Naked, like bust roses in hailstorm,
Tiger pounces on walls, dragging heart of the world through
The asscrack of this damndest staleness and blank estrangement
As fatal soldiers stand weary of the puppets of pure desire in seamless agony
The positioning of this form, through grasses and shapes, through
Shoulders and gleaned illuminations, decay of the city, ribald wilderness
Lacklove loacklaw, this raw heart in furor,
Hunter-hero, guilt awash in blood for the crude strong gods
Bestial dogged hours, sturdy brutal wails across windows as shadows and structures of hateful reckoning and strength rove through the ancience of a city in rot, a declaration of endurance jutting out like rusted nails of the mind of angelic coitus of serpents
Dust and mud, screams of the purest gamblers, hurts flushed down shitpot of heart in beerdunked prosthesis of all that’s dead and down, frozen eyes and corpses of the paragons of all that’s dead and down, rain beating down the throbbing tombs of all that’s dead and down. Put out the lights, turn the music down, kill the gods, kill the whores. It’s time for the vultures now. It’s the purest hour of submission. A trumpet for the rodents of decayed epiphany, a thump for the clocks. Cats leap on clocks. Local newsflash, genitalia of the current times waving for truce. Current times are small. Big temples with big altars of big gods trapped in photographs pasted between dogs and dead grandmother saved with acute pornography aligned to the tapestry of alienation of the others and the mothers of the others in moonlight tunelight blazing tunnels; dim primitive conditions of cognition and recognition. This form is pure desire. Love breaks through. Blue flies splatter against panes, guts splatter against bloodred walls of sacrifice. Ignite, Uproot, Shatter.
Slithering through the channels of neural time, the cold frozen cave, the speck of fleshly tremor, the calculated trauma, the usurped rhibozomic thrones, the falsity of resurrection, the gruesome massacre of wants through the three sisters of Abundance, Availability and the most fatal one: Necessity, who guard the furious zones of silence inside and outside, smoking tombs of the incarnate and the blasted corridors that lead to the thick pleasures of amnesia, bloodless armies of deathpale mothers smelling of bitter rot, bitter wax, wormshit inside flesh, wormpuke between skulls, molten décor of the shrines snatched from the jaws of the wolf howling across the badlands inside, grinning at the waste, grinning at this syphilis; turgid cocksuckers of embalmed prisons, monasteries, madhouses, brothels, barracks, slums and factories gloomy snow trickling through all dimensions of time space and mortality
the fakeness of it all,
versus the realness of me, enduring.
Between the heaving boobs of fatigue and nightmare
Between the asscheeks of putrid senescence
Between trashcans of sordid trance and perverted dirges and luminous meatlust
Blight breaks through walls, this carnival of free damnation,
Our homes in our domes, forever till we feel
There’s a door leading ashore
There’s a boar screwing a whore
Follow the light the blinding plague buses run through nerves and blood vessels like medieval knights wiping their brows after the grand rape, stars sweating in nervous bundles, mutation for owned land and cellular beings, ground between God and Time cowering to atrophy and ashes, ranting bluebirds and rabid dogs foaming up the Vision, dulling up the boundaries, dashing down the great sturdy resistance in terrific rage of the oldest God finally awake and finally dead.
There’s an actor who floats in moonlight and goes everywhere leaving a trail of lossless defeat
See him hunched in the private loo of angels thinking of lightcool haze, staring at pink lipstick stains on bluecool walls, putting his finger against the smoothcool tiles, sobbing for his nine million doped children. Soon he’ll be on his couch, raving through the lifeless blues, copulating with the insatiate machines that deck the wanton dolls of civilized mayhem, aiming for the barbaric thunderroll: a world of his own, a world wrapped in sweat semen and eternity. This actor is habituated to the numbness of hate, and he seeks company of the durable bastards of ravage and decimation. He is a fool. Let us kill him.
Creating true literature is always like shitting strong smelly shit. It’s an affirmation of the heartbeat-boom. And you do it well only when it’s the only thing you can and you must, when nothing else will or can happen. And more often than not, it’s a product of anger, boredom and bitterly terrible sorrow. I walked out of office and dived straight into the whorehouse. It was a sweaty mad night.
