Wednesday, January 23, 2013

Shadows that Shoot Straight

Once in the gruesome kingdom of desolation
Once in the eyes of snakes
Once in strange hollow contours of the city
Once in a story of being and heraldry

there lived a, lived a hunter and the hunter used to hunt the hunted and there lived a king of great wisdom who could see the other still grandeurs of promises lost and stolen and naked children of naked earth children rambling in the wilderness of the core.

The hunter was lonely
The hunted were lonely
The king was lonely
The children were lonely.

And then sad whores who sang sad songs of wishing on sad boozers who did not wish much and hence were saddened by the songs and the whores with sad flesh kept singing and the city waxed and waned and busses became lizards and trams became snails and grave oceanliners cut through grey miasma of the waters of love and all were tied to chances and to the damnation of choices to be and to not be and the waters rose and the whores kept singing till the king’s eyes were red and the hunter cried, the hunted cried in throbs and shrieks of ghastly ruin and first there was nothing and then there was no one and then there were both nothing and no one and the streets were empty and silent and then there was no street no empty and no silent and all went to the carnival that’s blocked into other zones of freedom that looked like a lot, of perfection that looked like a dog in chains and in dogged fury. Great music haunted the core. Resilient beats raised heads of fury against the sky in fabulous furore of upheaval and declaration of endurance and rode out against the lifeless gazes and empty spaces and then the great war happened and great horns were blown and wolves leapt out of vines of pain and angels of decay and clowns of damnation sat heavy on realms of reckoning and looked down the deep sombre abysses and chasms and strange cold light fell on the valley of the ones pressed to hapless oblivion and saw its strange contours, ridges darker than darkness, the brutal throbbing of silence, tranquil hazes and ancient frightful formless things swirling inside the realm of sonority and turbulence of essence, and things deeper than essence or events of resurrection and decimation. heavy judges of the heavy being and their fixed gaze.
those lonely naked children, in Roman masks, frozen while screaming out in dreary misery, became heroes and riders of the vastly booming wilderness.  
Yellow lights glistened on empty streets.
Sidewalks sighed against the torpor and turpitude of immortality
Flesh raged against the sharp credence of mortality
Primal castles stood tall in grisly endurance
Puppets, cursed to the choicelessness of choices, broke free and sought to smash all walls and fences and rode out in search of that great glory of freedom across the bright haze. Highways glistened in moonlight.


Harlot of strength comes to me
Speaks to me words of love
This journey isn’t over
No journey ever gets over.
Lightning strikes the sea
The shot the flowers
It’s all fucked.

Trains shoots forth
Train shoots forth

Train shoots forth
Train shoots forth
Train shoots forth Train shoots forth Train shoots forth Train shoots forth Train shoots forth Train shoots forth Train shoots forth Train shoots forth Train shoots forth Train shoots forth Train shoots forth Train shoots forth Train shoots forth Train shoots forth Train shoots forth Train shoots forth Train shoots forth Train shoots forth Train shoots forth Train shoots forth Train shoots forth Train shoots forth Train shoots forth Train shoots forth Train shoots forth Train shoots forth.
But there’s no doctor on that side.

And then the stranger and the estranged became one. There lies great fun in that. Sailors lost and sailors found, in domes of doom and climes of stormy pursuit, stonefaced opera walks down the pale streets, throbs versus stabs in alleys, the gutting of the pigs – blades and piranhas, rotund madrigals and asses of rotund madrigals. Our hopes, their harlequin. Our haplessness their thunders. Sea raises curtain. Beguiling horror and its coldest pitch. Children shrieking for mercy. Gutters shrieking for mercy. Relentless terror of the core. Stuff seeking to burst out and flesh seeking to press down.

It’s a two-faced snake – there’s a king at one end and a worshipper at the other.
Birds return to altars of sundown
Worshipper kneels
King shivers
Snakes eat birds.
My meat isn’t your meat
Your meat isn’t my meat.

Bust melons and clipped wings. Asssqueezed cherries of the heart go where all stuff flushed down the shitpot of heart does. That’s a damned frozen place too.
Ashen faces – petals eat geometry. The slow dying of moments. Sadness dangling down clockhands.
Protracted nonchalance of aircrafts in brazen hangars.
People scared shitless before grave mammoths of duress.
There’s a fucked duel of phantoms going on all round this.  
nothing ever mattered.
everything ever did.

The last titan took a piss at the moon and went off to the deep sandalwood forests
We haven’t seen him ever since.
We can hear him farting in there since memory took forms and got tied to the vectors of history and chromosomes.
One pertinent observation: Thetis’s nose has been a few inches below Jupiter’s right nipple ever since.

