রশোরাজের রশামৃতো

Let’s all get Smashed Tonight!

One Strong Shitkicker

January 3, 1889.

The roaches of life are finally free today

Greek heroes and their rapechildren sleep in peace.

The machines of make-believe rain are falling silent,

one after the other,

 deep down the stunned wishing wells.

So much adoration all around. The moon doesn’t care much

That fat bastard seems keen on love now.

Hello mister crocodile have you seen my mother?

“Yes little one, she was passing this way when the skies turned green

And the moist earth smelt of love, hitherto unseen.”

January 3, 1889.

Turtles for Life v/s Pumpkins for Love

And then the strangest telegram

“Old God makes stunning recovery. Stop. Rejoice. Stop.”

And then the tiny doctors

with blue hair

and orange ears

march out of their building – an army meant for preservation of valour and sanity

Before long, smoke streams out of the fifth floor window

and coils up, serpentine: lordbound and relieved.

Uproar has been choked off. Lids have been shut.

The mermaids can stay in total tolerant harmony henceforth.

God has survived. long enough for splendid decay.

………………………………………….

Bitter Rain

Away from the atom sunlight my scanner, my database of

hardboiled information  writes to me

like I used to write to you about the whores about the mango tree and and

and about two friends named  

Insurrection and Resurrection whose telepathic senses and my genitalia pulled me closer to the Mango Tree! Mango Tree!

Fuckfuckfuck

Telephone rings

Pause a’while

Ringing stops

Fuckfuck again

Fuckfuck over wash penis wash cum off body wash pubic hair between teeth wash and be clean water of love water baptize water clean pure water like mother I slept in water inside mother I can’t sleep now I can’t swim now I can’t love now I am not clean now my soul is not clean now and everafter haha fun good fun thickfat fun, fun is good for soul. My soul is very old. How young is yours?

Wholesome by fade leaves

by the harmony I picked up from

the pavement outside the liquor shack

There was a temple right outside the house of my favourite slut

Her skin was soft.  

After good fuckfuck I rinse mouth I come out I look inside temple I see god

I close my eyes not to see god I die I live minutes and seconds of vast reckoning

Mad momentary recollection gleams mammary glands all things prehistoric though transient.

Donkeys tell of love to Jurassic reptiles.

I have a hard-on once again.

Prehistory is good

Prehistoric man’s shadow walks beside me

Prehistoric woman’s nakedness frightens me.

I see silhouettes on walls.

On roofs as well.

No electricity.

Now I am all alone

Now I am with shapes and forms.

Truculent turtles make love.

I make nothing.  

I am not terrified anymore

So I sleep.

I dream of ships and stars and of conjoined twins

I dream of weeping geometry

Flesh shrieks in dream

Flesh shrieks in awakening.

I try to link all I see with all I hear

Twenty one canon shots when I die

Hot babes blowing bugles

I die erect

Hot babes blowing phallus of my corpse

Blood-semen-world-earth-father-divinity-symphony all frozen-all-all

Frozen like moths bees butterflies frozen dews frozen bluebells frozen asses

I stare at ripe sturdy buttcheeks of men and wonder about my lack of homosexual inclinations

Or is it just a dot and a dash before indictment?

I unborn inside water inside mother I grow fresh strong I derive nourishment

I dead inside water like Phlebas water sucks nourishment I decay I rot or maybe I don’t but my body does and my soul  my soul o soul why do I not believe in you?

  

Sunshine speaks of calamity and deviance.

Sunshine will not speak of calamity or deviance when I die.

All is good when I die

All is bad and awfully fucked now.

Soldiers from graves of dread attack world

Nevertheless, I sleep.

I dream of straight road leading from Ishtar’s womb to my crotch

It’s a road of enlightenment: one that shoots ego, enslaves id,

commandeers superego. all for love and love for all.

Prophets look at me from clouds

I become Emperor of blank spaces.

I declare raw war against the world.

Compasses have been broken tonight

Dogs make terrific love in bitter rain.

