Talmud Junkie

The sky lay like textures of a dark vulva colored with the fornication of the dark. I stumble drunk and throw a wooden pentagram and it lies broken with me, quivering me with thoughts of sodomy. Not one bird is echoing a lonely call. All are settled like prostitutes who have been given their wages, settled in their nests with their waste land clients.

I have to swallow the terrible silence of the night. My body feels deprived of earthly flesh. Yes I am fleshy, carnal and expressive. Though I am indulging in the sin of carnality as a deadly knowing vice, yet I am not satiated. I have no money to devour cheap rum of intoxication. I have no cash (money and honey, no money no honey) to devour the torment of sex into voyeurism of prostitutionalized orgy.

Art exposes the nudity of a cracked mirror and a shattered beer mug. I feel my thoughts to be the amalgam of an absurd universe. I feel brothelized by the window of emptiness. I feel the stink of puke and the stench of feces emanating from the broken commode of a clogged bathroom.
I dream of my college lover; she has left me and left her life in an accident. I have tried ouija boarding with her. But her ghost never appears to me. I wish she would haunt me in my dreams, prick my genitals through a séance of bitchiness. I am still feeling passionate about her, the raw meat of her sensual lips, the kissy sweetness of her tongue. How sunny I felt when I fondled her flowery panties. She stopped me there and would allow me to go no further. I wonder why her ghost is adamant to my feelings, wants and wishes. I wonder why I want to scatter my thoughts about her with the scum of cum.
If ambrosia is the nectar of Greek pagan gods for immortality, it can at least be nectarized by the pagans, the heathen, the renegades, the apostates as a panacea of immortalized–immorality. Art has a problem beatitude; every taboo has been transgressed; watching porn is watching a romantic comedy. Taboo has become cliched and transgressions trite, common place everydayness of things; what can be redeemed in Art? Hyperboreanism is nullification. Nihilism is dead. From Thanotos to Thanotos, Eros rebels in the hell of Lucifer. Her shouts are comic psalms viable to be written down as Nirvana watching a blue stocking pull up. Orgasm has pinnacled over kundalini and catharsis and the shakti OM and the blessed hallelujah and orgasm is the very thought, a transgressional structure of over writing, a cross over, a cross symbolism over the word —-to cross. What still emerges is an epiphany, a soluble mammary breast of transgressing tropes.
It rained; spit was onamatopoezing as spit, spit, spit; My teenage was shibbolethized to pout the scripture with awe, reverence and worship.Thus I reminiscence: ” The Lord is my Shepherd”. As I have grown older catechism has been replaced by the veneration of lips—-meta-pussying.I have graced into many pastures as a loving Shepherd. I have observed how the heathen, fleshy pastures churn their soiled juices on my tongue; oh how fruity, meaty and fleshy were them. Oh how the after taste lingers in me like wine pressed from the wine yard.
I found her so unresponsive as a corpse. She was barren as a desert of sexual energy. There were no loving words of companionship no sexual talk. I had to force her to remove her clothing. She would not touch me anywhere. I felt for her breasts, they were voluminous with ripe black nipples. She brushed off my hands with a manna of disgust. I tried to reach out to her soft labyrinth, her labials. She removed my head. I wanted to taste her and give her an orgasm. I tried mounting on her as missionary. With a lot of effort I was able to insert myself into her vagina. First I thrust-ed slowly, then I rammed into her. She told me to stop. I felt so neglected. For her sex is so dirty. I have been living with her for many years and I hate it.
It rained, a mystical outpouring, an epiphany of poetry, like a women’s body outpouring in menstruation; the pads were the earth absorbing the pale blood of fecundity.
She was in late fifties; she was a radical explorer of sex; I found her thanks be to the web; we had so many discussions especially on the art of poetry which we both were fond off. How I remember the way she took me to the bathroom and removed my clothes and scrubbed my body with soap and how we had a sensual bath together. Later on we had a couple of drinks—Chivas Regal and it aroused in us the poetry of hornyness. Though she was old, there was not a blemish or wrinkle on her body; her skin glistened like a baby’s cheek. We embraced each other and shared a kiss which lasted for ages. How sweet it was to taste her liqueur of her tongue. Her breasts were small but she has unusually large nipples. The nipples were risen and taut. I sucked and nibbled her nipples. She kept moaning and mumbling a gibberish of passion. She kneeled on the bed and told me to place my mouth inside her butt. Being drunk, I did it with inebriated relish. I jutted my tongue into the opening of her anus and started to do the analingus. I found her meaty flesh, fresh from the fragrance of bath, tasty. I devoured her butt with eager vitality. While eating her butt, I also inserted my finger into her cunt and started stroking it like a violinist on the cello. Her moaning became louder, more intense, and with animal grunting, she came to an orgasm. But she wanted me again and urged me. “Please enter me with your dick and fuck me hard.” I took the position of a missionary. She with her thighs spread apart like a mountain, received me. Her pussy was very tight and I found it difficult to enter. She took my penis with her fingers and inserted it into her vagina. I thrust-ed with great vigor and she returned my thrust with greater force. With every thrust that I made, she would lift her buttocks upwards and thrust back at me. In these moments of intensity I experienced beauty, passion and art. My soul was lit up with a phenomenology of liquid arabesque. Yes I could feel her vagina becoming wetter and wetter like dew on the carpet of grass. Every penetration she shouted at me hoarsely. “Fuck me harder. Fuck me harder”. At last she started sobbing with happiness. I poured my lava fully into her sacred pussy. We lay in each other’s arms and drifted off to sleep.
I think of her; I dream her; she is Anu; she is a widow in her early forties. She is perfumed with the color of wheatish skin. How much I adore her! How much I wish to have sex with her. I don’t know oh God how to convey my desire. Yes, once she allowed me to brush against her buttocks. I am in a quandary to understand whether her wish is real or not. Yes, I ache very much for her body. How do I obtain her? Yes there is Lord Lucifer, the God of all transgressions. Anita, darling how I wish I could suckle your autumn ripe breasts! How I wish I could pelt my lips on your tender pussy. How I wish I could give you multiple orgasms. How I wish I could like her buttocks and stroke her pleasurable pussy. Oh Anita my darling yield to me.
The sky is curled in orange hues; the evening’s mask of the sun relaxed in an idyll outing; I wish I could pick the hues of orange and feast it as a fruit of lover’s body; I wish I could copulate with the evanescence now disappearing into the dark brothel of the night. The painting of an experience in art is the music, lying in my dream as an orgasmic sigh……a guttural moan that oozes out of a woman’s mouth when she comes……
How prodigal and reckless should I become for the art of the Novel to emerge in the Philosophy of writing. One has to transcend one’s race, culture, religion all the transcendental –signifieds, dump them as Andre Breton picking crumpled paper and writing poetry out of random words. How I wish I could spread words of the Novel on paper, like Jackson Pollock spreading paint on the canvas and painting the autumn rhythm. The writing resembles automatic writing of Breton and action painting of Pollock. Yes, I have been exiled by my GOD and Country to produce the absurd of a surreal life a melting clock in existential hanging. Dali I owe you the Christian apologetics for that. Art is the being’s intifadic tourney to a mental desert. To pick from it in orgies and drunkenness, leitmotifs of body in sacred adultery and fornication of intimacy, to experience nausea with one’s own puke, shit and body fluids, to nirvanaolgize into poems where chthonicity is a libido of transgressions, an anomie of epiphany, a catharsis of transubstantiation, where the sublime is charismatic as a profane, violated, decadent, but yet experienced as crazy art and as the intimacy of being sanctified.
According to Prof. Foucault there is no madness and he means madness as an alienation of a bourgeoisie society. I agree to Foucault in totality and I have to recall to my mind the harsh treatment I was meted out in an asylum run by the Catholic Sisters—-who I call as archetypes of a virgin-whore complex. They are virgins for the Holy Mother Mary and whores for Christ. How they predate and infiltrated me with woebegone Catholic ideology. The whore –virgin complex, the bloody sisterhood of Catholicism force all inmates to attend prayer and service. The fucking whores would read eulogies praising Mother and Virgin Mary and how they plead to her in absolute piety. I wonder of those bloody fucking statues of Mary can fucking weep or fucking listen. These are fucking nuns who rat-hole us in the asylum, cutting us off from all outside communication. There is no internet, no telephone, there’s only a lunatic box which the inmates keep fiddling on to listen to soap channels. Any person with sanity, with just a little intelligence and a little ego would have it battered by these virgin whores. These virgin whores would force the inmates to wear a rosary? What the fuck can a rosary do? Does it fucking cleanse your sin? After the prayers are over the Catholic inmates would give the holy handshake only to themselves. The Catholics are religious racists. I think Catholics stand for brainwashing people and for making money. Yes, the whole institutionalized Catholicism is fucking business. In the asylum, the virgin-whore Sisters would employ sturdy, macho male nurses who will abuse the inmates verbally and physically if they show slightest protest. It’s not a mystery to assume that these virgin whores might be fucking them. Most of these male nurses are uneducated, illiterate and arrogant. They think themselves as Psychiatrists. The psychiatrists are also Catholic Jesus Freaks who when doing duty rounds ask minimal questions like: “how are you?” If we ask him or her, when we will be discharged, they will just nod their heads. There is no personalized counseling in the fucking institution. My experience in this shit-hole makes me hate all Catholic ideology. You bloody nuns having the virgin whore complex—How I would love to hang you up on crosses, lift your frocks and flog your buttocks like Marquis de Sade. What pleasure I would get when you scream in pain. I would then love to masturbate and force you to do the fucking benediction and then laugh in glee and bite your fucking buttocks.
My father figure has been a confusing one. He was a potpourri of being a totalitarian and also a libertarian. I wonder why he became a communist party worker, yet remained tenacious as a diehard preacher Christian—and more puzzling is the fact that he created a capitalist institution, where the workers and owners slog like dogs and earn peanuts. More amazing is the fact that he also became a Hindu too and went for a pilgrimage to Ayappa’s temple in Sabrimala. He became attached to the cult of the Mother Goddess which remained with him throughout his life. Later when he was about to die, he requested his children to bury him next to his mother. A colleague of his told me that he wanted to give his body to his mother who wombed it. What a manifestation of infantile Oedipus complex. Is he a Freudian Child in one sense, a Marxian adolescent in another and a spiritually immature Christian in a different manner and last but not least a Capitalist who tried and failed to make an American dream come true. My father is not a melting pot but a broken pot of a failed American Dream.
The wicker lamps from the Mother Goddess temple were glowing ebulliently; their lustrous glow resembled a finished portrait of a multitude of women showing their cunts; an erect phallus of stone lay at the center of the glowing lamps. The Priestess menstruated on the phallus draping her juices as a liquid petal of roses.
Bloom asked her gently by squeezing her oversized melons; she spread her legs wide offering him entry. She remained cold, indifferent and frigid to his blissful penetrations; at last with a loud knock, he came surging; she rolled over in disgust and lay snoring in sleep. Bloom became depressed and confessional for the Churches he prayed and lustful again for the whores that he had.
Orientation is eroto-heterogenous; that’s why I love straight sex and voyeuristic lesbianism. Mythopeia is a hybrid between dystopia and utopia —-a realm of Ontological being. Hedonism and Materialism are twin tenets of gospel to be enacted in the mind of experience. There is a (demon)stration. Mr. Malaprop spend a w(hole) night in the brothel farting and fucking. Meta-hiss-toricity is a metafur. What is the legion in the art of writing the novel—the legion infiltrates, penetrates and empowers the author to destabilize centers of all meaning. Identity is a contaminated psyche, a (w)rite of (w)itchy meaning. What is the con(Zeus)ness of meaning? It’s just a silly fart to Philistinize the Hellenic grandeur of meaning. There’s a presence in possession—-the devil lived—-and live evil—the Mammon Lucifer. Oh transcendental signified manifest a presence of Spirits in the signifier of the sign. I am an Indian. When it comes to India’s values— morality, purity, reverence, respect, am I happy? Am I contented? I let out a mournful sigh like a howling wolf. Parisians read old texts, decipher and decimate them to become grand intellectuals of new thinking. Existentialism advocates that you have to soak meaning with the authenticity of experience. I affirm, proclaim, liberate and celebrate my Wishes to the existence of a becoming. How I would love to soak a cunt with my tongue and lips. I am a fan of Marquis De Sade; I love him because when he was in jail, he wrote with blood when he had no pen and ink. Sartre was right when he said that a writer has to be free from commitment, institution and canon. Why was Hitler, sexually a masochist and racially a sadist? Women have gratification better with women. They know their bodies well. Indian tradition does a pathetic homicide on aesthetic iconoclasm. WOW! Indian Culture—How amazing? I am dying of it. Jesus was a Freak so are Jesus Freaks. Even though I am born into Christianity, I might die outside of it. • There is a (H) in Hell and heaven. Isn’t that an enigma? When life produced an absurd experience—-I wept, and then I laughed it off, wretched Lucifer! Anthropo-Zoomorphic Gods are so mysterious. They live as idols and are being worshiped. Atheism does not console existence—-meaning finds an irony of being alone. Indian Values—-Am stupefied by their totalitarianism. What an exaggeration to be an Indian. What an incredible humbug. I need to be pious Indian. Yes I can have begging bowl and exist in boredom. The imagery of the Tarot is a sheer gossip of archetypes, an insane, lunatic prescience. I am a sinner— I love being it. Why? How Fascinating? Do I really need forgiveness? Oh I see! If am reincarnated, the silly mumbo jumbo, I would love to be born as a swine in my next birth. Cut me Halal, cook and eat me deliciously. I wonder why Buddha never smiled after he attained enlightenment. Where is Allah? Here There. Up or down. Come on I am teasing myself. The Quran is a text that was humanly created. I wonder why texts create God. Oh Mother! Oh Amma! You are a pious charlatan. You are a darling of devotees. How strange a plot that has no mystery? Socrates proclaimed: “Know thy self” Isn’t that a metaphysical lie! Yoga—Oh my God, there’s pain in the body. I chant the mantra OM, the cosmic, ethereal sound. How deprived I feel of earthly existence. You are a woman….yes yes I penetrate you, but also love to soak you with flesh! Heaven has no air and that’s why I can’t live in it. Once a choice is exercised, the will has to exert an effort! Taboo! You are religion’s mournful whore!
Passion is more beautiful than reason. How do I Derridadainize my nativity into existential deconstruction? America is transforming from a melting pot into a racial pot. Gender and Sexuality can become subjective deconstructions of poetry. China is a paradox of Communistic coterie and free market Economics. Freud wrote his sexuality centered on the Phallus. Women are deconstructing it with labialclitoricks. Time is experientializng. The Ego cannot be transcended. Happiness is drunkenness, sex, and drugs. How to balance an existential life of subjectivity between materialism and idealism? India became free on August 14th 1947, but I am still in bondage. I have found the passions of an adulteress more tempting and more fulfilling. Morality, truth and virtue are contempt-contemporanized. If Hinduism had no idols, I would have become its devotee. If Buddhism had no middle path, I would have accepted it. If Christianity had no sin, I would have followed. Lucifer, Satan, Mammon, you deserve to be a God. The glutton is connoisseur of food, sex and wine. Eros prolongs the sexual act unlike animals in copulation. Man—the thanatos, death after an orgasm, it’s a pity that women are multi-orgasmic. My mind is a mental condom absorbing vulvic lubrications.
