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.
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.
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.
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?
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
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.