Staircase in darkness.
Thick moss.
Creatures that move in dreadful realms.
Insane laughter to burst through the skies.
Humans bend down.
Insects don’t.

Glows from wildly distant caves. Army of candour marching past take me closer to mirrors. Faces & masks bring cold news. Information sticks to more information. Flesh sticks to more flesh. The key lies in sticking. The lock lies in this wholesome damnation of entirety.
Blue pulp of blue fruits for the yearning.
Prophesy as the third medicine:
everything that could have happened, has happened.

Back to the wailing wells.
Moon goes down.
A touch of skin.
Stuff rots.
River runs red
Wind blows past proud oaks and stout bulls
In the beginning there’s the beginning
In the end there’s the end
In between, soft sisters of love weep in silence
Fishes weep in silence
The world weeps in silence.
And then the camels of diamond looked up
and saw the other cracks.

And then one jolt and Fun strikes hard at lionball lionmaze belly stomach much pounding beating of vibes and vices and turnip melancholy of the downright dejected the damned gray of decimated canters past realms of great thunder, massive rumbling, turnpike evanescence surged forth in further fury as mothers and sirens gathered frost gathers on windowpanes moths gather by flames and ancillary detection of things that move and roll and impetus through stimuli of much and factors waited by the shores waiting for the ships and nothing and blank rhythms arrived on horses of froth and struck hard and sharp and then the slaughterhouse sonata began and thus it began and all realms and climes of great magic folded to reams of silence and other terrible conundrums as stuff that trickle down trickled down and gained in strength to pull all curtains down in vital force of the coreglow dot and yes, magic, wings and powder from stings and conceiving of parallel monitors that beep and bleed in pluses and minuses of this and of that happened and there was great delight in the completeness of destruction and binaries trotted and tickled the crotch of creation in essence and amplitude for the hidden layers – and craze  leapt out in beastly dashing flames and the loveless metals of booming judgment through tombs of the mind and body where they sat and dreamed and fought and bleared out by the fading shades of ecstatic endless humming of smoke that grips soul and soul that grips smoke in heaving hapless miracles and visions of torrential misery, ceaseless bombing of the senses, yielding to the stoic nurses of detached mercy and parchment in waking abandonment of epiphanies that illuminate the skies of stretching the outer rims of blunt mellow tyrannies we face and deface and efface on slender ideas of new light, sexless enjoinment, candid kingdoms of voracious pallor and electric spirit of Rubicon crossed and chained and unchained and etched desperate attainment of the oasis of this numb mind, that numb soul, those numb fallacies on switches and regulators of sordid melancholy of the base, fingers eaten by stuff that roam untamed in the dark and take forms of darkness and often strike in formless forces of the stunned, shunted thread of sinister summing up of all that’s perceived and all that isn’t and all in mighty wrath and acid for the insects which were burning in blood and the buses were burning in blood and king and kingdom and hunter and hunted and children and heroes children of heroes danced in the insane blast of stuff that is and isn’t and was and wasn’t and will be and won’t be and of everything else and all were circled by enchantment as the wolves became one with darkness and darkness became one with the wolves and yet their eyes were glowing like their eyes glow and regal, hideous falcons in full glory of bloom spread their wings that covered that world in gruelling shadows of silence and terror of all choked urges that scream and howl and whimper and puff out in trembling trails of transcendence that will never be found by the happily lost, the sadly lost, and by the rest who drown in penchant panache and insane passion of the fetid putrefaction of senses and the kids who cry themselves hoarse by the incensed pyramids and other totems of monstrosity, hecatomb and incessant, gnashing bloodbath of stages and ages of hypnotic reification of the hallowed galleries and precipices of recollection of stuff that were before this bulwark of steel and ribosome was built by the harsh slaves of euphoria and need in the cold hinterland of impacts swiped down the terrific terrains and straight into the calm purple lake where lotus of turgid hollow bliss had bloomed in full glory and is still blooming in full glory for there isn’t much to do and all as been done and there isn’t much to be and all has been been.


A perception of contexts
Velocity and those splendid ghostly precepts
Temples of marigold cognition
Eclipsed singularity of harmony in perfect chaos
Sunflowers in perfect, brazen rebellion against sun
Cock and cunt temerity.
Sullen demons run amok in frenzied alleys and shelters.
They bombed the kingdom of hurt tonight
Even the pavements are crying tonight.    

Shapes, I refuse to wait any longer:
I’ll rip off your robe of senses
and make beastly love to you in rain.


No comments: