Saturday, March 10, 2012

Of Death-Chants, Dreams, Birds and of Lost Tribes

I wake up and see them lying dead all around me and I know that it was better when I was asleep because when I was asleep I couldn’t see them dead and when I couldn’t see them dead they were not dead and so I regret waking up but waking up like this one day I will see it raining in the mountains and I will see the blue veins of the body and the mountains won’t be sad anymore but it’s the city that matters most and the veins of the city are blue and she likes me and I like her and she might be dead and I might be a maggot and I might be eating her corpse or I might be a zombie and I might be eating her brain or I might be a fly or a flea or an ant and I might enter her womb through her pussy and other ducts and I might get to see her dead children inside her dead womb all of them frozen by cold kisses and cold symphonies and the machines of cobwebbed time will be moving no more and she’s dead so she won’t be bleeding anymore and I have heard that certain people like fucking corpses that brings out something in them and though that can be a moth eaten flower or a chimpanzee’s dick or a dead baby parakeet or whatever I don’t care as long as I get to see her dead and lying naked and stretching and spreading out her splendidly lifeless legs through the streets and through the sinuous tramways and everyday she’s dead and they are dead inside her and I see her and some are better alive than dead and some are better dead than alive but I want to see the and touch the blue glow of lightning because life is abhorred as life doesn’t call for profit and so the monsters that eat less money and shit more money are the corporate but they eat up their shit so that they can shit even more money and so I have no money because they eat it all up and then they eat their shit all up and it’s a circle and it’s a circle of everything and newspapers and buildings and cars and police are all a part of them and so I will shoot them once and for all and I will think of Che Guevara but Che Guevara was shot down too and I know of mystics and ritualists and tantric goodfellas who eat their own shit too because they don’t think of gold and porkrib to be any better than shit and of shit to be any better than gold and porkrib and they don’t attach weight and worth to things or things to weight and worth and they have lost their mind and I have lost my mind but I am not them and we call them insane and they look down upon us though Che didn’t but Che is dead and the mystics live in forests and none of them are here in this dead city because the city can’t take so many deads and the city can’t take so many static points and moving comets and brutal convoluted distortions and aurorae and life inside a demon’s stomach might be difficult and death is necessary as any child in the last stage of cancer might let you know and the child will get back to the dark and the child will never get to have sex or procreate or recreate the same stageplay her parents had hoped she would to see someday but her parents might fuck again and the next child might grow up to be strong and healthy and she’ll see the play and she’ll know that even life is necessary and chimneys will have boobs and flowers will spring up from the gears and bolts and too much pressure will twist the structure and the structure being dead won’t feel the pain and books will be burnt and I won’t make you naked again because you are already naked and I will sit inside the tavern and I will be drunk and I will hear them cracking jokes on Hiroshima and the Holocaust and Gaza and I will find it funny and I’ll laugh and I will crack jokes on boys raping their moms and on dads fornicating with their daughters and they’ll find it funny and they’ll laugh and I’ll not think whether Hemmingway could hear Whitman’s barbaric YAWP when he held his rife and aimed for his temple and the fun ended and another fun began and the word “temple” can be associated with the head and with places of worship just like the word “magazine” can be associated with rifles and with books and Falguni has made me realize this though the fact that I read write think and speak in Bengali makes me less cool and less dead than the colder and the deader who dread me because I am less dead though more convoluted than them but I know that death and the dead can have degrees and levels and it’s all on the plane from which you see and I fart in the faces of these judgmental sons and daughters of bitches who are the real germs that infest art and life and I still think that ee cummings was not a great poet but a great trickster who didn’t CARRY YOUR HEART WITH HIM and that Tagore’s English was less lousy than that of the Hungry Generation poets from Bengal though it was lousy enough but I won’t think of poetry because poetry is a daring to be alive and it’s all about the long decayed dead in here and poetry must be banned and drums must roll out loud and everything must be in procedure because the dead can only have procedure and decay and decadence is scientific as scientific as pedophilia is and the sudden urge to rub my penis against the soft purply pink petunia petals is scientific too and please excuse me for being sexist and you can get the urge to rub your clitoris against the petals and that’ll have a scientific explanation attached and psychiatry is electrifying what you needn’t electrify though that’ll require an inconvenient maneuver because unlike