All I day I was writing. I was able to complete an experimental work of fiction called Fictopia. It is an epic lasting several seconds of a character’s life. Joyce wrote the Ulysses chronicling 12 hrs of a man’s life. My work is a miniature epic set on the lines of the avant garde. I felt so happy and refreshed after completing the work. My mind became a smooth vessel. I don’t generic fiction. My fiction is a philosophy of literature. I love the streams of consciousness narrative. Art has to transcend existing styles and become innovative. I am no doubt inspired by many writers, like Kafka, Joyce, Sartre, Blanchot, Bataille, and many others. It’s through blogging that I discovered my own unique style of writing.
It pours as a lyric/
A melody of whispers, a/
Dream is coming true/
What is consciousness? Is it crack, pot, mumbo jumbo…There are I see colors on wings flitting in angelic loops…Is it an archetype of the heart? Where is my mind? Come on shit, it’s not in asshole…Where is individuality? Where is the soul? I am wondering about my own existence…I am fully conscious now….I have been having many dreams lately…erotic ones…Proust wrote remembrance of things past being inspired by an orange peel? Time is sinking now into an abyss…Consciousness is Dali’s melting clock….Is individuality a blast furnace… I am a do-good-body. When I think of God, I realize I am nothing…Time is now a boring cigarette…I am sending out smoke rings…The ears are echoing Bach…Words are littered in garbage of symphonies…A mosquito is buzzing past ….How I wish to be immersed in her cunt…Time is a vacant dream….Where are the characters? To write is to poem in madness? Art where is Dionysus …the mad villain of rhythm beat and altered states of consciousness? Smoking pot makes me think of sex….My words are a chorus of cacophony…Time is weed! Peace…Gandhi. I am a Christian anarchist? Conspiracy theories are ghosts floating in the air. My body is an echo of music…All this is happening in seconds…Mynahs ate tweeting….tweet, tweet, tweet….Coffee I am gulping you like a savage…Nirvana is an orgasm…Life is a boom and depression just like business cycles? I think of my great-grandmother chewing tobacco. She used to love it…Poetry rains in prose…In absurdity there’s an eclectic catharsis…Literature is a carnival of the libido….Essence is gratification…I feel her body like poetic prose…Why should wars exist? Peace, Ahimsa …nonviolence ….Jihadis are fucked up violence… I dream of Hitler in Hell stinking with smell of burning flesh… Eternity I have found a heaven in you…Consciousness, you have warped the soul…Where is passion? I like it when she and she melted into flowers of an orgasm. Why be the proud Apollo of melody? Joyce wrote an epic of 12hrs in 800 pages. I am writing a gospel epic of seconds…Let me float into a dream? Blessed are ecstatic: for they shall obtain ecstasy….Realism of the novel has shrunk into a blister ….Surrealism grows weeds out of brains…Fetish, you are found in breasts, cunt, hips, thighs and ankles…I worship you like a Goddess of art…I am pulpifiying fiction into libidinal strips… Saw a rock carved out like the phallus…An elephant is going on the road …its huge dick is hanging down…I am the Ghost of Walter De La Mare….I echo a music of words…Tranquility, you are an orgasm…McCarthys are chasing America…I have a white mind, a black soul and a brown body…I am a anarchist and a nihilist….My first love is wound that never heals? She is fucking dead now. Rest in peace my dear Sheba. Van Gogh you are drowned in the petals of impressionism…The smile of Mona Liza …damn a mystic enigma…Sodom is the curse of God…Let me frown into a poem of words…Wiccans are woman’s G-spot. Time has left me in many seconds of thought. Sunday I am a Quaker, going to church. Metaphors are the mind and metonymies the body. The WORD is holy and sacred. Time, where is thy charm? Christ, you are beatitude of love….Prometheus you are the body’s freedom…She has sprinkled vermillion on her forehead…It is the sign of the third eye…Time is an enigma….a mystic chalice…I am thinking of my dad lying in the grave….Dad I am sorry for harboring beastly thoughts about you…I am a cliché, a wounded ethnic metaphor…Dreams are the chrysalis of hope…they are metaphors of faith…The metropolis is a wounded body…I have made love to an adulteress …it was passionate poetry…They sky is a poetic rainbow…When will I have windfall gain? Women and Wine they are Epicurus…Socrates said: Know thy self…Alas myself is ignorance…My cup runneth over… In this world Grace is all I have…I would love to be Christian martyr ….would love to have my head beheaded by fanatic Jihadis. God speaks to me in dreams…Seconds, last a long