Freewill loses its freeness once a choice is made. A superstition crossed my path and it was a black cat. It’s difficult to be Platonic with women; of course Mothers, Sisters and Daughters are excluded. A word becomes a wish and then it has to be gratified. I don’t have enough sperm to fill a whole cunt. The sperm of literature is an ecstasy when it spills over a text. Vulvic nights and erection thunders are a literature of imagination. Passion semenizes cultures of a text. I am chanting a mystical mantra: “ohm, oh shit, ohm, oh fuck, ohm oh shit, ohm oh fuck” and then I let out a fart. He was a puddendaologist, laproscopying cunts with an erotic pen. Queer Literature is a lyrical beast. I felt a pleasure in masturbating on a holy rosary. Express the ID, Deify the Ego and Reify the Super Ego. A cunt is a mystery motion in the magic of many texts. Oh Pain, forget my body. Bums, Breasts and Cunts are holy sanctified deities. Is there a religion without a taboo? A free spirit has to live in transgressions. At times I shit with many farts and yet times I am so silent. Sometimes my shit emerges as watery crumbs and sometimes it emerges as Picasso’s cubes. Hey bugger, don’t fart when you fuck. Be polite OK. Analization—buggery, analingus and shitting is a mystical experience. Oh poetic heart, how do I drown my sexuality into a bestial orgy? The profession that I love the most is that of the Gigolo. Ontology or being is a mania to be an exorbitant state of existence. Cum realization has death. The time taken for reincarnation is another erection. Teaching virgins to do passionate poetry is an art, a sincere poetry. A hospital imprisons the body and the mind. When one is disappointed about experience, one can authenticate it with fuck and a fart. Celebrate existence as a joy— as poet does to words.
Oh Psyche, floating on the romantic seductive air—your words are on the wings of poetry. You have seduced the Earth as an angel of flight. Why have you left your charms besieged in your fragile body? Yes, you release beauty as a painting flight. You have left the forsaken body of lust and you have traveled to the air, a heaven now of imagination. Morning rose passively like a dream. The atmosphere was misty and resembled the color of sperm. The body drowns like a corpse unable to find intimacy and camaraderie. I saw the colored cock with its upturned back-feathers mounting on the hen. There was no foreplay, no intimacy, and no sexual remonstrations. There was penetration and orgasm like instant coffee. Everything was over in a second. The newspaper lay outside the gate like soiled underwear due to the slight drizzle outside. The fresh air of the morning chilled my face, sprinkling it as an offered cheek of a brazen slut witch. All the dogs are howling. Is it a sign of death, decay and decadence or is it a sign that the bitches are in heat. I took the holy rosary given to me by the fucking nuns at the asylum. I broke it with one violent tug and I sprinkled urine on its scattered beads, soaking it with the profanity of gratification. How to structuralize language and phenomenologize meaning? The philosophy of Literature at a structural level is one of metaphorization and metonomyzation. The philosophy of Phenomenological Literature is the transgression of culture, religion, race, caste, gender, orientation and above all nation to aesthediasporize existence into an art. Well here again, tropologize the cunt of an Idol, reify and temporalize blessedness into the murk of ambiguity and chaos. Experiment and Experientialize the ID, Deify, Adore and Worship and Indulge the Ego into heterogeneity of art and crumple-cum the Super Ego and reify it as a wasted condom to be flushed away. The Supreme Court of India has (anal)yzed a crude law—the law of immoral traffic. According to this preposterous and dastardly law, its fangs can arrest couple indulging in consensual sex outside the domain of marriage. It’s an irony that the law does not apply to foreigners who come here. Why are they left scot free? I set my gaze on to the shape of Kerala as represented on the map. Kerala —God’s Own Country is really a cuntree, a cunt shaped leafy state hewn out of a mythological blunder when Prasurama threw his axe into a lesbian Arabian sea. Its idyll backwaters sedate the senses and work like a narcotic lulling the body to flow into a vulvical orifice of being. A fairy Godmother is a bitchy archetype—a whore who feigns sexuality with a legion of men. Yes a fairy Godmother is a lesbian with fairies. Fair sex is fairy sex. Mr. Worm Wood Bloom the alter ego from the Anglican, Episcopal, Catholic church, self ordained wants anal(yze) the ism of cuntualism. Cuntualism has many lexicographic bifurcations like cuntualize, cuntuality, and cuntocentric. Wow Logos, I have Derridadadainized your privilege into multifarious cuntualizims. What is the cunto-centric discourse? Let’s cuntsatiate meanings into hetero-labial-architectural dichotomies of feminomanias. Logo-phallic discourses the erect-hood of domination became heterogenized into anal-lingual-cunnilingual trans-copulation of hetero-erotic orientations in labyrinthine possibilities. Phallic bound discourses become submerged in the eclectic stream of cuntextulity, obliterating significances and creating dichotomies of plurivocal meanings. What does cuntextualize mean? Cuntextualize is an erotic edifice of hetero-genders privileging the discourses of the self against theologization of culture, religion, race, caste, sex, nation and gender. What is a cuntree? It’s a poly-erotic nation steeped in the ethos of immorality, guided by artisans where every law is a profanity. Prosperity is fornication and sodomy through the rituals of sado-masochism. What is cuntistronics? It’s polly syllabic with multilateral utterances of oooohs and aaahs the moaning, screaming, crying, and grunting when orgasms occur throughout the world. It’s the politics of protest devoid of moral puritanisms and a revival of carnival used a weapon of non violence against phallo-logo-centered governments enforcing rigid laws for Philistine survival. The memories of Worm Wood Bloom slipped into his austere childhood —the time he spent under the regimen of a tyrant Art Master. For the Art class, we have to leave the class room and file into the art room. The object of display on the table was a bunch of flowers in flowerpot. The Art Master with a huge moustache curling at both ends and a sinister smile ordered the students to copy it into the art notebooks. The Art Master has a long bamboo cane which he used to slap on his pants from time to time. I became petrified by the art master’s menacing posture. I opened the art notebook with trembling hands. I shivered a cosmic shiver and felt my body as though I have been hit by a meteor. Ten minutes before the bell rang —the Art Master bellowed: “hand in your books”. I put my book in the last, hoping that my empty page won’t be detected before the bell rang. But to my consternation, he saw the book and pointed his cane at me. He bellowed: “You come here”. Trembling like the earth rumbling, I went near to the table in which he was sitting. He stood up quickly and held my shirt and swung the cane vigorously striking my buttocks with all the force that he could muster. He beat on my buttocks five times. My buttocks felt like it had touched a live flame. Tears overcame me and I wept. The Art Master sneered uttered hoarsely: “Shut up”. My affinity for art lay paralyzed for a long time. It was only when I reached my youth, even though I can’t paint for nuts, I embraced art as an aficionado.
First of all I would like to invite the audience into the construction of the plot. The plot is neither magical, not an intellectual construct. Here I proceed with the plot by the dissection of Political Parties. The saffron political party had no locus standi in the state. The Gandhi’s a political party and the Cheguverain party was competing with each other in this municipality. It was a mouth to neck competition. One can’t wonder who would be the winner. In the course of time, the Gandhi’s adopted a political stratagem. A crude and violent strategy it was. It was a strategy to kill the candidate and win mercy votes by asking the family of the killed kin to stand for elections. This strategy worked. The Gandhi’s as a political party won the oncoming elections. Nobody knew about the perfidious actions of the Gandhi party. Every plot erected in the novel is crap. One can easily dissect the monuments inherent in the creation.
In the desert, I found an oasis that gurgles God. Ms. Young Kadija Muhammad was moaning from reading a text on varied sexual positions. Ms. Old Kadija Muhammad was moaning with labor pains. I have to divorce my wife, stupid, fucking Pentecostal bitch. I want to portray myself as an art exhibit with a candle stuck in my asshole and lit on the outside. What an altar it will, a profane menorah. Trinity can be in hell too, Father, Son and the Demonic Spirit. I see her lighting a candle on the feet of icon Mary. What a silly piety, piety devoid of sex. Immanence can be closing God in a sign and leading destruction in decipherment. Occult—I have transcended it by the art of living. Art is a parable of the lost sheep. The game of chance, the lottery dissolved my existence. When will real ecstasy happen in the existence of my being? The subaltern Lucifer is a night of ecstasy. I am hiring Lesbian Prostitutes for a night of hetero-poetic excursions. How can I adulterate the temple of the living God with fornication, drunkenness, orgy and blasphemy? God lives in the desert. The pen can thirst for the exodus of finding an oasis. If God can’t be uttered then God can be mournfully accumulated in the pen. God—I utter Diaspora. I am no Moses to purify the mind into an exodus. What a miracle is God—I feel pathetic. If Joseph had committed adultery with Potiphar’s wife, he would have enjoyed it. I need to drown my body in booze and then purify it with indulgent sex. Numbers are numbers, countable, and whoreable as mysticism. Jekyll and Hyde are two facets of every mind. Lucifer was subalternized by Christianity. The scratches in the sky are my turbulent emotions. I saw the bitch running on the road with its tits sagging like elastic. The rosy clouds licked the sky in the evening. Thoughts became a disgusting used condom. Mind sullied itself like a soiled vagina. Nativity of my Christmas is Diaspora in chaos.
Dark clouds of imagination crowded in my agitated and restless loins. The poetry of the body is waiting like flowers wanting to bloom. I can also (anal)yze my perceptions, thoughts and feelings. Passions can be imprisoned in the Super Ego.
I need love and sex; they are fevers I am suffering from. I am a Chinese Dog. I pounce on the horoscope, No! I wag my tail for no reason and I bark for passion. I am silent now in sadness. The Fish Pisces can never sink as it is always swimming. Asstrolegers are fucking asstrolegers. I bounce back my memory to the Mother Goddess sculpture found in Indus valley ruins. Why is the sculpture showing the abundance of breasts and extra large hips? Man is a voyeur to sensational exhibitionism. How can reason be submissive to passion? What is transubstantiation and consubstantiation in Christian theology? How can the Eucharist, the blood and wine become the living body and blood of Christ as enunciated by Catholicism in the doctrine of transubstantiation? Catholicism is a fucked up religion with dogmas of hegemony. How can the bloody Mary a cocktail fucking weep? How can blood drain out of the fucking idol of Mary? Mary was no fucking virgin. She had many children. Why are candles being lit up at the feet of idol Mary? Why not light candle near to her cunt. What about the Lutheran doctrine of consubstantiation that the blood and wine should be taken in memory of Christ? There is no living image of Christ and then how can we visualize a memory of Christ. Was Christ a poem that remained immaculate? We are we housed in the fleshy carnality of a body that can sin and sin and rebel and rebel. The materiality of our bodies makes us susceptible to earthly Faustian ideals. Passion is for the flesh to be celebrated as a Holy Communion, ecstasying into carnivals of libido-poetopieas. Blessed are the possessed for they shall inherit the kingdom of the Earth. Let that be a devilish beatitude. Did Eve have sex with serpent? Yes she did and then she ate the tree, the fruit of knowledge. Why did God hide the wisdom of the tree of knowledge from humans and then told them that it is a taboo to eat of it? Yes the fruit of knowledge is sex and sex and sex. The moment a taboo is created it becomes a bulwark that can have an opposition, which is a cunt that can lasso it and crumple it into a transgression. Why was the tree of life created and then not given to humans to be eaten? In the beginning was the Word, the word was not God; the Word was the letter and the letter was flesh, transcribed into the eurhythmy of meaning and the flesh became meaning to disseminated. Men disseminate meaning by scattering sperm and women being lesbians in the cataclitoral agitations of multi-orgasms. It’s gospel that women should be lesbians and at times offer their cunts for the revival of procreation. When Jesus was walking where God alone knows, he by chance spied on a fig tree. It was copious with leaves and its trunk fat with flesh. But the fig tree disappointed him as it bore no fruit. He became angry and cursed it and then it withered and sunk to the ground in desolation. Why couldn’t Jesus have blessed the tree and command it bear fruit. It’s a puzzling enigma. Why was apostle Paul, blinded by divine rays and struck down upon the ground from the horse he was riding, a Damascene effect created by God to proselytize him into Christianity? Yes Paul was transformed. But what was the effect? Did Paul have the freedom to delve into the freedom of his experiential existential self? He had to forgo all pleasures of the body and experience pain and suffering for translating spirituality, a Christian theology that makes no sense to me even till this day. Why does the Christian God want to own people and subjugate them with moral purity? What is the great reward that one can accumulate after death? Heaven! What an absurdity! One can’t fathom the entirety of the universe and then what is the use of fathoming a God that remains so unfriendly, malignant and mysterious. How can one erase the Christian consciousness from one’s mind? I am trying but my efforts are a stumbling block. When Christian theologians advocate God loves the sinner but not the Sin, all my defenses crumple; I became a vegetable, an empty flesh wanting to repossess meaning to celebrate a carnival. Yes I am a fleshian. I love to indulge in booze, women and food. I am addicted to sin and nothing will me make me change. I am puzzled by the actions of the Biblical Joseph. When Joseph was working in Potiphar’s house, the Pharaoh’s official who bought from captivity, he was allured by Potiphar’s wife to bed with her. He adamantly refused her titillations. Why? It would have been pleasurable for Joseph to learn lessons of sexuality by succumbing to the pleasures of this sensual garden. But Joseph was so enthused with Jehovah karma and refused her seductions. And for that reason he had to suffer. In the end the Bible paints a goody goody picture of him as being given the gift of God to interpret the dreams of Pharaoh and having done so he was transformed into a stature in Egyptian bureaucracy. Instead of being baptized in water, I would indulge in the baptism of myself in whisky. How can one become a holy fucking Ganges of the spirit by being baptized in water? The flesh does not change. The flesh is addicted to the transcendence of poetic subjectivity. The flesh deserves sex and that’s its priority.
I was trying so hard to fornicate the realism of the novel. But my efforts were in vain in the realism of the book shelf. That’s was when I got hold of a cathartic experience. It was so silly, so subaltern, and so gross; it’s when I watched a woman pee through her clothes standing on the side of the bridge. I always wonder why my relatives send me to a penal institution called the asylum. Is it who I am insane or they? I am fucked up in a Matriarchal culture; I am dominated, hegemonized for packets of cigarettes. I have no outlet. But again I think of the woman, why was she ostracized why society. Is it her nirvana of her urinating through her clothes? Goddam fuck! There’s always an answer in this unanswerable universe. Saw the street light falling on the ripples of water in the brook, distorting it and making it look like woman’s vulva. A withered leaf lay on the ground, crumpled, haggard and worn out; it was corpse of being, wanting to decompose into the earth. Love birds, pets of my niece lie imprisoned in a cage, chattering their freedom and protesting release by banging their wings on cages. I would love to be a prodigal Son but I need lottery luck as the Father’s wealth to prodigalize it. When the coins clinked on the floor it became a hearing of money luck. When I shit there’s shitopiea and when I urinate there’s urineopiea. I am porn-racial; I love a pan-porn theology, African, American, Asian and Hispanic. I am shit-chthonic when I feel like shitting but I am not able to shit. The media becomes a corybantic gobbler when there’s happenings especially disasters. Wonder why aviation disasters strike headlines and front pages and so also natural disasters. Rapes are paeans of sexsimilitudes brutally orgicized in the media. The devil is limited in hell but I am not on Earth; I have the right to be in transgressional freedom and also being in the knowing about its consequences.

