Thursday, February 21, 2013

Puppetspeak From the Doomed Carnival

wolf-dance, dancity-dance, lights,
shot thrice in the ass – glassfold life, this, petal-edge, like an oyster stuck in the guts of hell, monsters with big red eyes.


of people and other shit
streets in curvy steer, lactobaby, harpies-wings. yes. write to me at times. it’s like picking pubic hair stuck between the molars before the next cigarette and lying back and observing the smokes as they toll up like vines of dark crime, roofbound, plain.
and doing nothing else.
and thinking nothing else.

back to the midnight birds.
i’ve been here before
the purity of this
is overwhelming.
even tableclocks know this.

i knock the moon out. Rabelais and Nietzsche fuck each other blue. Tongues weave out from frosty moss of this, that, teddy-tedium clusterfuck Cinderella in sundown and Radharani in the moondown through the easy ways like, music, which, as opposed to the idea of music, can stab the guts of soul and shoelaces and vitamins so fast and clinical that the core bleeds out a little speck of the wholesome, chaotic mass of things and stuff.
my mind my mother of sunlight and pussy my whore in rainsong sunsong
city moves
city burns
city shits
lifting her petticoat
right into my mouth.
my face is a river now
my arms are roots now
my feet are roads now
my fingers are caravans now

our shadows become children and roam the naked earth.

looking out of the train window i saw banana trees in moonlight and i thought of love so pretty that it watered my eyes.
lonely men and lonely women water plants in sundown and die in solitude and when they die they die and hence they aren’t lonely anymore. 
mind leans on railings of love & rot.
flesh grows on bones
skin covers flesh
we touch skin with skin
skin takes a lot of shit
skin knows a lot of shit
prison-walls grow taller
lions roar from forests
balloons fly all night by the shore
the moon isn’t a balloon
the moon isn’t a boat
a boat isn’t a balloon
a balloon isn’t a boat
and then that cold durability
it’s all fucked.

blue pulp. fruits through neural circle – it’s cyclic, and

Gilgamesh holds the beast
Gilgamesh tears the beast.

This whole damned circus of flying pussies and flying fishes and its relentless strikes at the kingdom of gold gets to me in bars and brothels in singing cities of massacre, fresh polyps, eclipsed, like weary bazaars await the rain and get all fucked and gooey when it actually rains and it rains like hell for years for centuries and then it waits for the rain to stop and she stoops to conquer and we admire her ass and the bit that shines through the muck, and gloom – and there’s music in the streets and this neoncraze, this halo, this reclaiming of lost crowns – create love, recreate – victory, impetus and movement – particles – 0 and 1 – elements, divisible – the tending to stuff, we worship geometry and those other links – ghosts that were pressed out of reckoning through centuries – in another cold glow, another recollection – dreaming through ages, that huge kid, one that seeks to mark and demarcate, the mercury and the phenomenon – tainted, pulsating – dreams touch forehead, forehead touch mind, mind drowns in things in general and other stuff, and it all goes on, rotund, symmetry and shit – laying down of weapons – neutralisation of chances, choices, squares, rectums – rectal evenings, Chevrolet ebbtides, hymns, juniper ferries and waxed farishta, turn off, beat, collateral & cosmopolitan – shooting straight at the curves, shooting sunset dust, humbled by the grand shadows, avenues clasp themselves, like snakes in slippery coitus,
press your cheeks against the cold bathroom tiles
close your eyes
recline into the slow meandering of centuries.  

And Iogos was with God.

soldiers drooping in yellow doom
ship sails past my shore, balcony stuck in pale rhythm – glass-mirror forehead – mired in light and laughter, shapes drown in inkpot of mind.
love me, love.

That long horned twilight with eyes so scary that roses refuse to bloom.
the damned cry for mercy
shrieks and screeches that feel the sky with notions of false continuum. depraved, children of the doomed city – there, dot the core, core the dot, fearless cherub cycles along all neural frontiers – the fun lies in pushing to the extremes,
the relentless beat, sonority – our prophet of strong voice and clear vision,
our stern passivity and the selfsame piranhas that knock when no one else knocks – stuff that hang and stuff that stick and stuff that gets loose and floats in fucked patterns – echoes of the soft sorrow and other footsteps – what dreams what phantasmagoria what glory what chickenshit etc etc.