time as an epic…my soul is crystal clear, and pure as white water…Dreams are a black cat of luck…Why can’t a writer like me win a windfall? I sure will! Watergate, you are a metaphor of bugging? Stalinist purges are atrocities of communism. Luck is folded as 1$ bill in, my pocket. Yield to me darling, you adulterous witch-bitch. I say the Lord’s Prayer every-day. Christian life is tough as steel. Embrace me darling…let’s make love with the zeal of poetry. Rejection is angst terrible. Making love is an erotic sensual catharsis…Sex is an antidote to good sleep. Time made a terrible venture into groping darkness. Culture, my visibility is myopic. Words sink into my consciousness as embroidered flowers. Mrs. Robinson is a song of oedipal conflict. When I listen to hotel California, I sink into a chasm of hell. Time, grasp my loins. Conspiracy is a lurking Leviathan numbered the mark of the beast 666. I am straight and lesbian voyeur. Does that make queer? I am thinking about Rodin’s thinker. The posture is so eccentric. Why is the Thinker so stiff-necked? Is he having constipation? I am thinking about Sartre’s Being-for-itself…is it the essence of individuality? Glorify the Id, deify the ego and subvert the super-ego. Christ I am so fond of you. Yet I find it difficult to follow your ways. There again consciousness goes on an epic of poem seconds lasting in streams of consciousness. I flowed into her lake with my tongue. Why can’t I figure out my fucking life? Lives don’t make mountains out of molehills. Life is Rubik Cube. When all the colors are matched, life is in the synchrony of a catharsis. I am Camus’ Sisyphus, condemned by the Gods to roll a boulder all the way uphill only to find it roll down again. Let me celebrate life in a catharsis of existential nihilism. Words, they are pictures of the mind. Consciousness is a chaotic rollercoaster. Thoughts are not vain bastards. I remember the days in boarding school when I used to bed-wet. All bed-wetters were paraded around the school. Who gave me the seat of conscience? Does God implant teeth into the genes? Gardens are poetry of the soul. I am made in the image of God. Where there’s a will there’s a way. Time is a molecule of sub-atomic particles. I am thinking of quantum physics …waves or particles or wavicles? There is a microscopic and macroscopic universe. Did man evolve from apes? All apes look alike but humans are not the same. Every human is got a unique finger print. I am human all too human. Pathos, you me to write a pen of words. When did time evolve? Where did the energy come for the Big-Bang? These are all puzzling questions. Iconoclasm you are a dustbin for me. Time and consciousness, a soul of poetry for me. Yes, Nirvana is an essence of a second. I scream in color and breathe in words. Though shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free. Yes, Sartre said: existence precedes essence and he is absolutely right. Meaning of life is a figure of speech. Words are torpedoes of speech. How can on deconstruct the logos? One can’t! God is the signifier and the signified. God says wait and I will fill your mouth with speech. The irony in my purse is no money. Cigarettes for me are honey. I am the universe when I smoke. Yes, I have womanized; I feel sorry for it. God search my heart and judge me. My words are seeds that produce good fruit. Time I have lost you in meaning. When does truth evolve? Truth lies in the omniscient, omnipresent and omnipotent God. Sometimes I consider myself to be a beatnik of the orient. I am passionate seeker of truth. Yes, I have coveted my neighbor’s wife and I feel sorry for it. An ashtray is an objet d’ art. The truth of life is to in a meaning of becoming. When can I make love to my significant other? Had a ball of a time with her in Kuala Lumpur. English is decolonized into Englishes of the colonies. Kafka you have metamorphized into a gigantic insect. When will time heal my wounds of the heart? I am writing my heart out. I am thinking of Indonesian cigarettes, clove ones, so aromatic …smoking them is sweet infatuation. Borges used to write books on pure imagination. I am thinking of Indonesian grilled fish. How tasty…it is so erotic for the tongue. What am I writing? I am writing an epic of seconds. I laughed about the riddle of life. What am I, the pure fictional self? Sometimes I consider myself to be a gentile Jew, a Christian anarchist, an atheistic Muslim and materialist Hindu. I express myself in Ontological deconstruction. Lacan said that all dreams are structured as language they are metaphors and metonymies. She told me that she is not free on Sunday. How sad! An erotic encounter missed out. My writing is narcissistic shamanism. I