Monday, September 17, 2012

Ballad of the Bleak Flowers

Raving child, mad child, i still think of you
at the saddest corner of your house
stooping before your semi-defunct computer
with eyes that make hearts gulp tender winesoaked cherries down
seeking cocoon in those tiny pieces that shone through the gloom
Times with you were like still cloudy nights
And i was there, a feckless prince, or maybe a jester hurt to hush:
wondering what to do with you and the conception of you.
None of us had much to give, but we gave all we could
and some more.
You were waiting for that train that would take you to dreamy places
I don’t know what i was waiting for.


Little posters and other bright sparks
I’ve been betting on them for a while now.
Mesmer, i stand to endure,
Ancient ghostly shadows cover the brain
This stupor: has hugged me from inside like roots that you see spreading and don’t do much to prevent because you’re clueless
the burning dot of red deep inside the frozen realms:
It’s our only hope.

Look where we stand
It’s all fake: caravans, cities, rain
False erotic electricity shining on our manicured brains
Degeneration of the soul: it takes years
Until hatred becomes the easiest of all emotions
And much more ready and real, like real knives boring real guts
And need-based constructs masquerade as love.
The tiger must be saved, boys,
there’s no other way to it


Throbbing cocks and juicy cunts
Oblivion and death have little to do with this
Or maybe, they’ve a lot.
It’s a very disturbing world where the economy and the production system and binary codes
and buses and trams and shops and geometry
and religions and conscience and shitting sparrows and bombed villages and lost tribes and doleful dirges and breached pacts and senile flatulence and concepts of ambrosial epiphany in dreams of kissing sonnets and old men pissing their intellect out and young men pissing their emptiness out
Are given more credence than
throbbing cocks and juicy cunts.


Love-meat, always the raw ones that draw in, sabre-blades,
Love-meat, lean-meat, tender-meat,
Love-meat, big, boom blatant meat strong and sturdy to weather death and choices

Love-juice, from the fleshy fountain, and then it’s time
For the clock
The laptop
And the doorknob


Rage for the want of slender blushing virgins
Rage for the lack of all that’s real
Rage for the city and the nation in gross platitude
Rage for the drowning islands of dream
Rage for the death of Christmas Trees
Rage for the absence of tears
Rage for the presence of the vultures and the shark
Rage for the maltreatment of living
Rage for the neutrality of dying
Rage for the starving monsters, the dying heroes
Rage for the murder of grotesque fun
Rage for the sword, the fist and the flower
Rage for the ignored seamen
Rage for the doctrinaire prisons
Rage for the incomplete blowjob
Rage for the compulsion to choose
Rage for the necessity to kill
Rage for the deified vanguards of sanity
Rage for the half measures and lies
Rage for the bullet-holes on petals & skulls
Rage for the necessity of contracts
Rage for the tiring dementia
Rage for the numbing chill
Rage for the silence of the Gods
Rage for the blasphemy of religions
Rage for the falsity of love
Rage for the ease of hatred
Rage for the brutality of demons
Rage for the soldiers of doom
Rage for the massacre of pink
Rage for the depletion of wisdom
Rage for the ignorance of Judges
Rage for the sunlight lost in mist
Rage for the solitude of mountains
Rage for the blatant declarations of mortality
Rage for the defilement of the valley of flesh
Rage for the veneration of pointless constructs
Rage for the deconstruction of the rose
Rage for the ghosts that knock at midnight demanding food.
Rage for the conditioning of symphonies
Rage for all that was to be but didn’t
Rage for the almost perfect joy of Porphyria’s lover
Rage for the almost perfect sin of Oedipus and Jocasta
Rage for the almost perfect reckoning of Raskolnikov
Rage for the perfect harmony of chaos
Rage for the need to fight this decay
Rage for the blue shapes confronting me now
Rage for the skies dumping cosmic shit on me
Rage for these bleeding bastard words fighting all of these
Rage for me being sold to the wolves before I would ever know.


Brother Love, in boisterous shine by sunsoaked beaches
Penchant and its rainbow hued glamour
Has departed the city, like gods streaming out of moments and cavities
In terrible exodus, this pursuit of the real, this burnout of the self
A glowing speck of warmth deep down sinister alleys and dark caves
Was all we needed, Brother Love,
And all glory of heaven and hell were to be ours

In this dark room i sit static and think of you, faraway from these fumes
Out in the new, clear dash of blazing light, brazen asphalt, temples of gold
Flowers fall in blood,
The perception of malice: it’s still there, stinging venom in me
Navigating through the choked channels of fury
I think of you
Days and nights of the Universe spin around my axis in buzzing spirals
New Dream evolves.

