Wednesday, October 31, 2012

bashing the buttons madly till it all starts making perfect sense

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,
is incredible.
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
truly matter?

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.


Monday, October 15, 2012

Cityrain, Moonsong and the fond nuclei

Spider crawling at the sun, for ages we’ve seen the ruin
For ages we’ve pressed the totem gods, hot with anger of centuries
Into dark and the mouse and the rain we move no further than this
Circumambulate around the dreams in visions in starlove of perceived eternity
Much has been decimated. And more awaits.
Naked buses weep in rain
Silence observes me from the other side
It’s romantic in a fucked way, even being alone is,
At times.

Our anima our vague profoundness our drunk whores
Opening of the doors
Smelly farts
One pattern sneezes on the other
Erection of the barriers
Misoneic acrimony of the flowers pressed in twilight
Perfect laughter riding straight to the core:
the bit that glows.

The grand highway
The truest laughter that ever is
Children of love in forest
Monsters of love in cities
Vague ideas of cold resurrection

Drinking all night
To wait for things to happen
Because when they don’t, it’s the beyond-awful deal for us
Sparkling knives and man-moon’s beard and lady-moon’s hair
And the hairy belly of the city
Hiding ants and little children
Lost and very very sad
One of the leg-shaped piers
Have given away
There’s a beauty in naked women
That can laugh it’s guts out at
all linkages between power sex and civilization
and you forget all shit
for that moment,
perfect flesh in perfect glory
moving towards you from across the room
in shapes of pure comfort.

Days of lion and iron
Sullen vapid nights
Strong kisses from strong men
Soft kisses from sift women
Rain and shit no rain no shit
A lion met me
I met a lion
This was long back
In dreams unseen
And tales untold

Real loneliness is the only free thing
It’s not confined to anything –
be it love or lack of love, companionship or shit,
Thinking or free association, whatever
It doesn’t care about education systems
Production processes
or my dick in your mouth
or my dick between your titties  
it’s good.
And it’s always beside you as you fight this damnation of poinsettias
and elephants
almost real. Almost like love.

Lactobaby, water-colour gods
Every anima, sad joker tending to three headed hound
The wheel and the big bird of city
The city I can make the blue shops go away fountains will give
lassitude for the brother of love
for the sisters: a kiss
Demonlove. Lactobaby, galaxies,
I’m in fever
Bridges rush to madness
In silver macadam snipers aiming high
Skulls of spirits in marvelous hunger
This terrific battle between the eyes and other dividers
Other nostalgia, in dreams, in November hanging cold corpses
of photographs of horses along the highway
to take me to the other crystal highways

live telecast holy frames fucked apostrophes eclipse my canine god our thick breasted fertile hipped goddesses our vultures consecration of conditions through the arts and oh see I transform slowly into mind I do the ease of life the gutters of life I don’t-remember-whether-she-was
my mother or my whore now we walk through the city
formless as ever before
three legged rhymes of acid-bulbs or vapour-lamps thrown at the sky
severe meditation
cockroaches nature and longitude
many grandly screwed-up words placed side by side pre-planned
cavemen painting the hunt
Gilgamesh and pet lions and angry surfaces, reptiles close to rough lands
In our own ways we draw the first maps of the world, all of us, hellish circus, great zen in great void. terrific silence.

See me in dark fright of unknown becoming heart because badthings hinge on hazy edges withering clockhands withering petals in blood and neural cavity, confines of comfort milk of love  durably mortal easy pleasures and easy waste. 

Automobile shrieks
Tiger jumps from wombs
Recollections of the lost
Ghastly noises and regularity
The silence won’t let me be
The shadows won’t let me be
Sugarmoon, starch moon
Placards to lay out the rules
The largest reptile, ancestors staring, the moon is staring

Scholarly senses of golden ants, cricketsong
Thoracic mind
Houses at the end of the field, little girl from clouds, kettle-breath. Taciturn.
Pawing at the..particles rainbeat senses waiting for the freeze
White combs. Trancebirds. Other little pictures to hide the blank. This omnipresence of the soul is maddening.   