am possessed with an occult madness. Solitude you are a butterfly, you pure psyche. I am not proud or arrogant but simply down to earth. I am an ox that ploughs metaphors. Time is a passionate tempest. I write acapella with words. Magic realism is a gorgon eating my flesh. I succumb to fleshy temptations. Father forgive my trespasses as I forgive those who trespass against me. Don Quixote was a mad lunatic of the 18th century but today he is the triumph of individuality. Am I a confused self? I don’t care. I live in a very small village with antiquated customs. She wore a white sari and had jasmine decked in her head as she went to the temple? What pulchritude was she? My prose is a bottle of scotch. Rain I love your sound, the gentle rattle that you make. You pour like sperms on to the ground. Making love is sweet honey. I am thinking of Marcel Duchamp’s upside down urinal. What a satire of art? Art is a depression of fin de siècle madness. What about art for art’s sake? I am eating time as a bone marrow. Time is a waltz in spring and a dandy in winter. I don’t write to please but I write out of passion to write. Is the book a stoic ornament? The sit-ins in the universities as a protest against American involvement in Vietnam are an art. There’s a bumper lottery draw coming in Jan. I hope to win it. Love, hatred, covetousness, lust are all what it makes to be human. I am a humane person. Where is the epic? It lies in seconds. I love the portrayal of Daedalus, the poet in Joyce’s Ulysses. I feel I resemble the character. There it is the dream that floats on wings. Beauty is elegance and charms on wings. What am I? The places, I have visited, the women that I have loved, the writing that I have made. Passion rest in my heart, render me your solitude. I am time’s frozen vessel. I have a fetish for navels. Soft mounts of flesh; you subdue me to an erotic dream. I wonder about Nietzsche’s death of God theology. Yes God died but he resurrected on the third day. Zorba the Greek in Kazansaki’s novel is a fantastic portrayal of human life. Sade was a passionate writer. Mild doses of Sadism like spanking of the buttocks of the enjoyable. I am also addicted to masochism. I would love to be caned. A bird floats as a ballet. What is a writer’s mind? Where is his consciousness? Blogging has helped me to be a writer. I am passionate about life. Time is Epicurus the philosopher. Will death make us immortal? You must be sensitive to your thoughts and feelings. Sartre said that one must authenticate one’s existence. I feel so awed when I look at Van Gogh’s: starry nights. Impressionism is so fascinating. I have read Van Gogh’s letters to Theo; they surge with his passionate for painting. The letters are so intimately meaningful. Paris is the brothel of my mind and Philippines the brothel of my body. Time, a ball now is rising. Liberation theology is a theology that advocates that the kingdom of God is equality and social justice. Waves are poems that rise from the ocean. Meditation and tranquility I have found you in writing. Time on wings is a metaphoric cliché. I dream of being near to the sea. I can’t resist temptations. Yes I fear the Lord. I can’t understand the mania of Beatniks for Eastern mysticism. I have enjoyed smoking pot. Many ribbons of clouds lay across the sky. A bird has built a nest on the window sill and it’s a beautiful sight. One must be passionate about one’s life. The woods lovely dark and deep, I have many miles to go before I sleep. Resist the Devil and he will flee from you. The soul is a symphony of music. Time and space are conjectural metaphors to realize the meaning of God. Ask and you shall receive, yes I am asking Oh God. Hebrew letters are fascinating. From a beautiful soul emanates springs of wellness. It’s as puzzle as to why did Judas betray Christ. Pop art is a fiction of painting. In many of Picasso’s paintings the bull was a recurring leitmotif. Knock and it shall be opened, yes Lord I am knocking. Sappho wrote the lyre of the body. Sappho pleasures Sappho. Lyric of time, write a verse of poetry. Is the universe expanding? I am not sure. If it is the orbital balance of the earth would be in jeopardy. Solomon the wisest man on earth has said: there’s a time to plant and a time to harvest. Sow your seeds on good earth. I am the prodigal son who has returned to my father. Lord forgive my inequities. I wonder why Sartre turned to God while he was on his death bed. There’s a beautiful dragon fly in the sky. The sky rapidly changes shapes. Time is an echo of a dream. My body is intimate with passions. I am writing the carnival of literature. Is there life beyond death? What is the essence of life? She is passion for