Guernica

Art
Art is a consciousness, an altered state of experiencing reality. Schopenhauer has said: ‘all art aspires to the condition of music’. Art in language is a simulacrum of metaphors and metonymies. Art is a symbolic picture, a radiant ostentation, a consciousness of possession. I am a lover of classical music, rock, country, jazz and gospel. Music is pure passion of poetry, an eclectic synchronicity of time, a halo of the mind, a rapture of the soul. It’s through art one becomes the mystic of being. I examine my own consciousness through the state of art. Yes, I have used weed. Weedishness as an altered state of consciousness is a passionate state of mind. I think the highest form of art is sex. Sex is the poetry of music, an art of transcendence. I love being a lesbian voyeur. They wound their bodies like poetry. She became she and they melodied as mystic flowers. They became poems of saturation. I adore saintly lesbians. I have created a new philosophy of art called art-cono-clasm from art and iconoclasm. Nietzsche’s philosophy of art is one of pulchritude. For Nietzsche art occurs when the Dionysian and the Apollonian elements merge. The Dionysian aesthetic elements are rhythm, beat, ecstasy and altered states of consciousness. The Apollonian elements are melody and harmony. In sex art occurs; caresses, kisses, hugs, sucking are melodies of harmony. Thrust, cunnilingus and fellatio are Dionysian. Sex is a tantric ritual. Libidinal energies have to merge into the philosophy of becoming. Sex is Beethoven’s sonata. She in Bali is my new found lover. She is a Balineez Hindu. I am fond of writing verses for her. I want to bed with her in sweet ecstasy of the poetry of becoming. Sex is meditation of the highest heaven. It’s a pleasant feeling to have the loins saturated. Sex is music, sex is poetry, and sex is panting. Sex is the fusion of all art forms. I remember fondly how I kissed her at the airport. The memory of the kiss lingers as a flower. It was an old granny who initiated me to sex when I was fifteen. I was so ashamed of sex then. I remember sex with her with fear and trembling. Dope heightens the feeling of sexuality. Then there was my significant other. I have performed the rites of sexuality with her as the flow of seasons. I am wondering whether all writers are womanizers. For art to flourish one must be a passionate womanizer. Ecstasy, you passionate flower of being, you soul of becoming, you gallivant the soul to the consciousness of a poem; I have surrendered to the passions of your wooing. I think of Anu! She is my passionate lover. The way she suckled me like a tender lamb was an odyssey of joy. Anu, you are beatitude of the soul. My journeys of sex are an incomplete book. I remember Sheeba my college lover. It was so beautiful to think how her palm caressed mine. I felt her tender breasts like the music of poetry. I feel sad that I couldn’t get to marry her. This is what I need in a woman, a loving heart, a beautiful mind and a passionate bed. Sex is poetic nirvana, a beatitude of the soul. I think of dear Valery now. She came as a UK exchange teacher program. She was a painter and poet. She badly wanted to have sex with me. At that time my conservative Protestantism would not make me budge. When I was in Hong Kong staying at the YMCA, while I was strolling, I passed through a brothel. The Madam there was standing outside the gate and said in a cajoling tone: ‘son my women are tasty; come in and have a drink’. My Protestantism made me run away from there. Next morning while I was ambling, I noticed her outside the brothel, waving incense sticks and muttering incantations. I was so surprised. Do whores pray to God? Seeing me she shouted loud insults and shooed me off with a broom. I am so surprised by her behavior. I remember nostalgically of the many missed sexual encounters that I have had. Then there was Shanti who was my colleague when I worked in Jakarta. She invited me home for dinner. She took me straight to her bedroom and started fondling me. I like a stupid fool did not pick up the cues. There go another wasted sexual opportunity. Recently I met a woman from Bali on an internet dating site. She is so charming. Yes I long to rush to Bali and make poetry to her. I am so fond of loving many women. Sex is an oeuvre, a passionate music, a crystal of poetry, mytho-poetic art of becoming. Passion is a metaphor for sex. I am fond of the many women who have come into my life. Sex is a metaphor of poetry laced with lyric of love. In India we have Kama the God of music. We have Gandharvans celestial angelic lovers who woo maidens to make love with them. I think the highest form of art is sex. Adultery is passionate poetry. One who has mastered the rites of sex becomes a true philosopher. Oh, music of sex, take me to realms of celestiality, narcissisfy my body to a lava of becoming. I have tasted many fountains and they are as sweet as honey. Sex is erotic, sensual, passionate, musical and vibratory with the rhythms of the body. How I long to go to Bali and make love to her. I want to sprinkle my dew in her verdant grass. I want to kiss her for hours. I want to hold her and embrace her. My body glows with warmth when I think of her. She is a passionate soul. She is my poetry and I write lyrical fonts on her. How sweet must be her hive? I want to immerse my tongue in it and I want to hear her moan in the poetry of ecstasy. Honey I want to come to Bali and meet you. I hope I can win a lottery so that I can come and meet you.

