Saranam Gachchhami / White Refuge

It’s not the river you’re thinking of right now

It’s live-action infanticide

Sharp! Sharp!

Everything must be sharp

So, what if your hands are

heavier than your guilt?

Yes. You stand

Someday, I’ll see through the skulls….

So once upon a time there lived a moon with golden teeth

Old, soiled, pervert in the breeze

The moon. The agon.

To visit the place where Persian knights were buried

Square forts, things that can be referred to,

Cross-cited pigeon-coops, minarettes

and those twenty eight Buddhas, each representing

one last night cigarette stub multiplied by fifteen trillion cold orgasms and

crossroads for champions and heroes

Hey, I’m a hero too!

We’re all heroes, stuck inside the armpits of other heroes

Who, again, are stuck inside some piss-rattled Valhalla

and so on

We were born long before death was invented

And then, we created god and god created worship and worship created the tiger and the tiger procreated and thereby hangs a tail

Open your doors slowly, let’s not do away with mystery altogether

Let’s not stay inside our computers forever

Come out, I say, Om and come out, if you have the courage!

If I have it, I will sell it to the mirrors

Or maybe I don’t like this place at all

Once I lived in a small house, now I live in a bigger one

So, what’s the point? And what’s the point pointing at?

Where will I go?

Prickly, Icarussed.

aah, how the poor boy hated his father when he was falling!

Gravity! Free fall in my head, and other craploads of craploads.

The sparrow and the skeleton, well,

they got back to their respective mothers’ wombs and they lived happily ever after.

Save your eyes, you, umm, what’s your name again? Yeah, Pythia!

Too much substance abuse, I say. Pythia, save your eyes and save your womb.

Sell your brains and kidneys, but the eyes and the womb are important for the system to survive,

so save them, for the system’s sake

The simple truth being that the system should survive!

But hey, why does the word ‘system’ remind me of machine guns?

Is it pure magic, or that correlative conjunction of one and the other,

together and against?

Never mind. I’m as hideous as you are. So let’s get married,

And I’ll show you the three fangsquadroned faces of Nzame,

Mebere and Nkwa, all morphed into one wildened wilderness gasp-grasped,

flamedrilled, in the ancient pastures of our forefathers smirking at those three intellectuals debating about whether “our” JFK was really assassinated by Fidel Castro or by the corporate-cooled rulers of your plastic-platonic coffee mug

We all need to take our own shots.

It doesn’t make us bad people

It makes us people.

Insanely human, and just that (Perhaps with bullet-holed wings)

But these roots,

They still need the primal blood. Yes, they do.

And thus, I justify war. Our wars. Their wars. Your wars. My wars. Blah, blah and one more blah to kiss Nietzsche’s muscular posterior and to stuff it with fart-dampened dynamites.

Never mind. Those old corpuscular venoms and images. Fatal.

The Goddess that resides in my temporal lobe.

Flowing all blood and electric neurotransmitter receptors and convoluted signals

Everything phallic.

Slavery.

Inca gods.

Om, Shiva!

I don’t believe in you, you stone-peppered rainbowed yankyanked grapevine!

Hiding,

Self-deception,

Joyrides,

Dopamine

Decay

These are mine

The rest can screw themselves, or others, whichever however and whomever they may prefer; guilt, Armageddon and Wikipedia included.

Friends, be happy.

Oh, and I almost forgot: all these words are lies

so suit yourselves