Wednesday, June 27, 2012

Let’s all get Smashed Tonight!


One Strong Shitkicker





January 3, 1889.
The roaches of life are finally free today
Greek heroes and their rapechildren sleep in peace.
The machines of make-believe rain are falling silent,
one after the other,
 deep down the stunned wishing wells.
So much adoration all around. The moon doesn’t care much
That fat bastard seems keen on love now.

Hello mister crocodile have you seen my mother?
“Yes little one, she was passing this way when the skies turned green
And the moist earth smelt of love, hitherto unseen.”

January 3, 1889.
Turtles for Life v/s Pumpkins for Love
And then the strangest telegram
“Old God makes stunning recovery. Stop. Rejoice. Stop.”

And then the tiny doctors
with blue hair
and orange ears
march out of their building – an army meant for preservation of valour and sanity
Before long, smoke streams out of the fifth floor window
and coils up, serpentine: lordbound and relieved.
Uproar has been choked off. Lids have been shut.
The mermaids can stay in total tolerant harmony henceforth.
God has survived. long enough for splendid decay.


………………………………………….


Bitter Rain




Away from the atom sunlight my scanner, my database of
hardboiled information  writes to me
like I used to write to you about the whores about the mango tree and and
and about two friends named  
Insurrection and Resurrection whose telepathic senses and my genitalia pulled me closer to the Mango Tree! Mango Tree!
Fuckfuckfuck
Telephone rings
Pause a’while
Ringing stops
Fuckfuck again
Fuckfuck over wash penis wash cum off body wash pubic hair between teeth wash and be clean water of love water baptize water clean pure water like mother I slept in water inside mother I can’t sleep now I can’t swim now I can’t love now I am not clean now my soul is not clean now and everafter haha fun good fun thickfat fun, fun is good for soul. My soul is very old. How young is yours?

Wholesome by fade leaves
by the harmony I picked up from
the pavement outside the liquor shack
There was a temple right outside the house of my favourite slut
Her skin was soft.  
After good fuckfuck I rinse mouth I come out I look inside temple I see god
I close my eyes not to see god I die I live minutes and seconds of vast reckoning
Mad momentary recollection gleams mammary glands all things prehistoric though transient.
Donkeys tell of love to Jurassic reptiles.
I have a hard-on once again.
Prehistory is good
Prehistoric man’s shadow walks beside me
Prehistoric woman’s nakedness frightens me.

I see silhouettes on walls.
On roofs as well.
No electricity.
Now I am all alone
Now I am with shapes and forms.
Truculent turtles make love.
I make nothing.  
I am not terrified anymore
So I sleep.



I dream of ships and stars and of conjoined twins
I dream of weeping geometry
Flesh shrieks in dream
Flesh shrieks in awakening.


I try to link all I see with all I hear
Twenty one canon shots when I die
Hot babes blowing bugles
I die erect
Hot babes blowing phallus of my corpse
Blood-semen-world-earth-father-divinity-symphony all frozen-all-all
Frozen like moths bees butterflies frozen dews frozen bluebells frozen asses
I stare at ripe sturdy buttcheeks of men and wonder about my lack of homosexual inclinations
Or is it just a dot and a dash before indictment?
I unborn inside water inside mother I grow fresh strong I derive nourishment
I dead inside water like Phlebas water sucks nourishment I decay I rot or maybe I don’t but my body does and my soul  my soul o soul why do I not believe in you?
  
Sunshine speaks of calamity and deviance.
Sunshine will not speak of calamity or deviance when I die.
All is good when I die
All is bad and awfully fucked now.
Soldiers from graves of dread attack world
Nevertheless, I sleep.
I dream of straight road leading from Ishtar’s womb to my crotch
It’s a road of enlightenment: one that shoots ego, enslaves id,
commandeers superego. all for love and love for all.
Prophets look at me from clouds
I become Emperor of blank spaces.
I declare raw war against the world.




Compasses have been broken tonight
Dogs make terrific love in bitter rain.
  

 …………………………………………………………..

