I have seen lightning strike the river on stormy midnights
I haven’t seen many puppet-shows.
I have seen laughter sending terrific shockwaves down to ancient depths.
I haven’t seen horses in moonlight
Other things which I have and haven’t seen include:
atrophy of ferns and furniture, bitter yielding of the vast totems,
whalejawed frozen prophesies and old men shitting old shit on old shitpots.
The point being – clocks don’t scream except in lousy poetry and one-eyed whores are more common than one winged whores but less common than one-winged moths and butterflies.
Just sitting by the window, rolling madcap wilderness, rows of houses: concrete and primordial,
Our shadows glide by moonlit highways,
Thinking of perfect smooth women and the perfect smooth geometry of their shoulderblades, lonely garagebound busses rolling by, arrows pointing at the heart of hearts, a little speck of red at the center, one kingly bull roaming along the serene city streets.
It is now that we rise to kill. And at times we rise without any specificity. But mostly, we don’t rise or fall. We just need these damning crutches of shapes and binaries and vectors and other symbols. We can’t stand on our own.
Just sitting by the window, observing the city and the world as they decay in enchanted silence. The bull is still roaming.
Take me, bull.
Take me, bull.
Sadly, nothing much can be done about the inert objectivity of stuff around me.
Deathlessness is far worse than death.
Ranting and screaming about this bluntly passive world would be useless and so I won’t.
I’ll tell of how I felt with my cock throbbing in massive rage inside the soft, warm cunt of the most fantastic whore in town. It was evening and it was raining quite heavily, the beasts of storm were getting ready to leap out in monstrous fury. I was fucking in meaty, wholesome glory and I was having essential fun.
Donkeys of love rove in moonlight –
their ancient shadows fall on the river;
and the river is a story now –
a piece of eternity in pristine sensation:
the sort that smoothens the jagged corners of night
and puts those ghosts of the fond heart to harmony
and turns this agony into a cold sharp song.
And the song is a steely sword now
I touch the song and become invincible
I touch the sword and become the brazen, bravest hero
And then I ride out to slay monstrous butterfly-eating serpents and other primal demons
And those donkeys of love stare at me through perfect, insane patterns of silence
Prince Hatimtai entered a garden and shot a parrot.
And if it was all that easy, ruminations would’ve led to reckoning
And cavemen & cavewomen wouldn’t have to go through so much shit just to make love and that too not in the moon but by nasty hot flames in dank mossy darkness with wolves and snow leopards watching from a distant, like cruel vigilantes with glowing eyes that hardly blink.
It all gets so terribly sharp at times that I can see a stained and soiled towel hanging from some rusted hook or other and think that it’s a stained towel hanging from some rusted hook or other. And at other times I see splendid children of the void throwing acid-bulbs and Molotov cocktails at the sky.
Clocks, through a million centuries of stillness, lead us to the ghastly sublime channels. I think up grave castles hanging from cliffs and precipices and hovering over the sea like overgrown sea-hawks tied to lifeless, stony roots. I think of mosaics and emblems dotting the primal zombielands of cognition. I think of midnight storm raging through the sea in great fury and of myself stumbling along the rooms and hallways and alleys and labyrinths as thunderbolts strike that stern forbearance of the clocks down. Bells of doom cut through ether and through the beastly roar.
Gods and other heavy judges stare at me from across the damned clocks. Wolves and snow leopards stare at cavemen making love to cavewomen by nasty hot flames by nasty hot flames in dank mossy darkness. Winds howl across seas and forests making mad patterns. Lifeform developed a handful billion years ago through synthesis of organic polymers and shot its load down across a series of chromosomal pipelines straight into my ribonucleic wilderness.
Prince Hatimtai entered a garden and shot a parrot.
All art is shit.
All texts and codes are shit.
What matters is this savage fury of living and loving:
senses crazed in neural conflagration:
mind body and soul fucked in integral entirety.
That’s the only truth that there is
and there's nothing more beautiful than this.
Leaves and squares scattered throughout the deathless black alleys and subterranean streets, grime and soot chocking the heart, lions of steel to fight the mad army of scarecrows in tremendous revolt against the lack of life, mind takes a pale shade of yellow and green, dotted against the sidewalks of the naked city reeling under harbors and factories and cognition and the stupefying nonchalance of being. Then of course, there’s this maze of strange passes leading to open fields, and horses gallop by and trams roll along and I’m here, staring at those sloppy fantasies of chance, and doing nothing else.
Umbrellas and stoned fishes kneel by altars of ambivalent harmony. Crooked rainsongs puzzle the secret locked chambers of the stonewalled heart and Beethoven. Heart grows cold – sadder than all the ass-squeezed cherries of the world. This cog-wheeled, clampjawed zone of saints and sluts is sickening enough for all the towering demons of becoming and dreamy relics of the flow to give up and go away.
Look at me, here, damned, squished and tugged from all sides, clubbed down by all the elements of meatless blank pestilence, soulless treetops and elevators, fighting, enduring through cognition, significances and other grotesque symbols of turpitude and succor.
Primal fortitude is essential
It’s all or nothing for me.
There’s no giving up or going away in this.
Flopped, drooping and withering away in some flophouse, he had no idea of the sharp shadow that was approaching from across streets and channels and shores of the world in gruesome rage, raving through the hazy corners, storming through all fortresses, smashing all terrific walls, hunting down the grisly wolves that haunt the ancient forests of pertinence, gutting out the dogs that live dogged lives and die dogged deaths along the alleys, corridors and chambers of the blasted domes of terror, burning down all bridges, ships, trams and other totems of totality in blatant, brutal rage of perfect destruction.
That shadow could’ve been
or his killer.
Meanwhile, weatherman talked of the factual rain
And the radios and umbrellas of the strong world rose in severe, frenzied rebellion.
Moon lies bland, like mother, prostate before staunchly fleshless statues of gods whom she cannot touch
And here I am, closest to the bedrocks of soul, bells chime of visions and recollected glory gleaning along the ancient silver-gazed river, to touch the deep dark earth and the sea, to construct my own sincere gods and heroes of disinherited myth and fantasy, to thrive.
They’ve bombed the citadels down; they’ve killed the bulls and broken the statues. They’ve also chained the angels and locked the steely lions up in tough grimy cages.
Sentries of the heart lose their way in primitive saber-kiss forests,
Sentries of the mind wander along the dazed neural labyrinths
Sentries of the soul weep by the river
That throbbing pulpcore glows from inside those ghastly harsh caves.
The wildchild of reveries roams the ancient deathless streets in blazing embittered agony of abandonment. Sharp symphonies cut through the tremendous hues of vision-garbed misery as solitude weaves those almost motherly symbols and thunderclaps boom out those fantastic prophesies of rebirth resurrection and regeneration, that
one day, he’ll be strong enough to fight this accursed damnation, to set the putrid skies on fire.
And then I shall wake up, stoic, immortal, sword in hand, almost like my own invincible gods and heroes:
In another insane dream,
another savage recognition of the essence.