-- fables told
Of dead mothers and estranged brothers
Of Trivialities and wars lost
Such a rendezvous, such disscociation
Mirrors, images, and that was all.
Saturday, July 23, 2005
Monday, July 18, 2005
Monday, July 4, 2005
I am not God still
Text is all, all is text. That marks my incarceration, my impotencey. We created fables together, constructed textual realities and illusions, delusions. I don't care if I existed only in that simulation or your delirium, and that library of babel and fabel existed in three dimensions or i made believe it did. I imagine nothing, yet assume something, what if I could see -as if i cant know- Infinity. Or where did the collage of body parts and and fantasy lead us both too? That collage was a text, the scared gospel of OUrtext; I wonder when did that text transformed into the simulation of a simulation? Why didn't I see that all?Textual beings we are; and funny as text-I may be assuming again- inherently remains. Past is a remembrance only, and future doesn't exist, and yet I thought if only i could turn back the time. And will i be turing it back or forth? I guess I can never know; I am not God still.
A laughter that reminds of a pyschopath I saw somewhere in some movie, is missing. What is left of you and me is text.But can I, or Can't i, buy my way out of the theory? What would be the penalty? What would be the price? Or is that just what you gave me ? I couldn't ever thank you enough for ever. Maybe i can't now.
I am not God still.
A laughter that reminds of a pyschopath I saw somewhere in some movie, is missing. What is left of you and me is text.But can I, or Can't i, buy my way out of the theory? What would be the penalty? What would be the price? Or is that just what you gave me ? I couldn't ever thank you enough for ever. Maybe i can't now.
I am not God still.
Words aren't worth a dime; then again, maybe they are Milady.
And is there another way to put it but to say 'she fucking hates me'? Incoherent as i was ever, still stand here confused and wretched, thinking how can she love me so, to hate me so ...
Maybe you were always labyrinthine, and i thought i knew you through and through. There will be an end - so soon that i wouldn't be able to cherish the fragmentation as ever- but was there a beginning? Or is there ever? or was i too blind?
This text i know, is a multiplicity, it'd mean diffrently with the varying readers and their re-readings and re-re-readings and i'd be dead in my traditional capacity as the author: the creator. Someone said that. I guess it was Barthes. So no matter how hard i try not to mean, i'll end my disassociating the ecstasy of my covering wih the heat outside; and no matter how hard to mean i'd still be meaning nothing. You may not ever find you in this text, as i found me in yours, but you'd always be there.
Thats my word, I give you that.
But words aren't worth a dime.
And is there another way to put it but to say 'she fucking hates me'? Incoherent as i was ever, still stand here confused and wretched, thinking how can she love me so, to hate me so ...
Maybe you were always labyrinthine, and i thought i knew you through and through. There will be an end - so soon that i wouldn't be able to cherish the fragmentation as ever- but was there a beginning? Or is there ever? or was i too blind?
This text i know, is a multiplicity, it'd mean diffrently with the varying readers and their re-readings and re-re-readings and i'd be dead in my traditional capacity as the author: the creator. Someone said that. I guess it was Barthes. So no matter how hard i try not to mean, i'll end my disassociating the ecstasy of my covering wih the heat outside; and no matter how hard to mean i'd still be meaning nothing. You may not ever find you in this text, as i found me in yours, but you'd always be there.
Thats my word, I give you that.
But words aren't worth a dime.
His confidence by W.B.Yeats
Undying love to buy
I wrote upon
The corners of this eye
All wrongs done.What payment were enough
For undying love?
I broke my heart in two
So hard I struck.
What matter? for I know
That out of rock,Out of a desolate source,
Love leaps upon its course.
I wrote upon
The corners of this eye
All wrongs done.What payment were enough
For undying love?
I broke my heart in two
So hard I struck.
What matter? for I know
That out of rock,Out of a desolate source,
Love leaps upon its course.
Tool Schism ...
I know the pieces fit cuz I watched them fall away
Mildewed and smoldering. Fundamental differing.
Pure intention juxtaposed will set two lovers souls in motion
Disintegrating as it goes testing our communication
The light that fueled our fire then has burned a hole between us so
We cannot see to reach an end crippling our communication.
I know the pieces fit cuz I watched them tumble down
No fault, none to blame it doesn't mean I don't desire to
Point the finger, blame the other, watch the temple topple over.
To bring the pieces back together, rediscover communication
The poetry that comes from the squaring off between,
And the circling is worth it.
Finding beauty in the dissonance.
There was a time that the pieces fit, but I watched them fall away.
