Thursday, September 4, 2008

Tattaglia, the "G" is tangy

A casual high-wordedness in Sinai:

Balmer: The Machiavelli's soul is I, staring into your fragile truth
Mortitia: Ah! So you challenge me to blurt word hymns.
Balmer: The word is desire ,is humane, is life.
Mortitia: Life is but a corn field. Quite corny with cheese.
Balmer: Where is the pleasure if i see no pain, where is the life if i see not beauty of death and where am I if my people don't follow the trail of my experiences.
Mortitia: Be alone, be a parasite, suck misery suck life,feed on living souls. Only then will the futility bear fruits.
Balmer: Let every moment be the fruit of a past mistake, but i shall keep repeating them with passion.
Mortitia: Ha! So human! To fall with passion and err with joy.
Balmer: My greatness is in folly and grins and grunts. Your weakness is the other edge of the sword.
Mortitia: I wade in darkness with the sword of desire, the edge of the sword, the glinting pain in others' pleasure.
Balmer: Sword coated with sweet pain pierces every heart, but in the end, the pain lingers.
Mortitia: Pain lingers, pain bonds,intersecting spectrum's refracting pain,all find a common shade
Balmer: Wisdom i despise. I seek wisdom of my identity. Let the facet of my being shine a ray straight into the realms of insanity.
Mortitia: Wise self proclaimed,gloating in self adoration,your world though miserable never bears misanthropes.
Balmer: Two things float into my awareness... how cruel is knowledge and what power doth it possess.
Who are you?

Mortitia: Ignorance,the haven of whom you refute existence.
Balmer: Silence is a mechanical perfection. I revere imperfections and live to die another day.
Mortitia: Then blessed be you. Enjoy this stay on lush grass of plenitude and plethora.
Balmer: The most unknown is my carnal truth but one day i shall speak it in your ears.
Mortitia: Oh! so leave as all others do, a tale ever debated,of who stays when all must go.
Balmer: And so it comes a full circle, another lesson re-learned. there is passion on the journey upwards. There is universe at the top. There is satisfaction on the way back. A daily hike.

Mortitia: I will wait till the rain comes crashing down on your face,with fuller circles beneath your feet , till my whispers drown in the abundance of your stormy soliloquies and then i shall perish but with a twinkle in the eye.

Balmer: Maybe its just the falling that does the trick. Maybe we are both frogs seeing our world in others just the way it was.
Mortitia: No i dare not fall in the same life, painful brandishing its boredom to me, give me love ,hate,fury and wrath but encapsulated in cases new.
Balmer: On other thoughts... Palms are soggy.
Mortitia: No this life lies in the trench of your palms.
Balmer: Fisting shall be my pleasure.
Mortitia: Of your grand eloquent yet intriguing words i know not, of what i read is my own mind ,blank and submissive to every niche of it.

Balmer: If ye understand the articulations of thy own mind, i shall bow down to you in discipline
Mortitia: i demand not thine slavery, neither a tame beast i desire, of what i crave is the poison of youth and the fetters of the same youthful love...

In the train, icicles on bile bag

Collect spontaneous outbursts of iggle-oggle creativity. Sad face Pa,I am leaving again. And the face turned 180 only to bare buckteeth. Then started off the 1600kms with Binah, Abana, Sekhmet and Ms.Lilo dally. Around those oblong elliptical silhouettoes and bulging bile bags consuming ever more, burping sounds from a distant universe. You just want to hush em off and empty your bile bag. Or-kid-ium all around, icicles rubbing up against the skin, a rough wry pimply wrinkled face and the train still jerks on. It moves a little, shakes you, rocks the cradle, balances the timely falls and moves on. Enough you all morons around feeding attention to a pack of cards! I marched out. Beyond the travelogue frame scenes of green and brown, the eye fixates on patches of blue. Blue in the sky, water and then turning grey, some blue spattered suddenly on your hand, in the crevices of those black nails. You see fluid, plasmic, orgasmic, color! Bursting peals of laughter around as the feet long to live the becky dream of running on the black soft mud. Imagine winkle, if orange peels grew on olive creepers and cried indigo tears all day... Flaming red brittle strands all wet in an inundation of sheer heathen ignorant joy... Hop on a train and jump before the destination. You ll feel like me! A run away!


I think he knows. I don't know what and how much but an idea at least. The problem is not that he objects to what i have done or am doing but is that he comes to question, " what are you becoming?" Frankly i myself have no idea what i am. I have become a leech, a dirty promiscuous leech. All I hope for is that he can gain trust in me again. I tell him what the whole world does and how they are. But i never knew he was pointing at me. Now i doubt he will ever believe me again. Logs or no logs for all you know, i fucking hate myself. Its not because of what i do because i resolve conscience issues before i move but I never want him to look down upon me. But do you even realise that I am so hooked on to this highly surveilled virtual world only because in the real world i am surrounded by a deep isolation. I aspire a lot and i take the convenient ways to reach. Even though i know that you can trace every action of mine, i still fall "prey" to that world. Why? Because i am crushed under the burden of being a good girl for you and doing what i always wanted to. The good, healthy and wholesome society that you think "we" belong to, i never did. But its not like i meant to be so. What could a person left alone in the house, not spoken to for hours, explained to do this and not that, expected to perform, do? I have been alone and hence even today i crave for company. If i get easy and cheap company of any sort that i feel like relying upon, i tend to fall. I don't know what you know and i don't care to know what you know. Just forget what you know and maybe we all can make a fresh start.
After a long time of being touted as a victor, example and all that, i am not what you think i am.
All i can say is i am sorry.
Its in spite of me that i do it.
But it won't affect you now.

