Tuesday, November 6, 2012

Boobs and Bitches


Basic detachment is essential: the sort that makes butterflies out of automobiles and camels out of ribonucleic bullshitting. The ways of the city are twisted. There’s much perversion through light and darkness and other outdated binary constructs. And then the concepts, verily 2D, of shifting of coordinates arising out of external and internal stimuli. The vectors are limited there.

The city grows in the mind. There’s honeyed poison in that planting of the dark seeds of flesh and eventuality. And then they sprout and the city grows and glows through pavements and gutters and circuses of the camp. It’s like the brutal joy of knowing that it’s all shit and giving no shit to that. It’s best to spend all your shit in fun. Even then, we build in constructs. I used the adjective “dark” while talking of the seeds of flesh, and that’s my own shit. We all have our own shits and the more we spend them out for fun, the more we move from the “i” to “we”. And then we’re all a mosaic-mesh of ideas and visions and conceptions and there’s perfect chaos in that and perfect harmony can only be there in perfect chaos.  The moon is a porcupine tonight. And the city is a pile of lifeless stones and concrete and plaster and polyester and neon and halogen and vinyl and mercuric chloride and of perspectives and emotions and points of view and there’s a lot of flesh and  lot of cells and tissues and blood and meat and acid and nuclei and protoplasm and spermatozoa and platypus and a hell lot of dust and grime and stone and soil and marbles and water-particles and photon particles rainbowing through water-particles and all sorts of inanimate tangibility and it all goes in and goes out and stays and leaves and I can only speak of what they do or don’t through binaries like I’ve just done. These blasted binaries are really the easy ways out. The light of the mind is cold. And it changes colours. For me, it’s mostly a tussle between blue, white, red and black. We all have our own kicks and patterns and processes of going about it.  
It’s two hours past midnight and the clockhands are waiting for a sign to break into a synchronized rebellion against time. Giving and taking of so much shit tires the soul out, unless those are given and taken for fun.
There’re whores with huge boobs and a huger ass and whenever we want not to get pulled by the ideas of eventuality and gloom, we can go to them or else we can go to the little petite whores, barely legal or at times even not that. I’ve been with the best of both sorts and I tell you boys, both are fun in their own ways; one just has to look for it to find. And we need to look for a lot of things to find them and we call that earning. We are pushed by these ideas of earning something and owning it, from experiences to winter-flowers to whores and kitten. And ideas of owning makes the human race love and hate move and it tells itself that it’s moving forward but the truth is that it has made up the ideas of forward and backward and upwards and downwards and sideways and on its own and then it has kept itself busy with other ideas such as fucking and ruling to keep its mind off the terrible realization, mostly from the earliest memories of the collective soul – and yes, I’m believing in that right now. I might not after a few seconds or hours or year – that it’s all conjured and axiomed up, just like love and hatred.
So, you want to know of the ultimate truth, right? Let me tell you of the first,. blowjob I’d ever got. till date it’s been the best, despite getting at least a hundred more after that. I was fifteen and it was raining and it all happened inside a broken car inside an abandoned garage, the car had been there since the beginning of my childhood memories and there was a mango-tree beside it. Grass had grown thick around it’s tireless fore-wheels, rusted with the cruelly regular bashing of time and space. And it was cold and it was raining and thundering like hell and the skies were red and a storm was about to come. I remember lightning striking all around the place and my throbbing phallus was inside her mouth and her breath was warm and soft and so was her tongue and the sticky wetness of her saliva mixed with my precum and cum spreading out all across my cock  is a feeling worth living or dying for. She was two years older than me. We hadn’t kissed or made out or anything. I hadn’t even fingered her. She had a polka-dot frock on her, and I don’t remember what I was wearing. This really happened.
I haven’t been on that side of town for around ten years and I’m not sure if the car or the tree is still there. And I haven’t seen her or heard of her or from her since a few months after she blew me.
I knew her nickname and had never bothered to know her real name. She might be out there somewhere on Facebook.
The bottomline is that I had loads of fun. Soul grows stronger with fun. The soul is a skeletal monster or a huge Jurassic reptile, standing in unperturbed continuum. And there are those great trumpets and bugles of glory in the handsome kingdom of laughter, waiting to burst out in terrific freedom when the clockhands rebel.

And buses become wolves and trams become snakes and trucks become one-eyed demons but that’s been there since childhood. Trapped segments willing to move and puppets and porcupines in the perfect haze of bliss. And in crowds of happy bright beautiful people and in crowds of sad dull ugly people and in masses reeling under the great wheels of geometry and in charred petals and where’s the great savior and where’s the desire to be one with flesh? Like, say, my mom and dad screwed and I was born. Their ancestors too had screwed to breed. It’s all about screwing. Moreover, what I refer to as water or dolls were referred to by them as water or dolls, maybe through other symbols. And folks will refer to the same stuff as water or dolls – maybe through other symbols – even after I die. It’s all about those axioms or the stuff we hold. There can be a million approaches to this and its all damn screwed up and though it feels cosy at times, it never feels right. Even the idea of conking off is not a pleasant one and the idea of pleasure shouldn’t have ideally been linked to the meaty idea of mortality. There whores and mother and booby mannequins. I fuck the whores, I don’t know what to make of the mother and I’ve got nothing to do with the mannequins because their boobs aren’t live flesh and they don’t even have a pussy. Sexdolls, they say, have pussies but even then they lack live cells and tissues.           
Basic detachment is indeed essential. The city moves in shapes and forms. Cats leap on rats. Nights leap on days. The idea of being here leaps out in search of womb,
cock leaps out in search of cunt.

We’re all in the story of the city
We’re all in the story of light, darkness and other binaries. Minds trapped in easy reckoning. Soul trapped in ideas of searching for other ideas. We lose touch with real stuff. Rain falls on sewers. Pipelines pierce through hell. Much rot and much anger at the unbearable lines joining the dots.     


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