Monday, November 5, 2012

One for those damned gods behind the clock

Right and wrong in own ways, warring against the lacklustre pluses and minuses – that something electric, something of terrifying beauty, screaming for food from inside. Autocracy of algorithms and then that mass of entirety in terrific revolt:
everything from the chasm moving around the glowing core, waiting for the chance to come out.

Gliding through the slender highways
Laughing with the lions
Ideas of perfect brutal love
Ideas of perfection and victory
Opening of the windows.
Hatred and other easy ways out
This, for the gods of need
This fondness
is almost real
Sisyphus should’ve been angry. But he wasn’t.
Hence this anger against decay and defeat
But there’s fun in the breaking
And there’s nothing where there’s no fun.

Terrific signs
I’m here and I can see them
And that’s all that there is.


We love a lot of things
and when we love something we want to be that thing.
And then, the coordinates mess it all up.
We’re tied to where we stand –
and that’s wasting us.
Helplessness of the frenzied static
Too much of the same thing wears one out.
Anger leads to boredom.
Boredom leads to further boredom.
Rot begins.
This capitulation is sickening.  

The road to endurance is one of celebration and the road to the gods is paved with laughter
Let us stand tall and naked
Let us make merry
Let us make love in the rain.    

River of poetry, though foggy fields of the soul,
It’s bluish dark all around.
Then the red ostrich
Then the dreadful cognition
Then the blood and laughter
And finally, the Hour of the Carnival
Our robes and masks are ready
The sharp silver-cold glows of freedom
Reckoning of the core –
Another brazen dream:
in another life.

I’d known Oedipus complex before reading Freud
I’ve never felt like doing my mom, but women of around the age when I discovered its existence do turn me on at times.
There’re things inside my skull, you know, things that are both scary and funny at the same time.
Like slow, colossal babies from within the splendid blank glow of ancience;
Like carnivorous flowers growling and hissing at us with forked tongues
Like the idea of just dying off and being nowhere after that
Like knife-edge sanctity
Like dogs
Like a patio in rain

Everyone’s too damn busy hiding fear and cleaning shit
They fear a lot of things such as crones, boogeymen, monsters, wolves, shadows, exposure, freedom, repression, sorrow, solitude, fast cars and slow hours
And shit a motherload of shit such as, emotions, ideas, wants, actions, expressions, constructs, perceptions, advertisements, literature, empires, oppression and money
Here, memories leap up like wolves aiming at the neck of that grey fog of mind where trams and giraffes –
lost owing to lack of sufficient attention –
I’ve seen lightning strike the ocean on stormy nights
The city was silent.
And the midnight of the mind is cold
And this velocity of neons and butterflies hitting against the sturdy walls
benumbs neural waste.   

totems of heredity weighing us down
people look like stoned fishes
I won’t get my embryo-life back anymore –
much anger and sadness stem from this
I’ll die and it all still needs to be here –
Hence, notions of pleasure while fucking
for primates including human beings
and it’s all because of this sense of being here.
Cats and birds and moths don’t need pleasure to screw.
Wish I could talk to statues. My room looks dead and blank all the time.
The need for perfect harmony in perfect chaos
is undeniable.
And yet, in 0-s and 1-s we build, as we move sideways thinking that we’re moving up. We’ve built our ups and downs through clever geometry and vectors.
This denial is revolting.

Stale frames of want,
insects and little reptiles,
city of carnival-nightmares,
Gutted mortuaries in terror and rain.

That vivid daze.
Helpless massacre of the essence.

Discovery and voyages
Sailors, angels and spirits   
Here, cognition begins
And the primal pushes freeze-up
Ideas of bliss and transcendence
Ideas of penguins and villanelles and sodium
Divine fury of flesh, and beyond that
The placid wholesome mass –
Smoothly stoic,
Too distant for perceptions of living
and dying.

Acid-bulbs thrown at sky
Mind awakes, I become mind
Phallus awakes and then the final allegory of conjuration
reaches out for the soil; I become soil
I become the base of love and the chromosomes.

The key lies in supremacy of laughter,
And in lines that demarcate.

shall die one day.

Music by the altar
Weeping banshees and hyphens
is a flower
burning in brutal desolation
the silence is
a grand velvet kingdom
and trucks carry pale kisses and dreams of death.

Guards of the heart are drunk tonight
Lions roar in primal forests
as puppets and skeletons ride out to glory




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