Sweet Rain



Flowers derive nourishment from soil
Soil smells good after rain.
I love soil. I love flowers.
One day I will be one with flowers and soil
Till then, allow me, sweet allure,
to kneel before the altars of love.

Flowers fall on blood. Blood carries flowers to brain
They add up to make one big flower.
I can’t speak of flowers anymore.
heart of the city is one big flower too.
Heart of the brain is where the other soil is
When it rains on that soil
living here seems kind soft and comforting.

…………………………………………………………………….








Monday, June 25, 2012

Poultice for those Damned Carbuncles of Love


Beware the ghosts of love
They are everywhere
They can take any form
And leap on you on least expected moments
And then you stop believing in the rain
And you do all sorts of funny things
Such as jumping on railway tracks without
Any particular reason
Or winding up in prisons, prisms and asylums
Or discussing dualism with tabby cats
Or hacking the skies of love
And digging the graves of love
And loads of other shit.
Shit you definitely don’t want for yourself
And shit others mostly want for you so
As to discuss, dissect, analyze.


So beware those ghosts of love
lurking in the dark alleys of allure
which are all around us.

.......................................

So here i am observing beerfizz oozing out
Of the third beercan for tonight (two down four to go)
And thinking of Sartre. Why the fuck am I thinking of Sartre?

You see, there was this girl
(Well hell, there’s always one, right?)
And she was crazy in her own ways
but not in my ways
And i was crazy in my own ways
but not in her ways
And she was there
And i was there too
And now she isn’t
And neither am i
And she is there
And i am here
and that’s about it.

So I was fighting hangover all morning
And sleeping all afternoon
And reading Sartre (Altona, a fine one) all evening
And i’m drinking now
And i’ll be drinking for the next two hours of so.
And that’s about it.

P.S. This city, where i am living now, is a rather peculiar one
It kicks your butt and kisses you at the same time)
..........................................


So this is a picture of love painted by a mad lover in insane heat
Too many adjectives. I don’t like adjectives. But i like this picture
It’s so
real.
Could there be a picture of me just like this?

And don’t forget the dogs who die young
And the poets and harlots who die old
And these million sweaty silent nights smelling of beer and solitude
And me here,
naked, cock in hand
thinking of the soul and ejaculating at the moon.

.............................................................

Bohemian bananas, they’re not like actual bananas
They can walk and talk and sing
I don’t know whether they really exist or not
But they seem pretty much okay when they visit me
Every second night.

They tell me stories of soldiers on horsebacks and of tramcars with souls
And of princesses with warts and etcetera and i talk with them for a while
We share cigarettes, opinions, love, whiskey, blackbirds, bluebirds and some laughter.

I’ve told about them to anyone yet.
People, you see, are a pretty lousy bunch who look similar, walk similarly
And even talk about and think of similar things.
That makes the world a prison of sorts and me a prisoner
If i tell of the splendid bananas with whom i have a good time every second night
Listening to stories and sharing stuff i like to the people, they’ll send a doctor in
And the doctor will take out a big syringe and ah fuck, you know the rest.


Anyways, i like those bananas. They make the raving beast within me fall silent
for some time and they make me feel calm peaceful and easy.

I hope that unlike most things that are good in a big way
this one lasts for a long time if not forever.   

..............................................................................................

To Ziba, head twisted, blogging of cynic affinity
Where’s the essence of triviality?
Do you like horses in moonlight or do you like horses in sunlight?

And where’s you in this clusterfuck of broken asses and broken waltzes?
This barren land has taken much and given little
It’s like blowing your nose on blottingpapers
Do you blow your nose on blottingpapers?
Can you touch your nosetip with your tongue?

There’s fun in that, almost as much fun as killing your enemies
Fun is all life asks of you and all you ask of life
and you is all life asks of fun and all fun asks of life.

It’s good this way. Trust me, it really is
And there’s this mad old storm raging outside.

....................................................................................................

Creation requires nonchalant living
And I have said this many times before
And I love tigers, wolves and rabbits
And I am sad now
Because wonderland is getting polluted
And unspoken thoughts are being persecuted
Everywhere
But yes, an expression of sorrow
is like lying on your back
and throwing up
the puke falls right on your face
Splat!
That’s one hell of a lousy affair if you ask me.