Brother Love, I am but a thirsted shadow of your flesh.
I will fight for the sun one day.


Just lying down and staring
Thinking of lost invitations and of the gigantic spider spreading all over
We’re wasting the clocks,
What a shame!
This acceptance and the need for it: it’s all bullshit
And we know it. Moments of lucid reckoning
The hour of the kingfisher
Mourning for all seamen lost in forgetful mires and faraway climes of memory
Wish time had a memory of its own and didn’t have to depend on me to be here
Wish there was something absolute, something so pure that i won’t be ashamed of my guilt before it.
Fatality of the senses wearing themselves out through throbs and the rush
Rain’s older than life on earth and that’s hardly a solace
My oldest ancestor was around one by forty odd trillionth my size and i’m still bearing his cross because i wasn’t given any choice. And that’s reason enough to rebel.
This fond heart is sadder than butterflies lost in kisses of dreamy wilderness. And that’s reason enough to mourn.


A feel of the binary
One sturdy bull
Staring from distant cliff
At crumpled soul

A feel of death
The king and his sword
Steel-blade, ancient breeze blowing
Neural haze.

A feel of terror
Robots, clashing
Icarus, you asshole!
Silent, save the damning noises
from inside
affirming life
affirming death.


bluntly throbbing vessels
organised chaos triggering storm through electric cellular pathways
primal scars within the Ribonucleic festoon blocking pathways to eternity
and it is on hours of perfect darkness like this that i rise to endure:
damned, barbaric, wholesome,
phallus in hand, challenging the gods and demons of this brutally serene night.


Fingers that touch petals, touch my pure body
Frog leaps out, lost dogs in heat,
Leaving the dearest domes,
Distressed songs from gutters of love
Purest dreams lost in this senile haze of sapphire
Wilted roses ask me about the condition of my soul
This chiming grief of bells
This inert turpitude of rot
This relentless subversion, sabotage, occlusion
This totemic monstrosity: it’s getting to me.

Beside the sweet secret waterfall
Lies the altar
Where i kneel and cry

i have wrapped the tender core with sturdy iron sheets
i need you, now.


Poetry is that bastard child of void
It’s just what we make of it
And nothing more
And nothing less.

Poetry is practical bullshit
It’s the writing that matters
Writing, for me,
is waiting for the decay, unforgiving
to have its final say
You decide what it’s to be for you.


I’d lost my way home in dark swamps
A few thousand years back
And by the time i found it back
It’s a blasted city
Teeming with loveless women, clueless men
and heedless machines
to live in some midnight lore
or to die in some moonlit roar
would’ve been better than this


To die in your arms tonight
as the motherless rain lashes against the window
and frogs croak themselves hoarse for want of love
to forget all about this prison, this damning curse of being
to be free within this doom
and listen to the daring footsteps of eternity
as gruesome storms attack this room with the frenzy of drunken monsters
to think of sailors lost in miasma, soldiers lost in truant passes    
of time, death and the unwound infinite
and death wearing a dead child’s mask
and the good naked earth learning motions of perfect geometry
through the reptile-crawl, rabbit-run, tiger-leap
and other dark timid secrets

The thought
of dying in your arms tonight
would make me live through countless moments within flame
there’s no bereavement in this,
grief runs soft like sad words spoken in flatbottomed whispers
this sweet candour of love
is all we need to banish our hearts to bleak zones of silence

you’re not here tonight
you won’t be here ever again
i won’t weep for you
i won’t write to you telling how much i need you
i won’t tear these walls down in severe wrath
i’ll light a cigarette and stare outside the windows
and do nothing and think of nothing
until i get bored of this cold, blank apathy.


The stonewalling of morbidity
Takes a lot
And gives a little
When the gods departed
They took it all away
It’s like listening to the stuttering automobile engines
Choking themselves in grime and entropy
And gaining strength through defeats
Only to lose it all in the next victory
Tracks represent absorption of desire
Labyrinths move down to unspeakable depths
Sisyphus turning anger into insane ecstasy
Takes us closer to fake freedom.
It’s easier to push the knife deeper
Than to crawl inside the wormed womb
of wants, to accept depravity as a part
of the natural process and to decode the unlearning program.


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