Curtains fly
Mighty elephants sleep
Ferris wheel of everything that holds the zonked out zone together,
in the heart of hearts, they shot at the pigeons,
minstrels of moonlight charged at the dawn,
i become mind
train leaves station

i have killed the big bull
i have tied the three-headed hound beside every sad crossing
i have 33 battle-wounds on my body
i have crossed out the necessary dynamos
i weep in silence like all the lost children of twilight
i look into the eyes of people who wither in silent solitude
i don’t look at other people
i don’t look at the moon
i don’t look at the stars
i can’t look at the sun
sun wields mercy.

beaten to ghastly submission, our shadows shiver in lacklove cold and crawl toward dark mossy caves and primitive temples, searching for gods and other altars to bow their weary heads and seek freedom.
strange green monsters with glowing eyes stare at them from distant forests.

long ago there was an oak and the oak was beside a lake and a lotus bloomed on the lake.
the lotus fell in love with the oak and wanted to become the oak
the oak fell in love with the lotus and wanted to become the lotus
they moved mountains, slayed monsters and toppled kingdoms with their love.
and nothing much happened after that
and then they died.
and nothing much happened after that either.

blatant harmony of chances playing through our roofs and walls as cold steely tunes become switchknives and stab the core to bloodless pale being and calibration – it’s that same weirdassed algorithm, perfectly imperfect, moonlight massacre and other sad jazz.

things just refuse to stand the way they should have.

long ago in the kingdom of melancholy where clouds loom like deep dark prophesies there lived a bluebird and there was a blackbird and they went to the sad king sitting on his sad throne and told him of the great pearl of wisdom and so the king left his palace in search of the pearl. he couldn’t find it and so he got mighty pissed and got the birds trapped in a golden cage.
they’ve been there since then and on those sharply lucid hours past midnights we can hear them chirping and telling of a hell lot of stuff from inside their cages and if we follow their sounds we end-up at the kingdom of melancholy where clouds loom like deep dark prophesies where things are pretty much fucked just like they are in all other kingdoms.

ahoy there, moon rabbit!
where’s your piston?
where the fuck is you mortar?

the brutal upheaval of shapes from holes and chasms that run into forgotten layers of abject memoryfuck miasma takes me close to the decay. snakes tangled in eternal coitus take me close to river. river runs naked. river runs past naked man naked woman, river takes Ophelia. River takes Orpheus. River takes Lakhinder. River takes my voice. River takes my eyes. River takes my fingers. River takes my forehead. River takes my cock. River takes a hell lot of shit. fucked aircrafts buzz along fucked sky. fucked flies buzz over fucked rot.

this blue damnation
that blue sonority.

Prometheus, my king.

mirror mirror on the wall
the flying trapeze and its rise and fall
crucifixes and chromosomes – mutilation of numbers and therapy leading to pale norms, abysmal sonata, stuff that wilts and wanes – heavy angel sits on mind, soul takes colour from frail songs that survive despite everything and other bits that glow when nothing else does, meat drowns in meat.

music. lurid strains – our armaments of fatigue falling loose on the floor, creating and recreating myths of time, history and essence – that continuous flow sabotage & tedium. the demons are sad tonight. universe jumps down in beastly heave, silenced flowers, miasma of filth and charm – drowning, resurrection of the soul, renaissance of the covers.

