Tuesday, March 30


This, dear sir is an old story about an old land. It didn’t have beautiful trees, or therefore birds or music. It had a large ocean like the moon, appearing ahead without the trees, and in it many little seas, rivers, ponds and natural lakes. It glistened and sparkled like a branch of stars. There, beneath many layers of the beauty, stinking in earth of black soil and dark skies-where it rained like every day, lay the junkies. They lay hatching over the grass all day, with hands up in the air supporting their air of the hair of the heir, just pointing out the nitty-gritty of the whole absolute affair. There was a narrow, engraved passage through which it would be let out to the beauty, where alone they saw dreams in colours, and the smoke floated by below all the clouds across the world. The fish, the masters of the old land, saw it and loved it. It was scaly, and long, it slithered like god’s equal himself, and the dark net guised his evil. They were attracted to their new god, and drank it all in. like the most delicate poison, it lay slurping every bit and sucking at every little tit. They thus breathed for many years, many centuries, and aeons. They would grow up a day in the forever, and float in the haze and go high, high up with the shooting stars, and when their eyes opened they saw clear in the air, the rainbow. Kissing its many colours despite the mother ocean’s brilliant colours of the shades, forgetting in an instant’s most valuable time all the time of their real blue world’s life. It is in such pleasure steeping that the smoke gently ruptured their gills and they lay flattened in to lungs and dead. Dead like an old man’s little daughter up in between the bricks. That instant of time, the narrow passage cracked and the engraving caught on the fire and unfurled its many branches. The junkies breathed through the layers and saw the world. That was the word.

They nurtured the world, and made cement and choked it. It sodomised the dead fish and made them humans. They evolved faster, leaping through vertical concentric circles to emerge as apes in that magical sequence. That is how we were born. Junkies therefore, in the real mythology hidden between steps in destiny’s labyrinth, were adorned as gods, for mis-producing an entire race of seeking for such, such beauty.

Our ancestors banished real eden from the top of the spinning top, stopping it by a little finger by its neck. Anyway, anyhow and anywhere, they didn’t get Eden, but they got us our dying pale blue earth. Eden is the red glowing blood apple.

Sunday, March 28


The bodies, which we hang on to. Like a child’s favourite clothes. Like, people we do not know. Like, ideas which you never meet. You will find all these things, shown to you in neat piles in a ruin, unmarked everywhere, you will lose your sight. You meet friends there, husbands and lovers, sons and grandfathers. They guard the ruin like a woman, which made him.

There, there, now don’t cry. Never use your body. It is which kills, slowly and deliberately. I sink in to more metaphors, and like blood flows along with every other thing in the wicked world. It is a beautiful dream. You sleep there for many stories of years, and getting older clouds look real. And you stay on.

The body mirrors the shadows, all the blood giving red its many shades of colours. The life presence of it all, she says. I am your muse, she says. The body draws conversations, and then makes violent sex upon the sandy beach of time’s little forehead. You will notice similarities, and common faces but it is all a convenient copulating picture, nothing else.

The body stretches in to bits which divide it, and starts deteriorating like a perfectly healthy leaf, quivering and shaking in her mad dance to death. It is all a very normal game. Delicately nocturnal then.

You grow old and die,down down you go. And the true shadows never meet.

Hang back. Hang back.

Thursday, March 25

Watch a wound
Its coming to life, its dying birth
The blood rushing out,
After a trap with others
In a body of darkness,
Flowing hitting each other madly,
And to out stops,
Meets your eye-
Pausing a moment,
Hovering a smaller moment,
And trickle

Wednesday, March 24


Born a thousand years ago, when the questions stated coming, they are friendly fragile creatures who pine by morning, afternoon and the night for crystals which do not exist. In this way, they are very similar to archaeologists, except they do not dirty their hands at all; but crowd their little minds with forests without trees and animals but with war cries of passion and more passion. They sleep late, mediating with the night to hope in the morning with heavy eyes, but of course they do not succeed and do not realise. Like, a man being spurned, they look up paths ahead, stepping over the one your eye may directly see if you close it. In their childhoods, they didn’t live with their parents; they observed them and loved them but never could figure out the tender nerves of the socio-biological blood connection thing. They exhibited tendencies to do the opposite of what they were asked to do, they lied mindlessly, dreamt soullessly straddling dreamworlds of other people without asking permission. Surprisingly, they sucked when it came to directions probably springing from a childhood habit of going in the opposite direction when asked to come this way. It was a conspiracy of geography and psychology where lost in mazes, they would fight imaginary battles. Hide-rs grew up to feel like outsiders, trying at the same time, to suppress all those anti-social tendencies like pushing a blind girl over the steps when she enjoyed precariously, her aimless life. They understood their difficult positions later and frustrated often turned to roughness in sex and abuse in relationships. They caught solace in different smokes, grieving over the hazy smoke when it flew away, or uncurled leaving them. They often barrelled into their bodies hoping to find the crystals in that core; they didn’t. Today, they cry silently and do not answer questions. Oh yes, it is a perverse peace.