me. She makes passionate love to my body. I am her dear beloved. Shakespeare theatrified the world. I am fond of America, its culture, its gospel, its country music, its rock music and it its philosophy. A mist is covering like a white ghost. The cloud became a fang and then turned into a dragon. Time is a moving stream of music. Christ was gentle as a lamb. I took water baptism. It’s a metaphoric enunciation to die with Christ, to be buried and then to be resurrected with Christ. Poems you live in fruits. Seed, you are passionate body. Darling I want to make love to you. I see her going to college and at the bus-stop. I feel sexually attracted to her. Poems make up my soul. I have a repentant heart. What is the meaning of being? Meaning is a becoming of being. The subjective self is a mytho-poesis of the self in the habituation of a contemplative catharsis. Stones can cry, trees can laugh and fruits can grin. Halloween is so commercialized. Is it ethical to indoctrinate kids to be witches? Beauty lies in the eye of the beholder. Christ was charismatic. I have to move on in life. Fairy stories don’t enchant me anymore. I am a wog writer. I was fascinated by Helene Cixous’ essay: the laugh of the Medusa. In it she said that women must explore their bodies through the art of writing. Women must free themselves from phallo-logo-centric writing. Saw a raven pecking at a dead rat. What is writing? It’s an art and craft. Where is my consciousness? There was a bitch kid who complained to the principal against me. Now she must be a grown woman. I carry the dream of making love to her. Passion you are a fruit ripe now. In my journey of life I carry dreams. I think of Nietzsche’s theory of art: the birth of tragedy: the fusion of the Dionysian and the Apollonian: the merger of the melody with rhythm and beat. My writing is a jazz of journey. I feel like making love…I want to flower into a passionate poem. Darling let’s become flowers of meaning. Read the Bible …read ST Paul’s letters. How passionate is his zeal for Christ. America exports Bibles and Missiles and imports French Philosophers from France. Does a person become a writer by reading all the books in the world? Angst is real. The philosophy of existentialism lies in affirmation and negation. The ego is gratification. I am writing this book with seconds of thoughts that would make an epic. Communism as a philosophy has become a dead corpse. The Chinese are real fucked up bastards. They called me for an interview and did not pay me any expenses though they said they would. My writing is cadaverous shit. Henry Miller’s writing is littered with big fucks and cunts. That asshole was passionate writer of sex. When I think of realism in writing my mind feels bored. Am I an eccentric asshole? It was good sex with my significant other. I fucked her many times and gave her many orgasms. She became a beatified flower. Passion, you are a poem of meanings. My body is flood of libido. The 1$ bill lurks in conspiracy. The all Seeing Eye and the unfinished pyramid signifies the coming of the antichrist. You poem in a carnival, you have woken me up. I am a decolonized writer. Passion wake up and bloody fuck me. I love the feeling when my shithole strains to eject out shit; it’s a pleasurable masochistic feeling. Marquis De Sade, you are a poet, mystic and a saint. Read his days of Sodom. Sexuality is portrayed with an erotic finesse of language. Art for me is a fucked up myopia. What makes a writer great? I don’t know. Pulp fiction sells in the market but genuine writing has few takers. Though I have read into postmodern literature, I am condemned to teach 6th 7th and 8th grader the basics of English language. I feel so fucked up. Nirvana you are a passionate dick. Sex is yoga and meditation for me. The unconscious is a chick, an haute couture for the ego. Cops are bloody assholes. Jihadis are violent no-gooders. They encroach into Europe and America and create violence there. The sky hangs like fluffs of sheep wool. I am sinking into a vortex of making words bloom as flowers. The rhythm of words, you are pure copulation. Text is open like a cunt to many centers of meaning. Lesbianutics is a science of interpreting the cunt and its meaning as flowering G-spot. HermenUtricks is science of vaginality penetrating meanings. When you penetrate my reading, you give me an orgasm of meaning. One of my perversions is to be a lesbian voyeur. She became a flower of meaning when she opened her flower to meaning. All texts are inter-textual. Angst is licking my wounds. Textualization is an intellectual catharsis. Text is a phallus, writing is a vagina and meaning an orgasm. Why write? Yes I affirm to write is to art. I am