  

 …………………………………………………………..

Sweet Rain

Flowers derive nourishment from soil

Soil smells good after rain.

I love soil. I love flowers.

One day I will be one with flowers and soil

Till then, allow me, sweet allure,

to kneel before the altars of love.

Flowers fall on blood. Blood carries flowers to brain

They add up to make one big flower.

I can’t speak of flowers anymore.

heart of the city is one big flower too.

Heart of the brain is where the other soil is

When it rains on that soil

living here seems kind soft and comforting.

…………………………………………………………………….

Poultice for those Damned Carbuncles of Love

Beware the ghosts of love

They are everywhere

They can take any form

And leap on you on least expected moments

And then you stop believing in the rain

And you do all sorts of funny things

Such as jumping on railway tracks without

Any particular reason

Or winding up in prisons, prisms and asylums

Or discussing dualism with tabby cats

Or hacking the skies of love

And digging the graves of love

And loads of other shit.

Shit you definitely don’t want for yourself

And shit others mostly want for you so

As to discuss, dissect, analyze.

So beware those ghosts of love

lurking in the dark alleys of allure

which are all around us.

.......................................

So here i am observing beerfizz oozing out

Of the third beercan for tonight (two down four to go)

And thinking of Sartre. Why the fuck am I thinking of Sartre?

You see, there was this girl

(Well hell, there’s always one, right?)

And she was crazy in her own ways
but not in my ways
And i was crazy in my own ways
but not in her ways

And she was there
And i was there too
And now she isn’t
And neither am i
And she is there
And i am here
and that’s about it.

So I was fighting hangover all morning
And sleeping all afternoon
And reading Sartre (Altona, a fine one) all evening
And i’m drinking now
And i’ll be drinking for the next two hours of so.
And that’s about it.

P.S. This city, where i am living now, is a rather peculiar one
It kicks your butt and kisses you at the same time)
..........................................

So this is a picture of love painted by a mad lover in insane heat

Too many adjectives. I don’t like adjectives. But i like this picture

It’s so

real.

Could there be a picture of me just like this?

And don’t forget the dogs who die young

And the poets and harlots who die old

And these million sweaty silent nights smelling of beer and solitude

And me here,

naked, cock in hand

thinking of the soul and ejaculating at the moon.

.............................................................

Bohemian bananas, they’re not like actual bananas

They can walk and talk and sing

I don’t know whether they really exist or not

But they seem pretty much okay when they visit me

Every second night.

They tell me stories of soldiers on horsebacks and of tramcars with souls

And of princesses with warts and etcetera and i talk with them for a while

We share cigarettes, opinions, love, whiskey, blackbirds, bluebirds and some laughter.

I’ve told about them to anyone yet.

People, you see, are a pretty lousy bunch who look similar, walk similarly

And even talk about and think of similar things.

That makes the world a prison of sorts and me a prisoner

If i tell of the splendid bananas with whom i have a good time every second night

Listening to stories and sharing stuff i like to the people, they’ll send a doctor in

And the doctor will take out a big syringe and ah fuck, you know the rest.

Anyways, i like those bananas. They make the raving beast within me fall silent

for some time and they make me feel calm peaceful and easy.

I hope that unlike most things that are good in a big way

this one lasts for a long time if not forever.   

..............................................................................................

To Ziba, head twisted, blogging of cynic affinity

Where’s the essence of triviality?

Do you like horses in moonlight or do you like horses in sunlight?

And where’s you in this clusterfuck of broken asses and broken waltzes?

This barren land has taken much and given little

It’s like blowing your nose on blottingpapers

Do you blow your nose on blottingpapers?

Can you touch your nosetip with your tongue?

There’s fun in that, almost as much fun as killing your enemies

Fun is all life asks of you and all you ask of life

and you is all life asks of fun and all fun asks of life.

It’s good this way. Trust me, it really is

And there’s this mad old storm raging outside.

....................................................................................................