Mildewed and smoldering, strangled by our coveting
I've done the math enough to know the dangers of our second guessing
Doomed to crumble unless we grow, and strengthen our communication.
Cold silence has a tendency to atrophy any
Sense of compassion
Between supposed lovers
Mildewed and smoldering. Fundamental differing.
Pure intention juxtaposed will set two lovers souls in motion
Disintegrating as it goes testing our communication
The light that fueled our fire then has burned a hole between us so
We cannot see to reach an end crippling our communication.
I know the pieces fit cuz I watched them tumble down
No fault, none to blame it doesn't mean I don't desire to
Point the finger, blame the other, watch the temple topple over.
To bring the pieces back together, rediscover communication
The poetry that comes from the squaring off between,
And the circling is worth it.
Finding beauty in the dissonance.
There was a time that the pieces fit, but I watched them fall away.
Mildewed and smoldering, strangled by our coveting
I've done the math enough to know the dangers of our second guessing
Doomed to crumble unless we grow, and strengthen our communication.
Cold silence has a tendency to atrophy any
Sense of compassion
Between supposed lovers
untitled...(i thought it was a story btw)
(This story is dedicated to one of the very few women i care about: Madnas )
The END:
He just returned after burying the old skeleton, knocked at the door and was waiting for her to open, when he saw blackwinds howling all around, carrying those disgusting vultures with helpless seagulls in their maxillas. When the Blackwinds returned, leaving the leeches sucking on him, HerOldman appeared at his back.
Had there been a vestige of warmth in the ice, she would have known how it feels to feel a-mazed.
He mumbles:
Talk to me, my loneliness, I you apostrophize, through certain interludes and still air. Wait. How to say it aloud, so that she may hear. It’s a struggling I chalking out frenetic paths after a day, laden with a present. Will vanish tomorrow. Heavy. But dry and dull. Where’s the gushing forth a collage of body parts, the blood milk and urine, together, unmixed. Where is she. Why is she. Who is she. Who is the man, I want to kill so badly, kill and eat his heart, burn his liver and chew his tongue. The man. The HerOldman.
The door Opened:
She smiled at him, the same eerie smile. 'You are late, want some tea?' And he the HerOldman stood beside her. Enough was enough, but was it? And what was enough, He couldn't have cared less. He raised the dagger and stabbed her heart. He screamed 'Come and penetrate her again,' And stabbed her again. He screamed. He stabbed. And drank. And then painted 'their' home with her blood. He bathed. He drank. He stabbed. He screamed.
She:
“Image of emptiness before emptiness. Biting into the apple, did Eve know, she was devouring her soul? What if the book were only infinite memory of a word lacking? Thus absence speaks to absence.
Imagine a day without a day behind it, a night without a previous night. Imagine Nothing and something in the middle of Nothing. What if you were told this tiny something was you?”
She was nothing yet yes she was she but no was she for she never was the one she he thought she was yet she was she and yes she knew fur elise before it became the ice-cream rhythm and was a lunatic when she played that sonate and yes on the way she was alienated and disgruntled and yes b4 and after transition she mutated back and forth to she yes she was nonpareil yet many she was the one but any yes she was she and no and yes there were people hijras and transvestites and vaginabonds and she knew there were and yet she was afraid yet loved the fright and yes and no and that’s how it all went and that’s how was the time sureceased and the centre was austere and oscillations were denied and wedged-in was she yet she was she and on the way she became a collage of madness and annieone that was not he thought yes but inexorable was she inevitable the collage and the mirage and the illusions and seclusions she thought she'd choose at free will yes she believed in free will which was another illusion illusion seclusion collage mirage wasn’t it an old adage of loving and being loved yes it was and yes he was she and there was no them and there wont be an Us and yes they knew that HerOldman lives and will outlive yet they were they.
HErOldman:
Skeletons are funny. In closets specially.
HerOldman wasn’t a skeleton but he shouldhave been in a closet. He was there always beside her: Between them. Hideous. Like a coating film between their hands when they were clamped together, and the air between the two when they spoke, and as the hidrosis between the bodies when they fucked. He was always there "mocking abnegations', deriding his limitations, jeering his ineptitude, laughing at his lame erections. His laugh, his grotesque laugh was a flambeau, setting ablaze the shit out of him, he was now tired of collecting and cherishing his incinerated ashes. Who the fuck HerOldman thought he was, how could he call his 'atonement ' volatile, his astonishment pesudo-phile, his attachment holy-vile. He was always there, when she played the piano, or threw her guitar in the sea, or listened to Malsteem in her high-esteem days. He had to be killed, to set her free, to set hisself free.