..............................................................................


The world’s wearing a shade of haze now
And i heard some cheesy music outside
It’s the declaration of death for this night.
And horrible poetry is born out of descriptions like these.




The weariness of this dull being
is the greatest tragedy ever
It makes us spew out shit like this
And i am being preachy again.
You see, the jokers have died out
Inside the caves of lunacy and indictment
And beside the large hadron colliders of life.

We can fight this insentience with big fat love
All for love and love for all

Love is a sharp sword. The sharpest ever.
But to what end?
To love’s end?
I, thrown out of mother
Batting on midnights
Howling storms
Semper idem
Hoop in a loop
Aloof lullaby.  Buzzing. I we us weewee dawn death reckoning whatnot wha!

Please Mama,
May i don a king’s robe for this act?  
I can make you happy.


O splendid flowers bloom in May and it’s all because of love.



Strangely, all the women i have had are different
in their own ways:
they all have limitations but so have i.

The virtues of tenderness are many
And it’s thrill-time now
Debunking solitude and solicitous permanence
In wanton abundance
Gives me a strange power
And makes me godly
And makes the mountains weep
for the tender tendrils
coiling around blank spaces.
 for my sombre magnificence
Because i am here to stay and be indifferent
and for singsong allegories that refrigerate our hearts.
You don’t need to comprehend poetry
Or Kierkegaard or Jodorowsky for this.


All you need is to be close enough for me to see every pore of your skin.
It’ll be easier for me to hump you then.

...............................................................................







Temerity be damned, i have a new house now
And makebelieve rain makes me want to drink more
Only cowards make a big fuss about original courage
And priests piss me off, the irony being my ancestors were priests too.

O the nectar of pure love.
How i wish to drink you up tonight!

.....................................................


if i die right now
i won’t see tomorrow
o whatthefuck!
i want to see tomorrow
tomorrows are nice conceptions
like joints on this chain
i love them
they make me live

now, i’ve never fucked anyone under the shower
and i really want to do that on one of these tomorrows.

So i don’t want tomorrow to stop coming
i want to look at it as it comes
Just like i want to look at death as that inevitable bastard approaches.

My wants are many
Wants of love, wants of the heart and penis
Wants of that snaky yellow intellect that
haunts the city evenings.
And i want these wants like a lovepoem etched on
wild rocks and on busy pavements.

Flowers die when there’s no rain
That’s a bad thing.
That’s something i do not want.


..................................................................



Everytime the phone rings
Or the sparrows wink
Or the mugs get a refill
It’s a serenade to me, for being alive

And this is how all clichéd poetry begins

The world of poems is like an orgy in a madhouse
Words jostling for equidistant prominence
Words fighting words, words fighting spaces, spaces fighting spaces
It’s all bloody much confusing
And there’s much blood and puke on the floor
Every expression and every gap finger and fence the others around them
It’s a world of boisterous anarchy
Where tarantulas bite Rasputin’s ass
And Falstaff jumps into Othello’s kingdom to seduce Desdemona
Before Othello, the motherfucking sonofabitchwithbigredboils
strangles the truest beauty that ever was
(Mister Falstaff, i want you to succeed.)

Anyway, not to digress,
The world of verses is one of nauseating confusion
where only the truly best can dare to venture in.


And this is how all clichéd poetry ends.
............................................










     

Monday, June 18, 2012

yellow shakespeare haha





My feverish karma
is bloodbound tonight
By heavens, I can gouge out
a unicorn’s eye and write a sonnet
for the stars of doom now.
All for this constant demand
for cheap thrills.

Honestly, it’s difficult to cope up with all these
after drunk nights and beat days
And yet, lovehounds
roam naked streets in brutal heat
Isn’t that a wonderful declaration of life?

I wake up to find electric bursts
all around me.
Midnight,
can’t expect sunflowers now
And the sea is too damn far away
And I am too damn smashed to reach out.
It’s as if the pigeons of motherly love
have been shot down by the hunters;
coolblue has been dashed by cocksuckers;
Judgments boom out loud.
It’s as if all these were supposed to happen.