Mockingbird mocks twice and mocks no more.
Stuff shivers twice and shivers no more.
big strong god of silence speaks once and speaks no more
Fun to nourish the core – strong laughter to break the chains, to cut through the stony judges and iron bars. Freedom to smash chance-choice-probability and other walls that choke the flow. Lions roar at clouds. Clouds roar at lions. Slaughtersong Sabbath – guards stare still and badlands grin at this rotting away. we didn’t deserve this.  

from all that bind
from the hunter
from the hunted
from the cold automobile kingdoms
from the boxes
from the hummingbirds
from the pantomimes
from the cold blades
from chromosome and continuity
run from shit to shit till it doesn’t matter.

we rise strong like shapes of fright through dark visions, the core and its ennui, mind in loops and through planktons and protoplasm – you know how it is, the dwindling of light, the losing out on stuff that matter and then of stuff that doesn’t till it’s one fucked blank zone eating you up in a gulp and shitting you down in a retch and then you’re shit and you still try making sense and showing the world that you make sense in accordance with the axioms and other clauses and situations – and you keep on making sense till you start believing that stuff actually make sense and milk loses honey and lizards stare like gods of doom.

A snapping of ties 
An outbreak
Wars and cacophony
Piranha-mind flinches and muscles and tissues cave in altogether into the deeper cosmos and into other fucked chasms.

Xolotl Xolotl the endgame. The big victory of defeat, concrete flower and cacti daze – visions bleeding before mortal endness, Xolotl, naked busses naked trams in Titanium plutocracy, arches hold unknown history, forts hang from precipices, fight lightning, fight storms and time, Xolotl shivers, unnoticed, hound of love and lovefuck, my oasis of cataclysm, my march of lurid prophesies, Xolotl Xolotl my mind is hunger my body is here my soul is you and here, now, in moments of eternity and sharp weighty vectors that smash through all altars, sanctuary and symmetry, bursting out of beasts that gnash and mound the corepulp pink glow, blasts through the haze sacred and profane, Xolotl signifier, Xolotl signified, significant scarecrows and bullhorns – fearful in victory and defeat, faithful in all that breaks, anatomy of symbols, iconoclast, splendour of forgotten realms. Xolotl, prophesy, medicines of filth and carnage, fifth horsemen shadows the other four, my sweet pain of mortality, flesh of love, revolt against having to choose till we won’t choose, into the starry nonchalance, ride out ride out voices booming blazing through the squares and other frontiers as badlands wink and goodlands cry out for love so pristine and pure that it makes eyes water and great dark rivers flow below and huge balls of fire roar across the skies above and everything trembles as mountains roll out wisdom of the ages. Xolotl, there’s blood in your boat. there’s blood in your river. Sunset birds return to sunset. Evening becomes snake to eat little birds. And then it’s all silent and birds chirp no more and Xolotl Xolotl you see the cold burning of the empires, their immense beauty, like God, like catatonic conspiracy, chaotic silence and darkness and glowing eyes, perfect symphony, curtains flying, to rummage through leaves, murderous, Isis, no, Isis, Lactobaby gives, mother gives, they’ve deserted the sacred cavities now, it all burns, relics of the ancient soul, ruined cities inside, lost treasures, tittyfuck synchronicity, rounded sonatas gliding through her shoulderblades, pearls gather around her thighs. i enter the cold room of centuries, train – static – coital – fury – chimera – tigers – paper-mache – puke – plastic – bonsai-carnivores.        


we grow like vines moving up word-webbed columns of vitamins, towels and aristocracy. we shoot sharp bullets down chromosomal pipelines. we fight death with love.

is our shadow.

puppets ride mountains of grief
pigeons fly in meatball bounty
eyes compromise
soothe weary horizons – to
to yearn
match up to life and death making fucksy shadows on roofs and walls
blackbirds fly bluebirds fly melancholy my regina and enchantress – sad patterns, desperate for freedom and pure love, laughter in the skies, tumbling cardhouses of Mama Death, Mama Love and Mama Loneliness – moon grows white in rot, dogs hump on dogged summernoons – deliverance from shit was never that easy – this lump of balls and guts and flesh and sweat and irony – covers the whole damned, doomed world.

Kid, I envy your desolation
mine isn’t half as splendid.