Music
Music is the highest form of existence the soul and heart of heaven. It’s a mystery to ponder as to how did rhythm and melody originate? Music is poetry for the body and lyric for the soul. I am fond of classical music, rock music, gospel, and country and jazz. Classical music opens the celestial food of the heavens. It’s a manna for the soul. The melody of the heavens is harmonious like the twinkle of the stars. Passion sinks deep into the soul and nurtures a lyric for the heart. Classical music is a passionate meditation for the soul. The heart chimes with the weather of love. Music is like making love to a woman. Time echoes a melody of the heart. Bach, Beethoven and Mozart are my favorites. The divine streak of God is found in classical music. Soul becomes mirth of joy. Passion becomes saturated into an oasis of love. God becomes gifted to the soul. Love and peace radiate as monuments of joy. Classical music is a symphony of becoming. Listening to rock music is altogether another experience. Rock music is Nietzsche’s Dionysian rhythm and beat. Hotel California you take me to the abyss of hell. You induce me to experience altered states of consciousness and sex. The body becomes a libidinal beat of a thrust. Rock music has borrowed heavily on metaphors of hell. Consciousness becomes a numb vehicle. The sliding of guitars, the clashing of drums, the reckless oeuvre of the organ and the tinsel cacophony of sound, all awaken a consciousness, a rhapsody to the meaning of life. Cocaine by Eric Clapton is another brilliant piece of art. But it’s all about Cocaine the horse. Smoke on the Water by deep purple makes weeds grow out of brains. Whatever you want by Status Quo plummets the body to a wine of ecstasy. Another favorite of mine is Lynard Skynard. Their mix of country rock and blues levitates the soul to a New-found-land of ecstasy. Sweet Home Alabama, yes, I am longing to come home. Free Bird by Lynard Skynard is a beautiful rendition of art. The song speaks of freedom. It’s an acoustic rendition. Rock music, you are a passionate soul and a vibrant body. Listening to rock music doped makes a music for the soul. Listening to Jazz is altogether another experience. Time slows down and becomes a metaphor of pulchritude. The breeze emanating from the saxophone is pure metaphoric joy. The gentle slide of the guitar is pure joy an art. The body becomes a music of art. Soul transcends into a heavenly realm. Jazz is poetry’s music. How I love it when the Piano in Jazz plays fancy cords; the gentle rhythm of the symbols clanging is music for the body. Jazz slows down the body into a poetry of ecstasy. Listening to country music is nirvana for the soul. Country Roads by John Denver is a melody so moving so rich in the art of moving the art to make love to it. I am transported to the world of art. Let your love flow by Bellamy Brothers is a pathos of rich sentiment. My soul becomes enriched with the lyrics of beauty. The soul incarnates as a flower in country music. Beauty chimes in bells of melodies. Country music touches the heart and soul. Music moves the soul to a pulchritude. The rich sentiment of poetry is pierces the soul into an art while listening to country music. Listening to Gospel is a poetic epiphany. I love Allan Jackson’s country Gospel especially his songs: Are you washed in the blood, I will fly away, Amazing Grace, and the Old Rugged Cross. His voice is rich in the cadence of art. Gospel songs speak straight to the soul. There’s an art of vibrant beauty. Passion builds the heart of richness. The soul becomes a heaven of beauty a lyric of passionate edification. Music the art of the heavens, the lyric of the soul, the harmony of God, the passion of art, the richness of poetry, the time of passion. Music moves the body to dance. Music makes the heart to sing. Music makes the mind to flutter like a butterfly. Time in music becomes a pulchritude of beauty. Music is the soul of love, the passion of love. How did melody and rhythm originate? It’s a mystery to contemplate. Jazz is the music of solitude. Rock music is the heaven of joy. Country music uplifts the soul. Gospel music speaks the love of God. Music, you are catharsis for the soul. You are beatific in the ethos of passion. Music is the soul of love, the edifice of beauty, the transcendence to a beauty of existence. God is the presence of art in music. We can pour our tears of sorrow and our tears of joy in music. Music is the poetry of ecstasy. Music is the flower of radiant beauty. All art should aspire to the condition of music. Music awakens the passions that lie deep in the soul. Music makes love to the body. Music makes the savage, a beautiful being for God. Deep is my passion for music. The strum of the guitar, the sliding of the cello in harmony, the clang of drums, the bellow of the saxophone all render in me countless joys of experience. I become edified lava. Music you rhythmic passion, you bliss of the soul, you harmony of metaphors, you epiphanies of love, you murmur the heart to an idyllic beat. Music, I sink into your passion, I meditate on your effulgence. My soul becomes cathartic, a poetry of becoming a song. Music hurls me to heaven and removes the bitterness of hell in me. I leave my ego behind and become one with the soul. Passions raise flags and epitomize emotions to the heaven’s highest realm. In music the soul is not bruised anymore.