fond of Jekyll and Hyde, a beautiful affirmation of multiple personality. I am fond of Jung’s Philemon, the archetype of his higher self. The anima, the feminine in the man and the animus the masculine in the woman is an interesting concept. Her vagina was soft as a poetic contour. I laked it with my tongue. She is such a sweet woman. I am writing in streams of consciousness narrative. Don’t be a slave of time. Master time to make an ecstasy. My brain is a barking dog. I want to copulate in streams of music. I am non-violent and peaceful. I am waiting for America to invite me to her shores. Mid is reason and body is passion. I am fond of the prodigal son. What a blessed father is Christ? He forgave the son completely. Should a writer encounter historicity into his writing? I transcend genres of writing. My style is unique and personality. Why did Sartre say: man is condemned to be free? The Hindu Philosophy of karma is bullshit. One can enter heaven only by faith and grace. Roland Barthes proclaimed the death of the author. The writer is merely a scriptor. He sculpts language as an erect phallus. I live a poetic life. I don’t look at the past nor peep into the future. I just live contented for the day. Clitorization is a nirvanic catharsis. Dick-incense is to be sensible to meaning. Found a beautiful definition of faith in the Bible: Faith is the substance of things hoped for and the evidence of things not seen. Cuntualization is a feminine reading of texts. Orgy I am not familiar with you. Lust is a sensational poem. Culture is a burnt lyric of dying passion. My feelings are flowing out from my ID. I don’t have hatred or malice to none. Why did Sheba leave me? That fucked up bitch: she is still in my mind. Darwin is a man who apeified evolution. I am a bucking bronco. I don’t go nitpicking on my neighbors. I don’t have money but I am the happiest person alive. Osho you are money mystic. The Devil doesn’t hand you gifts on a platter. Money sucks in my ass. Why is God not liberal with me? For years I have been lottery tickets but all my efforts have been stymied. I am not a money monger. But I don’t have enough. Shit! I don’t care a fuck! Hyperbole, I am hard nut to crack. The asylum which I stayed was a shithole. God doesn’t want people with luke-warm faith. Christmas is coming. What will God’s gift for me be? Metaphors you are poems of cunnilingualization. Poems wake me up from death. Feelings I am full of it. My emotions are precious to me. I long for a bottle of good scotch. I am penny wise and pound foolish. Am I feeling happy with my life, am I contented? Money would purchase an ocean of happiness. I follow the philosophy of convenientialism: anything goes with anything. I have written a treatise on it. Time, don’t bind me in fetters. I am fascinated by aboriginal religions. We need an economy that is humanistic-ally dialectic. We need an economy where money is a cornucopia for all. Sometimes I wonder whether my writing is literary. I don’t give a fart. My writing is experimental. I delve into the philosophy of fiction. My dawn today was a wounded bitch. Read Kerouac’s on the road. Yes, I am fascinated by Beatniks especially their experimentation with sex, booze and altered states of consciousness. I am beatnik at heart. After reading all philosophy I feel so wretched. Nothing is giving me peace. I long for the serene love of Christ. I long for his patient understanding of my soul. I am repentant and I seek forgiveness of my sins. The novel is the art of form and the literature of substance. A novel evolved through multiple texts and centers. The self is detached in writing and multiple selves evolve. Writing an art of the novel is akin to that of composing music. Poetry is sublime depths of the soul. I experiment poetry and jazz into my prose of writing. Yes, postmodernism has influenced me much. I am a Don Quixote who triumphs my own individuality. Clove cigarettes, the aroma grilled fish, the scent of pussies all energize me. I am a figment of imagination. I have entered into the realm of postmodernism. My writing is one of fissures and tremors. It’s long time since I have seen my significant other. I long for a reunion. When will it happen? I hope it will happen soon. I am thirsting and dying for it. Poems flood my soul. The architecture of symphonies breathes my mind. My writing is a carnival of surreal prose. Writing frees the mind of the writer. Writing is juxtaposition with fantasy and reality. There is poem of writing in the art of prose. Oh poem, sing the depths of my soul. I am crazy and eccentric. When it comes to reason I am skeptic and when it comes to passion I am a believer in Christ. Feelings pour my mind with passion. Serenade