Pigs will be gutted.
Teeth will be pulled.
Mermaids will be raped.
No one knocks.
Phantasmagoria leads to solipsis
Dejection leads to decimation
Shit leads to further shit.






Monday, June 11, 2012

Glory Night


at times it gets so fucking tiring
that it sort of gets to you
and then you stay up all night
painting chimneys with boobs
and painting people
 who are scared of life,
loneliness, misery and starvation
people thinking of Beckett
and of their mothers,
people hating the rain and loving the share-market
people hating the share-market and loving the rain
people being eaten up by paper tigers
people drowning in gutters and obligations
people howling at the moon:
you paint them all
only to find that
they all  
look the same:
like failed prophets
and broken machines;
but the chimneys with boobs
look different
each time you paint them.
and that gets to you for good.












child, don't be afraid
i'm just a timid joker counting stars
you see these flowers?
these are for the dead gods
give these to them if you ever
meet them








damn! we were supposed to set the nights on fire,
beat the shit out of the wolves that scare us,
and hoot for the fairies as they rave across the galaxies
what the fuck has happened to us?




The nights are aiming at our guts
the wolves are having a good laugh
even the fairies are bored.













this muck, i tell you:
either it gets to you
or else you get to it.








there's nothing you can do about this
flush the roaches down
drown the sharks in whiskey
and go to sleep.
and sleep till you wake up, deadbeat,
temples throbbing, skies awash
bridges -
broken.

there's no way out.








and then there are those times
when you go out to the balcony
smoke at the night
and walk right back
into your room
which is more naked than
you are now,
only that
you refuse to see it that way.
trust me when i say this
the night gives a shit
and you don't
though you pretend indifference.
like all pretentious roses and pretentious pricks






your indifference won’t change the world
but that of the world is bound to change you
soon enough.
















............................................

Saturday, June 9, 2012

Tiramisu Tarantula Tetanus Tendrils Tentacles whatever haha blabla gaga gooogoo


Fishes screw in waters of love
And the whole world stood still
as Jesus walked on water –
Staring deep into our hearts
And staring straight into the eyes
Of the raving beast within.

And under the blank open sky
The carnival broke loose
I was hiding
with the goblins –
drinking their wine
fucking their women
and so i missed all the fun
As Jesus went across
the waters of love
and perished by his sad crucifix.

Now, i look at the waters of love
Fishes screw in waters of love
The nights turn green by waters of love

And the beast – it still raves.

.................................................

Elephants of pure desire
They have golden tusks
I am talking to them
They are talking to me
I am talking to you
Are you talking to me?

And then of course, the need to stare
And not judge
because of and despite
Everything
Is there.
And the diamonds are there too.



Where be you, Bird Mother?
Where be your white  wings?

Your conception: sexless, hyperborean
Etched, like a hyperbole,
On the guts of sonnets and bees:
Is fascinating.

Child, look at me
I’m not so scary as they say i am
I’ll tell of fairies that turn into monsters
I’ll tell of monsters that turn into fairies
And I’ll tell of that great secret dream
We have all been dreaming to dream.


Child, look at me
Because i will kill you if you don’t.


...............................................................


Sometimes the whole Universe
Seems hell bent on puking its grief
All over me.
And the rain sends its army
Across the horizon
And across bleary railway tracks
To make fight those four guards
Who have defended me
Against every shit.
So this one goes for the guards.

And for the rest:
“Screw you, fuckers
I can still take more punches than you.”

.................................................................


Sometimes the sight of panties hanging from railings
of crumbling balconies when you were 14 and
all alone
can be as
dreadful as the  sight  
 of a dog with bellies flattened out by automobile tyres
lying dead on gruesome dark macadam
when you are 24
and all alone.

So beware.
The sharks are after you
And they can get you
any day.

.......................................................................................


