entitled

she is a bewitching lover
for even when she is far away
she appears lovelier than others
lovelier than the flowers on this bank
of the river lovelier than me
to myself and i wake up and sleep
through the cruel deprivation of addicts
as nothing without my need




this is a good time to
abolish ownership
throw open the cages
and watch the birds fly out
into the silvery moonlight
and release this soul
from the bondage of labels
the commerce of exchange
from profit from loss and
give and take that this
vagabond lust may say
hello to a friendly tramp
damp and cold on the road to rome
and while kings barons and stooges
keep passing by they
have long to go before
they are free of the road
until judgement comes calling
on our woes by the wayside
on the wet hay may the lovers roll



save the dame
tied to the black rock
goblins prey fair limbs
meat for an ugly lust
scheming a calamity
of disemboweled trust
that suns may rise
at the beck and call
of the burning torch
one light enough to
light the world
and the nuns would follow
the lords word



lets allow ourselves
these small illusions
that in the morning
when we sleep
we are debauched but
in love that the lie
may not seem any darker
than the truth and we
pass our lives in the meantime

hectic chromosome

love couldnt withstand
this metabolism what chance
does reason have thus knocked about
that every breath disturbs
the undigested matter that
pestilentially bubbles
in the bilebog of the intestine
and the beating of the heart
is a battle won at the point of death
every breath squeezed of its juice
in the pancreas a corrosive reminder
of what cost it is to be alive


in my line of business, it is safe to say that we have to make with a working knowledge of english. be that as it may we have to use oodles of self-charitableness to even seriously analyse that proposition for every turn of the argument is fraught with foible and charged with fate. fate here seen as a mechanism akin to the  incompleteness theorem in that it is beset with an inherent snag which nonetheless can be defined as the lynchpin of the entire shebang. that is, in mathematical terms, from what i gather, to say, there is only so much which is provable in mathematics, whatever the system, the unprovability of the rest is the guarantee of its opposite in the provable. which is to say in a manner of speaking that is provable which appears so to the most number of people, for anyone who can use the same protocols to come up with something inexplicable has added a limitation to the tools which can in this light be considered as standing on agreement for what if the new articulation was so superior in design as to order a complete overhaul of the earlier consensus. but what then about truth qua truth. of course im no longer talking about my line of business, that is irrelevant suddenly under the blows of the cruel subterfuge of existence, hits that land in the blind dark on the nose mostly. but what then of the truth. does the sovereign, pristine, piercing light exist. that in which everything appears as it is. how far is the perception of truth limited by the vehicle of experience. that truth then appears most true that appears true without appearing true. that is if it appears true then that conception is borne of sensory mediation and thus very very susceptible to manipulation. but what doesnt appear true has a very good chance of not having had to go through some kind of tweaking to give that impression. the human being project had better be thought out all over again.



i will first shut
all the books and
turn all the lights off
till the blind can pretend
they can see and then
then i will prove
the existence of god
the illusory potential of reality
as the best which is so
before it is better

apples and oranges

like a rabbit am i
and i go rabitting
as i please i am not
chasing cups, chips
tokens or butterflies
i am running restless
but i am not chasing
i am running to
the finishing line
not chasing nothing


the sombre tenor came late, too late and anyway i was too obsessed to be able to report in a steady voice the umpteenth tragedy of the workday. it is largely sexual. having said that i want all to think about it; i dont easily commit. there was a short story id once read, couldve been anyone, saki, ohenry, owilde, which climaxed with the man who was a factory man getting his hand grievously caught in the machine and something to do with her being the nurse or something whose reaction is retrospective horror. the moral of the story though was of loves indomitable will. like mealy potatoes, the boy so bullied but never out. never sulking or nothing.

these heroic tales appear vague antique models which have value only in museums, in this year of our lord etc. i believe the last time something like this occurred the world had passed one major bout of intercontinental warfare and was diving head on into another. this story, of the insistent spiritedness of love, was written by whoever wrote it some time before the great depression.

but what happens to office in the time of meltdown. it retains its tragedy. only this time nobodys joking. nobody is nobodys fool anymore. so here the umpteenth tragedy of the cubicle is the closing in, the shrinking as it were of everything. the very spaces which would once offer so much to the participating reduced to a carefully designed set of protocols. the very chairs and furniture that had been the site of one generation's dream filling the next with horror. all the fear and hence all the morbid fascination that had lurked in the locked up rooms of the old offices set free and now filling up all the air with a manic whirr of psychopathy. that is the dark side. the tragedy of the eponymous workday. now i am tired of this. outside its morning.


nb: but what if this story was written in the gd. then too it is a monument to love only much bigger. and obviously my vision is corrupted. it redeems the demons, rewards the troubles. for what is the greater joy between having your faith rewarded and your fears confounded. the believer's felicity and a luck of the faithless.

marquez on that summer

later when the original inhabitants had all died, the settlers would talk about that ugly summer of 12, of the gross desperation of drought. there were fires, 19,216 of them in 5 weeks. but sadly no one died in those fires, for when the birds were falling down dead from the heat, the old men would wait for the sun to set to bury their sons, dead because they were maddened in those hot afternoons in their siestas, leaving their beds, sleepwalking, to go to the disreputable quarters where withered whores would make wild love to them in a daze before choking to death on their own saliva.


hemingway

the boxing matches had come to a stop those days. the boxers would go down to montgomerys and pass idle hours sulking in the heat. the bar could only serve barely cold beer, there were too many power cuts and the coolers were just little boxes keeping the bottles dipped in mildly cool meltwater. the boys from the more informal rings would come and hang out and talk loudly as if they were the men there about some bust up theyd recently had, which was almost always last night. if there werent too many people around the waiter would even sometimes hang on a little to hear one of those stories. but that summer, in 12, no one really cared. things were desperate. the burly fighters, the real fighters just wouldnt get a fight. it was absurd. here they were all pumped up and desperate and spoiling for a fight even for peanuts yet suddenly nobody cared no longer.


conan doyle

as i peer into my notebook for the startling events of the cruel summer of 12, i am instantly taken back to that afternoon when my enigmatic co-signor, stoned on the cashmere rug, pointed at the thermometer tilting precariously on the bureau. 45C it read. i had to get up from my comfortable perch on the armchair in order to actually see what the curious bachelor was referring to and i have to confess that i started upon discovering that he had read my thoughts, again. prior to that interruption, i had been engrossed in the deepest rumination on the recent scandal in which the scion of one of the realm's most influential families was almost banished to political exile but for my friend's extraordinarily energetic pursuit of the real and apocalyptic scam at the bottom of it all, a grand conspiracy involving the water and electricity supply department. my wise roommate had endorsed, with the utmost intimate ease and in his casual manner, my cogitations as valid. the heat had become an issue.