Painting

Painting eulogizes a human epic. My interest in painting lies in naturalism, impressionism, surrealism, art-deco and pop-art. Painting is a metaphor of human symbolism. It’s an aesthetic music of metaphors in colors. From naturalism I would like to take Davinci’s Mona Liza and David by Michelangelo. Mona Liza’s smile is an enchanted heaven, mystic, silent, flowing with the lyric of poetry. The charm of the smile is art hidden in mystic canopy of musical pastures. Contemplating the smile arouses the beauty of thought—its enigma a mystery to fathom. Mona Liza’s smile in postmodern humor is a condom of thought. I am caught up in the rapture of thought. Is Mona Liza’s smile a cunt of thought? Was Davinci painting a cunt on the lips of Mona Liza? Naturalism in art is a dead flower. Art is caught up in the Prometheusainism of deviancy. David—Michelangelo’s sculpture is a nude portrayal of a young man. Was Michelangelo gay? David is a metaphor of nude poetry. Naturalism is the art in mimesis. Impressionism scatters paint as metaphors on the canvas. Impressive are Van Gogh’s and Gauguin’s paintings. The scattering of colors on to the canvas live in the mind as fond memories. Impressionism is the music of painting. I wonder why Van Gogh cut his hear and offer it to a whore. Van Gogh’s letters to his brother Theo are passionate poems. I am fascinated by Gauguin’s: where do we come from and where do we go. Colors are brilliantly smashed on to the canvas. Impressionism is horny poetry. It’s a beatitude of music. Colors are arrayed in the rich poetry of music. Transcendence is God metaphorically posited on the canvas. Surrealism is the rich posture of dream with reality. A poignant portrayal is Dali’s Persistence of Memory being that of melting clocks hanging on trees and on an embryo. The Persistence of Memory is psychoanalytic art. What is the meaning of melting clocks? Melting clocks represent time running in streams of consciousness. The embryo is symbolic of an oedipal fantasy. Are trees frozen phallic sculptures. Dali was an oedipal child and phallic man. Surrealism juxtaposes dream and reality in absurdist naturalism. Another Surrealist painter which fascinated me is Paul Delvaux. He is famous for the painting: The Call of the Night. The painting is a haunting dream of music. Paul Delvaux is famous for portraying nudes. In the Call of the Night barren land is portrayed with frozen skulls. A nude stands over it with lush vegetation growing on her head. She is a young nymph. Is she a virgin being initiated into the rites of sexuality? There is a woman who is older standing in front of a cave holding a light. Her head is veiled. What is she symbolic of? A young woman with bountiful vegetation stands outside facing her. Paul Delvaux’s art, especially the Call of the Night is reminiscent of a lesbian fetish. Do skulls portray dead sperm or the beginnings of menopause? Another Surreal painter which I like is De Chirico. The architecture of space is metaphorically positioned in brilliant, exaggerated nuances of color. Space attains a metaphysical, deified transcendence of luminous conjecture. Another form of art which I am fond of is Picasso’s Cubism. Picasso’s cubist art is poetry in music. Famously liked is the Guernica. It is why I have named this novella Guernica. In the Guernica art attains the epic distortion of a metaphoric pathos. The Guernica is a painting that represented the bombing of the Basque town during World War II. Guernica is a graffiti of art frozen to a relic of a poem. Guernica is abstract music. Another famous painting of Picasso is the Whores of Avignon. In the painting nudes with grotesque faces, sitting and standing in awkward poses are depicted. This art of Picasso can be called as Oedipalization. The cunt and breasts of women are bull of feeling for the machismo. Yes, Picasso had many women in his life and he treated them as door mats. The brush of Picasso was a phallus or penetration into the cunt of the canvas. Picasso was fascinated by Bulls. Bulls for him were a phallic machismo. Bulls for Picasso are phalluses copulating in the ritual of poetry. Picasso’s art depicts violent symbolism, degraded femnity and a distorted architecture. The father figure for Picasso was a castrated phallus. Feminism wounded his psyche. Picasso was a matador of art, a bastard who cubisized human anatomy. Another trend of modernist art was pop art. A famous relic is Marcel Duchamp’s Inverted Urinal. Pop Art fetishized mass art into gloss manipulation of obscene consumerism. Everyday objects, cultural icons became deified objects of aesthetic worship. Pop Are decimated the boundary between high art and low art. Pop Art existentialized mass culture into a pseudo culture of fetish symbolism. I would also like to comment on expressionism in art. Famous is Edward Munch’s Scream. The Scream shows the trauma, the existential angst of a human being. The scream becomes a metaphor of angst. The colors used are dull and pathetic. Scream is a metaphor for a bewildered postmodern society, a society which is an un-being, a society thrown out of the roots of being, and a society where relationships break down. The Scream tells us that we as human beings tend to be chaotic, vulnerable and intimate. Defeat and divisiveness are the Don Quixote metaphors for the triumph of individuality. Humans are prone to passion and mad with reason. Values, institutions and society can’t handle the traumas of existential angst. In the mad search for existence, some humans turn to violence and fanaticism. I would also like to comment of modernist sculpture, Rodin’s sculpture: The Thinker. The thinker is so stiff, a man of frozen mind, a devotee of Nietzsche. Is the mind made with passion for reason? We are thoughts from which cannot escape. Reason has made us mad and passion has made us delirious with ecstasy. When will the chaotic rift between passion and reason end? It will end only when we become better human beings.