Dark clouds of imagination crowded in my agitated and restless loins. The poetry of the body is waiting like flowers wanting to bloom. I can also (anal)yze my perceptions, thoughts and feelings. Passions can be imprisoned in the Super Ego.
I need love and sex; they are fevers I am suffering from. I am a Chinese Dog. I pounce on the horoscope, No! I wag my tail for no reason and I bark for passion. I am silent now in sadness. The Fish Pisces can never sink as it is always swimming. Asstrolegers are fucking asstrolegers. I bounce back my memory to the Mother Goddess sculpture found in Indus valley ruins. Why is the sculpture showing the abundance of breasts and extra large hips? Man is a voyeur to sensational exhibitionism. How can reason be submissive to passion? What is transubstantiation and consubstantiation in Christian theology? How can the Eucharist, the blood and wine become the living body and blood of Christ as enunciated by Catholicism in the doctrine of transubstantiation? Catholicism is a fucked up religion with dogmas of hegemony. How can the bloody Mary a cocktail fucking weep? How can blood drain out of the fucking idol of Mary? Mary was no fucking virgin. She had many children. Why are candles being lit up at the feet of idol Mary? Why not light candle near to her cunt. What about the Lutheran doctrine of consubstantiation that the blood and wine should be taken in memory of Christ? There is no living image of Christ and then how can we visualize a memory of Christ. Was Christ a poem that remained immaculate? We are we housed in the fleshy carnality of a body that can sin and sin and rebel and rebel. The materiality of our bodies makes us susceptible to earthly Faustian ideals. Passion is for the flesh to be celebrated as a Holy Communion, ecstasying into carnivals of libido-poetopieas. Blessed are the possessed for they shall inherit the kingdom of the Earth. Let that be a devilish beatitude. Did Eve have sex with serpent? Yes she did and then she ate the tree, the fruit of knowledge. Why did God hide the wisdom of the tree of knowledge from humans and then told them that it is a taboo to eat of it? Yes the fruit of knowledge is sex and sex and sex. The moment a taboo is created it becomes a bulwark that can have an opposition, which is a cunt that can lasso it and crumple it into a transgression. Why was the tree of life created and then not given to humans to be eaten? In the beginning was the Word, the word was not God; the Word was the letter and the letter was flesh, transcribed into the eurhythmy of meaning and the flesh became meaning to disseminated. Men disseminate meaning by scattering sperm and women being lesbians in the cataclitoral agitations of multi-orgasms. It’s gospel that women should be lesbians and at times offer their cunts for the revival of procreation. When Jesus was walking where God alone knows, he by chance spied on a fig tree. It was copious with leaves and its trunk fat with flesh. But the fig tree disappointed him as it bore no fruit. He became angry and cursed it and then it withered and sunk to the ground in desolation. Why couldn’t Jesus have blessed the tree and command it bear fruit. It’s a puzzling enigma. Why was apostle Paul, blinded by divine rays and struck down upon the ground from the horse he was riding, a Damascene effect created by God to proselytize him into Christianity? Yes Paul was transformed. But what was the effect? Did Paul have the freedom to delve into the freedom of his experiential existential self? He had to forgo all pleasures of the body and experience pain and suffering for translating spirituality, a Christian theology that makes no sense to me even till this day. Why does the Christian God want to own people and subjugate them with moral purity? What is the great reward that one can accumulate after death? Heaven! What an absurdity! One can’t fathom the entirety of the universe and then what is the use of fathoming a God that remains so unfriendly, malignant and mysterious. How can one erase the Christian consciousness from one’s mind? I am trying but my efforts are a stumbling block. When Christian theologians advocate God loves the sinner but not the Sin, all my defenses crumple; I became a vegetable, an empty flesh wanting to repossess meaning to celebrate a carnival. Yes I am a fleshian. I love to indulge in booze, women and food. I am addicted to sin and nothing will me make me change. I am puzzled by the actions of the Biblical Joseph. When Joseph was working in Potiphar’s house, the Pharaoh’s official who bought from captivity, he was allured by Potiphar’s wife to bed with her. He adamantly refused her titillations. Why? It would have been pleasurable for Joseph to learn lessons of sexuality by succumbing to the pleasures of this sensual garden. But Joseph was so enthused with Jehovah karma and refused her seductions. And for that reason he had to suffer. In the end the Bible paints a goody goody picture of him as being given the gift of God to interpret the dreams of Pharaoh and having done so he was transformed into a stature in Egyptian bureaucracy. Instead of being baptized in water, I would indulge in the baptism of myself in whisky. How can one become a holy fucking Ganges of the spirit by being baptized in water? The flesh does not change. The flesh is addicted to the transcendence of poetic subjectivity. The flesh deserves sex and that’s its priority. For the nihilism of despair there’s no redeeming Christ. Woe to you Christ—I have my solitude. I am thinking of an absurd God in the absurd Universe. God has a divinism that is opposite to humanism, a cold, unfriendly, malignant, hegemonic, and hateful—an all powering sovereign who palpitates the consciousness to be nullified again as crazy existence. Religion as an experience has culturized me into a pell-mell of boisterous romping of Hellenic Dionysianism, a negative attitude to theology that is stultifying Jehovah-Christianism and an unbelief in all idols that are cultually adored in Hinduism