A butterfly on jam!

There are days when you wake up to happy moments. In spite of ebbs and tides throughout the day, all you can do is grin foolishly at people! You are happy. You are Buddha, Mahavir, Osho, Zarthustra and company in a blue and gold cassock. Not that Illumination may arise but you get a deep pleasure that digs into your being, a warm spring of giggle. That's a jour perfetto. The dog is happy. I bit into a pie. And the superman was all mine to enjoy. Delicious is all i can say. Even the frog was amazed at the minor. Some fanciful Indic script stored in the the bazaars of an over flowing mind. Every drop of sentiment that filtered through me can be described on yellow white chocolate paper... Even at the end of the day trails a sweet exhaustion which i feel proud to carry.

Rage, determination and mediocre wantings

Me strives to calm her soul but ants just bite and emerge even in Eden. And then she flares up... To those who may not relent, suffer! Morbid, filthy hatred for those leeches who just happen to slug in and tug along with even the most torn of your socks. But cyber-space Sekh! It deserves urchins, cats, burps and buffalo rider guevaras! No nina, one must use tolerance and determination and stay away from green seeds of jealousy... Yes my lady vengeance must change to ivy and then darker. Slithering snaky, hissing shrewd wealth like that basilisk's eyes. Aim to annihilate. Strength it seems of a character. Character not of those quintessential virtues. It's a mutual contract of wrong doings. Hence no justification one gives to the other part of the same.

To the dead, the shocked and society presidents

J'ai du faire toutes les guerres pour etre si forte qu'aujourd'hui,
J'ai du faire toutes les guerres, de la vie, de l'amour aussi...

Cued recall... Phonlogy...Nano...
Deadlines... Lines where the dead can't move further on...
You know what Mister Nakata! I ain't gonna idle away so easily. It's not really hard to see you die. Not even Mister Kawamura whimpering away can tickle my senses. But then there are others who die! Others whom you actually care for and latently, patiently wait to brush past again so that you could glance with big dark eyes and start wobbly talks of lilies and rhododendrons. They just happen to be dead one day when you come asking for them and trust me I can't tolerate such abrasive divine murders! I know there i a wall. See my head red swollen, eh? It's that sore mark from banging against it! I am almost tired of wandering around asking for these lost people in some nocturnal alley. All there is, is hope, some hope borne by shock against limp, rotten bodies. Psst... I have an idea and I'll beat that grim of him/her this time. There just has to be a device by which i get a minute in time. I will trade it and tell those dead what awaits them. They may not heed me but Mister Nakata, even you spoke of leech rains and no one ever believed you! Can't i just get one minute more to see them in action? Argh, I know you can't, the devil of your son! But watch it, it's an a priori that there is a way to shake these slack puppets. Even you, the stubborn KFC colonel! Dispose them before they decay. The deal is to bump into this obstinate guy called "Good God". HE is a bit slow it seems. Pha! fools of faith should be resurrected and not buried with a pinch of salt. Incite him and provoke his inabilities. Not that this positivist harangue will churn results but the tramp of me is cross today! Yesterday i howled and wept to the sea and then looked at the blank sky. My problem is that it is an anticlimax! At least i am not gonna wait for a bus to crush into me and puncture my ribs to powder. The clock's ticking away but my time has not come... A fraction of a second to experience shivers down your spine, body disintegrating to screws and bolts.

To the speechless, thus spake the fatalist! Away ye idiots, run till you want it yourself.
To the shocked, Come out of the melancholic inferno. You are still on earth and hence stop the mummy game with gothic look.

To the naive... A tear, gaping wide, a smirk... a yell from other way and we are back on track, though puzzled a bit too much.

All we need is bread, fish and a yawn

Call me Mona. Even LaVey does. Incestuous beasts. Satanism it seems. Moors and mourning bells, morbid i feel. Ah! its nice, bring more of wine and exudated veins of butterflies... haha..sick laugh...
Let's climb on to each other and mash the pulp out.

Gay listless retro

There are words I mean,
And those that I utter,
There are someI support
and some just slip away.
There is love and amity.
On the other side of the ocean,
There's honesty bitter.
You choose and the choice is but yours,
Never realised a fact.
Its all a game of mirrors.
We are all the same.
Atoms of the clan.
Just that mirrors are different,
Reflections and refractions
And I act,react and retrospect.
There are songs of spring
Wish you never sang them.
There are faces you adored.
My only desire, to port such a skin.
But things dont come so easy,
They dont come so bright.
There are bleak moments, dim spaces
In the Abyss of eternal light.
In those niches,constants stay
Like shadows in the sun
Dreams on the run,
Just in a momentary fatigue.
Of course there's fatigue, the ideal burden weighs on them,
Just stay,watch me oscillate and look back at you,
The Stable Point in Cosmos,
The bearer of the Pendulum
So come again ,the likes of Robin,
For this time it is for you to advance.
Retrace and withdraw it wouldnt surprise,
If you would ever know
How Powerful Memoirs are...