Tuesday, March 23

Up a talker's ass

dear dear
now i am in a fix
mouth can be closed, like this.
you stop talking, like this.
and then when you can't, you try to kill yourself like this.

burying more sand in a desert,
scattering them up on the wind,
circling birds with more sand,
worlds go awry with upside down
grain of sand.

please eat it and die,
and peace be with you,
and with you.

PS: if you can still not die, come to me. we will make love.

'And the stars go with you'

Stranger, you are.
You must not talk to a stranger,
You must always lie to one,
And when the world stops moving,
Grope in the dark for one.

Carry a mountain, drop it over your head and cry loud. Scream like you can hear states away that I miss. Kill birds to make them all die for you. Make water and stir, and let it rise, and move slowly, like this………that when it reaches you may idle, make circles with feet, and slowly lower, feel water move like leaves across an angry face, take in the water and go down, till you see all worlds tiptoeing in the assembly of the water lords.

To lie back and remember,
The days of your happy and sad,
Call to hear a song,
That let me in where I made cuts of blue,
Smearing it like a sunny bitch,
And sleeping without looking at you.

There, I know a bee I can kill,
I planned its sting
I didn’t notice its dying,
Till criss-crossed it cried sighing.

Sunday, March 21


You bitch,
You promised.
And the trees sit still, holding bad breaths with an air of suspicion, at the impending decision. I grovelled, and crawled and licked the floor and wrote her name, to soothe my antagonism. But it flamed up to beat me down, to keep the head level down to the floor and smell it by the cold surface. It is not reminiscent, but it jumps on my breasts endowing them with a certain heaviness that I want removed. Discard, this minute, this fleeting minute when it turned one. When you promised, what now do I do with memories floating to be formed? Of dreamless sleep, and beautiful touches, and a feather screaming through; lifting me against the moon, for her to see.

Thursday, March 4

Lights bright up spattering across the plain
Rewrite this history,
It’s been a long world in a remember
Of looking you at better so you see
Living saying long, long hour
At this city like any other,
World, it not good, you are still old,
Musical chair moving, skipping few places
Till you twinkle feel them at tips of slanting fingers,
Plan gather dust in Egypt,
Long night, long night, meet Ra and give him my gold-
Sands of a long long night of yesterday tiny fire lights

Wind moves gentle in the deepest corners of night
Stepping on little souls to bless them with the magic of love
In the night. Stop. Stop.

Slowly going insane,
With the light all alive
Which I cannot see, but hear and feel
Right above towering. Wherever whatever I do
Hovering in front of a heart break
It will sleep.
Like yesterday, the time of chance I never had
Or of the laughter leading to lily ponds
Like revising this romance
Where end kills chances of I
Can’t you see it?
Red, in an open book
Seeing covered in fluid,
Let it live like on and on.

Tuesday, March 2

I watched love make me yesterday
Thrown round loops of hair
Of a curly haired man,
Sink round eyes of desire,
Moving them through the leaves,
Make jump over the moon
To a water of pleasure sincere.


Monday, March 1

I am sun’s daughter and moon’s lover
I crave in the sun, sunk eat in the night-
I watch clouds move, making the moon
Laughing travel or trail,
By bushy trees make me veil look at you
Beautiful till tomorrow
It us a new world,
Where pleasure springs from the down,
And little fingers hop in all sides,
It is a real clever to watch meaner dies kill lie still:
Excellent life, it is so nice,
And themes are here, lost and never sell;
Which which which which eh, calls you
Strumming, waited for you all
I am surrounded nakedly
It is just the closet in your head is open
Excellent life, greater sin
Is take my hand,
Weary hand of mine, sweet child called Mine,
Very soon round you bitch leader suns of a pack
Called, eskelongriefe [it’s a long grief]
Vibrating phones set the tune,
Watching good doors behind you open
To know light must shut out,
And snakes will wither
And you will bleat the dream of
The little flaieries blowing in the wind.
Like life in a mystical flute.