I was trying so hard to fornicate the realism of the novel. But my efforts were in vain in the realism of the book shelf. That’s was when I got hold of a cathartic experience. It was so silly, so subaltern, and so gross; it’s when I watched a woman pee through her clothes standing on the side of the bridge. I always wonder why my relatives send me to a penal institution called the asylum. Is it who I am insane or they? I am fucked up in a Matriarchal culture; I am dominated, hegemonized for packets of cigarettes. I have no outlet. But again I think of the woman, why was she ostracized why society. Is it her nirvana of her urinating through her clothes? Goddam fuck! There’s always an answer in this unanswerable universe. Saw the street light falling on the ripples of water in the brook, distorting it and making it look like woman’s vulva. A withered leaf lay on the ground, crumpled, haggard and worn out; it was corpse of being, wanting to decompose into the earth. Love birds, pets of my niece lie imprisoned in a cage, chattering their freedom and protesting release by banging their wings on cages. I would love to be a prodigal Son but I need lottery luck as the Father’s wealth to prodigalize it. When the coins clinked on the floor it became a hearing of money luck. When I shit there’s shitopiea and when I urinate there’s urineopiea. I am porn-racial; I love a pan-porn theology, African, American, Asian and Hispanic. I am shit-chthonic when I feel like shitting but I am not able to shit. The media becomes a corybantic gobbler when there’s happenings especially disasters. Wonder why aviation disasters strike headlines and front pages and so also natural disasters. Rapes are paeans of sexsimilitudes brutally orgicized in the media. The devil is limited in hell but I am not on Earth; I have the right to be in transgressional freedom and also being in the knowing about its consequences. The pruned hedges of the garden looked like a half shaved pussy, cleared for entry.
Today the word slut awakened me from a stupor of pandoramatic state; slut shittified into many beads of fragments; slut aroused my body as pornography of being sluttified and I wish that I could be sluttified by many whores speaking in the paganisation of Babel tongues; again the word slut manifested as a verb: slutify, slutfying and a noun slutification; how I desire the poetry of immersing my tongues in a carnival of hiring the hoi polloi whores—right in their cunts and asses. What a feeling of aesthesis would I beget? It would be a feeling of aestheolabialmoaninghearingsyndromeofecstasy.