This then is separation
A separation is like the princess of twilight
undressing
before going to bed.
And this is how
The world moves
-          On alcohol
-          On glycerine
-          On sexmama with big boobs
-          On wolves from hell
-          On rancid corpses of love
-          On me
-          On cruelty
-          On kindness

And then there’s this flower that smells of love
And i had fish and rice tonight
And it’s raining where you live
And it’s not raining where i live
And moths pee at moon
And sadness is a lost verse
And the mountains are sad tonight
And the ants are strong tonight
And you are gone
And i remember licking droplets of sweat off the back of your earlobes
And monsters have green eyes
And tigers have red eyes
And what the fuck am i even talking about?

This then is separation
One sharp punch and it all gets hazy.

.....................................................................................



The unchangeability of me, here, steadfast
is unmatched
Even the streets lead to cities, rivers,
Dead-ends
Or at least to other streets
And even the stars die out
And the dogs that bark at stars
Meet their end
In way too many ways:
Age, starvation, accidents et cetera et cetera.
Poetry, you see, is strong
But not strong enough for me
I’ve fought many a duel with it
And i’m still here
resilient , imperishable, drunk.
Sure as the devil’s skin is red
and the pigs are bleeding
 and reading Plath on midnights fucks your nerves up
and everything rots,
I am here.
And i will be here for as long as i wish to be

..................................................................


June, 2012
I have lived for 289 months
The watermelons of life have busted
Can’t focus at the broader picture
Love’s grown tentacles
Chinese whispers echo on walls
On streets that have no names i walk
Theatres of pure colour are stoned
The lions have put their flags down
Tonight will be fine
for the rope and the blade
But what do i care?
Below these floors
Below the soil
Reptiles breed in tender mercy
Smooth patterns point towards
places that are very dark
And deep down below
there’s water
And deeper down
there’s fire.

To approach these hours
like peeling brassieres off
hookers’ breasts
is good enough
What else do drowning ants need?
A leaf maybe.

They’ve painted sunflowers
on cigarette butts
You can live for the sunflowers
or else
You can always consider Phlebas
after a few choked fortnights.


.............................................................................................

And the boobs go flap
Flap!
as if all life-form
has been dunked down below the oceans
every day, the mad bikers
rage through the city
pungent forces push through
it’s all turning pink
and orderly
built, like the axis
around one single leitmotif
it’s like kissing on the scars
again and again
we survive
storms
floods
fires
to find ourselves
in a place
which sucks so much
that we would’ve chosen
storms floods and fires
instead.
And the boobs go flap
Flap!

..........................................................




Tuesday, June 5, 2012

reply to a beautiful friend who sent me a picture of an owl wearing thick glasses with thick frames





This was my reply to a beautiful friend who sent me a picture of an owl wearing thick glasses with thick frames and told me to write about myself
:


this bird is the type that sings filthy songs before crapping on shades of policemen from tall bridges. I read about one of those in a book of pure love. i like this bird. i want to be this bird.

now for the one-eyed monsters, they are everywhere they say. and i have a mouse running all over my floor circling my empty beer cans. i work and stay in a city far away from home and because i am happy i enjoy solitude and because i am sad i enjoy solitude. i drink beer and goatmilk and then i stare at people who take medicines to avoid flatulence. 

i like Bach who had 21 kids. i like traffic signals. i like broken machines. i like bare floorboards. i like the rabbit in the moon. i like the big red booming love because that’s a splendid concept.

and then there’s one more thing which i like.  

i like it when it rains because rain reminds me of Cinderella and then i imagine me making violent love to Cinderella and then i sleep and then i wake up, mostly hungover and stare up to observe birds with glasses and then the grocery arrives and then the sky is rot and the i am sitting on the loo, spraying beer-shit and smoking. I don’t read newspapers.

Ugliness fascinates me. So does perversion.

there’s a world on fire out there. And then of course there’s this massive gray phantom moving around the Universe and making fucked geometrical shapes across the roofs and walls.

i have observed that things tend to just be there and live and/or die for themselves. that's funny in a way.  
i have also observed that people are just like stoned fishes. that's not funny in any way 

i'm hustling dead butterflies and tiny things that shine up this avenue now.


now tell about your kidnappers.  