Creation requires nonchalant living

And I have said this many times before

And I love tigers, wolves and rabbits

And I am sad now

Because wonderland is getting polluted

And unspoken thoughts are being persecuted

Everywhere

But yes, an expression of sorrow

is like lying on your back

and throwing up

the puke falls right on your face

Splat!

That’s one hell of a lousy affair if you ask me.

..............................................................................

The world’s wearing a shade of haze now

And i heard some cheesy music outside

It’s the declaration of death for this night.

And horrible poetry is born out of descriptions like these.

The weariness of this dull being

is the greatest tragedy ever

It makes us spew out shit like this

And i am being preachy again.

You see, the jokers have died out

Inside the caves of lunacy and indictment

And beside the large hadron colliders of life.

We can fight this insentience with big fat love

All for love and love for all

Love is a sharp sword. The sharpest ever.

But to what end?

To love’s end?

I, thrown out of mother

Batting on midnights

Howling storms

Semper idem

Hoop in a loop

Aloof lullaby.  Buzzing. I we us weewee dawn death reckoning whatnot wha!

Please Mama,

May i don a king’s robe for this act?  

I can make you happy.

O splendid flowers bloom in May and it’s all because of love.

Strangely, all the women i have had are different

in their own ways:

they all have limitations but so have i.

The virtues of tenderness are many

And it’s thrill-time now

Debunking solitude and solicitous permanence

In wanton abundance

Gives me a strange power

And makes me godly

And makes the mountains weep

for the tender tendrils

coiling around blank spaces.

 for my sombre magnificence

Because i am here to stay and be indifferent

and for singsong allegories that refrigerate our hearts.

You don’t need to comprehend poetry

Or Kierkegaard or Jodorowsky for this.

All you need is to be close enough for me to see every pore of your skin.

It’ll be easier for me to hump you then.

...............................................................................

Temerity be damned, i have a new house now

And makebelieve rain makes me want to drink more

Only cowards make a big fuss about original courage

And priests piss me off, the irony being my ancestors were priests too.

O the nectar of pure love.

How i wish to drink you up tonight!

.....................................................

if i die right now

i won’t see tomorrow

o whatthefuck!

i want to see tomorrow

tomorrows are nice conceptions

like joints on this chain

i love them

they make me live

now, i’ve never fucked anyone under the shower

and i really want to do that on one of these tomorrows.

So i don’t want tomorrow to stop coming

i want to look at it as it comes

Just like i want to look at death as that inevitable bastard approaches.

My wants are many

Wants of love, wants of the heart and penis

Wants of that snaky yellow intellect that

haunts the city evenings.

And i want these wants like a lovepoem etched on

wild rocks and on busy pavements.

Flowers die when there’s no rain

That’s a bad thing.

That’s something i do not want.

..................................................................

Everytime the phone rings

Or the sparrows wink

Or the mugs get a refill

It’s a serenade to me, for being alive

And this is how all clichéd poetry begins

The world of poems is like an orgy in a madhouse

Words jostling for equidistant prominence

Words fighting words, words fighting spaces, spaces fighting spaces

It’s all bloody much confusing

And there’s much blood and puke on the floor

Every expression and every gap finger and fence the others around them

It’s a world of boisterous anarchy

Where tarantulas bite Rasputin’s ass

And Falstaff jumps into Othello’s kingdom to seduce Desdemona

Before Othello, the motherfucking sonofabitchwithbigredboils

strangles the truest beauty that ever was

(Mister Falstaff, i want you to succeed.)

Anyway, not to digress,

The world of verses is one of nauseating confusion

where only the truly best can dare to venture in.

And this is how all clichéd poetry ends.

............................................

