Wednesday, August 22, 2012

Conditions of Conflict

Caught again and rising
In the communion of steel
Once again, these four walls
And these ten fingers
Stank up by compulsions of endurance
Fouled by litmus-sour lies
The same rain-clouds
The same trams
The same guards
The same sets of betrayal and honesty
And then it’s time for the hounds
To tear through the night
The best part of this play
That makes supermen out of clay
is where the clown gets butchered.
And the butcher gets clowned.


Dainty whores with pastry-flesh
Birds fly all night
Come all voluptuaries of these times
These are not very happy times
These are the right times to lose and never regain
Birds lost in motherly arms
Birds lost in neural decay
Monsters smiling through glasswalls of love
Cold train passes by.
Everyone smiling, dancing
Everyone happy.
Lyotard didn’t expect this.
Pygmies from paperback dreams
Breach weary horizon.


The problem with electro-social expression
Is that everyone seems intent of serving their shit
In a platter to the world, and everyone
is convinced of their genius. And all these self declared
masterpieces are so similar to one another
that it’s rather tiring. Mass production of porn has killed
our libido. It’s poetry’s turn next.


The landscapes we inherit in the market-places
of mind
decay through over-use and symbols,
war and litigation,
famines, infamy
as death-birds peep through keyholes of fogged heart
and life-birds await the sun
and the in-between birds rage against the vile debauchery
that surround our purest inheritance of lusty cognition.
And on and on mad elephants dance in rain
Till all is silent and bells stop ringing inside brain
And the much voodooed charm leaps out
and hovers over the fiery tip of midnight
for the reptiles of love and of hate to wake up
and slither towards open spaces that never were.  


In beginning it began
And then the wind got stronger
And darker
And love was bitter
We drank from the river
The river flooded
We sailed the seven seas
We followed the seven stars
We discovered, invented and constructed
gods and cities and vitamins and towels
All was good
All was bad
In the end it will end
And the wind won’t get any stronger.

I entered this very strange room
There were 50 little people and 50 little houses in there
And there was a filthy old man lying on the floor
And pissing at the roof that had paintings of splendid naked virgins
He winked at me and said
“society won’t notice”
It seemed fun.
Soon, I could see tiny helicopters flying all over the place
And there was some music too.
I was there for a long long time
And then I was bored
So I got up and walked towards the exit door at the other side
As I turned the knob, I could hear groaning and moaning behind me
Soon it turned into a shrieking lament so sharp that it pierced
my guts. There was no sunlight, and as I turned back I saw the old man has vanishd
And all the houses, people, choppers melting like chocolate in heat
I opened the exit door. The room was at the edge of a cliff.

Ice-cream van of pain, slugging past weary twilight
Dark flowers abloom
Caves caving in
Soon, all paths shall be gutted
And grave catastrophe shall dump down like sludge
on our hunchbacked lives.
Ice-cream van of pain brings this sad news
And has been condemned by tyranny and attrition
to crawl away and move apart
You, who is beyond all shadow
And keep the hangman away from the noose
And the noose from the neck
And the lion from the flesh
Please do something about this.

Pick up a sparrow-song from the cesspool
Pick up a pickaxe from the carnival wagon.
There’s no surrender
Heart shall fight machine
Till one or both are dead.

O meat of love pure and true
O meat of love I yearn for you
Delighted, pigeons fly.
O meat of love in the sky

O meat of love o regal pound
O meat of love o profound
Smooth swans afloat.
Meat of love in feather-coat

Superman-story isn’t finished yet
I dragged by one sixty odd pound corpse out
And the skies were thawing in frenzied chaos
I get bored easily
And it’s not my fault that the world is
The most boring of all prisons

Half-crazed children of the moon
Are suddenly very happy
And pure souls that smell like freedom
Are being pawned off to meet interests
That pile of the debt of sanity
As tax, toll, fee, rent and other charges

This duress is amazing
Even the flies are getting repulsed by shit
And are settling for and on air-conditioned popcorns instead

Mom, why did you let Dad screw you?
Did you moan and shiver when he was crushing your petite body
against his demonic frame?
Were both of your sweating like a brutal dog-and-bitch pair?
Did you wrap your legs around his waist while he was pumping his wrath inside you?

I will kill him for this.
Superman-story isn’t finished yet.

I look at stars tumbling down the turmoil of cosmos
I look at the grand silence looming outside my window
Even the cockroaches are placid sometimes
And the earth makes no sound and shows no light
Sadness and solitude like twin archangels sitting atop the tallest minaret
of the world from where everything can be seen and heard
They know of every light that’s put out
I’m sure they can see me to
I’ll be sad and lonely without them.
And in the silent bar-room full of strangers – all are
staring at me.
I can be a killer,
I can be a lover
Or I can be both.

Being born into this world of ill-conceived erotica
ill-timed humour and ill-bred sanctity
is the ultimate price we pay to exist
the load gets heavy with time and more of the same shit
is injected. Look where we live. It’s a fortress of strict accountability
being guarded by wild beings. And new guards are reinforced every day
some people jump out of windows
some go insane
some go insane and jump out of windows
and the rest gets numb.  
Exceptions do exist – those who plan ways and means of escape
But they keep disappearing in the strangest of manners
And no one gets to know
what happened to them.
And through these little games of love and shit we’re taught
To play to keep ourselves busy and
To keep ourselves from going crazy or suicidal with boredom or
getting the idea of resistance.
It’s a lousy joke that’s being played over and over
The irony being that we had designed this whole thing ourselves
because we had nothing else to do
other than fucking and dying.


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