Sea
When I think of the sea, my thoughts echo to the novelist Virginia Wolf and her streams of consciousness novel the waves. As a child I was fond of building sand castles. The sea was a fascinating epic of curiosity. When I grew older, the sea became reminiscent of prose in a poetic metaphor. My novel is a written flowing sea. Waves became contemplative and meditative reflections. Grains of sand on the coast lay like the color of Gold. The spume and froth of the sea is a poetry with an attitude of being in a positive frame of mind. Waves you evoke the mind to the heart of contemplation. Your mystic fragrances of salt, your bluish sedation, your passionate sweeping to the coast and then back and forth are all tangos of art. What passion lives in your creation? You echo the sound of music. Your salt of bluishness is the waltz of jazz of a saxophone. I wonder what it was for the Israelites when they walked through the parted Red Sea. Sea talks to me in gentle rhythms of art. The sea is a tsunami of passion. The sea is a haiku of poetry. Waves sometimes they roar in the passion of poetry. The sea is a womb of the woman, housing the earth. What a beatific sight it is, to watch the sun shining as an orange ball on the horizon of the sea. The sea, yes I want to make love to a woman. Folks of Kerala offer libation to the sea in remembrance of their ancestors. The sea is a woman making love to a man. The gentle rhythm of sea breeze, the falling sunset of colors, the gliding of poetry by the birds, the indentations of the bay, the love of being in tune with the sea is a harmony that one can possess. Now I have wet my pants and I put the money into the sun to dry. A horde of whores come by. Their eyes twinkle with greed and ferocity. I watch their ugly glare and shoo them off politely. I have visited Cape Commorin. There’s a rock in the middle of the sea. One has to travel by boat to reach the destination. It is a rock where Vivekanand an Indian mystic-saint used to meditate. That is a place where the three waters of the Arabian Sea, the Bay of Bengal and the Indian Ocean become a confluence. I visited the rock one evening. Waves frolicked on to the rock like poetic jazz. The sun scattered poetry on to the waters of many hues. It was a sacred, mystic and an epiphanic experience. The sea now, a poetry of soul incarnation, a jazz of streams of consciousness, a soul of contemplation. When I think of the sea, it becomes a mystic of poetic beauty. I think of Jesus who walked on the waters and calmed the tempest. The sea is an epic of love. Tuna is poetry for the mind. I remember fondly, the Indonesian grilled fish that I had while in my stint in Indonesia. The aroma was so delicious, the taste so eloquent. I have a woman that loves me in the island of Bali. How I long to travel there and make poetry of love with her. The sea, now talks to me in meditative whispers. When I was in Portblair visiting my beloved her brother-in-law took me on journey through the many islands situated there. The salty breeze wafting through air made every one queasy and many puked. Thanks to my watery sign Pisces, I didn’t suffer from sea sickness. A French woman on the boat was wooing me. Like a fool, I rejected her gestures. I could have easily made love to her. The sea builds an edifice of aesthetic consciousness. The sea now a lyrical ballad, a poetic hymn, an idyllic pasture. I am caught up in the rapture of the sea. The sea, a metaphor of the womb. Each visit to the sea is like the beginning of a new novel. Ernest Hemingway was seaman novelist. Each time I write, I imagine I am traveling to a new sea. Virginia Wolf when I think of you and your waves, I am in the sea of writerly passion. I have loved your waves. If I was living in your times, I would have made love to you. James Joyce has also written about the sea. The sea is a voyage of time. Tasting a cunt is like tasting sea water. I want to wade into the sea of passion. The sea is a Homer who pelts out epics. Man conquered the sea and colonized nations. Now the sea is being decolonized in democracies. The storms raging in the mind are also a metaphoric sea. Sometimes I wish I was born as a whale. The sea is an abstract painting, an impressionistic landscape. It’s pleasant sight to watch children playing on the sea shore, building sand castles. I cast all my wishes and dreams into the sea and there I get a big fish of luck. Jesus asked his disciples to fetch a coin from the fish mouth and that was how he paid taxes. Thus we have the maxim: give unto Caesar what is his and give unto me what is mine. From the fish mouth is an idiom of a lucky happening. I hope it happens to all fortunate souls. How I wish that I could live near the sea side and spend the rest of my days with a loving passionate woman. Woman what I seek in you? I seek the sea in you. The sea is your kind heart, your beautiful mind, a soul cook and a passionate bed. There you are, you are the sea, and you are the woman of my imagination. I voyaged into the sea as an emotional epic. The sea, you are the rapturation of being. The sea, you are a celestial epic.

