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.

Saturday, July 23, 2005

A haiku

Love begets love
It is an old adage
Seems all new

Monday, July 18, 2005

People expect people to play gods.
Whose fault is that?

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.
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.

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.

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

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.


“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.


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 ’


"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.

The beginning:

There wasn't any, never will be.