Friday, November 16, 2012

the discovery of synthetic flowers was a remarkable achievement

The best thing about shapes is that they can be whatever we want them to be.
Sadly, we aren’t strong enough, or sad enough, or angry enough or lonely enough to let them be a lot of things.

Roses fall by the sentries of heart,
winter evenings have this knack of leaping out at the throats of lonesome, decaying people, on whom much rain falls and some more will.
And then it becomes a leopard, or a blinding daze of light.

Mellow departures make way for naked dusks, melonsong chronicles of the cavities we’ve left inside.

And then the sadness becomes so great that it becomes everything:
Silent lizards by stoic yellow bulbs, rows of broken pens on the dusty floor, abandoned and awfully devoid of life, weary faces facing other weary faces through cracked mirrors,
an old man in the grocery shop, as broken and almost as lifeless as those pens, staring around, thinking of ways and means of buying the most and paying the least.

That’s where the clocks are heading to. And we’re following the shadows of the clocks. This journey can be as good or as bad as we make out of it.

But so much breaking can only slow things down like alcohol slows down the burning.

I see heads of people dancing on the waves. and at times it all gets so numb and maddening that it’s hard to tell whether those heads are attached to bodies below the waves.

Careweary flowers get bored and wilt away
Carethirsty flowers stop caring and soon they wilt away too
And then it’s all about me and the stars and the moon.
But then the moon wanes off to acutely actual oblivion
And one by one the stars shut their shops of light
And then it’s me and this huge dog sitting at the middle of the terrific empty street and staring at me.

And I’m staring at it from my first floor window.


It takes a lot of beating to beat or get beaten
And bitterness swipes straight down, aiming for the guts.

And the strongest among the abandoned often find themselves on parkbenches of wintry solitude or staring at dreary clocks by dreary mosses on otherwise vacuous walls of derelict boarding rooms or brothels.
And then the phantoms of the heart rise strong and starts playing the sharp cold music that gets them closer to the benches, the walls and to glorious insanity of reckoning.

This can never happen to the puppet-people I come across every day. My toothbrush is more valuable to me than these people.
And outside the well-guarded walls of this make-believe cognition, terrific ghosts gather.

I do believe in ghosts. People pressed to the brutal void, banished forever from this kingdom of choices, priorities and significances,
become ghosts. Well, everyone has to become something after all!

Strange hush befalls.
I can see the ships again.
And the sea is dark and gravely sincere

Killers with splendid panache leave knifes by pianos
Sailors get to know the constellations and at times stars are their only hope.

The angry ambivalence of having to be despite everything sets those damn bridges between gamblers and luck on fire.

And then when the smoldering core became unbearably static, wolves from the shadow pounced on birds and trams and the sun and the moon
and at memories and ideas and reflections. 

We drift away from the shore.
Ships arrive.

The monsters will kill us all through these nights. 

salty sisters of the heart hide our camphor moon with their soft maroon wings to save it from the demons.
my penstand tells me tales of ghosts of sailormen riding against the clocks.
mallrats take over.

It’s all about dead lovers inside ordinary cafes of the world staring at their coffee pots till they become splendid volcanoes and angels of kingly doom.

This night was born to lose.
This night is the oldest tree standing by a misty dark river hurt into gruesome silence of meat and sundown memory
This night is the history of eternity.


Nothing’s happening and nothing ever will. Whatever had to happen to me and to anybody and to everybody has already happened. We’re counting coins and stars. We’re giving benefit of doubt to the ambiversion of choice. Mirrors stare at life, passive zebras stare at death,
sea-hawks bring brittle pieces of information on solitude from dusky horizons to us. Colour of the mind is gray. Colour of the sunset is red. We observe faces and masks as they pale away. We touch the perfect wisdom of geometry.
We rise to kill.


And then he got a white envelope and so he set forth. He started with the city because he had to. Silence – broken by lighting from heaven, bombs from hell and by the howling hounds of shadow. There was much blankness through geometry-trapped forms. And it was a strangely lifeless forest.

So he sought out another incensed forest of sweetly obliterated ancience. There was this throbbing artery running through the axis of this forest joining it to the city. Thus the second forest got it the bad way.

The third one was frozen. There was this soft warm glow somewhere at the elusive core of this forest, i.e. the third one. And the guards around it were sleepless, stern, and dreadfully silent. And before long the third forest became a closed room with smoothly tough walls on all sides.  He had never seen the room of death before but it seemed like that to him. So it had to be broken and it was broken.

The next one looked like a vanilla-dome to him from a distance but keener perceptions prevailed and keener perceptions revealed that this next one had loads of meat and mother. It wasn’t exactly a forest firstly because it had only forms of life with no indication of essential lifenessness and secondly because the life-forms and their indications of cognition and reaction were not like any tree including the wisdom tree and the one of creation that sits at the apex of the wholesome everythingness, the creatures were not exactly animals either, though they seemed to react and be in motion without significant external stimuli. And he found it to be all meat and mother because it was all meat and mother. He was the little other there and so he had to get out of the fleshpulp rot before pig-blood fell from the skies and pig-shit fell from the asses of the pigs. He had to get out of it and so he got out of it.

Meanwhile, the hounds of shadow had tracked him down through the four forests. They’ve been gaining in speed throughout. Once out of the fourth forest which was hardly a forest, he reached the edge of the senses and cognition, and that was the end of all he could perceive and add and subtract and multiply and divide and induce and deduce and load and unload and etc etc. The hounds were right behind him. So he dived down straight into the great dark, and it all seemed primal to him in the initial stages of his going down and nothing seemed anything to him after that.

These days in most lousy stories which are told in first person, the first person refers to the teller. This one differs from the rest because, in here, I’m not him. I’m the teller here and I just killed the son of a bitch.  


Totem-trams in moonlight, like transient caterpillars, make stars die out in the heart of hearts. Lightning strikes the ocean. Primitive warcries take scare-coloured shapes, put on masks and march in sharp speedy vectors.

Those damndest heads are dancing again. Neolith demons and reptiles crawl up pipelines that shoot out of sewers. Massive statues of judges, giants and kings sit on stoic neural monstrosity.
Flowers, lost in time, wilt in the saddest rain.
Dogs, asskicked by time, endure through brutal city-heat.
And then, beyond a few sturdy walls, each dog gets a flower and each flower gets a dog
And on other realms and frames, flowers become dogs and dogs become flowers.

Right here and right now this agony of having to be meets the restless shadows and freezes.  
Lions roar from forests older than time in the heart of hearts where the stars had died out.
Back to the early arms of creation. Basic sustenance is essential for continuation. Mother gives milk. Moon drowns in honey. Totem-trams stand naked.

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