   





Sunday, June 3, 2012

Before the River Washes it all Away

the big fat idea is to have fun
even when the horse you're betting on is limp
or when i'm holding a knife to your throat
or when it rains on your sullen frangipani
fun's like a rare steak
sumptuous, big, 
sizzling.
Without fun the world will go mad
the moon will refuse her milk
and the sun his spear
And the mountains will burst out in glorious grief.

who wants that?

so, pay no heed to all the bleeding 
just raise your hands up in the air
clap
dance
laugh
love
make merry
because the heart needs a good laugh before if burns out.



..........



those sons of bitches better beware
i'm getting stronger by the hour
and i'm not going to make funny faces
anymore
self-pity is comforting, i admit
and solitude is beautiful too

but are they really strong enough
or beautiful enough 
to hit out at the sun 
the moon and the stars?


my big city is bleeding out here
don't you dare preach me 

the easy virtues of forgiveness,
am i clear?

for i am mad at the entire universe
inside and out

and that doesn't change anything.



...................

nurses of love
they come to me every passing day
with smooth motherly arms
and slender words of kindness
they feed me and bathe my heart
and they take good care of me
i stare at them with wide open eyes
and their shoulder-blades seem 
like easy highways 
that cut through mountains and valleys 
in moonlight
and their eyes seem like deep silent lakes


that's when i think of the solitude of the Universe
and how lucky i am 
to have them
tending to me
saving me from the sharks 
taking the knife off my hands

and sticking roses to my heart
yeah, all of us are not so lucky
to have nurses

who make you feel like you are 
not all alone
even when the stars are bursting out between your eyes.

i just wish i could have seen them naked.




.........................................




and then came the hours of clarity
cigarette in mouth, naked, deadbeat

she's gone
and so is her scent
and all that's left
is one impossible pass
to cross through
and survive

the world is a naked place
more naked than me
and more cruel than i can ever be


i hear trumpets
from rundown circus tents
and i lie down
drunk, 
dejected
thinking of sex
and of sweet mortality

go on, release the hounds on me
i don't particularly care

......................


big heart
big love 
big flowers
i'm a sucker for all that's big
and that's not necessarily a good thing
i've seen sunsets by rivers
and that means a lot.
and the whole world breaks
like treacherous phantoms
waiting
for me
to get it the big way
at last.

and then, the carnival shall be bold
brutal
and massive!


..........................

my body is better than
the body of each and every
poetry
i have ever written
or have ever deigned 
to write.

i love my body
with inappropriate flabs
warts
hair
and every other shit
you can ever imagine
or not-imagine.
it is big and strong
and sweat drips from it
every second.

Poetry, on the other hand
Can only be as good as i am

............................

grotesque, insincere
here i stand before you
wild enough for the tides
timid enough to trust
your every manoeuvre
so come on, 

take my hand
and forget about all the shit
that we have done to us
won't you, 
for a tiny flitting moment
forget the litany of these
urges
to fall apart

and close your eyes
and let me love you instead?



..................................


like a symphony, choked to abrupt silence
we walked down
the merry corridors of life

outside, the leopards of swift love
were waiting 

inside
the band was playing, 
loud enough
for voices of the moments
to drown
in illusions of a false 
becoming 
and of pastels
for tides

somewhere
monsters were raping the flowers


and this 
is a fake poem


.......................................

sobriety is really our worst prison
and love is a load of crap
that weighs our insides down
to the center of the earth
which is
very hot.

beer joints are better places,  
trust me 
they really are



......................................

five days of longing
and the earth’s drying up
already
ants are teaching
a dirge
for broken automobiles
to the mammoths.
The bones
have roots.
The sky
has wings.

here i am
inside a room with pink walls
and a white roof
thinking of kings and queens,
of deathchants for mockingbirds,
of appropriate love.


The orchestras are out in the streets
feverish, eternal,
raving, like children from broken
tombs
who gouge out eyes
of saints and monsters
and give them to the painters
for cheap thrills

you are gone
and all i am left with
is a blatant conception
of you.

Is this how it’s supposed to be?


love is the colour of a forest in rain
lavender is the colour of sadness

and the peacocks are sad tonight.

.........................................................................