Kid, come down from these words
and into my arms

the best thing about squishing mosquitoes is when that blood which once was yours oozes out of their mangled corpses and splatters against your palm – it isn’t reclaiming what once was yours but preventing some other miserable bastard from having it. it’s like you blaze through the night of mad fires to reclaim your lost kingdom and find that some measly asshole has ruined it; you know you can’t get the glory back. nevertheless, you kill the asshole. Half-measures, i tell you. Our sorry, majestic world moves on them.  

the roses that fight the world in our garden of agony
are sad tonight. the moon is down tonight.
and again and again, those selfsame dots move around light and darkness, our shadows loom large over us. no bird has ever made it to Valhalla.
the world has wronged the world.
that’s where this mad rush to even scores out lead to, along their mazes and fucked sinuous ways.
heart, play in silence tonight.

and that wizard and his idea of immense delight in reaching his own universe – snapping shit ties, getting entangled with the shit ties of that universe he thought to be his own: putrid senses long for purity, perfection, pyramids, trains in rain, flowers in sun, thick soft towels, vitamins, vitality, amalgams, guava forests, Tintoretto, pterodactyls, tiramisu, tarantula, transneural transmission of shit & other shit, and other shit.     

by now, we have buried the wizard in the universe he thought to be his own. Under some desert or rainforest or altar or the id, or maybe in deeper, darker places and times. the thin, wise, dying, haunt our own nightmares with fucked formless stuff, stretch across a hell lot of plains, beyond all ideas of geometry that set bounds, like some flower rotting or maybe the slow rise of flowers from shit or maybe a bit of both and it’s not new but it comes to us in little drops and our knowledge to it is new, in some blue, no shit, colourless whatever and even the knowledge is streamlined by norms of way things have been or have been calculated to be, being, in short, more of geometry and other stuff in general and hence isn’t the way it ought to have been and that’s to be perfect and yet seeks to be monitored by reckoning.

and then they inject the feel of completion, like throwing in a little prize or bone, and the rot has risen so high that you can’t see much else.
well, i can, but that’s another story,
                        that story
                                                      not belong
       this or

purple big ways sudden chill of facing the long forgotten, strange huge cracks, stuff burns below – survival instincts of certain creatures are splendid, the other’s haven’t or else won’t survive long enough.

think of the mammoth
i think of the make-believe mammoths in make-believe twilight
and the idea of mammoths and homeopathy. stuff refuse to hold more stuff long enough, chromosomal marks, pathways designed through time to endure storms and history to retain the mark – shit. or maybe, not.
At times we do need to fight death, which, unlike life, isn’t there inside and hence it’s the idea of mortality we worship and fight with, fighting being another among the infinite links that tie us to the worship.  

we fight death with love.

in that kingdom there was a place of tireless Angels and one for the tired ones.
stuff don’t matter more than they do.
that chill of cold reckoning needs to reach out in waves instead of these sudden tremors.
subservience being the only benefit of discipline a lot of cats die while crossing streets
and i didn’t know that i was being when i was being born.

and in that kingdom we glide through the palaces and gardens and tombs and temples,
we glide through dark dank rooms which seem to know and hold beyond a lot – along ancient whispering corridors leading from one hallway to another as cold, massive ages and reptiles and touches and shadows and wolves and voices and roses and rivers and masks and children of the rivers and children frozen in gruesome masks of pain and flow – in slow inevitability of the stars – through that kingdom.


feetless birds live in the sky
paper-boat floats by
moon drowns in honey
piranhas bite into our shades of love
write to me
Lactobaby of dusk awaits the eighth
Lactobaby of dusk sleeps by the tides.

the idea is to rise above this shit
and to fight and endure with brutal strength
it’s like the sun shining over the mountains from postcards i used to get once in my dark cold room and i used the open them and the sparrows would chirp a bit from outside and the room used to light up a bit and it’s all like someone passing by with a tune or two and the tune enters the tunnel through which you move and the tune would be there and the shit wouldn’t be there and you won’t go out looking for meanings and reasons for a while and stuff would make sense for a while before the core hardens again and clouds gather and darkness descends and making sense won’t matter once again and vectors would get fucked up and the carnival won’t seek to bet geometry and geometry won’t seek to beat the carnival and it would all be one in great frightening love that eats all and mingles all up and things will again be fucked like they mostly are and there’s weird harmony in that, despite everything that stabs stings and heaves out.