I have come to hate my mother who has borne me with pangs of labor; after the death of my father, she has assumed the role of a dominating matriarch constantly carping at me even for the flimsiest reasons; she treats me as an employee and does not give me wages for my work but only crumbs to buy cigarettes; she and my fucked up Pentecostal bitch-wife, when they feel fine call studs from the asylum run by fucking Catholic nuns and lock me there from time to time; I am yearning for a life, a decent job which will fling me out of their miasma and give me a fresh breather of life where I can think creatively and write with all my feathers aiming for the flight of passion. I am reverting back to my childhood; one day my mother went into the bathroom and locked it; by chance I went near its door and to my surprise I found tiny gaping crevasses; I peeped and watched my mother bathing nude; my body was galore with funny feelings; yes, I was shocked and loved the pleasure of being a voyeur; suddenly a hand was upon me, on my shoulder; shuddering I turned back and to my shock it was my own father; I became taken aghast; but my liberal father started guffawing and teasingly he said: “so you are watching.” Yes even while lying in his death grave— I cherish his attitude to life and I prostrate it with a lighted candle. My first lessons in pornography were diligently searching porn literature that he hid and read. I used to find them and I use to treasure them. Yes there was poetry in all of them, breasts, cunts and asses are holed up in a garden of positions, all becoming pomegranates of pleasure. Now my whole family has been Pentacostalized and they regard me as fucking insane only fit for being in an asylum,
Saw a yellow face with wings gently kissing the plants, and then passionately kissing the air, an aesthetic of a combined gymnast and an acrobat and then floating as a gay philosopher, transforming my mind into an epiphany. I am traveling in a bus now; the raucous sounds of Tamil film songs emanated from the loud speakers of the bus; it lubricated my ears as a grave. As I was gazing out of the window, by chance I spied upon a fish stall; the smell that flew into my nostrils made my memory into a dirty halo, reminding me of fishy pussies that I have licked and the moaning of women in the throes of an orgasm. Soon the bus entered the Catholic church; I got out and the sight of idol cherubs cast in stone and stooping down made me wonder about positions that I take when I micturate? Why were angelic beings so portrayed in such a condescending position? How do they urinate? Where are there penises? Or are they hermaphroditic? I laughed to myself at this trivial site. Form the sight of these angels, my thoughts reverted to Rodin’s sculpture—The Thinker. I grinned as new thoughts of it flooded to my mind. Why is the thinker so stiff? Is he pissed out? Does he pain in his groin? Does he want to masturbate? Does he have AIDS? The thinker was deconstructed was deconstructed from its aesthetocracy to a conglomeration of mundanity and from there to a mania of revisiting and rethinking his art as a trivial sculpture. By the time the marriage was over, the rich and snobbish started moving in their luxury cars —Audis, Mercs and BMW’s. I felt so worn out and tired by this ostentatious display of newly acquired wealth. My intentions of going to the marriage were two. One was the grandmother of the bride who initiated me into the lessons of sexuality. I did not want to disappoint her. And the other, I thought that I could by chance come across a some woman who would become sexually interested in me. Yes I live a sex starved life and I need the manna of sexual nourishment. I thirsted to have a bottle of rum but I had no cash to buy it. The stars of the night glistened like drops of sperm. I looked into the dustbin; crumpled paper, empty rum bottles and cigarette buds stared at me like a collage of Sartre’s Being and Nothingness. Art became a rite of void and flowed into my veins as nihilism.