Baba Yaga I think, ladies and gentlemen, our new presentation
Of the next
In straight lines we move and unbearable stuff try to kick their way out, vertical symmetry
All dead. Limited Brownian motion. Straightshot canvases
Old men sharing cigarettes with old men senile dangled like treasures and pleasures
As the wagon rolled forth
In search of the tablet where everything has being inscribed is automation is tabula rasa blankgaze in fear bombed senses knifed guts, all after the tempest joining one silence to the other. Not sure if chronology is followed.

Complimentary revolution oh all night like clay containers holding a lot of darkness and wisdom that swirls out in deep pleasurable zones from below cutting through the glassy slabs ninety degrees to the horizontal and shooting bulletful visions and dazes like counterstrike heroes. We are losing touch with the myths now. Much darkness lies far below and our feet are uprooted our wings Icarus no, our throbs our shelters mother o mother I weep and rebirth and resurrection and coinciding coordinates damn. Much is lost and hence the stonewalled rot. There’s not much rough surface of lively touch left to feel. Much have rotted and the rest are rotting. We’re all dying. Largely because we give too much damn to the do-s and don’t-s. please escalate this matter to the higher authority. Mother you’re my only hope left. Our dreamy thirsts: flowers on fire, forests in rain. 

hushed animus. What strange lull has befallen. Three headed dawn. Old father, did the leopards follow me? Has the one eyed owl hooted? Raging doleful sparrows. Oh what joy we feel heading back to the feminine, head throbbing due to broken links and perished temples. We must head back to the feminine to be pleased. Everything gets charred otherwise.

Real meat real joy much mirth x naught y. critical appraisal of tales of kings and their wars. Pretty things to bring tear to the eye. Citysongs. And everything else in absolute soundlessness. The crickets are really singing. Make merry. Have fun. All in the bleary island of hapless hopelessness.

Harmony or the lack of it
Is shameless. Sugardays by sourpuss nights
My fart is green
My art is clean.
It all comes down
to the woodcutter and his terrific axe
grinning like a daze

psychotic craze
try to become don juan, that easy grace the reptile embrace
sadly, trying is shit. And folks die out, sad and weary, because of this shit-rush.
Like a bust moonsong
Like a flower puking in electric-columns trampled at last
And then freedom from the predetermined links
Whoever comes, play on, concepts slaughtered
Particles and energy
Polite sanatoriums,
Cosmic momentary and tendrils clasp in faith and soon the free conceptual particles are tied to pre-put determinations and axioms.
Terror in paradise
There’s not much freedom left anymore, and we can vaguely foresee the scary unknown. Misoneism,
Much profoundness before this surrender
And then the sudden leap
To deeper realms below   

The little girl from inside, soft, silent and very sad
Grim visions of ignition. Sudden infusion of light. pain morbidity.
And then we talk a little,
Feel a little good and sorry
And we sleep in soft, placid cocoon.
And balloons fly all night by the shore
And happy puppets and fairies sing in soft symphony
And bald clowns bow at us.

Necessary desires and pissoff judges
Dotting the godly game of smoothness,
Reptile bodies, wake-up calls and lots of light will be pressed into you,
All to remind you of the container-status 
All within the overall scheme
Little blisters to remind you of your closeness 
To pain and to the womb of dark vapours

The saddest souls welcome her first
They hold the rite of passage
Like a coldly glowing torch
This story these words this body this skin and fat and meat and all sorts of pulp and tissues
All of these could’ve been theirs
The saddest souls with sad heads raised from the darkness,
Almost fetal,
Almost human.

Memory and fragrant clouds over goldenly lost kingdom
Almost Dharma, much proximity, assorted relevance
Tearing through the first cry of the messiah for personal relativity and relevance of symbols and symbolic nets woven all around us and we’re lost, we’re fighting the going down and it’s tied up and we’re all prisoners of shit that look like splendid calls
The luminance of ghosts and ambrosia
Shapes and symbols, supposed to shine on till the end of all ideas of the eternity  
Tramwheels crush curious little flowers with necessary sincerity
There’s no better poetry than weather-reports
Either we get rain or else we don’t
Blocked channels
The idea of compromise is to make the most of what we have and of what we can
This doom is brutal
If felt,
there’s no pain greater than this solitude
but there are worse things than pain.