first came the dots and then these ridiculous efforts to join them. falsity shatters the kingdom. the kingdom is the tiger of in twilight. the other tiger is inside. we see its silhouette in moonlight of heart.
heart goes cold and hungry
home is a cold place
hunter and his huntersong
chases the hunted down sinister alleys
the other tiger can’t be hunted. cat crawls close to the weary withered belly of the ages
dogs in dogged hump under the brutal midnoon sun
empty spaces burst out and shoot pass us

Ashurbanipal holds the sky and shoots from his horse
Ashurbanipal slays the kings and stands in cruel pride

and sometimes it rains a bit
and we cry a little as heron-rimmed evenings inch closer to the cavities and camels of wisdom and diamond saunter by the corridors. wildbeasts stare at heart of hearts. big strong horses stand in moonlight.  big strong heart stands in sun.

let us all weep for the lameness of the hours.

let us all weep for Mama Death and her lover, our wise Giver of mercy and totality. our sad blue boat
has left their sad green shore.
and we’re all dots and the relentless animosity of thorns and petals, flesh and vacant spaces,
is unbearable.

total obedience.
dissenters will be shot.
kingdom of iron and shades
here people live and die to make sense.
zebras stand through the hours and centuries in moonlit tumult
against the cold tiles we move
eyes aglow with temerity,
a drop – music by the hills, there’s a tree out there, somewhere within the mangled patterns of cockandcunt crisscrossing of chromosomes and saltpetre, lost in ghastly mist, eaten by worm-edge evenings, salty tides move up and down – we all carried strange torches when we moved through the dungeons and caves in search of the lost gods, we all could clearly see the decayed corners and coarse, ruthless enlightenment, unyielding truculence, great mystery of the ages and patterns – brutal sources of grief, children of dreams and nightmares move along the corridors of time history and creation.     


blade through the bombs of brain-death games
cities and towns bleeding
great spiritual enlightenment.
it’s like a submarine.
and then there are people who drink goatmilk and fart frrt
unlearn all unlearn all
civilization and its schools do not love
and do not teach to love
hence they are bad
hence they shouldn’t be.

chain runs through heart of hearts beastly hurt
train runs through heart of gold almost dead
snipers await our exit

this room is nowhere

and now i will enter the temple of god
and now i shall reveal the great mystery of life and love before god-shaped altars
and then i will take the stage to talk about death.of.the.soul.

Primitive, scratched, enduring the tides,
out, out, brief candle
hurrah for the hurricane!
Go, rue.

pick it up
dig it deep
machine lies at heart of city
sparrow-song lies at heart of city
conspiracy of the curves, volatile monotones,
god, who but me has ever seen you beautiful?

sad things flow down roofs and walls and fill the room.
timid insects spread wings to reveal wholesome dots of flesh
this perversion of the galaxies
is unbearable.
it’s not even about lovers who weep by orchards and sullen rivers
it’s not about anything but this waste
we’re all in this.
our bus veers, cliffbound, and takes that final great plunge
as leopards leap out
and prophets ride those coolly dead ponies.

nonchalance is necessary for this
sanity isn’t.

same old cumstained bedsheet
same old dying elephants
same old cars leading to same old shit
harmony and the sonorous carousel
curtains fade in rain
and sunlight – busted melons of life,
blinded at the curves
sidelined by silhouettes
shit begets more shit.
thorny jewels, horny lepers,
drowning of the ants,
mind dons a kingly grey robe
soul sold off to sustenance and breathing
further shores approach,
we wait. we watch.

much can be won and more lost for the sundown of her eyes.
even long abandoned automobiles know of this
even Pirandello and the giraffes know of this.

sad daisy days.