Philosophies which have moved me

I start right from Socrates. Socrates said: know thy self. That’s a deep philosophical question. I ask Socrates what can be known of the self. In the postmodern world, we as humans are a disintegrated and chaotic self. Yes there is no man on earth wiser than Socrates. Despite Athens being a democracy, Socrates was condemned to death by drinking hemlock. Socrates is democracy’s martyr. He had the stoic courage to take his death with light-hearted mirth. I say to Socrates: the self knows it knows not. Next I contemplate on Plato. I am moved by his theory of forms. I would like to recall Plato’s allegory of the cave. There is a dark cave situated by men. There is wall and from the wall emanates a bright spark of light. The allegory is used to reveal the theory of forms. For Plato there’s an ideal world beyond the existing world. Plato’s theory posits a metaphysical transcendence. Plato’s theory foreshadows the beginnings of Christianity. Plato’s ideal world of forms exists in art, in philosophy, in poetry and in music. In all these we are transformed into another realm of being. Platonism is ideated metaphysics of aesthetics. Next, I would like to take up dialectics. Dialectics as a discourse began in ancient Greece where a dense series questions and answers will finally lead to truth. We know that today there is no ideal truth but truth is language is a series of metaphors and metonymies. Dialectics has become Dialogical after Bakthin. A dialogical novel is prose wrapped up in poetry. During the time of the Philosopher Hegel, dialectics underwent a new turn. For him dialectics was a thesis, then an antithesis and finally a synthesis. How can we explain dialectics as an aesthetic? Writing the novel begins as thesis, addition of tropes becomes an antithesis and in the final stage the novel becomes an art, a synthesis. How can dialectics be explained in the political context? After World War II, the nation of Israel was created and Palestinians evicted from their own home, an antithesis and struggle for a homeland a synthesis. The World needs peace not pieces. Again during the time of Marx, dialectics took a U-turn and Marx synthesized dialectics with materialism. Material forces which work in society create its institutions. Materialism in its vulgarity has dehumanized the soul. But Marxism is a failed God. Entertainment today does not illuminate the intellect nor edifies the soul. We have become passive spectators of crass entertainment. Next I would like to move on to the great heavy weight of literature: Jean Paul Sartre. For Sartre, being becomes proselytized into an art of becoming. The Being for itself is an internalization of poetic subjectivity. The being projects to an entity of becoming. Being is a mytho-poetic subjectivity. Sartre deserves special mention for his portrayal of angst. Angst is real and experiential and the moral responsibility of angst lies with the self. Angst is not defeated manhood but the celebration of individuality. The celebration of angst makes Quixotic individuality unique. Next I would like to celebrate Albert Camus’ nihilism. I am so fond of his book: The Myth of the Sisyphus. Sisyphus is an art work on the philosophy of nihilism. Sisyphus is condemned by the Gods to roll a boulder all the way uphill only to find that it rolls down again. Camus is purporting the meaninglessness of life. Again existentialism has a panacea: authenticate your life. Optimize the circumstances offered to you. Don’t suicide but offer meaning to life. I move on from Camus to the existential philosopher Heidegger. Heidegger’s Dasein or being can be refined to an ontology of being in processual experientiality. Being or Dasein exists through affirmation, negation, possession and celebration. Next I would like to move on to Derrida the guru of postmodernism. Language for him exists in a binary divide. Terms privilege some and marginalize others. I have coined a new term called Binary fusion where terms attain a deification of neutrality. For example, the term colored encompasses whiteness, blackness and coloredness. Another term for binary fusion will be Hu/wo/man. Interpretation of texts phallification and vaginazation. Clitoral-tricks are fusing texts into an inter-textuality. Next I would like to move on to the modern father of modern linguistics Saussure. For him language is conglomeration of signifiers and signifieds. A signifier belongs to the sensate, tangible visual realm and a signified is an abstract idea. For example if Rose is passion, rose is the signifier and passion the signified. In art especially writing the signifiers and signifieds merge. For example I take a simile: eyes twinkle like stars. In this trope: the signifier and the signified merge into an aesthetic transcendence. Art Derridadaizes the signifier and the signified into a poetry of symbolism. Next I move on to Freud with a new interpretation. A postmodern Freud defies the ID, defies the Ego and transcends the super ego. This is the philosophy of art-cono-clasm derived from art and iconoclasm. Next I would like to portray the psychoanalyst Lacan’s thoughts. For Lacan the unconscious is structured like language. The mirror stage is where we become separated and enter the realm of language. It’s a stage where a being experiences desire and lack. For Lacan there is no stability of the self. The self has to do a tight-rope-walking act between the ID, Ego and Super Ego. The self in postmodern society exists as a chaos, pining for stability. The loss of values, the angst of being, all portray the emergence of an existential crisis. In olden days people had religion and God. After Nietzsche, God is dead. The hopelessness of life is to be encountered with stoic courage and passionate irony. Defeatism is the celebration of angst. The ideal human existence is a state of un-being. I would love to introduce the readers to my own philosophy of post-post modernism called Convenientialism. Convenientialism is the celebration of absurdism. In Convenientialism anything is everything and anything goes with everything. Some of the terms used in convenientializm are Binary fusion, phenomenological ontology, rapturation of being, and demogeocracy, the philosophy of Utilorasy and Bourgeolariat. In Binary fusion terms do not marginalize of privilege anyone; terms are neutral. For example the term human can be binary fused into hu/wo/man. Phenomenological ontology addresses the question of being. Here I introduce a new term and that being Unbeing. In a postmodern society—we have deify the Id, gratify the Ego and subvert the super ego. Rapturation of being is an experience of mytho-poetic subjectivity. Rapture has both celebration and mourning of human experience. A DemoGeoCracy is a world unified, a world that has no walls, no passports, world that is concerned for the caring of the environment. The UN has to play a big role in unifying nations. Next the Philosophy of convenientializm encompasses the economics of Utilorasy and Bourgeolariat. Utlilorasy comes from utility. Bourgeolariat comes from Bourgeoisie and the proletariat. There is only one class of people—the Bourgeolariat. Money should be freed from competent ownership and should attain a democracy of free purchasing power. Eudemonism is possible through the philosophy of convenientializm. Through convenientializm the whole society will be in entelechy.


