Now if you think carefully though better you not, because all thinking is fraught with ideas of an antique stamp bearing marks of worries time immemorial. Bearing scratches of doggie paws with the bone on the inside of the door. So it appeared to me when in this august time of the arrival of her I read that all of them are lonely, dejected, depressed, dislocated, desultory, disinclined, indisposed with the sign of rain over the window, and their mind arrested in that sunny time back home. like they are ticklish with melancholy but not sure where to scratch. And it absolutely is no match for the reading public, the discerning readers, who innocently turn pages for inspiration and vigour to find a cockroach on the bed that was human before waiting for breakfast. Or a goat just about with his head above the water in the well that was quite a swimmer before. No no it wont do at all to say that lonely is the new lovely. No no to say im not coming back home. The lay reader doesn’t know that you are feeling bad, sorry, frustrated, disappointed, dissatisfied with no direction home. He is a cherub (if it’s a she oh then what can I say — bellisima?) who doesn’t understand these things. All of life’s mysteries were laid bare to him when that girl back in the time of apples for breakfast had told him peter pan wears no undies. Now all you metaphysical poets cant insist word in and word about this regurgitating heart of ours that you are very lonely. Write when you next to say that you’ve been in the rain and heard a mother tell her child, while crossing the street, are you blind. Couldn’t you see there was a puddle there. But stick mostly to descriptions of that child seized with the imp of mischief.

Very shortly il become a piss artist in las vegas, and while my show will be at late nights, only for five or six days, it will be on the margins. I don’t expect many to attend. Because this time it is not my gig, I am not headlining. This time while Calcutta turns out like vegas, il be staining the glass of my soul with an image of some icon, or be hanging upside down from a ceiling painting the temptation of Christ. Something that is of little worth at the present, while its being made, but which will draw great pathos in the very very distant future. Then obviously il have wonder and sympathy, things which I don’t understand now, and hence which il have to borrow. In that time il not be there.
This time the milky city will be someone else’s. Like a whore it will readily give love to those that come asking. It will ask no questions, it wont open a bedtime book, or between passions be afraid of flashing bulbs. She will tell whatever love there is is in this moment. Then die, and if you can, be unborn. It will not pretend that there is so much more. Calcutta will constantly remind there is so little. She will be ready for them that have suddenly become butterflies. For those that don’t know this yet, but soon will when past midnight of an undying day they suck the honey from secret mouths. And boys and girls will be surprised like they were sleeping in the meadow and a star brushed their cheek. For boys and girls when they sit in the lovely like the owl and the pussycat. My clock has sped up, and il find myself downstream. Very soon. Then too, as is now, il be wishing more than anything else for relief, for a crowd. For all my friends. For the bottle, and the bong. Then too il be wishing pujas.

defenestration (only if for love) no 1
he picked up a paint brush and with an elbow on a palm and
a palm under the chin
thinked how things really are
and how else they could have been
just that was the intention and the search
was for a way to begin
just then came the shout
dinner is served
have it hot and then we tuck in


ps— love is not a piggy and therefore needs no riding
sin is not the sinner and hence needs no hiding
if i like i need love and i need to love to like
but all that love there isnt only in me
it is around the world beyond the milky way on the road from my city
and all the aliens in between peck their sweethearts and they dont even have lips
if it aint beautiful it doesnt mean theres no beauty
and ugly is a word that begins with u
if you want to shorten it then of course its curiosity
but the short and long of it is that if you spread your arms to their limit
it will always be embrace and never be a gimmick
love may or may not have a limit but is everywhere between

there are these things that tunnel the light into my eyes. like a bright spike that pierces them and sends the light colliding with my soul. this light is a conscience transcending, reason defying, meaning bereft wake up call. like rock on today. and god knows what else, and what else about it than a smoke signal. from an island hidden among the waves while im at sea.
the epidemic is widespread, like elliot's yellow london fog, licking its tongue into street corners and curling up about the house before going to sleep. but these horrid morbid tales arejust stories narrated to pass the time, and men become dragons. god becomes the devil and each day becomes the next just as easily as truth becomes marmalade and my beautiful lovely jelly quivering on a spoon.
but the light from the sos fires seem like so many wigwams that have left a fire burning for a weary traveller at the end of day. im not the traveller not(yet). im waiting for travellers to return, and waiting all the same to travel with them that are waiting to travel.

my spleen is halving me.my heart will make me full.but the battle for me will be in my guts, i fear, and not in my chest.

standing in the sun, from my terrace i could see the dark clouds looming and while yet it was silvery in the distant sky, two doves flying away from me and into the clouds, like two eyes roving the skies looking for the secret of heavens in a cascade of water. what poetics beset my thoughts in the morning, but not exactly thoughts — thats just a presumption. what it is, is an excuse for illusion.

Gadhiara?

When before to leave all look for me.
But seeing how im not there their enquiries wouldn’t find me
Because ive lost myself here and to take me home will
Not be to find me

Polly’s lesbian rant no. 1
Polly: yaaaak that tastes awful, and all that the boys could do on hearing this was wondering aloud ' what the bone to the dog'.
lame thought polly and uncouth.