the penis the clitoris doesn’t dangle from the body and dealers and fairies and whores and neonstruck insanities are more alive than even I am and I am jealous of them just like you are jealous of me because I can write this but you can’t and I am jealous of you because you can read this but I can’t though I can remember the fairs and the Ferris wheels and I remember childhood and the snake was asleep then but now it’s awake and it’s hissing and I hear it hiss from inside my skull and I hear them drop their bombs right into my guts and I can feel the ghosts sitting on my medulla oblongata and sucking the cold waves up as they start out from the base and debased binary gurus are filthy senile jokers who make lewd gestures in 0s and 1s at little children with candybars and they like the debauched smell of vague recollections oozing from sweaty stockings and stale booze from hungover bordellos in morning light and they are beyond death but we are blissful that we are dead because the dead needn’t carry crosses as they await patterns of resurrection through tablets templates and norms of grass and silver and we hunt the storks and the swans down and we shoot them dead and as we stare their bodies floating on the great white lakes of our conscious being we feel assured because now we know that we needn’t stretch the borders of our conscious anymore and there’s a comfort in that and comfort is desired but the dead can’t desire and the dead can’t stretch the boundaries of conscious and thus it’s not a question of victory or defeat for us the dead and Phlebas the Phoenician was a fortnight dead and he forgot things that the dead forget and water hastens decomposition and Gods trample out the vintage and we can see their buttocks shining and their buttcheeks trembling in terrifying moonlight and the city had once puked all over a dead God and so the snake that hisses inside me had spit venom on the city’s nerves and the city lies dead cursed and naked but it’s still very very beautiful and I would still have loved to screw it had I not died with the city and had my ghosts been exorcised enough to help me unlearn divinity and then I would have happily taken off my priestly robes and I would have made love to her and I am really a priest in case you haven’t noticed yet and my ancestors used to conduct worships involving human sacrifice many centuries back and am I carrying their genes and did I get that instinct to kill for God and did they play games inside my embryonic cells and this intelligent design and that intelligent design and those intelligent designs are meant to kill and get killed but we have to press buttons and everything involves pressing of buttons and we don’t have any choice but to make these choices but yes o yes I think killing is fun though all are dead and the dead can’t be killed and the thought that I’m dead makes me happy at times because if I am dead then I won’t die but then I know that I am dead and this fact makes me doomed to not dying and then I get Fury and the Fury gets me and we get wild and we break things against the wall and against the iron bars and we feel the beasts gnawing and gnashing from inside but the beasts are machines and my heart is a machine that had crushed a sparrow between its giant wheels and it was all blank and deathly and cosmic rays slanted against the horizon and sunset was a mammoth with sad eyes but that was long back and now the sparrow chirps no more and even though my heart echoes of its chirps I am dead and you are dead and the sparrow is dead and even the mammoth that used to bash its head against my solarplexus is beastly dead and none of us can hear and we were alive at our own risk like owls hoot and dogs and Ginsberg howl at their own respective risks and now we are dead at our own risks and we contaminate the city no more though we infest its corpse and balloons rise up to the stars that hang from the furry armpit of the night when I sleep and I dream of fireflies and wolves with glowing eyes and palaces and kindergarten classes where I drew birds and birds and many birds returning to their nests and staying there when it’s dark and when I sleep and I stop thinking of the mother, the moon or the Valhalla or the hazy neural forest and I stop reminding myself of the coiling and recoiling madness of the lifeless and when I’m awake I know but when I sleep I am unaware and when I sleep I hear the water rising and I hear faint whispers from the depths and I hear the lost tunes and I and I, I don’t know, I’ve been like this for a very long time and had there been anyone alive I would’ve screamed out HELP! so loud that it would’ve pierced open the Heaven and brought the Angels down in hoards but dead people can’t hear screams, dead people can’t help and dead people don’t have a Heaven teeming with Angels and so I sleep and I sleep some more and in this very way I kill the dead and I kill death.

2 comments:

The Writer said...

Sombre. I like.

Soumi said...

Bold,unabashed and you at your very best(Yes,I dare say THAT). Kept me hooked till the end. And I don't know if it's because of our fleeting conversations or not,I see bits and pieces of things I've read or heard of and I feel better,more at peace with myself. I'll write tomorrow(or tonight)too. Will get back to you once I'm done reading Baudelaire,not before that. And I LOVE,LOVE,LOVE it that you've become so regular! Earlier,I used to read one and then have to wait for eternity to read you again!:-(