me with the art of love. My first love, what a delight she was? I remember passionately how I held her hands. I was on cloud nine at that time. She has departed from me, the wretched abyss. I am storm of feeling. Chaos, you are a witch that gazes at a crystal ball. Memories are witches haunting you in black cloaks. Yes, I am a born again Jesus freak. The Devil floods me with desires of transgression. I am poetic soul. I long to be in heaven with Christ. I like to read a contemporary version of the Bible which is idiomatic and called the Message. If oedipal trauma was true there would have been incest in society. Incest is rare and Freud’s oedipal complex is baloney. An embrace is poetry. A kiss is planting honey. I am doing a race with words. The idea for writing this novella came to me in flash of a moment. This is a novel, an epic that covers seconds in duration. A writer does not seek recognition but a writer longs to be read. I admire Sartre who rejected the Nobel Prize saying in his argument that it is bourgeoisie enterprise. Peace, I long for you abundantly. Theology is not about prosperity but about salvation. Metaphors crowd in me as thoughts. Salvation is blood, shed on the cross. It’s a puzzle to me as to why the Jews could not acknowledge Jesus the Messiah. Islam why is there bloodshed in your religion? I cannot fathom Jihad. Passion you are found on wings of a dove. Darling, make love to me. Let me spill delicious poetry in your honey lips. Let devour you with my tongue. Where there’s a will there’s a way. I could not meet her this Sunday. I long to copulate with her. She is wheatish and very pretty. I have written many poems of love to her. I long to embrace her and cuddle her and make love to her like passionate poetry. Writing is a being of a becoming in meaning. The writer’s self emerges through writing. The writer’s self is legion of countless ghosts. Writing is the infinite space of being. Writing is the haute couture of passion. One encounters de ja vu while writing. Writing is an eclipse that clouds the soul. Passion, wake my body up. Embrace me with the Nirvana of being. Time is infinity: a serpent biting its own tail. Am I poetic and creative? I deserve to be in the art of writing. Grace of God-Christ, I am your addict. Grace theology is needed by all humans. Some predict it is the end times. The appearance of the Messiah is imminent. I hope I won’t be judged for my sins. I always ask God for forgiveness. A writer has to evolve and evolve. This is kunstlerromain of writing. Writing is the passion of life. Consciousness is no cloudy but hopeful vessel. Time pricks the vessel of the body. The past is memory: the present: life and the future: hope. Speech is the garden and writing the desert. To be a writer is place one’s soul in exile. God has to part the red sea for writing to come alive. Sheba, why did you ditch me? I have loved you much. You were my delight, my soul of love. My writing is dialogic, transgressional and confessional. I don’t worship heathen Gods. I remember seeing a Shamanic doll and its image haunts me. I wonder what is wrong with me. I have set my soul ablaze. I like to drink on the rocks. Vodka is my favorite drink. Vodka laced in mango or orange flavor is a soul of delight. What’s my future? I really don’t know. I would like to retire and spent the rest of my time devoted to writing. That is my passion and my vocation. I haven’t earned a single penny from my writing but I am the happiest man alive. I am only a teacher in a small school in God’s Own Country. Sometimes I wish that I can pursue doctoral studies in literary theory in America. But that’s only a fond dream. I know that it can never be realized. May be some day dreams can come true. Passion is a river and I am flowing to it. May be I will have better days to come when I can do the things that I love. Every dog will have its day. I long to make love. I’ m sad that my wife does not enjoy sex. She is conservative Pentecost. She spends long nights crying out to God. I am passionate about sex. Passion, you river, flow me into an ocean of love. Lord, give me the patience to understand my wife. Sometimes I wonder why God chose her in my life. We are poles apart from each other. She slams dung at my writing. She is hostile and critical and proclaims that all my writing is trash. Is my writing bullshit? I really don’t know. I am convinced that I have to write and I write out my convictions. Writing is my passion, my bread of life. I feel so contented in my life when I write. When will the time come, when I can do all day to write? To write and write is my passion. This is humble work of an unknown writer who wants to experiment with prose.