He was his desire. Fire. Passé Impasse, and perpetual still. Kill, kill, kill the motherfucker, kill. He searched for him, in her smile, her frailtities, her strength, everywhere from the curves of her body to the orifices in her soul. In the palmystery of the rivers of fate in her hands, to the blackholes of her eyes. In the furrow of her brow to the perforations in her skin. He was there everywhere, yet nowhere. He was HerOldman. he named him, maimed hisself in naming him, embellished him, textured and smoothened him; he knew him all too well. He was HerOldman.
The Search:
‘Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?’
‘Nothing is nearer to thee than thyself.’
‘But I seek thee.’
‘If thou know not thyself how canst thou know anything else?’
‘I sought thee in the earth, in atmasphere, in history. I rummaged through the caves, history and tradition, and I found so many things but thee. And in the mdju nether, in semiology I found thy presage, thy name, thy prognostication. I searched thee in the words’ worths and in the sainthood , but insatiated I am, as I was ever. Why mea-master why?’
‘Hitherto thou shall come but no further’
‘I’d die mea-master I’d die’
‘To be born again, first one needs to die’
‘And then mea-master’
‘Await re-birth’
‘And shall I find thee then?’
‘Thou found me in this life even. Remember the madness you derided, that was me. ’
‘And shall I find him again?’
‘Why not, he is thy murderer, in this life and all others ’
Them:
"Little ridiculous fantasies of teentimes. And what we wanted was a connection; through rejection. All that we ever wanted was a connection. Interjections. Junctions. Not injunctions. No subjugation: but wait! What is what? When? To whom? How? Define or explain? Or even if not, care to share? Wearyily aware of the statactics of Psickological tygoons, Eye, rigid, , made my ways through sunrays into…into darker alleys, illusive valleys, popular fallacies, physchofoolosopical maladies. Morbid lilies I wanted to wean me of your blood"
"Let’s sing in the rain, and in the clear sky, Starling fly fly fly, we have a song, the nightday song and the daynight song, our song.”
Twinkle twinkle little star
I don’t give a fuck who you are...
As a Pothead on a high
Like a diamond in the sky...
This connection:
"This truly cannot be said and needs no explanation. It’s still all a confusion. What to do, to say. How to or not to cry. It’s sadness itself—inability to be sad. And then fear forcing sadness over and above. Over and above moonlight. Yes, yes, she’s still around, Milady, and it’s only our eyes that can’t see. You are right. You felt the truth. Moonlight encircle us if that sadness be. Peace go away if that sadness be. Because I want to be sad and I wanto shed tears. Real tears. That tear you from yourself—if that has any meaning. This writing thinks it has to be under erasure. Coincidental beings we are. She is fine. And must be happy. She remembered her God again. Yes, that’s lucky Milady, you speak truly. What more to say?
This to Adam’s mother—may God bless her soul and keep her all in Himself, in bliss, in peace.
Amen."
The beginning:
There wasn't any, never will be.
The END:
He just returned after burying the old skeleton, knocked at the door and was waiting for her to open, when he saw blackwinds howling all around, carrying those disgusting vultures with helpless seagulls in their maxillas. When the Blackwinds returned, leaving the leeches sucking on him, HerOldman appeared at his back.
Had there been a vestige of warmth in the ice, she would have known how it feels to feel a-mazed.
He mumbles:
Talk to me, my loneliness, I you apostrophize, through certain interludes and still air. Wait. How to say it aloud, so that she may hear. It’s a struggling I chalking out frenetic paths after a day, laden with a present. Will vanish tomorrow. Heavy. But dry and dull. Where’s the gushing forth a collage of body parts, the blood milk and urine, together, unmixed. Where is she. Why is she. Who is she. Who is the man, I want to kill so badly, kill and eat his heart, burn his liver and chew his tongue. The man. The HerOldman.
The door Opened:
She smiled at him, the same eerie smile. 'You are late, want some tea?' And he the HerOldman stood beside her. Enough was enough, but was it? And what was enough, He couldn't have cared less. He raised the dagger and stabbed her heart. He screamed 'Come and penetrate her again,' And stabbed her again. He screamed. He stabbed. And drank. And then painted 'their' home with her blood. He bathed. He drank. He stabbed. He screamed.
She:
“Image of emptiness before emptiness. Biting into the apple, did Eve know, she was devouring her soul? What if the book were only infinite memory of a word lacking? Thus absence speaks to absence.
Imagine a day without a day behind it, a night without a previous night. Imagine Nothing and something in the middle of Nothing. What if you were told this tiny something was you?”