Love

What is the Philosophy of love? Love in Christian theology has three connotations. Agape is the divine love of God. Philos is the love of one’s own family and friends. Eros is erotic love shared as a passionate bed. To love is to be in the process of art. Love is the poetry of music. Love is the gift of the heart and music for the soul. Love is the divine gift of God. I have experienced Eros through the many women that I have loved and shared their bed. Eros is the elixir of passion. Eros is the nectar of the Gods. Eros is surreal, musical and poetic. When I think of Agape, I think of the unconditional love of Christ. Every drop of blood that he shed on the cross is a lyric to save human existence from sin and bondage. Agape is grace that overflows with the gift of forgiveness. We are freed from the guilt of sin. Agape is the music of heavens. Agape is the echo of the celestial world. Agape is a gift of joy. God incarnated through his son as Christ. When I think of Agape, I think of the love of Christ. Eros is a passionate bed, a sweet poetry of music. I waded on to her lake and she became a flower of ecstasy. Passions live rich in the body. Christianity is so rich in literature and so poetic. I am always experiencing the Agape of Christ. Reason is masculine and passion is feminine. Will passion and reason merge? Can one indulge in sensual pleasures. The Corybantic orgies of ancient Greece have fascinated me. When one thinks of the family one thinks of Philos. I love my wife and children very much. I am so fond of them. And I also love God very much. Christ has also taught us to love our neighbors and our enemies. If the world was saturated with love there would be no need for war and violence. Mahatma Gandhi was an apostle of non-violence. Through non-violence he was able to secure India’s freedom. Love can change even the coldest heart. To be in romantic love is to be in a passionate encounter. Eros, you sea of passion, you poetic music, you gift of the Gods, you typhoon of the body, you lyric of the soul, I succumb to you. Making love is the highest form of art. Passion is a lyric of the soul. Sex is nirvanaing the body. I crave for the love of a passionate woman. Adultery with Anita was pure passion. The joy of experience can’t be described in words. Adultery for me has been a vivid experience. Shame and guilt are poetic metaphors. In love we emerge from a being to a becoming.

Seasons
When I think of the seasons …I think of metaphors, I think of abstract paintings, I think of music. How beautiful it is to have the four seasons, summer, spring, autumn and winter. Spring, Autumn and Winter are my favorite seasons. In spring and Autumn flowers bloom. Spring is a metaphor of poetry. The dance of flowers in the gentle breeze of spring is rhythmic joy. Petals leap in joy. Spring is a metaphoric wellspring of a fountain. The colors of nature are robes adorned by a mystic. Spring is an eclectic fusion of art in impressionism. The melody of spring lies rich in the fruits that grow. Autumn is a time when leaves lie as pale poems on the ground. It’s an art to watch autumn scattered leaves. I am an addict of autumn. I have named my lovers as autumn. Autumn is a rhythmic calypso. The dance of Autumn is nature’s calypso. Seasons are personified poems of nature in love. Winter is a desert of landscape. Snow covers the ground as a woman’s breasts. The ground remains barren. Winter is a motif for death. When I think of winter, I visualize skulls and skeletons. Summer, what a nice season? During summer I sleep outdoors. Summer makes me hot. I keep pouring water all the time. I live in the humid part of Kerala. It’s lovely to cruise along the backwaters of Kerala in summer. Another season that I love is Kerala’s monsoon. I enjoy children making paper boats and floating them in the rain water. I watch a rain-drenched bird as a mystic. Travelling on the backwaters is so much fun. The lush paddy fields are soaked in rain and they evoke the metaphor of a poetry of the earth. I watch a stork drenched in rain scattering its feathers. It’s cathartic to become wet in the rain. All of the monsoon evoked poignant epiphanies. Monsoon Kerala is God’s Own Country.

