Conditions of Conflict

Caught again and rising

In the communion of steel

Once again, these four walls

And these ten fingers

Stank up by compulsions of endurance

Fouled by litmus-sour lies

The same rain-clouds

The same trams

The same guards

The same sets of betrayal and honesty

And then it’s time for the hounds

To tear through the night

The best part of this play

That makes supermen out of clay

is where the clown gets butchered.

And the butcher gets clowned.

 ….

Dainty whores with pastry-flesh

Birds fly all night

Come all voluptuaries of these times

These are not very happy times

These are the right times to lose and never regain

Birds lost in motherly arms

Birds lost in neural decay

Monsters smiling through glasswalls of love

Cold train passes by.

Everyone smiling, dancing

Everyone happy.

Lyotard didn’t expect this.

Pygmies from paperback dreams

Breach weary horizon.

……..

The problem with electro-social expression

Is that everyone seems intent of serving their shit

In a platter to the world, and everyone

is convinced of their genius. And all these self declared

masterpieces are so similar to one another

that it’s rather tiring. Mass production of porn has killed

our libido. It’s poetry’s turn next.

…..

The landscapes we inherit in the market-places

of mind

decay through over-use and symbols,

war and litigation,

famines, infamy

as death-birds peep through keyholes of fogged heart

and life-birds await the sun

and the in-between birds rage against the vile debauchery

that surround our purest inheritance of lusty cognition.

And on and on mad elephants dance in rain

Till all is silent and bells stop ringing inside brain

And the much voodooed charm leaps out

and hovers over the fiery tip of midnight

for the reptiles of love and of hate to wake up

and slither towards open spaces that never were.  

….

In beginning it began

And then the wind got stronger

And darker

And love was bitter

We drank from the river

The river flooded

We sailed the seven seas

We followed the seven stars

We discovered, invented and constructed

gods and cities and vitamins and towels

All was good

All was bad

In the end it will end

And the wind won’t get any stronger.

…

I entered this very strange room

There were 50 little people and 50 little houses in there

And there was a filthy old man lying on the floor

And pissing at the roof that had paintings of splendid naked virgins

He winked at me and said

“society won’t notice”

It seemed fun.

Soon, I could see tiny helicopters flying all over the place

And there was some music too.

I was there for a long long time

And then I was bored

So I got up and walked towards the exit door at the other side

As I turned the knob, I could hear groaning and moaning behind me

Soon it turned into a shrieking lament so sharp that it pierced

my guts. There was no sunlight, and as I turned back I saw the old man has vanishd

And all the houses, people, choppers melting like chocolate in heat

I opened the exit door. The room was at the edge of a cliff.

…

Ice-cream van of pain, slugging past weary twilight

Dark flowers abloom

Caves caving in

Soon, all paths shall be gutted

And grave catastrophe shall dump down like sludge

on our hunchbacked lives.

Ice-cream van of pain brings this sad news

And has been condemned by tyranny and attrition

to crawl away and move apart

You, who is beyond all shadow

And keep the hangman away from the noose

And the noose from the neck

And the lion from the flesh

Please do something about this.

…

Pick up a sparrow-song from the cesspool

Pick up a pickaxe from the carnival wagon.

There’s no surrender

Heart shall fight machine

Till one or both are dead.

…

O meat of love pure and true

O meat of love I yearn for you

Delighted, pigeons fly.

O meat of love in the sky

O meat of love o regal pound

O meat of love o profound

Smooth swans afloat.

Meat of love in feather-coat

…

Superman-story isn’t finished yet

I dragged by one sixty odd pound corpse out

And the skies were thawing in frenzied chaos

I get bored easily

And it’s not my fault that the world is

The most boring of all prisons

Half-crazed children of the moon

Are suddenly very happy

And pure souls that smell like freedom

Are being pawned off to meet interests

That pile of the debt of sanity

As tax, toll, fee, rent and other charges

This duress is amazing

Even the flies are getting repulsed by shit

And are settling for and on air-conditioned popcorns instead

Mom, why did you let Dad screw you?

Did you moan and shiver when he was crushing your petite body

against his demonic frame?

Were both of your sweating like a brutal dog-and-bitch pair?

Did you wrap your legs around his waist while he was pumping his wrath inside you?

I will kill him for this.

Superman-story isn’t finished yet.

….

I look at stars tumbling down the turmoil of cosmos

I look at the grand silence looming outside my window

Even the cockroaches are placid sometimes

And the earth makes no sound and shows no light

Sadness and solitude like twin archangels sitting atop the tallest minaret

of the world from where everything can be seen and heard

They know of every light that’s put out

I’m sure they can see me to

I’ll be sad and lonely without them.

And in the silent bar-room full of strangers – all are

staring at me.

I can be a killer,

I can be a lover

Or I can be both.

…

Being born into this world of ill-conceived erotica

ill-timed humour and ill-bred sanctity

is the ultimate price we pay to exist

the load gets heavy with time and more of the same shit

is injected. Look where we live. It’s a fortress of strict accountability

being guarded by wild beings. And new guards are reinforced every day

some people jump out of windows

some go insane

some go insane and jump out of windows

and the rest gets numb.  

Exceptions do exist – those who plan ways and means of escape

But they keep disappearing in the strangest of manners

And no one gets to know

what happened to them.

And through these little games of love and shit we’re taught

To play to keep ourselves busy and

To keep ourselves from going crazy or suicidal with boredom or

getting the idea of resistance.

It’s a lousy joke that’s being played over and over

The irony being that we had designed this whole thing ourselves

because we had nothing else to do

other than fucking and dying.

….