Geometry, sharp edges and smooth surfaces. It’s nice to be a reptile among this decay and defeat of life. At least I’ll still be capable of movement without external impetus or stimuli. And thus the circle of all that’s free keeps on getting smaller. And the wolves keep on drawing closer. And waiting for the fire to be dead.
Mortally stupefied, like dead flowers on dead crucifixes. And suddenly this whole conspiracy to make us cheat on the void and thus to cheat us into utter submission makes no sense. This rage and fear and hatred and sadness: it’s all shit. It’s there to cover the ugly endless holes: the cowardice of mirrors and bells and solitude, of this denial of void that regularity of symmetry that conception orderly chaos through this conception of chaotic order. This game of hurting and being hurt
There isn’t much time or love left in this world now.
The knife was mine since when it all begun.
The knife’s still mine and that’s the way it shall be.
And when it all ends I won’t need it anyway.
And when it all ends I won’t need it anyway.
We spend our entire lives peeing on living. And one fine morning, “poof!” and it’s all over. And there’s no life left to pee on. Hang in there, tender lady. Stick on for the little odd glints of life. If they're to come, they will, or else they won't. I’m here. And so are the piranhas. And I’m here and they’re there and you’re aching for gold and I’m aching for the tombs and meanwhile, knives pierce through the oblivion and there might be much blood or there might be a little. And of course the primeval barter system to maintain the economy. Our lives for their lives, our dreams for their dreams, our gruesome perdition for their endless plenitude. Hang in. It’s all good, it’s all the way it is.
A drink from the cup of bionic soup. A drink from the cup of blood. A drink from the bottle of pure love. Like jokers and harlots from medieval carnivals we wander across the skeleton streets of deadland, stretching like an ambidextrous, demonic flood of darkness from the horizon to eternity. Father stares down. Fire from the eyes and steel from the fist, streams of thought memory evolution impulses floats rockets of wet sorrow into the dryness, musing of untainted severe doom and smoking sphincter and grave judges swirl of smoke, coiling into the pingpong heart of darkness with the pinch of chemical juggling and the dancing of triggers like screeching hooting sharp ghouls emitting fumes of red and brown and the black from all porous caves orifices and apertures. The Father is very angry. Won’t you cover his harsh with your supple soothing soil, Mother?
Won’t you tell tales of tender love, Mother? Won’t you show me fertile dreams, Mother? Won’t you draw me closer to your calm watery darkness, Mother?
Sudden photographs and recollections of glimpses
that sparked through these edges, a fantastic carpet,
something deep and tender and well-protected, almost like sadness, but better, something preserved sincerely. All for the early worship. All for the lions that roar from heavy dens, the red glow in the forest, the droning dark from the caves.
Recoil, get steady for the next attack. The next set will swipe down soon. Dark shapes gather around
the river. And still statues observe us with perfect objectivity of the long dead. And we observe the statues with perfect impulses and tremors of the dying. It’s a tight world. Those dark shapes keep on getting bigger. Buses and houses keep on looming larger. All in perfect silence.
Cold, all the frenzied fireswipes. Benumbed, those damned chemicals and channels of electricity and gatepasses to the shrieking void inside. It’s not shrieking anymore. Clocks cocks and algorithm bombed down. Music and laughter all in serene purest joy. That’s the only time to truly forget about the urges, pangs and all other collateral hazards of being here. And the pain goes away and the snakes dissolve and pictures of sadness fade out for a while. Burn with me and you’ll get to know.
Meat and milk for the soldiers.
Poison for the roots.
Umbrellas for the ghosts in rain.
"The Father is very angry" onwards,VERY Good. I almost shed a tear or two. Don't know why though. But I didn't relate to the earlier part at all! Sounded so superfluous to me! I'm sure you must have felt it strongly but just didn't touch me. But then,I'm no poetry-honu,I'm just another reader,giving just another feedback.
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