I don’t remember any of my dreams
though i see them every night. Last night was an exception. I don’t remember
much of it, just that there were these couple of channels moving forward in
parallel lines. And i was in both of them.
...
Imagine a lighthouse.
Or don’t.
How does it matter anyway?
...
I’ve seen more poetry and more
everything from inside dank brothel-rooms on stormy midnights. One naked mass
of flesh sticking to another one. Someday, a corpse will take my body away. Someday,
my body will take a corpse away.
I have noticed that two bodies can
never be one.
i have noticed that every female body
has a pussy.
At least each one i’ve seen or
made naked has one.
I remember observing the tight ass
of this woman as she was bending before an altar inside some temple or other
and i did get hard.
I didn’t.
My cock did.
Both my cock and i were atheists
then, and we still are.
I’ve wanted to see elephants fly
ever since i had started wanting stuff
I can see ships
Sadly, ships can’t see me.
Or maybe they can.
Who’s asking?
...
2+2 will always be 4
And that’s plain disgrace.
...
Eyes and hands are the most
piss-off parts of the body
I have spent half my life so far
trying to figure out what to do with them
I have spent most of my bullets
shooting at trams that stand still in mist, at dogs dying doggedly deaths in
alleys
like a sunflower, like this
maddening mayhem of the centuries,
like the dark crime of sundown.
Music in the streets
Puppets come out tonight
We spend all our lives inside the
frames
We need to come out and observe at
times
Mostly, we don’t.
Mostly, we’re shit.
These proclamations and assertions
don’t sound like poetry. They aren’t.
I have never created poetry and i
never will.
But the sun still rises over
sullen rooftops and cornices of the city when there’s no rain and no fog.
...
There’s no ambiguity or milestone
in this
We like watching movies
I’m watching yours from where i
stand and you’re watching mine from where you do.
It’s all about shapes and other
stages and significances
When i’m dead i won’t be knowing
that i have died but when i fuck i know i’m fucking
It all starts from somewhere
within our private structure and remains there till it ends
And when it ends, it ends.
...
I’m surrounded by assholes on all
sides and of all sizes and shapes, stupid sordid people and their minds,
bodies, thoughts, actions: puking dicta and judgments out like heavy gods from
extinct islands, trying to press freedom of all sorts down into soggy oblivion,
copulating to shoot the plague down those damn ribonucleic pipelines and into
this grisly cesspool of platitude, well-fed people with well-greased asses,
clapping and being clapped, clowning around and stinking everything up with
axioms and frames of reference, living in denial of solitude and fear for solitude;
scoundrels shuddering before altars and symbols, seeking to impose their sham definitions
and dichotomies on everyone, moving in binaries of good and bad, life and
death, normalcy and abnormality, diamond and shit.
Strong resistance is essential,
and so much fighting wears the soul out pretty fast.
i love these few hours past
midnight. Fat happy cats crawl inside brain. Clockhands speak of the grand carnival.
Birds perch on branches of cognition and poke the worms out cold with their
beaks and thus the worms can’t reach its flowers or roots. Strange hush
befalls. These are the splendid times: perfect madness riding to perfect
harmony all along the boldly smooth highways of moonlight. I’m here, now:
drunk, lonely, feverish, seeking to take on the world with texts, symbols and
significances. I release the lions and the butterflies now. They run free and
things don’t matter for a brief while.
I am not fighting the assholes
now.
I am having fun.
....
Where did they get their cigars
from?
And there’s much movement on all
sides.
The last dusktide whore i had been
to was this widow
with lots of meat and hair and
religion.
And curtains fly in songs of the
slaughter,
i associate winter evenings with
suicide.
There’s something pure about this solitude:
it’s all about the painless
sorrow:
that perfect balance, the slow
personal death.
And now i see them, each of one them
could’ve been a snake
The sort that dances under
moonless starless skies in terrible madness
when the music is cold and sharp.
But they’re smoking their cigars
now
But none of them can ever be their
own cigar.
There’s something awfully sad
about this entirety
Long long ago in land of great
magic, there was a flower and there was a bird.
And then they gave me my pistol
and i shot at them
And then they became one and
rolled down to the core.
That’s bullshit, i know. But how
does it matter?
...
Dear child,
You can have my rainbow for the
rest of tonight.
Let’s weep a little for each other
and for the coolly senile kettles
There’s much torment in this
Let’s provoke ourselves to live
and die
That’s the closest to love we’ll
ever get.
...
Storming the arcades, those terribly
deathless soldiers approach the inner rims
of sophisticated decay. There’s
the citadel at the centre. There’s the blind king of great wisdom there.
Soldiers freeze. Snapshots of equilibrium. Momentary
haplessness. My mind is our mind. Our mind is my mind. And no one needed to
think up death. There’s a lot of death in sex. My meat isn’t our meat.
The 6:30 local left at 6:37 today.
I’ve read of carnivorous flowers
that eat insects
Weatherman forecasts rain tonight.
...
Balloons fly over cityscape
See the cowards of the world clapping
their ways into caves, prisons, flophouses, asylums, sanatoriums, brothels and
other seats of power. Railings and other continuum, railway tracks leading to
misty crevices of soul. charts and compasses for sailors: the sense of
direction is essential. So we cook up vectors and geometry, we map oceans and constellations;
we start out with hypotheses and reach glory or oblivion.
Senses dry out fast. I’m here,
squeezing grapes of the heart till everything freezes. I think of form, matter
and primal forces. Wolves howl from ancient forests. Spiders weave constant webs
inside sanctum-walls. Medieval castles hanging from precipices have got nothing
to do with old pairs of shoes hanging from nails on damply deathless walls. Elusive
routes of the mind lead us to other kingdoms.
Man moon’s beard tickles Woman
moon’s breasts.
Prophesy is just the third
medicine.
The funniest part is that the
circus which is in town now is called The Royal Circus.
And the most boring part is where
our hero gets trapped.
...
I touch my forehead and bend over
volcanoes.
Grim tales of becoming stare at us
like inexorably skull-shaped flowers.
Kids in stoic Roman masks,
captured within centuries frozen in pain and decay framed along the corridors.
phallus towers over relentless concepts of history and religion. portent shadows
track us down. The essence withers away. Pulp and grime stick to the walls of
heart, ideas and assurances splendour and divine light to flush the muck out.
Beerdunked mind weeps for freedom
Beerdunked body weeps for
fortitude
Beerdunked soul weeps for all the
dead ponies and mallrats of the world.
I touch my forehead to make them
one
Lions roar.
Boats sink.
...
Mother, i, too, shall die one day.
And when i think of death i don’t
think of screwing or of earthquakes or nuclear wars or water-columns or fiestas
in the mirror. I don’t think of the clowns. I don’t think of putting the stars
out.
Meat covers bone. Skin wraps it
up. i didn’t know all these when one half of me was swimming somewhere inside
my dad’s scrotum and the other half was stuck to your tubes. And i won’t know
any damn thing when the whole of me is dead.
It’s just that i’m too fucking
greedy.
...
No comments:
Post a Comment