Monday, September 10, 2012

Laughing at the Madness, Peeing at the Moon

Life under the sun
And in the mud
Making love to bimbos and floozies
Thinking of making love to bimbos and floozies
Getting drunk
Wanting to get drunk
Weary of people, cold
Desirous of solitude and warmth
Longing for the sweet kiss of dreams
Longing for the world of Bach and Baudelaire and the gods
Life under the sun
And in shit
Observing more shit hitting fans with perfect objectivity
Facing defeat and damnation in brothels and sanctuaries
Soul numbed with the static malevolence of the world
Mind scorched and frozen and canned for consumption
Body fattened by beer and steak, covered in sweat, boils and hair
Dreams gutted by perfect dementia of harsh awakening
I wake up to see sad bonsais in sadder tubs drenching in the saddest rain at my neighbour’s cornice.

This face
tucked between the massive boobs of Lady Solitude
seeking deliverance from insanity
that arises from this relentless harmony of puppets
with similar faces and eyes.
This face
wishes to resist
This face is tired
So it tucks itself where it does
And yearns to be soothed by the milk and honey of love
And dreams of love: big, fat and pure
bursting out of cracks and crevices of the lonely world
and riding out to fight the puppets


Little kid in sunshine
Do you have anywhere to go
when it rains?

Little kid in moonshine
I’m jealous of you
And of your magnificent desolation

Wish there was a puking-place
Where one could puke out this ill-digested concoction
Of boredom, insanity, bitterness and anger
That necessity of living shoves down our throats
Evil forces are in constant action, I tell you
And when one’s perfectly lonely,
And perfectly crazy
One gets to see them
zwiishing and zwooshing around
in sanguine geometry
across the night sky
and swiping down and perching
on the part of the brain that regulates
and then it breaks loose
through the neural haze
like a forest fire
like a sinister army of ants and hawks
like the three sinuous sisters.
Wish i could type them to death
and derive as much pleasure as i get
by squishing little red ants that crawl across
my bed-sheet of fade flowers and semen-scars
between my fingers
and feeling the dot of juice that ooze out
of their mangled corpses.

All great things come out of crazed boredom
Drive, zeal, inspiration etc etc are just gas
I’d rather turn the radio on
And hear voices ghosts mixing with the rainsound of allure
and resist this onslaught of cocksucking sanity.
And one day, I’ll get driven to the brink
And then I’ll be great and big
And then you’ll give me back
What you have taken from me
And I’ll break loose on you
In great wrath
For what you’ve done to me

The human condition bedamned
I’d rather have tiger condition
Or chipmunk condition
In lieu of this
Denial of that expanse
Where one can just be and
Do nothing
And not be made to feel guilty
or miserable
about it.
It’s like seeing vast empty fields
And filling them up with
Houses and factories  
without caring about
the flowers and the grass
The worst part of the story
is that there are no proper
For people devoid of ambition
And of all the nasty piles of shit
that we worship,
ambition is the worst
Religion and morality can never match-up to it
Because where these kill freedom
Ambition kills the heartbeat.

is when you know that you are right
and that it’s high time to let
them know that as well
It takes a lot for that to come
for some people
and a little for some
The strength to endure
gains steam
from no specific point
or source –
It’s largely the regularity
of the mundane and the vulgar
That gives the audacity
to cross forbidden boundaries
and shows the glorious way
to the fiery gods of doom

Loneliness is not that bad all the time
It’s preferable to mingling with stupid people
and to take part in their stupid schemes
However, it gets pretty terrible at times
and you hear your solitude echoing
in the awful silence of stars
It’s as if all the sadness of the universe
has been dumped on you
and you’re there, another lousy specimen
of things gone wrong
Then is the hour to open the bottle
of untrammeled love
and set the night on fire
and laugh your merry way
to the vast lucid kingdom of reckoning 
The world is a sad damned place
and the gods are drunk old bums
who love sharing and occasional bottle or two
with the lost souls such as you
And in return
they show you their love
gleaming across the ancient regal skies
And then you don’t mind being alone for a while.

Lady of tender mercy
you be the third sister
of Dejection and Deception
and take me from their clutches
to faraway climes of happy dreams
Be kind to me, like no one else ever was
and set me free from
this sense of loss
that leaps up from unknown sources
and aims for the throat
This constant need to fend from
sharks and wolves
is wearing me out
There’s something sinister
working up
from inside –
Something profane
crawling across sacred spaces
and rotting the core
of this tender heart
Save it,
cleanse it with your gentle love
And all this yearning shall be yours

Lady of tender mercy
Nurse me out
of this the ghastly realm of pain  
And take me where we can
laugh in wholesome delight
at sunflowers in riot against the sun.