Today my mind was cloudy and felt that it was passing through the tunnel of a long, elongated pussy. I was feeling miserable with torn lottery tickets lying by my side. All of a sudden my mind burst into an epiphany. Mind became torn with the torness of the lottery tickets. My thoughts went back to Jackson Pollock’s action painting, especially his autumn rhythm. From Autumn Rhythm I became inspired to create an avant garde Art form called STRIP ART. In one sense STRIP ART stands to be nonsensical in another sense a pun.
Cigarettes
Cigarettes1

A prose of poems, white sperm sprinkled the green orifice of the earth early morn. The air of the Earth whispered as a motion of whirling wind, labialating the petals of the earth in multi-orgasms of earthy delight. Dawn became a celestial orgy of colors, hues of orange and red, a psychedelia of paint plastered on the walls of a brothel. The mongrel Suzy stripped the newspaper to bits out of which a surreal poet could copulate poems. I sang rap into my mouth with remaining half bottle of rum, a cheap proletarian drink, made for the masses by the monopoly government who is out to make quick bucks with the sale of shitty liquor. How I longed to snatch the gold necklace of my bitchy mother and buy with it a new found bottle of freedom. She makes me slog and pays me only a pittance to buy cigarettes. Breasts, Cunts and buts awakened in my mind with a hallucination to be in all orifices like a Cubist painting of Picasso. I thought of masturbating on the idol of Virgin Mary. Again my subconscious started invading my conscious mind and the doctrine of eschatology, the Christian litmus of final judgment and heavenly salvation for the born gain and the saved crept up like thoughtologies, piercing my mind like needles injected for acupressure. It was at this juncture that an innovative hyperbole—a shit cosmically hanging and jangling like the words of the ‘the wall’ from Pink Floyd. I became a swami maverick coining shit and eschatology and shit and ecstasy as shitcatolticalshitstasy—the ontological realm of the art of the body emptying its bowels. The position of Shitting in Occidental and Oriental cultures is different. In the orient, one has to squat on the toilet—a position which strains the muscles of the leg. In this position it becomes a bit difficult to wash the insides of the arse. In the Occident one gets to enjoy the position of shitting—one can sit comfortably on the toilet seat and also if one wants, one can wash the arse thoroughly inside and out. I wonder why cultures have created the art for shitting differently. Again the aesthetics of shitting is prone to many pleasures and angsts. Sometimes shit emerges without a protest from the bowels, c lean cylindrical log that falls plop into the commode. Sometimes it emerges as cubic pieces just like the painting Guernica. And at other times shit is painful experience. One wants to poop and the feeling of shitting is so strong and yet shit does not emerge. This kind shitting without any shit emerging is an angstuality of shitting.

Metaphysics ends an experience to laugh or to be in anguish. To be Platonic is to be an idol of an empty mind. How wonderful if thoughts could satiate into things of experience. All the (w)holes and mounts of a woman, alas I sigh in delight. When will the boundaries of nation, culture, race and law be forged into a Liberopiea. How amazing? I am not able to pick money fallen on the ground. The Medusa should laugh her pussy out. I drink only Kerala’s proletarian rum—Marx, what an awful taste? If only I could be a writer, a dwarf who writes for the freedom of an aesthopiea. The phallus is an irony; from the sacred it has become the law of the Father and then a logo-centric discourse. Irony wombed when wo/man became frustrated with language. Booze, cannabis and women are adultery for me. I am Gauguin’s follower. I leave my home and family for Art. Was Pontius Pilate the best Catholic as he could find no blemish in Christ? Kafka I found in you a great lyric, greater than E=MC2. I can only bless those who have helped me in my hard times. Ms. You have given me money to write a poem for you and now you are a poem for me. Why Christ have you invaded my innermost being and violated the freedom of my subjectivity and sin? Metaphysics and Ontology end in an experience to laugh or to be in anguish. Gold is a whore for me.
Winged art moving time as a glazier—it’s a music delighting eyes, a dance that floats, stunning the silence of eternity. Watching them climb higher and higher, their earthen robes have the precision of a mobile art gallery; standing on the earth, you open an art of experience to me; now you are disappearing from my vision—you have chosen a destiny—a white flame merging as a song of love, your breath now an ethereal whisper. Flock of White birds in winged flight was a woman strapping her bra on her breasts. Orange ball—belly of the Sun, was whore smiling—wooing her client. Becoming Christ like in Christuality negates the poetic lyric of becoming individuality. Lucifer, you are quicksand and it’s tragic that you have wasted hell. The Historical Christ was a real entity. Was his proclamation to be a Spiritual Christ an ego of ambition? I have left Churchianity and I am agnostic. My religion lies in the mysticism of the body, especially eating, drinking, shitting, farting and fucking. Mysticism also awakens when I am in anxiety or experiencing angst. Picasso, you make my mind warped in a brothel of experiential aesthetics. Today, I made a wish in my psyche and by chance or luck, the tides of sea favored my shores. Alas I always exclaim why it’s not happening every day? I stopped reading the tarot and asstrology. They suck in negativity. Dali I enjoyed reading your biography. You are yourself. Old epics are narratives about kings, wars and God’s and Goddesses now an epic is a narrative of bodily sensations. War had a moral in epics—War! What an immorality. When a famous novelist blasts on his website, he is writing a novel, he has an ulterior motive. Are there global citizens— only vanity of sovereign nations boasting. I have forgiven myself! Wow! What a peace? Shalom, you dirty my body. Oh soul! How precarious a vain butterfly you are? When will you house the earthy body? My name is not written in the book of life. I don’t care! I have a book which lives through writing. I eat the fruit of sin every day. Since they have been cast out of Eden there’s no more casting out. The tree of life is a fib invented to overcome death. I am an earthly captive of money, booze and women. Yes I am slave, a Faustian.

In experiencing gratification by imagining, the mind tilts like a windmill towards angst. AIDS –Acquired Islamic Dictatorial Syndrome is a disease which inflicts pain, suffering and death. I hate crowds, thundering speeches and idiotic devotees. The thin/g/k that puzzles me most in Christianity is the Trinity—the Father, Son and the Holy Ghost. How do they exist as one and yet remain as three. And when the Son was on the earth what was happening to the other two entities? Quite baffling it is— there’s no mystery or revelation but plain nonsense. Oh culture is a living religion for the conformist but for the iconoclast it is a rebellion. Here again in Hindusthan the naked swamis are gathering for the Kumbamela festival. Devotees bow meekly and touch the penises of the Swamis in adoration. Some times in India God’s and Goddesses are stolen…idols made in Gold. Golden Gods and Goddesses fetch a tidy sum in the market. The ravens gathered around like witches doing a ceremonial parade around the remains of a dead dog mashed as remnants of pulpy paper. Few of them, carriers of the dead, started pecking eagerly at the open entrails. The decomposed dead yet remain alive. They invade the mind of dreams and create situations that involve the living and themselves. Dead you don’t dream and yet you tap into the unconscious and procreate and permeate it with distortions that appear to the dreamer. I met a scrooge the other day. He was so parsimonious that after removing leftovers of food from his mouth, he puts the toothpick back into his purse. The cluster of bananas lay on the erect trunk of a dick with many oddly shaped balls, almost falling off. Ladoos, yellow Indian sweets, resembling shit balls lay spread on the table. I dreamt of asking her politely: “will you lend me your cunt.” My mind is a treadmill of prose on which I keep on running and sculpting molten lava into a text of poems. The night sky lay glittered with the balls of dwarfs. The sect—I have observed them. They are clad in white. They have mummified the remains of their founder called Appachan. They are a hotchpotch of Hinduism and Christianity and they trace their lineage to their founder called Appachan. Every year in memory of him they block the roads, build arcades of wood on which light settings are set and dance and frenzy. Sometimes I wonder why they have become a religion. They belong to a group of constipated masses, idiotic but reverential to their founder. Now I am travelling in the train. I go to the toilet to pee. On it is scattered ugly graffiti, graffiti without any talent of mastering the brush. It’s a chaos of openings, especially women’s. The cunts and the asses are spread out in noisy display. Also there are depictions of gigantic breasts which would even challenge the figure of the discovered Mother Goddess. I feel pity for India. It’s a repressed country wanting to express sexuality in toilets and wanting to rape women. Rapes are cruel. In one rape, they shoved a broken bottle inside the ass of the woman. She later succumbed to injuries in a Singapore hospital sponsored by the Government. Why are rapes happening in India alone? India has the law of immoral traffic, a law which would enable prosecutors to arrest anyone who is copulating outside the domain of married life. What a shitty law? India is still reeling under the stigma of antiquated British Laws. When will India become free from colonial bondage and nurture an individual to progress, civility and sexual freedom? When I see the hearse, I am thankful for having one more chance. I exploded like a bomb, spilling shit all over the commode. I have to resurrect in meanings every day. Caged meanings, frozen in a dictionary—wake up to my life. A being should live in Literature, Think in Philosophy and Copulate in Art. The withered leaf lay on the ground, crumpled in the stillness of thought. Chance and Luck—what twin bastards are they? Zen in streams of consciousness is divergent, chaotic and nihilistic. When I die, the earth that I have trampled on will embrace me with love. Forgiveness—I have to meet that bitch and fuck her. In consciousness I am a legion of archetypes. I dream of the Witch Bitch Nun Sister who controlled me in my sojourn in the asylum. I see her calves up to which her frock reaches. I would love to hold her cross and fuck her from behind, embracing her shitty asshole as cathartic release of passionate pain which I feel. Saw a dark Satan with green eyes meowmeowing euphorically about hell. It came to me in streams of consciousness—the word Cathartopia. Cathartopia formed from Catharsis and Utopia, is the prose of life in the poetry of meanings. Cathartopia seeks to elevate every existence not merely to the existence of being but to conjunction of the profane and the sublime. Early morning I am a turgid (Dick)ensian and urinate with its turgidity. She is not merely a (w)hole, is she? Here I go again with a (Dick)ensian rhyme…Mockadoodledo do my dick is a fiddle that’s a fit as a fiddle. Mockadoodledo the dame has lost her hole. Pen(dick)ularity is a horny state of literary aesthetics. Today I found her, my student, with a whitish skin and on it hair as a beard. I don’t know why she has not removed it? I felt disgust, and also an erotic desire to bite it off. Whenever he copulates he explodes with a plop in her vagina. She feels an awful repulsion to his doing. His dick is a plop-centric discourse in the hegemony of (Dick)ensian-logo centeredness. Today the remains of a cat run over by an automobile with its entrails all come out came to my vision as red glue sticking out on the road. I am a Hellenic Philistine—a satyr of a satire. If all the people in the World pee at the same time, there would an ocean called Urinoria, much bigger than the Pacific Ocean. The people of Cuntree made a record in Guinness by shitting together and making the tallest tower in the world. Her mother was a mistress whom I used to fuck. When she was a small girl, she used to greet me with a lavish smile. Now she is in her teens and when she passes by, she does not even look and treats me like complete stranger. Sometimes I wonder if she is my own daughter. But then I don’t as her mother has been fucked by many.