Notes on some favorite novelists

Kafka is an all time favorite of mine. Kafka is famous for the irony of symbolism. The tropes used in Kafka’s novels are so unique. Kafka’s metamorphosis is an all time favorite read. Kafka was forerunner of existentialism. I recall the protagonist Gregor Samza metamorphizing into a gigantic insect. He becomes the subject of ridicule and loathing for his family. The metamorphosis reflects Kafka’s on inner angst. Kafka was the most troubled writer of the century. He was Jew exiled. The Trial and the Castle are his other prominent works. In the trail a man is charged with a case but he is entirely innocent. Is the trial a symbolic motif a rigid bureaucracy? In the end of the trial we come to know that the authorities slit the throat of the protagonist. Human angst is subject of and a recurring motif in Kafka’s novels. Kafka’s novels are an impressionism of the mind and a surrealism of the body. I am also wonder-struck by the writer known as Gertrude Stein. Her writing celebrates streams of consciousness. Her famous quote is ‘a rose is a rose is a rose’. All of her language is the writings of tropes. Literature has to transcend genres and become more avant-gardist. Literature of today resembles an abstract music, an abstract painting. Plot and storyline are ancient dinosaurs. Another writer who has fascinated me is Maurice Blanchot. I have read his: Space of Literature. He examines the consciousness of a writer. The writer is a self leaving the self. All writing is confessional and autobiographical. One is an artist when one is writing. The pen that writes is the ego in personification. Words are the orgy of the pen. Writing is a fetish of ornamental aesthetics. A writer is no one but many selves. Genres of writing include realism, surrealism and the modern novel which includes a writing in streams of consciousness. What is the philosophy of fiction? Avant gardism has to make fiction an abstract work. The story is a dead relic. James Joyce in the Ulysses wrote in streams of consciousness, an epic covering a man’s day of life of twelve hours. Realism of the novel is a dead stone. Borges was skilled in the craft of magic realism and Henry Miller to the art of surrealism. Plotting a novel is as old as Hieroglyphics. The novel is a work of art an abstract painting. My writing bears traces of jazz and cubism. My writing is metaphoric and inter-textual. Next writer that I would like to take up in my dialogue is Nathalie Sarraute. She is famous for her avant-gardist writing. She invented tropisms, a device to record mental stimuli that passed on in the mind. Joyce recorded 12 hrs of a person’s life as an epic. I have chronicled a novel bearing seconds in a person’s life. A novel is a labyrinth of thought. A novel is a textual harp. Avant-gardism has to create newer and newer tendencies of writing. Fiction is philosophical art. A novelist has to live his or her life as a novel. This novel belongs to the genre of philosophical fiction, a genre of my own invention. Philosophical fiction where themes are dialogically discussed where philosophy is dissected with the tool of art. Writing is an art of the selves in multiplicity. I have invented a new figure of speech called the Museaphor. A Museaphor has a primary metaphor and a related secondary metaphor. Let me explain Museaphors with some examples. Dusk lies saturated as a cunt. The cunt is a musical stream. Word is a phallic Logos. Writing is the Logos of penetration. Palestine is a volcano. She is a hot volcano. Making love to her was like writing. Writing is passion found in the pen. She lay with me like a lyric poem. Sunset is a lyric poem. Music is the art of making love. Poetry is the art of life. Life is roses in a blessing and thorns as a curse. I am surrounded by an ocean of thoughts. God’s love is deep as the ocean. Art: you are a stoic ornament. Trump’s diplomacy is a stoic ornament. I fondle a cunt like stroking a guitar. Acoustic guitar is a music that soothes the senses. Picasso’s paintings are phallic metaphors. The symbolism of the phallus is related to the writing of the word. My mind exploded like a tsunami. The financial markets are recovering from a tsunami. Her scent was that of a flower. He coated a flowery rainbow in his poetry. Poetry is jazz of music. Jazz lives in the soul of the human. Why am I a living novel? The author is the novel. Passion is a tempest of being. Tempests are seen in fanatic Islam. A novel is being written in the book of life. I am fictionalizing myself into the art of Philosophical fiction. My hyper-ego is hypnagogic. Fairies and witches enchanted me when I was young. The irony of life made me stop thinking of fantasy land. What will happen when I die? I am so happy that I can leave a writing that’s immortal. We are vulnerable, intimate and passionate human beings. Humans are incurable sybarites. Humans alternate between Epicureanism and Stoicism. Is there middle path to life as mentioned by Buddha? America imports philosophers and exports Bibles and missiles. Jesus said that you must be child-like to enter the kingdom of Heaven. Passion is a river running deep. Solitude is the irony of existence. Humor is the triumph of life. The meaning of life can be found in a poem. Darling Anita, embrace me my love….let me melt you with kisses of dew. Let me smell the rich fragrance of your body. Let me fondle your breasts like a child. Let me suckle your nipples as sweet poetry. Let me make love to you like a wet morning. Plot of the novel is the pulp of fiction. A character in a novel should have considerable philosophical depth. The interiority of consciousness is the ontology of aesthetic consciousness. Roland Barthes, I am so fond of you, your post-structural assemblage of the sign. May your soul rest in peace. Picasso I am so fond of your cubist art. You have rendered painting into a musical metaphor. My affinity for writing stems from you. Artists and musicians, you have offered me more thoughts on aesthetics than writers. I deconstruct my Indian nativity. I have a white mind, a black soul and a brown body. I am a native of every country. Hellenic Greece you have made me mad with catharsis. Existentialism you have made a nihilist out of me. Deconstruction, and dear Derrida, I celebrate the privilege of the sign you offer me. Dear Shelly and Keats, you have kept the flames of romanticism living in me. My dear departed Father, the late Prof. V A Mathen Bose, you have Hellenized me in philosophies of literature and culture. Every day of my life is romantic poetry. My sentiments are colored in the robes of surrealism. Christ, you are my hero, I admire you so much. I have a faith that is Christian, an existentialism that is nihilistic and postmodern that lies in deconstruction. Interpret meaning embrace art. Noesis entelechy is the essence of life. Passion is a river, a brook murmuring, a sea of depth, a noble soul. I am not running away from time. I am running with time. Birds float in the sky—an idyllic poetry. I am a beatnik of the Orient. I am fond of Beatnik culture. Yes, I want to experiment with drugs, sex and altered states of consciousness. Jethro Tull, your music of the locomotive breath is phallic poetry. I am living in a Voodoo land of consciousness. Time is a whisper now. Kazansaki, how passionately you have written Zorba the Greek. The salmagundi of Catholicism and Hellenism blend rich as a trope or eclectic, cathartic fusion. Life you are the living soul of music. Man’s quest for freedom is the ultimate. There, the statue of liberty winks at me. I wink back in passion. Humanity is one, yet so politically separated. When will the need to show passports and visa end? When will the world become a sanatorium of liberal theology? A protestant theology has to develop in Islam. When will fanaticism, hate and Jihadicide end? We all want a peaceful world, a world united by the yoke of human camaraderie. Peace is the rock of Jesus. When will Allah become kind and benevolent? When will all the people of the world be imbued with the aesthetic of consciousness? Peace I speak to you in the breath of poetry. Yes ‘we shall overcome some day’. When will countries shift discourses to democratic dialogues? When will poverty end? The billions spent on weapons can be used to feed the poor. Yes, the world has to become a better place to live.

Advertisements

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.

