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.

Memory is ephemeral in the sense it modifies the view, each time it recalls it.I dont want it to be modified. I want to preserve lucidity in nostalgia.
I wish i could paint.

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.
--
--

memoirs we name these— infinite scriptures of flagellation, written in blood and love or bloody love.Ergo I live, so do thee, Ibid we die.

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"

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."

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.

A haiku

Love begets love
It is an old adage
Seems all new

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

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.