figure

This is a visual-linguistic illusion were the aesthetic is manifested as deconstructions of meaning where meaning severed and at the same time retained.
Lucifer is a God to Yes of every desire. White colored Quakers were strolling out of the church as Sunday divitinities. I felt like devil seething with evil on seeing them. I would love to fuck a woman at the altar of the church. I am paradox of being emotionally feminine and analytically masculine.

cross

The Cross is a pun-dramatic word, retaining meaning even while being crossed out. The Cross is an artstheticarchetype, retaining and disintegrating meaning at the same time. The stars resembling cat’s eyes were out… The sea was frolicking in full glee. I sat on the sandy beach and it screamed like Edward Munch painting moonlight. I got out the cheapest, Kerala’s proletarian rum named Greek as Hercules. The first gulp is the hardest to take. When it’s gulped, the awful shit of a taste triggers the body to retch. It’s with a mammoth effort that one has to kill it into the throat once again. The time in me started feeding with the imagination of Salvador Dali’s persistence of memory. I stumbled and fell flat on the sand. Suddenly I brushed against something. I put my hand out and felt the surface and I was able to touch Himalayan breasts. Eros blasted into my loins. I touched her again but then there was no response. I lifted her Sari and I don’t know whether I was able to insert her orifice. My white poetry came out. After that I blacked out. Early morning even before the erection of the Sun, I awoke. I tried recollect all what I did in the night. But my memory was blank as a white piece of paper. Then I saw her. I tried to wake her up by giving her a push. There was no response. Then I touched her belly and I became shocked. She was a cold refrigerated meat. I became frightened and horrified. Quickly I ran away from the place.
My thought now is like a vibrator inserted into a cunt; the moment it starts agitating, my body intensifies into multi-orgasmic zones of intense pleasure.
Angst, you corpse decked with roses; you odor your essences into the body, narcissifying it as a desert. Why do you crowd the human mind more intensely than pleasures—yet you are sinful in the fruit of a poem, fleshy and savoring the intricacies of the body.
God—he felt ironic as being a goody goody creator. God sighed mournfully and thought of what more he could create. Yes and that’s someone powerful enough to challenge him. At last God laughed hysterically like the uterus of a woman; the God Christ became stoned and in a fit of delirium, he created his own pride—the Lord Lucifer. Lucifer was an Aphrodite and he had many gay, sexual and heterosexual rites, orgies and bacchanalia with demonic entities mixing them up in multiplicities of orientations. They ecstasied in days of poetry. This made God bitterly jealous of his creation, and God flung it down as the historical other, the marginalized, autochthonic subaltern into the abyss of hell. God’s jealousy was Catholic and bitchy in ramifications.
I am not going to be destructed by the esoteric sadism of God. My woe and misery is a gay science of laughter.
Freedom—the absurd paradox inherent in the Ten Commandments—man is woefully limited by law and yet is paradoxically, hyperborean in freedom.
The Serpent was Eve’s Lesbian Lover. Eve you ate the forbidden fruit of the loins; you tasted the liqueur of licentious libido. Yet Eve why did you hide your orientation from Adam when you seductively presented him the fruit? Eve you are the feminist of anarchic bisexualism a futurism of being femino-woman-tognist. Eve, you have open the sacred flesh, the ontology of the language of (w) holes to the Taj Mahal of freedom.
Repressed is a magical realism of a pregnant belly teeming with dungeon of talons, fangs and forked tongues. Sad to say time whispers sedately: “mother fucker, up yours.”
Purpose in life is a miasma of chewable dung. Kindness—Mother Mary was born with a silver spoon in her cunt.
Envy, hatred, avarice, lust aren’t feeble; they are all powerful manifestations of the soul. Even infinity cannot fathom the power of human desire. Evening belched clouds of spitting rain. The Devil is a comic exaggeration and God is a comic hyperbole. The many women that I love are all poems for me. I would love to hire many whores, pay them and get them drunk and copulate with them in the monsoon of orgies.
A writer should not write for the market or for the masses or for ideologies; s/h/e has to indulge in the art of a novel writing. Joyce exteriorized streams of consciousness. How to interiorize it and manifest it in the epiphanies of the mundane and the trivial encounter of the body with the ontology of being? The womb that has birthed me has become a symbol of authority, tyranny, domination. I wish I was not born with hatred for it. Religions pervert being into Ethics. Epiphany—you are a mournful rainy evening. Whores: “don’t reject me or my cash”.
Every time I set a wish in motion trying to believe the mystics that there is a vibrational, positive energy in the universe, my whishes spring to me as loser’s shit.
If time is real, then it’s a whore that fucks the present, woos the past and spread out the future in disinterestedness.
An Egyptian Anubis, black body and green eyes walking on the roof has awakened my consciousness to purr back mumbo jumbo. Cogito ergo sum said Descartes: ‘I think therefore I exist’. Existence is the carnivalization of the multi-orgasmic, a polyphony of dialogism in narratives of a cun, rational sometimes, irrational other times, emotional most of the time. Nietzsche has proclaimed that God is dead. But the conundrum of leading Zarathustrian life is enigmatic. Yoga is crap as it sacrifices the ego to a nonsensical plane of existence. Zen, in you I have found paltry coins of shit. Judas you are not a tragic hero; you are a comic existential hero who savored money rather than Christ’s redemption. Renaissance, you proclaim enlightenment and yet you carried the burden of the past as religious iconography. Ages have tempered your mind in the Christianity of worship. Perversion has no goal, no ideal but just a being wrapped in murky clothes injected with the legion of Sade and Masoch.
As life grows older the newness is lost—one is in the irony of stale shit. Fantasy you crowed my mind with disgruntlement. The abundance of choice is a paradox of making one. Sleeplessness you have devoured me and made me an insomniac. I need sleeping pills and rum to put me to the slumber of death. Bribery is ruling the day in Kerala politics. Being petite bourgeoisie is falling prey to culture morals and values. Sartre –you make a meaning –angst in disappointment. Why the stone statue of Mary is weeping? A stone! That’s trash! Gender and orientations, you are deconstructions in Philosophy. Nuns are alienated but raping them is condemnable. Philosophy, clothe the language of meaning. Poetry, the body is sublime in the profanity of dirt. Existence—philosophy can’t live it. Enacting a meaning is tiresome. A proletarian life has no leisure, no sex, and no time to evaluate the meaning of existence. Irony arose when abundance became scarcity. Hyperbole bullies the instinct. Perversion, the worm of the body—it’s an orifice of suckling. Truth is a discourse –a norm—a truth has to ejaculate multi-orgasms. Every Nun, I hate the Mary in them, otherwise they would have been fuckable !
As life grows older, the newness is lost one is the irony of stale shit. Fantasy you crowd my mind with disgruntlement. The abundance of choice is a paradox of making one. Sleepless, you have devoured me as an insomniac. I need rum and sleeping pills to put me to the slumber of death. Bitch! You are profound in the eclectic catharsis of meaning. Wiccan you have created the pulp of meaning for Harry potter to be exorcised.
Is ruling in Kerala’s politics being petite bourgeoisie is falling prey to culture and morals, and values. Sartre—you make a meaning, even in angst. Why does the statue of fucking Mary weep. It’s a stone and its trash. Gender and orientations are deconstructions in Philosophy. Nuns are alienated beings but raping them is condemnable. Philosophies clothe the language of meaning. Poetry—the body is sublime in the profanity of dirt. Existence –philosophy can’t live it. Enacting a meaning is tiresome. Irony arose when abundance became a scarcity. A proletarian life has no leisure, no sex, and no time to evaluate the meaningful existence. Irony arose when abundance became scarcity. Hyperbole you bully the instinct. Perversion, the worm of the body –it’s an orifical sucklening. Truth is a discourse—a norm—a truth which is to ejaculate in multi-orgasmic meanings. Every Mary, I hate the nun in them –otherwise they could have been good fuckable human beings.
Poetry—the body is sublime in the profanity of dirt. Existence –philosophy can’t live it. Enacting a meaning is tiresome. A proletarian life has no leisure, no sex, and no time to evaluate meaningful existence. Irony arose when abundance became scarcity. Hyperbole bullies the instinct. Perversion, the worm of the body—it’s an orifice of all orificial suckling. Truth is a discourse—a norm—truth has to ejaculate in multi-orgasms. Every Nun, I hate the Mary in them, otherwise they would have been fuckable. Secret societies, you have transported me to the mystical and the magical but in the end I am a nothingness of deep shit. Analingus I am mystic refugee of your magnanimous state, and I am addicted to you in love. Consciousness can expand and fill the mind with money and the body with desire. Consciousness is a cult of satiation. Poetry, you are my darling tongue, yearning to stick music in every woman’s orifice. Arranged marriage you have been a wretched human being. Kundalini –the sacred serpent that wakes up the loins –a mojo-mumbo jumbo which does not transcend the catharsis of existential living. Poetry is sacred in the heart and erotic in the body. Profanity, you can transcend even shit into sublimity. Profanity you have to make the meaning of time.