     

উপোজীব্বো অর্থে চড়া আলোএ লাগভেল্কি সার্কাসমাত্রো

yellow shakespeare haha

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আস্তাকুঁড় ও কাল্বোশাখীর ইতিবৃতো

ঈশ্বরীক্ষেত্রো, আস্রএ ও পূর্ণোগ্রাশ বপোন

Glory Night

at times it gets so fucking tiring

that it sort of gets to you

and then you stay up all night

painting chimneys with boobs

and painting people

 who are scared of life,

loneliness, misery and starvation

people thinking of Beckett

and of their mothers,

people hating the rain and loving the share-market

people hating the share-market and loving the rain

people being eaten up by paper tigers

people drowning in gutters and obligations

people howling at the moon:

you paint them all

only to find that

they all  

look the same:

like failed prophets

and broken machines;

but the chimneys with boobs

look different

each time you paint them.

and that gets to you for good.

child, don't be afraid

i'm just a timid joker counting stars

you see these flowers?

these are for the dead gods

give these to them if you ever

meet them

damn! we were supposed to set the nights on fire,

beat the shit out of the wolves that scare us,

and hoot for the fairies as they rave across the galaxies

what the fuck has happened to us?

The nights are aiming at our guts

the wolves are having a good laugh

even the fairies are bored.

this muck, i tell you:

either it gets to you

or else you get to it.

there's nothing you can do about this

flush the roaches down

drown the sharks in whiskey

and go to sleep.

and sleep till you wake up, deadbeat,

temples throbbing, skies awash

bridges -

broken.

there's no way out.

and then there are those times

when you go out to the balcony

smoke at the night

and walk right back

into your room

which is more naked than

you are now,

only that

you refuse to see it that way.

trust me when i say this

the night gives a shit

and you don't

though you pretend indifference.

like all pretentious roses and pretentious pricks

your indifference won’t change the world
but that of the world is bound to change you

soon enough.

............................................

Tiramisu Tarantula Tetanus Tendrils Tentacles whatever haha blabla gaga gooogoo

Fishes screw in waters of love

And the whole world stood still
as Jesus walked on water –

Staring deep into our hearts

And staring straight into the eyes

Of the raving beast within.

And under the blank open sky

The carnival broke loose

I was hiding

with the goblins –

drinking their wine

fucking their women

and so i missed all the fun

As Jesus went across

the waters of love

and perished by his sad crucifix.

Now, i look at the waters of love

Fishes screw in waters of love

The nights turn green by waters of love

And the beast – it still raves.

.................................................

Elephants of pure desire

They have golden tusks

I am talking to them

They are talking to me

I am talking to you

Are you talking to me?

And then of course, the need to stare

And not judge

because of and despite

Everything

Is there.

And the diamonds are there too.

Where be you, Bird Mother?

Where be your white  wings?

Your conception: sexless, hyperborean

Etched, like a hyperbole,

On the guts of sonnets and bees:

Is fascinating.

Child, look at me

I’m not so scary as they say i am

I’ll tell of fairies that turn into monsters

I’ll tell of monsters that turn into fairies

And I’ll tell of that great secret dream

We have all been dreaming to dream.

Child, look at me

Because i will kill you if you don’t.

...............................................................

Sometimes the whole Universe

Seems hell bent on puking its grief

All over me.

And the rain sends its army

Across the horizon

And across bleary railway tracks

To make fight those four guards

Who have defended me

Against every shit.

So this one goes for the guards.

And for the rest:

“Screw you, fuckers

I can still take more punches than you.”

.................................................................

Sometimes the sight of panties hanging from railings

of crumbling balconies when you were 14 and

all alone

can be as

dreadful as the  sight  

 of a dog with bellies flattened out by automobile tyres

lying dead on gruesome dark macadam

when you are 24

and all alone.

So beware.

The sharks are after you

And they can get you

any day.

.......................................................................................

This then is separation

A separation is like the princess of twilight

undressing

before going to bed.

And this is how

The world moves

-          On alcohol

-          On glycerine

-          On sexmama with big boobs

-          On wolves from hell

-          On rancid corpses of love

-          On me

-          On cruelty

-          On kindness

And then there’s this flower that smells of love

And i had fish and rice tonight

And it’s raining where you live

And it’s not raining where i live

And moths pee at moon

And sadness is a lost verse

And the mountains are sad tonight

And the ants are strong tonight

And you are gone

And i remember licking droplets of sweat off the back of your earlobes

And monsters have green eyes

And tigers have red eyes

And what the fuck am i even talking about?