On writing
it’s all being captured
why shall I allow this yield why shall bulbs bath Beethoven venus of our lively hearts crone of our bitter defeat with senile wisdom in pre-shaped boxes and sturdy heroes hammering down their glory from mountains and linked up to the gods in texts and contexts and cognitive hypertexts. It’s all been conditioned before the conscious could grasp. Mulberries in rainkissed blush. Understanding as communication. Technology and infuriated degeneration. cold electric blows. Particles aligned in patterns.  

Demons of terrifying beauty set in opposition to all these.
The war is on.
Let us observe and relish and sing and dance and clap and make merry and love. It’s a nice show for most. It’s a necessary stage for a few. all stages and battlefields are true. What they hold is bullshit.    

All art is gallery play and all arrangements are labeled
Window of life caged in symbols axioms and geometry
It’s all a shameful sham  
And we await the army of indignant flowers in fury
To deliver us from this inevitable saturation

Soul snails out camels of diamond wandering in search of unknown stuff
Winking sirens of guilt pointing at
the ghastly thousand-mirrored forest echoing ancient whispers and silence
Stretched highways, canine rivers, nights disguised as death and skulls,
triumphant flashes
soul lured to reconcile
to the depth. The collective dark of our selves has survived through primitive linkages
that fade by gross clockhands
as decay accelerates
and the wheels are in stubborn motion now.
This calls for mortal outrage.

Wednesday, October 10, 2012

a letter to my kolbalish

dearest Kolbalish,

thanks for being there for me when nobody else was and for being here for me when nobody else is. thanks for being with me in my darkest, loneliest and scariest hours for the last seventeen damn years. i have committed much sin (ahem) to you i have vented much anger on you. i have defiled you in so many ways and so many times on inebriated nights of which i can recall only through the stains on you. i have hugged you and cried so often in my forlorn hours of damnation and the deepest pain. You know it all. And yet, despite everything, "thou hast patience and didst bear for my name's sake, and hast not grown weary". thanks for being my grandmother, my mother, my sister, my girlfriend, my wife and my daughter for all these years. this is the most emotional i have been in a long time and i owe it all to you.

Thank You for everything.

Monday, October 8, 2012

and Greta woods are green

Speaking of this battle
Of torn roses and torn hymens
Of kids gutted in rain
Of screams and their Roman masks
Therein the trick
Now roaring, now frozen
It’s all slipping in. slipping out, slimy
Tombstones of love and god
Of oeuvres and massive maneuvers
All scarily damned, all serene
This dementia
For whores of horror, ribald sadness, this wild
Wild, this: teeth and nails

Put your fingers on the cortex or touch the leaves
Put your fingers inside my ass or touch the dick
He-man’s dick was huge
She-man’s dick must’ve been soft
Attack all. Smash glasses, smash algorithms, smash fucked waves
Reach god. Attack god. By this dull sanatorium
By the dim room
Moon dangling over cavemen
Roots dangling over heart
Spoken, became words, books, bleeding books of the world
Stunned by the limited impact, by the death of everything alive
By being alive
Like a Corinthian epiphany
Like the unconscious myths
Pilgrimage by the river
Morbid mortuaries
Sweet memories of the softest sunset ever, through ages, pillars, pillows, canvases, citrus-criteria-chrysanthemum. All, mother, soft mother. Huge hard strong mother of the dark staring at me my fear my love my shudders all my weapons are for you and all yours are mine.

Let us go then π and χ.

On the evening of a beautiful evening an old clock ticked
The caterpillar and the squirrel
Yes, so, the caterp..the caterpillar etc
Pendulums and haplessness
Primeval evening good evening good girl nice dreams be good all good
Doldrums in blackhole drums in the bestial heart control the senses of all that hits
Hideous ugly taking away all giving little
Purging of the links
Light and the filaments
Ants in file
Coolblue through firmament
Bursting through like the great big sadness as we drive along the grand highway
And more light
And more death
And mire death for more life and more life for more death
And then the knife. kind knife.

