Monday, June 25, 2012

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










     

2 comments:

Soumi said...

"Creation requires nonchalant living" was the familiar part. I know it. I've seen it. I've lived it(not to suggest that I'm a creator or something).
"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" was good. Almost like cooing in my ear.
"snaky yellow intellect" HAS TO BE my favourite part though.

Zeebs said...

I need a fucking drink. I've been placed on alcoholic restriction. Fuck doctors.

I like horses in Sunlight.

Oh and, don't like people. Because if you like people then you will get feelings and you will die.

<3