This then is separation

One sharp punch and it all gets hazy.

.....................................................................................

The unchangeability of me, here, steadfast

is unmatched

Even the streets lead to cities, rivers,

Dead-ends

Or at least to other streets

And even the stars die out

And the dogs that bark at stars

Meet their end

In way too many ways:

Age, starvation, accidents et cetera et cetera.

Poetry, you see, is strong

But not strong enough for me

I’ve fought many a duel with it

And i’m still here

resilient , imperishable, drunk.

Sure as the devil’s skin is red

and the pigs are bleeding

 and reading Plath on midnights fucks your nerves up

and everything rots,

I am here.

And i will be here for as long as i wish to be

..................................................................

June, 2012

I have lived for 289 months

The watermelons of life have busted

Can’t focus at the broader picture

Love’s grown tentacles

Chinese whispers echo on walls

On streets that have no names i walk

Theatres of pure colour are stoned

The lions have put their flags down

Tonight will be fine

for the rope and the blade

But what do i care?

Below these floors

Below the soil

Reptiles breed in tender mercy

Smooth patterns point towards

places that are very dark

And deep down below

there’s water

And deeper down

there’s fire.

To approach these hours

like peeling brassieres off

hookers’ breasts

is good enough

What else do drowning ants need?

A leaf maybe.

They’ve painted sunflowers

on cigarette butts

You can live for the sunflowers

or else

You can always consider Phlebas

after a few choked fortnights.

.............................................................................................

And the boobs go flap

Flap!

as if all life-form

has been dunked down below the oceans

every day, the mad bikers

rage through the city

pungent forces push through

it’s all turning pink

and orderly

built, like the axis

around one single leitmotif

it’s like kissing on the scars

again and again

we survive

storms

floods

fires

to find ourselves

in a place

which sucks so much

that we would’ve chosen

storms floods and fires

instead.

And the boobs go flap

Flap!

..........................................................

reply to a beautiful friend who sent me a picture of an owl wearing thick glasses with thick frames

This was my reply to a beautiful friend who sent me a picture of an owl wearing thick glasses with thick frames and told me to write about myself:

this bird is the type that sings filthy songs before crapping on shades of policemen from tall bridges. I read about one of those in a book of pure love. i like this bird. i want to be this bird.

now for the one-eyed monsters, they are everywhere they say. and i have a mouse running all over my floor circling my empty beer cans. i work and stay in a city far away from home and because i am happy i enjoy solitude and because i am sad i enjoy solitude. i drink beer and goatmilk and then i stare at people who take medicines to avoid flatulence. 

i like Bach who had 21 kids. i like traffic signals. i like broken machines. i like bare floorboards. i like the rabbit in the moon. i like the big red booming love because that’s a splendid concept.

and then there’s one more thing which i like.  

i like it when it rains because rain reminds me of Cinderella and then i imagine me making violent love to Cinderella and then i sleep and then i wake up, mostly hungover and stare up to observe birds with glasses and then the grocery arrives and then the sky is rot and the i am sitting on the loo, spraying beer-shit and smoking. I don’t read newspapers.

Ugliness fascinates me. So does perversion.

there’s a world on fire out there. And then of course there’s this massive gray phantom moving around the Universe and making fucked geometrical shapes across the roofs and walls.

i have observed that things tend to just be there and live and/or die for themselves. that's funny in a way.  

i have also observed that people are just like stoned fishes. that's not funny in any way 

i'm hustling dead butterflies and tiny things that shine up this avenue now.

now tell about your kidnappers.  

   

Before the River Washes it all Away

the big fat idea is to have fun

even when the horse you're betting on is limp

or when i'm holding a knife to your throat

or when it rains on your sullen frangipani

fun's like a rare steak

sumptuous, big, 

sizzling.