On Mahler:
We should all stand up and fight against this dark and gruesome pain

A cold touch of water
Freezeout freezeout
Total decay
Lonely mass throbbing in damp cave
squeezing the zeroes
Tiptoeing turbulence
Judging the waste
Four flags with four heads of four hounds on four sides and it’s all shit all gripped by terrible doom
All has rotted.
Let’s bomb the towers tonight

Little girl with little boobs
You shall grow up soon and so shall your boobs
Al joy of the carnival for you
Nights to gift dead sparrows
Days to shade the storming electric volleys and volition
O sing in agony in joy little girl big girl
Your flesh is your flesh
Your flesh is our flesh
All masses in voluptuous violence of more flesh vomiting more flesh by violet beastskin-velvet pulpcore pieces in throbbing tremor Valhalla wolves
Let us throw a trillion tiny acid-bulbs at the sky
Let us celebrate your flesh

Cavemen impulses
Now, to burn
Stuff inside to take sturdy control
Raptures and the history of mortality involving all of us
Roots go in, deeper than we’ll ever think
Toleration-squash, ellipses, eclipsed tug-of-war as gigantic giants from mythology take over and trample grapes in great wrath hitherto unknown of
obsolete paradoxes gain more ground than the ego can ever allow for
the kingdom is hot, rife with fuckshit levels and levellers and cognition,
ideas of the cogent, the other loop, the other brother
big fat love is singing a song
bigfat love is singing strong
insane souls in sweating attics
glee of recall, recollection, registers in furore and fuzz
protection and distortion
the game is on
the game is shit
it all ends in piss-kiss nought.

mother like queens in passing bray
storm howls
caving in
this, other
the selves in defence
hermaphrodite and myth
breaking days from nights, summers from winters
birth of history and prognosis
birth of metaphors to hide
now, we worship
now, our altar of viewing and the vision
mother and love
mother and the dark
mother and the trains of pain
solemn memory of heavy gods of thunder
of birds that perch on the chewy precipices of this humid brain
pecking the heart, shitting neural vibrations down the spinal zone of the saintly snow
movement devoid of external stimulus
a projection of what really is, or perhaps
a frightful picture of absolute freedom
mother of love will never teach to rise against this conspiracy of coordinates and integration
mother of hate will if you please her meat
with your meat

now we look at the divine
let us give not a fuck to conceptualise or not
this clean unison
of urges and clowns telephone never rings bird never sings flowers of loss flowers of gain it won’t rain it just doesn’t fucking rain
channels inside the dark crime
of centuries
in sappy grime
weeping widows and machinefuck meadows

dancing cities and grotesque cohesion, forced harmony and more channels looping through locks and dicta and codes and crapping of civilisation/s now we look at them and one massive bullsmash and now we let go
to crawl inside
and freeze
Gods still waiting
in glorious sunshine.
Savage structures bring phenomenal love to me.

Barbaric python in room
Outside and inside
Symmetry and synthesis
The second and third layers, this way to eternity
Reconstructing ways and means
the dark synthesis of debilitation and decimation
forces of motion against the forces of motionless
it’s all restless, it’s all brutally calm
repetitive and spontaneous,
it’s time to assimilate and rise
it’s time for the chromosome-crosses heavy with centuries of our ancestors’ fucking
fire on the clean bridges
python in placid room, python in terrible unrest
inside and outside
Hercules and sweaty axioms
mosaic glide, transformation and looming,
parched penchants, paradigm-prone patterns:
like Baba Yaga or the damnedest damn primitive birds of terror.
x, y (0,0); vivid

now if Pluto doesn’t return Persephone to Demeter
if the mountains are not really bored
if the rivers are not really sick
if they paint cities black and bodies the colour of love
if buses hump trams and ships hump trains
if all the blasted symbols jump up like despots
and if life is not really pigshit
and death is not really a giraffe
and if impulses are flowers in electric rain or whatever
how does it matter?
I’m just waiting, cock in hand
For real-rain to trump
over makebelieve-rain
I don’t care about subjects and objects
I can hardly wait for the next beastly beat
Eat me mother for it’s a bust struggle now
Kill me father or else I shall coldly kill you
It’s all like this, fancy broken pieces bedamned
Nothing to enchant, just this ghastly
caveman-battle for winning the great big earth.