A lesbian-o-cracy would make the world meaningful and peaceful. Saint or Swamy, why do you go to the Himalayas and worship in caves, prostrating before ice phalluses? You can nourish your mind with your own phalluses. India—you have beaten me with the rod of justice, tempered me with the tranquility of morals, and subdued me in cultural fascism. I am not restrained! I break free and that’s wisdom in collaboration of the mind. What can be known– Nothing but the body of desires? Catharsis you reinstate the mind to a carnival of erotopiea. The Hellenic Greek, the Orthodox Syrian Christian of Kerala, I see to break out of your clutches and create an aesthesis of individualized being. Catharsis, I invoke you as a beauty, mental typhoon of angst and pacific embrace of pleasure. Deconstructions have to experientialize a new concept of the man and woman being reason and passion. Solomon—you wasted soul; you had no lack and that’s why you went a lofty mythical ideal of proclaiming that everything in the world is vanity and chasing the wind. The have-nots have to a have grotesque justification. Oh! It’s a pukeish feeling, associative with stench and colored with shit when one experiences the pain of rejection. My, I would love to be whipped by an aged woman on my bums; whipped till my skin bleeds… What an erotic Masoch I experience! American jazz you submerge my being to a fornication of tranquility. American rock of 70’s and 80’s I have found in you a libido of musical prose. I am in a mental Diaspora wounded by my nation, sex, religion and gender. Exodus I am caught up in an unattainable West.
Mary—you are cruel nuns who have confiscated my being in the asylum of your culture. Lucifer, Mammon, Baphomet, Azazel, Beelzeebub and Aphrodite, by your worship I have become a nihiliated being, anxious to the ambiguities of your procrastination. Whores, I need you in my life to live the orgies of poetry; if I have the source, I will also be generous. “Bloody Bitch”, you are eclectic to the catharsis of meaning. Time has a valuable whore in the hinges of her being. Wiccan, you have created the pulp of beings for Harry Potter. I exorcise you in my mind, keeping aesthetic interests at stake. The ass of Indian pornographic slut expands to me as a middle class being caught up in the wanting of good sex. The phallus of Shiva is not found in some ice-holed, fucking cave; it’s found in existential desire to copulate. Mental interiority and external stimuli are different. Interiorizing external stimuli is what modern novelists like Joyce have been attempting. Art—t he novel is a philosophy of writing and a poetry of meaning.

I kick my desires and shove them up my ass if they are not satisfied. If dreams could actualize into happenings—alas I mourn in discontentment. Proletarian rum, dirt, filthy third rate crap, at least you help me ejaculate meanings from the repressed.
I love older women, especially extremely ugly ones; they have a great compassion of feeling; they playful, poetic and embrace my body to a musical concerto, lust of plenitude, a gratitude that I profoundly love.
Catharsis you are polyphonic, chaotic and angstual or extremely liberational in joys. Why are there more sluts than gigolos? There is sexism in the psychology of desire which privileges the woman. Poetry, redeem my being into the infinity of lasciviousness. Mary—the fucking nuns in the asylum have screwed my thoughts and abused me with male nurses and reduced me to a state of nothingness. The asylum—I was send there. It’s an institution which ferociously assaults the body and creates a jail of the mind.
Metaphors wake me up—adorn your clothes and fertilize new meaning. My wife has been a tragedy of lack of desire. Time—I would love to inherit interiority oblivious to exteriority. Living in a petite bourgeoisie family of Kerala is pretty tragic. They place a high value on Christian ethics; they are disinterestedness in sexual mores; they have no mooring to experientialize art. They are wrapped up in a tight clit of ideology.
A Magdelenic love and romance for Christ, sad to say went unreciprocated by the savior. Art—I have caught time in the prison of my soul. Art—make me live in enriched meanings. I end up being negations of desire. America is a polyphonic nation—a vibration of many cultures—everything in America is renewed in the search for meanings. Kant the intellect of reason and the intuition of passion, you have made a salmagundi with philosophy. Reason, I have to exert a meaning and passion, I have to satisfy it. Ideologies—I have found the serpent in you; you have no regard for the individual human being.
The height of optimism is: even a needle can be found in a haystack. I always dream of robbing a bank and raping a woman. A drink oozes my subconscious out. Legends and myths are adulterated to form figures of speech. It’s precarious to balance an emotional body and a rational mind.
Beatitudes are flowers of lust awakening in the body. Dreams drug the cave of satisfaction. Words have to overcome for meanings to be throned. It’s no silly thing that the mind can project futures of gratifying desire. The heat of the tropics sticks like stains in the body. Myself—I am polyphonic and multifarious. Cannabis, you have woken time into dissident consciousness of meaning. When the phallus is erect it becomes a tool of benediction. Touch me not is a plant that will shut its eyes, the moment it is touched. Evil does not limit the consciousness of desire. A mojo—I have only ink that ejaculates letters of meaning. I would love to have a woman much older than me to satisfy my oedipal fantasies. Echoes are distant but they reverberate the solitude of the heart in longing. Time in the interior is divergent, sometimes pathological, and wholly schizophrenic. Fairies are my weeping tears. Trolls are grotesque phallic constructs. I have to conquer the cross that carried me either by grace or by desire. Grace theologians adopt a conciliatory that helplessness of sin makes it forgivable. Tropes, you have to sabotage my heart to find Faustian-Epicurean meanings. I wait for the day to be physically united to the bitch that betrayed me. Writing from the exiled body, I look into the prison windows that have captured my existence. Soul of a poet, you release me in the into the abundance of music in your wings of flight.

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Fictopia

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.