The Distraught, the Forlorn and the Abandoned
will choke all the Gods one day
in these dank alleys of downtown
where sewer-pipes rape the gutters and cesspools
in brutal rapture
and strike straight down to the center of cognition
And flowers of sublime splendor
will shoot up from their corpses
and then the Damned shall know
that the great big thumb pressing that was them down
was never real
And history of the world shall dance naked
In the pure ecstasy of freedom


Reject all that squeeze the heart dry
Reject all that iron the brain out
Reject all that weigh the soul down
Start with bad poetry, stuff that
seek to tie you to the stinking sty of words and phrases
and to enchant you with fake images and
preconceived ideas of beauty
and refuses to let you bet against life and embark sunbound
Reject it, it’s cowardly to cling to this
and if that’s the only form that you can think of,
be an investment banker or a shipping clerk or a wagonbreaker instead
Reject all that attacks you and if they persist
grab them by the horns
Reject the notion of love that you’ve been taught
to believe in. It’s bullshit and you need to unlearn it
before it destroys you with compromises. True love is something else
and it’ll come to you if it has to or else it won’t
Reject the pursuit ambition
It doesn’t really belong to you:
It’s another one of those idols that you were made to start worshiping
before you even had the idea of choice
Do what you want to do or else do nothing
Reject all religion and laws and commandments
which inject the poison of sin, pain, crime, guilt and damnation
before you choke on them like so many others have before you
There’re a lot of things that seek to club you down to meek submission
to browbeat you till you’re on your knees before those false alters
Nasty big structures and seats,
Bogus landscapes of power,
that preach the lame hypocrisy of rights and obligations
Dreams and prophesies meant to trick and hypnotise
Constructs that wave flags of false allure
Fight them away, declare war, destroy, subvert,
go all the way,
It means a lot, but that’s the only way
There’s no half-measure, no fallback option, no Plan B
And no uncrossed Rubicon in this
The only real way ahead is through rejection
So keep pushing forth, or else all will be lost
before you know.     


Objects lose essence
in the real womb
when the mother is killed
by ideas of flesh
that bloom like wasted flowers
inside conditioned chromosomes
and wilt within the blood of life
And we eat real food
shit real shit
and die real death
There’s nothing greater than this
lurking in the great beyond
except this grisly dread
echoing and reflecting itself,
showing signs of what could have happened
had the mother not been killed
And this perception of
what can never be enslaved by thoughts
and chained to dark prisons of  
the empire of the brain and the central nervous system
freezes the mind up
in terrible fright
of muddled reckoning.

But the real sun still rises over massive real mountains
And real breeze blows through real wildflowers in frenzied mirth.


Bubble boom bubble bust
Sad ocean foams shimmer in sad sunlight
Little people, lonely people, with balloons red green bloo
Spots a little glitter in the half-crazed half-drunk rush
Waves and trees, tress and houses, houses and sparrows
Vision worn out by relentless clarity
Bombers nose-dive into the fog
Lost songs from lost kingdoms
City life breaking into decadent carnival
Because that’s the best the lost and the losing has to offer
And that’s a lot
Because at the end of the day
The idea still is to have fun,
To refuse to writhe in agony
To celebrate living in the grand style
Once you have lost everything and have nothing to lose.
And thus you are absolved, kid
There’s no home left for you to return to
And no place for you to go
And you are beyond the jurisdiction
of those monstrous stony Judges without eyelids
No more suffering for you now.


“Man you write so well, I’ll buy you a drink someday when I return”
“Have you heard Mahler’s Symphony Number 9 in D major? Isn’t it sublime beyond words?”
“Do you think there’s really going to be a Third World War? Will the human race survive?”
“Do you think Rimbaud would have resumed writing had he not died?”
“Don’t you think if we could all read other peoples’ minds it would really be funny?”
“You know, there’s this strange ritual in Papua New Guinea where tribal boys have to wear gloves filled with poisonous ants to prove their coming of age”

By the time I logged out of my Facebook account
He was drunk, and he was typing something about
Virgil or Bunuel or Jack Kerouac or the Paris Commune or whatever
And it began raining.  

Later that night,
I was lying atop his fleshy girlfriend
She had pulled her blouse down
And I had her left boob in my mouth
It was still raining.
It was a splendid, grotesque night.

And he was away, dreaming of Bunuel and WW III.



1 comment:

Soumi said...

"Observing more shit hitting fans with perfect objectivity" was good. So was "I wake up to see sad bonsais in sadder tubs drenching in the saddest rain at my neighbour’s cornice." The end looked a little predictable to me though. I missed reading you,I SO missed reading you! B school is driving me nuts,man! I can't read even one third of what I'd have liked to. I hate being so occupied with useless shit!