There are times i feel like i have hated enough hatred
And i have burned enough burns
And then there are these times when i feel like i am lying flat on my belly
Beside a great white sea, and the sea knows me like no one has ever known me before
And among all the billions of oysters out there there’s one which has a pearl meant for me.
Or maybe a treasure trove, one which carries the secret medicine for my cure is right out there
For me. And these are the times when i feel hollow. And i feel the insects deep inside.
Fuck, it’s so hard to believe in all these things, hard enough for one to stop trying
And to roll up inside the nice warm cocoon of hatred – conjured up purely for the sake of survival.
And to dream of getting cured someday, of all the pain to disappear one fine morning.
Pure thoughts that keep us moving. I am just like you. My wrath is no weaker and my love is no stronger than yours baby. I kiss you goodnight now. I kiss all my dark children goodnight.
Observe the multitude flocking down. They are the average ones.
Like rats and epidemics. They are there.
The meek who shall inherit the earth
And who shall survive wars, famines, riots, nymphomania, heartbreaks,
Erectile dysfunctions, rainbows – every damn thing.
They’re the real genius, because they know how to survive
And most of them shall learn soon enough
To get through all this shit without much distress.
And to get through life by paying their bills, premiums and loans.
They learn fast.
Observe the multitude – each carries an invisible white flag
To avoid hostility. They don’t fight, and thus they don’t grow stronger, except in numbers.
They don’t know how to break stuff, and thus they don’t create anything.
They don’t have dreams any higher than those of the ones around them, and thus they are easily satisfied
And they shall inherit the earth through recreation and procreation, and, by simple law of averages
The average man and the average woman
Holds the ace. And are happy with that.
I told her that it’s easy to live; all we need is to breathe
I also told her that we all need to take our shots and that doesn’t
Make us good or bad people. That just makes us people.
She remembers that too, i am sure.
She was good, and she was kind to me
And when we parted, we maintained our mutual polite indifference
And there were no heartbreaks or inconveniences involved
And there was not much love or hatred involved either.
And now, we are walking down different roads and trampling different shit
Like we all do, and this is not much of an uncommon story.
Feelings beget complicacy and burdens, and it’s really easy to do away with the extra load.
Maybe someday we’ll bump into each other in some pub and we’ll have a good laugh over a few glasses of whiskey. Or maybe we won’t. Whichever way it is, the point is that it’s not difficult to avoid the roadbumps and potholes – all you need is to do away with the journey.
Flesh melts away. Faces and bodies melt away. In 0s and 1s our minds and feelings and consciousness and the great unconscious slither through the channels of being
To reach out and to share, to communicate, to know and to live. And soon we will get to touch and breathe and eat and excrete and screw through 0s and 1s. The fun part is that we don’t need curtains and masks to hide behind anymore. And we don’t need to throb. It’s all in 0s and 1s.
I move closer to words and letters
With little white spaces between them.
I move closer to the mortuary and further away from the mountains.
I remember the mole above my mother’s left eyebrow
I remember the snake that poked its head from inside the lid of my trashbin and showed it’s great black eyes and a little forked tongue in one of my many dreams. I walk through streets and alleys
The streets are mostly named after famous people – with their 99 discomfort forgotten and 1 glory remembered by us – the ones with 99 shit and 1 libido. I remember that the essence is to survive and i was taught the same. Everything they told me inside and outside classrooms meant one and only one thing – that the trick lies in surviving, that they won’t teach me the trick coz we all need to find our own shit out and no one can teach that. I remember darkness from alleys and coffins and horrible smelling coffees and stale beer-breath of my co-boarders and of my father. I remember my father, and of all his compromises. I am supposed to get ready for some more compromising. “All or nothing” is for people who get streets named after them. “At least something” is for us who walk these streets looking for ways and means to procure the least bit we can. And so i walk. I smell sweat from the fleshy breasts of whores and i smell rotting flowers and insects and chimney smoke.
And there’s a picnic out there. And there’s an engagement party there. They exchange rings, words, communications, letters, saliva, statements of work, infections, understandings, happiness, sorrow, smiles, frowns, love, hatred, glances, fuck, and whatnot. There’s a man whose guts dropped out of his wide open asshole while he was facing something he wouldn’t have faced had he had the option. And that’s another thing. We don’t have the luxury to choose. That is for the “all or nothing” folks and for the rich sons of bitches whose farts smell of Chanel Number Five. And yes, there are roads named after revolutionaries and days named after revolutions. And I was taught about those names, those dates and the stuff those names did and the stuff that happened on those days all with the disclaimer: “you are not like them, you are weak enough; don’t you dare put any mark on the calendar”. It’s all about intelligent designs and intelligently designed designs. And if some smartass quips that it’s the historians’, or worse, history’s fault that we are not there, they put some extra potent stuff on the injection meant for him.
And a few more petals for my blood. A few more flies for my open wounds. I see my eyeballs hanging down from hooks stuck on the grey wall of centuries. My eyeballs are red. I am leaning against the weight of time. I see the empire in her navel. And wolves leap out of her vagina. And their eyeballs are red too, red enough to glow in darkness. And a bit of eternity stretches beyond the white and the red and the yellow. And wombs and graves and mortuaries fill up. And offices, prisons, hospitals, bars, brothels, cafes, latrines, madhouses, schools, airports, taverns, bottles, glasses, stomachs, shapes, lights, darks, forms et cetera et cetera fill up. Mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, others, balloons and shops fill up. Dust gathers. I walk. I feel my backbone rotting away, guileless, cold, ugly – like me. If i die, nothing will change. I think of death often. It’s like a caterpillar.
And suddenly, i throw it all away. Now, i find myself alone, i find myself howling at the moon. And then i realise that i am naked, and they can see my warts and wounds in the sharp shrill scream of electricity. It’s all there. Right in my sack, and there’s no way i can get rid of it. I cower. I walk.
Wish i had a knife – one whose edges are sharper than the bitterness of memories
And whose blades are longer than the trail of dust that follows the haunted wagon in the hamlet of the dead where a carnation blooms by each grave and where the lame play of rebirth of flesh and imprisonment is never re-enacted.
Wish the knife would go deep into the heart of silence and make it bleed all its dark poison out
Wish i could drive the knife inside all these nosey pricks who are worms and vermin – just like me,
But unlike me, shall never accept that or reconcile to their lack of spine, all those who think that their digging through the dung is something special and unique and that they can be worshipped as heroes if they pee on others who are not like them. These creatures deserve a taste of the real knife instead of the mutual pretence and bumkissing. Had i had the knife, i would surely have given them some ideas about the real shit and instead of the second hand one they are fed through books, teevees, websites, movies and music. Alas, i am fed on the second hand same shit and i am no more a loser and no less a lifeless piece of junk than them, and hence i can never have the knife. It’s for the ones who wade through the real muck, and not for fake lousy dickheads like me or them.
Mother, could you fend me from the sharks?
Could you teach me how to fend myself from the sharks?
Mother, were we apolitical enough when i sucked your nipples?
Did we know where we stood?
Mother, were we far away from the edge of the cliff?
Were we far away from the kingdom of vultures?
Mother, did it snow inside you when i was blind?
Was it cold enough for the nine moons to pale away?
Mother, was there music when i climbed my throne?
What tune were they playing?
Mother, what’s the link between the void and the flesh?
And what happens when it snaps?
Please don’t mind the questions
And there’s no compulsion to answer
It’s just the wind wheezing through reeds,
just a shadow of my self.