She was nothing yet yes she was she but no was she for she never was the one she he thought she was yet she was she and yes she knew fur elise before it became the ice-cream rhythm and was a lunatic when she played that sonate and yes on the way she was alienated and disgruntled and yes b4 and after transition she mutated back and forth to she yes she was nonpareil yet many she was the one but any yes she was she and no and yes there were people hijras and transvestites and vaginabonds and she knew there were and yet she was afraid yet loved the fright and yes and no and that’s how it all went and that’s how was the time sureceased and the centre was austere and oscillations were denied and wedged-in was she yet she was she and on the way she became a collage of madness and annieone that was not he thought yes but inexorable was she inevitable the collage and the mirage and the illusions and seclusions she thought she'd choose at free will yes she believed in free will which was another illusion illusion seclusion collage mirage wasn’t it an old adage of loving and being loved yes it was and yes he was she and there was no them and there wont be an Us and yes they knew that HerOldman lives and will outlive yet they were they.
HErOldman:
Skeletons are funny. In closets specially.
HerOldman wasn’t a skeleton but he shouldhave been in a closet. He was there always beside her: Between them. Hideous. Like a coating film between their hands when they were clamped together, and the air between the two when they spoke, and as the hidrosis between the bodies when they fucked. He was always there "mocking abnegations', deriding his limitations, jeering his ineptitude, laughing at his lame erections. His laugh, his grotesque laugh was a flambeau, setting ablaze the shit out of him, he was now tired of collecting and cherishing his incinerated ashes. Who the fuck HerOldman thought he was, how could he call his 'atonement ' volatile, his astonishment pesudo-phile, his attachment holy-vile. He was always there, when she played the piano, or threw her guitar in the sea, or listened to Malsteem in her high-esteem days. He had to be killed, to set her free, to set hisself free.
He was his desire. Fire. Passé Impasse, and perpetual still. Kill, kill, kill the motherfucker, kill. He searched for him, in her smile, her frailtities, her strength, everywhere from the curves of her body to the orifices in her soul. In the palmystery of the rivers of fate in her hands, to the blackholes of her eyes. In the furrow of her brow to the perforations in her skin. He was there everywhere, yet nowhere. He was HerOldman. he named him, maimed hisself in naming him, embellished him, textured and smoothened him; he knew him all too well. He was HerOldman.
The Search:
‘Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?’
‘Nothing is nearer to thee than thyself.’
‘But I seek thee.’
‘If thou know not thyself how canst thou know anything else?’
‘I sought thee in the earth, in atmasphere, in history. I rummaged through the caves, history and tradition, and I found so many things but thee. And in the mdju nether, in semiology I found thy presage, thy name, thy prognostication. I searched thee in the words’ worths and in the sainthood , but insatiated I am, as I was ever. Why mea-master why?’
‘Hitherto thou shall come but no further’
‘I’d die mea-master I’d die’
‘To be born again, first one needs to die’
‘And then mea-master’
‘Await re-birth’
‘And shall I find thee then?’
‘Thou found me in this life even. Remember the madness you derided, that was me. ’
‘And shall I find him again?’
‘Why not, he is thy murderer, in this life and all others ’
Them:
"Little ridiculous fantasies of teentimes. And what we wanted was a connection; through rejection. All that we ever wanted was a connection. Interjections. Junctions. Not injunctions. No subjugation: but wait! What is what? When? To whom? How? Define or explain? Or even if not, care to share? Wearyily aware of the statactics of Psickological tygoons, Eye, rigid, , made my ways through sunrays into…into darker alleys, illusive valleys, popular fallacies, physchofoolosopical maladies. Morbid lilies I wanted to wean me of your blood"
"Let’s sing in the rain, and in the clear sky, Starling fly fly fly, we have a song, the nightday song and the daynight song, our song.”
Twinkle twinkle little star
I don’t give a fuck who you are...
As a Pothead on a high
Like a diamond in the sky...
This connection:
"This truly cannot be said and needs no explanation. It’s still all a confusion. What to do, to say. How to or not to cry. It’s sadness itself—inability to be sad. And then fear forcing sadness over and above. Over and above moonlight. Yes, yes, she’s still around, Milady, and it’s only our eyes that can’t see. You are right. You felt the truth. Moonlight encircle us if that sadness be. Peace go away if that sadness be. Because I want to be sad and I wanto shed tears. Real tears. That tear you from yourself—if that has any meaning. This writing thinks it has to be under erasure. Coincidental beings we are. She is fine. And must be happy. She remembered her God again. Yes, that’s lucky Milady, you speak truly. What more to say?
This to Adam’s mother—may God bless her soul and keep her all in Himself, in bliss, in peace.
Amen."
The beginning:
There wasn't any, never will be.
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