                                           today, calendar mocks me, can’t say much about dates and days.

kill                               war
escape                                                       hell

carefully rich heroes
dainty girls in stockings

blind grabbing of whatever floats around
they day it’s raining in the hills
little postcards
little pieces of ass
doorknob doorknob talk to me
doorknob is sadness now
other pretty little things, pretty enough to make me cry
but you don’t cry. do i?

a dot of blue. diadem. Dionysus.  Libidinous.
Acid-bird fly high fly fly sonic boom fly like God in flesh skin God skin bleed, Lokayat, look look what serene hush hath befallen fall and fall of the psyche into churning of the multiples and multiplicity into the world in fucked riot, colours and turbulence, tremors of tides, tonsured babies of the grave, of mango and love, of the honey of life of knife and looking through, looking past, passed, eyes, eerie haze, Boa constrictor,

who goes?

You who claim courage, go judge the judges

Shit goes in
Shit comes out

mind with guts

once i had a mind with guts
and i had guts with mind
then i got mind with mind
and i got guts with guts
strong wind blew over the grasslands and sun boomed in blunt glory and it still does and wind blows too and the nights go colder and fire burns strong and people who live inside the flames come out under the skies when all the stars are seen and their kingdom inside the flames becomes empty and the streets are cold and codliver and deserted too o traitor of the heart song a song of love o farmer of soul bloom a flower of love etc etc lion sleeps tonight etc in heart’s radio they play the sweetest song ever when all is silent and the song talks of misery, melancholy and how they’re burning the bridges and bombing the cities and yet at times it all feels good and heart’s diamond glints a tinge of the pure and right and it’s almost like freedom and perfect laughter rides out in search of perfect freedom and then we sleep with children of peace and we wake to find creatures approaching and we are all scared shitless and fear becomes huge and bold and fear rises from chasms that lead to zonked-out zones, Zombieland, blank faces from blank places,  fear is formless fear has teeth fear eats fear shits.

the Judge said hand ‘em high

let us



hello, tide

hello, gallery

tunnels inside

listen, listen, Sariputra

lurid climes beckon

and then sudden bloodshot. river fills meat, lagoon fills meat, heliotrope by the sea, silver flames. timid resilience of stars. crystal light, moon shaped mothers bathe in rivers of moon. river carries ash of love. phantoms fly all night across the desert sky. that deep solitude. it’s all a fucked-up pell.

sand-grained words spread out. feathers. juniper-light jamboree – that, this, gray, like those countless damned centuries of death and dust. Port of life by purple sea. priest of dead stars walks towards evening-edged sundown.

overwhelmed world pumps shadows. it all goes to wise water. water imparts wisdom of flow and coolblue ages. sundrenched tigers stand and roar like they have, in our vital dark, in craze, embalmed and verdant, like some terrible totem taking strong stand for sex and death, proud against time. I see you, little touches inside little rooms, rainbow-laced curtains fly, slaughtersongs fade for a while and there is great laughter, another world another tender dream, another tremor before it all coils along in spirals through dark vines of prophesy and other oystered medicines and those serious columns of terror and turpitude. man woman child goes out for pearl. pearl of the mind is black. light of the mind is cold.      

that fickle slope of light, awake, steering through steadfast dark mass, to our Arabian Nights, dreams, of lost children and sad princesses, of willows that bow by the watery bends. appleflowers shake. archers gather by the grave, ancient woods, almost as old as fear, shaking the whole fucked world with bleak wisdom, reckoning, of chromosomes and harshly fatal memories through mist beyond history, hitmen hit hard, great spirit arises.   

dearest, send out your ambassador. give me a placard.

did I tell you off the mahogany turbines?
did I scratch my ass?

development of the core. shivers run through our arctic, primal core, there’s a mad carnival out there and a million masks dangle down fucked mirrors of the fucked world. creatures scream within.

immolation of the minstrels.
excavate, exhume, resurrect.

the razor and the rabbit.  

run through the shell-shocked throbs.
run through the mauve spread

woke up. blue moon-glow musk. Festivals. Velvet Styx. Pigs screaming in perfect pain. Every sun seems infected.

pain and other fucked constructions.
I realize.
I fear.
O man of strength
O woman of love
wrap yourselves up in half-moon shadow.
that deep sleep through waves, darkness, miracles and the dirge

and then to wake and win.


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