Without fun the world will go mad

the moon will refuse her milk

and the sun his spear

And the mountains will burst out in glorious grief.

who wants that?

so, pay no heed to all the bleeding 

just raise your hands up in the air

clap

dance

laugh

love

make merry

because the heart needs a good laugh before if burns out.

..........

those sons of bitches better beware

i'm getting stronger by the hour

and i'm not going to make funny faces

anymore

self-pity is comforting, i admit

and solitude is beautiful too

but are they really strong enough

or beautiful enough 

to hit out at the sun 

the moon and the stars?

my big city is bleeding out here

don't you dare preach me 

the easy virtues of forgiveness,

am i clear?

for i am mad at the entire universe

inside and out

and that doesn't change anything.

...................

nurses of love

they come to me every passing day

with smooth motherly arms

and slender words of kindness

they feed me and bathe my heart

and they take good care of me

i stare at them with wide open eyes

and their shoulder-blades seem 

like easy highways 

that cut through mountains and valleys 

in moonlight

and their eyes seem like deep silent lakes

that's when i think of the solitude of the Universe

and how lucky i am 

to have them

tending to me

saving me from the sharks 

taking the knife off my hands

and sticking roses to my heart

yeah, all of us are not so lucky

to have nurses

who make you feel like you are 

not all alone

even when the stars are bursting out between your eyes.

i just wish i could have seen them naked.

.........................................

and then came the hours of clarity

cigarette in mouth, naked, deadbeat

she's gone

and so is her scent

and all that's left

is one impossible pass

to cross through

and survive

the world is a naked place

more naked than me

and more cruel than i can ever be

i hear trumpets

from rundown circus tents

and i lie down

drunk, 

dejected

thinking of sex

and of sweet mortality

go on, release the hounds on me

i don't particularly care

......................

big heart

big love 

big flowers

i'm a sucker for all that's big

and that's not necessarily a good thing

i've seen sunsets by rivers

and that means a lot.

and the whole world breaks

like treacherous phantoms

waiting

for me

to get it the big way

at last.

and then, the carnival shall be bold

brutal

and massive!

..........................

my body is better than

the body of each and every

poetry

i have ever written

or have ever deigned 

to write.

i love my body

with inappropriate flabs

warts

hair

and every other shit

you can ever imagine

or not-imagine.

it is big and strong

and sweat drips from it

every second.

Poetry, on the other hand

Can only be as good as i am

............................

grotesque, insincere

here i stand before you

wild enough for the tides

timid enough to trust

your every manoeuvre

so come on, 

take my hand

and forget about all the shit

that we have done to us

won't you, 

for a tiny flitting moment

forget the litany of these

urges

to fall apart

and close your eyes

and let me love you instead?

..................................

like a symphony, choked to abrupt silence

we walked down

the merry corridors of life

outside, the leopards of swift love

were waiting 

inside

the band was playing, 

loud enough

for voices of the moments

to drown

in illusions of a false 

becoming 

and of pastels

for tides

somewhere

monsters were raping the flowers

and this 

is a fake poem

.......................................

sobriety is really our worst prison

and love is a load of crap

that weighs our insides down

to the center of the earth

which is

very hot.

beer joints are better places,  

trust me 

they really are

......................................

five days of longing

and the earth’s drying up

already

ants are teaching

a dirge

for broken automobiles

to the mammoths.

The bones

have roots.

The sky

has wings.

here i am

inside a room with pink walls

and a white roof

thinking of kings and queens,

of deathchants for mockingbirds,

of appropriate love.

The orchestras are out in the streets

feverish, eternal,

raving, like children from broken

tombs

who gouge out eyes

of saints and monsters

and give them to the painters

for cheap thrills

you are gone

and all i am left with

is a blatant conception

of you.

Is this how it’s supposed to be?

love is the colour of a forest in rain

lavender is the colour of sadness

and the peacocks are sad tonight.

.........................................................................