The cold empire
is still here
the grand idea
lies in this
free flow
now stay
a floating while,
O wildchild of insane dreams
before the serpents rise
to eat the synchronization
let us kneel before the totems
and will of terrific love,
of terrific hate
till then

fury-front reptile-rectum tendrils to grasp the tender as tree of death & tree of life grab each other and live and die and keep stuff in taut nowhere
Penumbra, lotus, did you bloom?
Isis to poison the Sun
Sugar Mamas with big boobs big Eros to deal with the big Thanatos and cunts and pussies and dick and little mamas with nothing and mermaids sing of love o sweet marmalade of life of love o bitter marmalade of death
Ashtray and a book of the dead.
A thousand lipsticks for the glasses
I dream of the gods like dreams they are there and just that and nothing more
And noting less

The idea of hypertrophy
Includes all of us as sure as tissues and membranes get covered in plastic rot less real than dead kittens with open guts and intestines and other pulpy stuff to make the crows happy lesser real than me here, now as I speak of the idea of the bulge and growing, and decadence like each child sticking out of each mother like dead appendages
Mortified, cursed 
And ghostly silent
Silence is prouder than this
You can see its flag rippling in blatant prominence
Pictures of war
Screams of the terribly pained
Moons screaming for blood
balloons fly all night by the shore
I go home with a whore
Chicken life chicken death chicken no more

It was all good
He saw fields and banana plantations in moonlight
Felt happy with the silence, felt comfortable with solitude
And whatnot
He wanted to get down the train
And be there and be happy in silent solitude forever
Was closest to ideas of heaven obtained through information gathered from several sources
He didn’t
The train went by carrying him home or away or somewhere
It was all good.

Protean labyrinth, don’t kiss the guests
Cows in dreamlight death of birth birth of death
Demons of beauty harsh Viking wars
Calm gardens to explore inside
It’s mostly the same shit on and on outside
Hence the need for hidden doors
The boy’s been missing for seven days
The squirrel’s still there
Two similar looking plastic bottles with blue caps in each implies a break:
one of those bottles were supposed to have been somewhere down the chain
ideas of geometry
to keep us fooled or else chained
the butcherknives need to be close
two birds flew by
the verge of urges
is a cold ancient place
and primal rites for unblocking the channels, unleashing the flash and the bull
to leap out and rage through the unconscious,
the oldest Forests,
the undiscovered places

no one looks up
clouds follow

Sharp lines to make things easy
And estranged
And nothing flows between the sections
All arteries blocked
This static wholesome
is comforting for the layers
This pleasant corpse
is convenient
and binary.   

An even better idea:
Call up the dark gods
And fuck things up

Reports of skirmishes close to the woods
Endurance is essential
Hidden guns aimed at hidden stuff inside
Rituals to hold close
Traits call for more than this
The key lies in having fun
The knife is always inching closer
The wolves are always lurking
There’s no better way of getting killed than by what you love most
but only after you fight the wolves and the knife back
hence this requirement for strong forts and brave soldiers

It’s all either prearranged or one can always conjure patterns
to make it all fit in
helpless schemers trapped in own ploys
this lack of freedom leads to boredom
which in turn leads to decay defeat death and damnation

Ideas of circles and rebirth
to blame the mother for flesh
it’s all a sinister conspiracy
for assertion of make-believe fun in lieu of the real one

this yearning for discovery
is to escape from the mire
of reason and plastic
into a place of absolute freedom
to do away with the weary axioms
and make fresh ones
the new light of the mind is strong
and there’s no need to join stuff
and induce and deduce in the old fashions
but new ways of joining needs to be devised
so the call for new axioms
and in time it’ll all be as shitty as it can get
and so on as long as the need persists.  

Squished cherries to get us close to the core
Follow me and I’ll take you to the door
Absinthe tenderness, hearts turn purple
Gorillas in grace to face the affronted vigil
Maximum obedience of slaves
Pure disgust
Catlife more placid, more straitcut
There’s no highway or alley, and no need of break from the static
Just the focussed idea of durability and survival
And complaints against fear of blood
Cat staring at me
Me staring at cat
I can see the cat
The cat can see me
There’s nothing more to this save the conscious blank for me
And instincts and alert impulses for cat and me
And the suffering against negative sensations for cat and me
Clocks are more immortal than this
Clocks will always be there till it matters