Ishmael and Tarsier.

Yes, indeed the besotted quoth Ishmael. The knower and the believer. Innit it difficult to know? Yes, spake I. Innit in my big eyes, the truth, wondered T. Yes, i waved my rash hairy hands in delight. Perception, you ignorant Anna! Don't fool with me, I! Hehe, smirk. See the problem. It is not me, I! Yes, indeed it's me,I. Is it difficult to believe T? Not if you never knew what was coming but you knew you had to move. Snow was hurtling down my ears. Wiping every trace of sound, hugging my every cell, Ishmael. It isn't all that easy. Life.Rainy nightmares in snow lands. Watery pools of leeches.Coils hissing. Dreary mates of some shameless harlot's womb! I cannot stand this tyranny when i know it! I don't envy half-bloods. They disgust me! But, they are your own semen Tarsier. No, yelled the fugitive in T. Ok I, let's talk fear. I feel fear all the time but something goes strange about it! Scratching of the ear and yellow eyes focus on T. Is it like you fear the water and fear it so much that once you go near it, you want to jump in it? Like you fear heights and once you are on a mountain you want to jump off it? Sigh... extremely panoramic fear in T? YES! yes I, I cannot help but feel it. Ecstatic, wavering and volatile on this side of life, T? Seemingly calmer and definite on the other? asked I. voice trailed away.
Tags: still to be edited.

Kubla, Fromm and Penis Envy

Twas a vision indeed mister Freud! Believe me! I saw warrior Khan from the mounts of Mongolia and the atheist Erich Fromm! Wonder how Ms. Sylvie would react to the heretically obnoxious spiders in her language. Nervous trembling, clasping of hands, gasping. Eye Candy... that'z wot eet seiz huh? yes, mister Freud! i couldn't believe it. Not at all. I could only choose a white tiger as my pet, not go around singing "Omlette Du Fromage". Ah, wot eez zat? Remember, DeeDee sings it for dexter... Hmmm...pause... cigar...Fixation murmur. What about the vision? Oh, yes. There was a Buffalo. Fetishes? Only Buffaloes, pigs, owls and burgers. Are you women even supposed to see all these Missus? Well...a twitch. I saw Psychoanalysis sir, it was there all the way! I see new chests open and Kublai Khan ranging up his castle. The stream on Tehran has dried as well. Could it be Psychosis, Neurosis or just simple deprivation. Climb up you naive, your God is dead! Your Buffaloes will die soon and of you...tch tch...we couldnt never do much... sigh.

The Gyaan of Sephirots

Thus Z---- spoke:
He said the young one is tiny. Tiny as a bean. The chalk flipped. Of course, the lad was humming low snores. Pink matted books on the table were the destined battle ground of the gory archanoids. Hush... the class is over. smirk. But Madam! Meh! She is yet to charge out, trampling on bits of lime. That slob. Blanc and azure air punching holes into that grey matter. Then exclaimed he, the ill fated messiah of overbrainy delinquents. Isn't it a universal responsibility of Homo Sapiens to resurrect the chocolate eating down trodden amongst them?Ecce Homo?Cogito Ergo Sum? How wonderful be it to efface existence and silently creep in the corner! But alas!
The xenophobic butterfly in the grey garden flapping away to holocaustic glory. Me imagines. That's all that remains. The Cathedral's whore has chimed again. Present the mistress of spray and sputum! Yes, my lord. 'Tis time for a rave. Across the yellow opium papyrus. A trance indeed, the smell at each stroke of the finger. Mister Polo meet Missus Behn. Ah dear Schopenhauer skewing frowns at that murderer, for God's sake(dead already!)it's a deja vu! Well well, let's not trifle! We almost missed mister James, the son of Yehwah's progenitor. Poof! Missus!I could do with Brooke S! D'ye rilly fink we kids o' elementary high'd give a damn 'bout ye Hiss-stawriii. Purhaps we mite wanna rock it to Nirvana or root fer the Gunners!
Indeed, precious moments of blank, slated minds ground to a fine melange of white, dipped in the strangest of wet whites and charred in the white lights of wisdom, wilt away within time frames. All that we could all say after years of cooperative tyranny , was Amen.

Incoherent Inc.

Apples on the Moon,
Water On the sun.
Ants in grass blade fights,
Starry dawns in black eyes.
Pollens on the tongue,
Ticks in the throat's attic.
Icicles on hand,
Strong Castles of Sand.
A fountain falling high,
On a beanstalk of airy white.
In a Red drowsy cottage,
Dreams on doors, wishful windows.
Granny's folktales drizzling,
An infantile giggle in grown up grouches.
Royal breakfasts with hot chocolate,
Bottles of honey, Marmalade jars.
Flying kites and teary eyes,
A turn of a knob, a creak of the panes and...
Out goes flying, my being.