This be the night of the tiger
Raging through the city, trumpets of the victory that’ll never be and will ever be and loud electric jolts and angry gods in columns, soldiers frozen in haughty postures
Tiger-leap, tiger-moon, clawing at the heart of hearts
To kill them all is just one of the options.
Mama-wings, butter-heart, sleek highways and shouldershapes,
the little speck that glows: tiger sees it all and then that insane glean yearning for the tides, bust Cola-tides, there’s silk in her breath
and there’s rot in her glorious meat
tiger smells death, tiger sees love,
and then she’s there nomore and there’s no space and time and it’s all a mass of colours and noises spinning around the axis that never was and then it’s time for that splendid terror:
perfect harmony riding straight to perfect laughter. Supreme beauty. A touch for all that should’ve been but isn’t and one more for all that is but shouldn’t have been.
The sheer stupidity of being here, now,
Thick people lost in mist, cowering under the damned chunks of loneliness,
And then this sickening refusal to show this fear of being alone, to themselves and to the world.
I don’t know about you but at times it gets so fascinating, this concept of the grand highway and me gliding through it all alone, sun and moon blazing through guts in easy supreme swipes, that I look up and see dragonflies and looping ritornellos and cinnamon angels in sweetly tainted shades of love all sitting on overhead electric lines that dangle like the wilted dick of civilization and aligning themselves to essential purity.
Or else I can always close my eyes and listen to the birds inside chirping inside the sunbeams and then it’s all like it ought to be in a nice rounded hill or a forest and then there’s much light and the soul is clean enough to endure.
That’s my side of the story
now tell me yours.
A touch for the flowers
A touch for the rain
A touch for the city aching in pure disdain.
Butter-love butter-wing in the sky
Butter-mama butter-dream take me high
till things and other stuff become a glowing spot, tender enough for the fond core,
and pretty enough to make me weep when there’s nobody around.
Drinking alone, like I mostly do. The bar isn’t that crowded
this hooker in tight blue stockings, eyeing her and thinking of mundane proximity of the Universe
it’s raining sights and sounds and other things, this constant beating on the senses wears one out
like insects crawling along the hairy back of the giant they call monotony
but there’s no giving up in this fight. I’ve gotten used to the thump by now.
And then these couple of guys, one with a mole to the left of his nose and the other almost bald:
they approach her and she goes out with them. I see them getting in a black car almost blacker than the night and then the door closes and they drive off.
Lions crawl at the moon and poinsettias – almost as red as blood should ideally be – droop over lost hearts of cavemen in mossy continuum. Doors slam and storm-clouds gather over lighthouses.
There’s much left to be undone and then there’s this tiny bit of care that shines
when nothing else does.
The plague is really breaking out. I’m 24 and I’m dying. In fact, all of us are. There’re these scary hunter-birds perched at the tip of our brains. They’re telling us tales of doom. We love them and we feed them. They’re getting stronger every day. The puppets have found their voices and they send quaint communiqués to our cold ancient shadows which get colder by the hour and the hours stretch out in majestic laze, monstrous and doombound, as cannons boom out solemn warnings like Heimdallr’s horn.
There’s a snake in the pits and it’s coiling up
There’s a wolf in the forests and it’s howling out
This defeat is shameful, and the only way out lies in refusal. But that’s the hard way and the patterns repulse us. We are all pieces of shit but I stink less than you because I’m here. And you’re there.
Meanwhile, moon plays bittersweet lute
Mad lions leap into flames.
Text be there to form stuff.
And what else can ever
And ever again, these lifetimes spreading out
Not talking for days except through binary media
Meshed across those forty five heavy demons that guard the borders of that kingdom of cold dark bliss, to terrify the butterflies of light, and ever again they stay, I see them through notions and shapes and pixels, i put them in my boxes and they put me in theirs.
Buses in blazing heat, soldiers in perfect defeat, dragging fleshy corpses home
Home’s that lonely marmalade place,
that forces all to seek ways and means of escape
And hence these little windows, and then there’re those trapdoors that lead to the damndest abyss
in sagely stoic guise
memories and wounds scream up at midnight, coiling upbound like a serpent finally free and finally complete, and the need to run and forget the piss-off vectors and notions of here and those of there. All concepts merge, and it’s a pool now, and they are all in it, like little yellowish bits that float in acid streams of slippery puke, and I can see them all.
And this, ever again, that sudden stormy gush of light that stuns them to hapless heaps of stone and forever-lost. Oh what will happen if I die? I hug my mom’s fleshy form and cry. I’ll be fleshless too, oh what fun in this trick! It’s fun all over again and sharp loud bright things clap and dance in severe delight. All these make deep marks on the soft void of reckoning. In dreams, in faintly perfumed memories and stains that dot this cloth, the sadness of loss, of being forever bound to symbols and signs and gestures and codes – it pushes the sharp velvet sword up this fondness of being here, being in peace despite everything. And that’s the deepest pain.
And ever again, lifetimes in makebelieve nearness
In happy delirium, this stupor of the white room of death freezes one into totems of cold bright light – purple, almost divine.
And it takes a hell lot of brutish volleys to break through the walls
And then the sentries shoot through the channels and across the night skies in ideas of insane glory: and that’s a strong trap for the essence and that too is to be attacked.
Lifetimes in alternate planes, petrifaction of the coordinates –
walking, helpless, innocent, dazed, like vivid trains or wild children with fiery faces:
spellbound and thirstless, hurt memories locked within and pressed into the bottom of the dark wells, lifetimes stuck in honey-spread – like bees in terrible enchantment, raving in the sweetest nausea of that godly feel of mortality.
These ideas of halting all flows and capturing everything within many but finite geometric frames can never be right.
And hence these throbs stride out and burst at the skies.
Sincere shield gone, and things start hitting once again
A feel of the inanimate against the senses
Hard edges –
bullets through the electric roadways: alive, cellular and savage.
The hyenas are gaining in strength every passing moment and thus
the need to fight is clear.
And once again I gather my army of axioms by the river, waiting for that perfect time to unleash them.