factor in stendhal

the innermost whorl
of the rose
the gently swaying lotus
in a secret inlet
a river in the moonlight
dolphins playing in the cool night
taking small shark bites
at each others' glistening sides
in the morning banana shake
and in russia jc russia
pussy riot making rasputin shite it
your red flower is dracula
me a hungry wolf of
the translyvanian winter
we will see god in each others' eyes
while till dawn we devour each other

dour movements on fours

i am complicit in
my destruction dont
tell me better if you
knew nothing else
i am driving
this fast car over
the cliff because if
it is mine i can
past all these many bends
i have followed the road
wherever it has curved it was
like i didnt own the vehicle
i wasnt driving my car
preceded by a yellow board
and a warning in black
my eyes glazed with the tar
i was drifting mindlessly
through a distance along
a route marked in time
and then comes a bend on
the last post let me drive
this beast to its last ounce
and squeeze out the final
leap of a summer evenings
sun in a flash of crimson
till darkness consumes light
and the soul emerges
naked out of the deep
with a crown in its hands
let this wicked breath this
tired panting restless hot
breath leave the need to be
slave to bloods treacherous call
the part i have chosen
fo myself in this conspiracy
involving me is
to dream the dream
from which one never wakes



why i am happy
to the thinking
rather than so
perpetually sad
that it would make
my mother mad
all the trouble
went through with
to spring the lock
complete with the spock
and the pots and pans
that all that playing by
the ear had not
drowned out the whispers
in the ruins she mightve
heard many years back
is that a fear of ghosts
haunts me too but
i hide where nobody
can find me i
hide under the stars


in the middle of the circle
there she danced pretty
ready to be taken
if she was carried away
around the fire that
feeling raged
in hearts of sand and
sweating groins
and the hands and mouths
did unintelligible things



the snake hisses inside
and outside the yelping
of dogs after apocalyptic fights
nothing is visible but for
tiny points of light
in the dark vale of eden
there is no comfort
on this puckered night
no fresh wind will blow
in from the sea to
drive the stench of
green flesh wafting from
the black chimneys
tonight the lack of air
will squeeze the lungs tight
or the soul will sleep
on a deeper hunger
for each dull glow
on the hillside is a witch's lair
where inside cooks she
the goblin in salt and pepper
at a warm hearth by a great fire
and it is them witches keeps
the garden plunged in hollow winter
for she waits for the gullible traveller
for whom she has a story ready
that will turn him to stone at once
if he sits through it
(oh but remember the food is juicy)
but i wont enter il sleep on the snow
or should i force the door
and slit their caterwaul
of witches throats once for all
oh i will never know
i will know only winter
on a wet evening on a hard road
but no i will not dine
at the witches table
not in damned desperation nor
to meet destiny with a sword

pips anxiety

noahs sons were in the army
much before they found out
theyd been inducted
falling out of line aplenty
but hectored back in each time
of the animals saved
they became loyal like dogs
and in cat found honour and life
but having had their learning
in a zoo they were in the final
analysis inadequate in the fight


to the innocence that died
she said you will live again
you shall rise i will
bear you to the world
you are a fruit of
the poisoned tree
to poison you shall return
but i will carry you through
if you are brave enough to ride
i will take you to the eruption
of light when the sun is passing
from one darkness to another
and you will know you cant
stay there though blinded
you will return
so cry cry my innocent
and die die my lovely
weep into my palms


i guess this is it. the crisis of faith. the pandemic though thanfully incommunicable ulcer. after all we are all but one ghost at a time. and peace be upon us we can either get through it or die trying. for i think here even a serial killer does what he does because he believes he is up to some use. and personal is as jutifiable as public if you know what i mean. as in the line is very blurred; when a stripper goes on to become a movie star and doesnt quite abandon her original calling would you call it self interest or is it social uplift. hard to tell. so yes i am convinced kafka and clockwork orange and dr death all needed belief to get by. cynicism may not be faith that moves mountains but its incredulity can make holes. kafka for one knew that. and used it to 
derive some meaning from his life but alas. as for many others, brave martyrs like him. for them that didnt fight to death is collateral. the collateral vision is that we slug it out, pray that nothing happens till it happens, that is, if we are willing and able to comprehend that something is going to happen at all. for it is the collaterals privilege to feel insured. so safe and reckless are both belief systems, the question my friends, again because outside its morning (notice how i retreat in the face of dawn), which to choose and churn into faith for maybe if i can recall thus spake zarathustra that belief is the faith in the known as faith is the belief in the unknown, or the other way round but one of them for sure.