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.
…
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