A Hermeneutic of Poe’s Tell Tale Heart

I happened to read the story since I had to teach it to eight graders. The story belongs to the genre of the Gothic Vintage. The protagonist of the story becomes obsessed with the killing of an old man. The whole story revolves around his pathological mania for killing. The reason for killing is psycho-analytically revealed in the story. The old man has an eye that resembles that of a vulture. The evil eye is haunting the protagonist. The wealth or possessions of the man like Gold does not interest the protagonist. He visits the old man’s house several times in the night and goes through the ecstasy of the thought of butchery. And finally one night he accomplishes the mission. He decapitates the body and buries it in the wooden planks that make the floor of the house. Then Poe brings in the cops who come to house on the pretext of having heard a shriek. The protagonist at first manages to maintain his composure but in the end looses it and spills the beans to the cops that he has liquidated the old man. It’s true that Poe has been characterized as a mad genius and as a tormented artist. The protagonist is suffering from narcissistic, psychotic melancholia. The narcissism is an obsession directed with quirk of violence that shifts the mind from reason to that of passion. The protagonist is going through an intense psychotic phase of psychosis where he is not able to distinguish murder as something diabolic and goes against the Super Ego, the laws of the society. Melancholia is pining for an object that cannot be obtained. Here it becomes a phantasmagoria, the vulture-eye of the old man. The psychotic character is unable to distinguish between fiction and reality. He does not want to take responsibility of the crime and willingly surrenders himself to the police. The psychological build up of psychotic anxiety is a super rendition of art.

Portrayal of Women in Bataille’s Blue at Noon

Blue at Noon by Georges Bataille is a fascinating avant garde novel. In this essay I would like to deconstruct the way in which women are portrayed. Most of the Women except his wife and Desire are sluts. The prominent whores featured in his novel are dirty (Dorothea) and Xenia. The entanglements of the protagonist with these women are symptomatically pathological. The protagonist betrays devastating hidden oedipal fantasies. The relationships with these women are more intricate and denser than remuneration for occupying the pleasures of the bed. The protagonist takes great pleasure in the disgusting and the revolting. For example: Dirty is drunk and puking and at the same time she exposes herself nude. Sometimes the protagonist becomes an archetypal feminine. For example he sobs: when he gets a letter from his wife. All his relationships with sluts are erotic a melancholia, a fantasy of longing which ceases to be fulfilled. He portrays whores as tender, loving oedipal objects on which he can gratify his emptiness, his angst. The novel takes places in three places, England, France and Spain. In France he encounters Xenia. He is very ill at that time. Xenia though a whore goes to a great extent of nursing him back. The amazing thing is that he does not feel grateful but treats her with intense repulsion. In Spain he encounters Desire. The Spanish revolution is going on there and she has intense communist views. Though he becomes close to Desire, he treats her like a wretch. He has no interest in her intellectual proclivities. There are no scenes in the novel which are sexually graphic. Drunkenness, puking and nudeness become orgies for the mind of the protagonist. Though the novel is experimental, the narrative is straight forward and goes on from the beginning to the end. The protagonist is an erotic Sisyphus who is tormented by the weight of his sexual entanglements and finds release of his emotion through sheer repugnance. The pleasure of the bed has become a narcotic stone which is rolled down by him in mental stupor. The protagonist is always in state of psychological fornication. As a work of Art he is Picasso’s bull who is limpid and strangulated by his own emotions. The author creates whores who are fond of him. The creation represents a maternal, oedipal reaching out. Is it a kind of oedipal narcissism that the author suffers from? There is no political consciousness for the protagonist. He maintains a stormy silence when Desire discusses ideas about communism. The creation of the psychology for the whores in his novel is a dystopian archetype. The women are his ideal and yet they are repugnant to him. Eroticism for the narrator is one of morbid loathing and ironically a state of ecstatic pleasure. I as a reader, I am totally ignorant how whores interact or behave. Of course I have had my chances but I have failed to follow upon them. Yes in the end, I feel whores are humane and can have genuine feelings.

Metaphor

In this article I would like to focus on how we try to discern a metaphor. I would like to focus on the cognitional faculty associated with metaphors. Discerning a metaphor can be aesthetic, religious, secular, cultural-historical and philosophical.
A metaphor in common day language is an adornment of words where there occurs a comparison between things. For example: His thoughts are a flying saucer. It means that his thoughts are fanciful and unrealistic. This metaphor has only one effect on the reader which is a pure aesthetic one, one of pleasure.

Let’s look at another example: He is a shady night. Here the metaphor embodies a semantic concept, meaning that he is not a straight forward person. This semantic attribute is related to a particular emotional quality and there by casting its roots into the soil of judging human qualities.
But some metaphors go beyond the aesthetic. Let’s take a Biblical metaphor which is also simile: ‘You should have faith as a mustard seed’. A simile is also related to the metaphor and uses like or as. Here mustard seed takes a meaning of the supra-sensible realm, beyond the aesthetic. Faith becomes dichotomized into smallness and reliance on the super-natural. We can utilize its meaning in the secular sense as the tininess of faith for obtainment of a thing or with a religious tinge, having faith as small as a mustard seed and relying faith on a transcendental power. The hermeneutic meaning is left to the discernment of the reader.
Next I would like to take an example of a metaphor having political and historical connotations. For example: Fascism and Nazism have become religious entities of fanatic Islam in the contemporary geo-political world. Here the meaning becomes a thesis (far- right dictatorships), an antithesis (unfair barbarism and cruelty and the holocaust) and synthesis (the aim of fanatic Islam to create terrorism and also dominate the world). I am using Hegelian Philosophy here. The meaning of this metaphor bifurcates into cultural, political and historic roots and brings up a daunting similarity with the contemporary comparison.
Next I would like to analyze a metaphor from feminist philosophy. For example: We or they are gender twins. This refers to woman who does not like to be labeled as she or he. Being gender neutral and the same time having a gender is an accepted norm of conceptual democratic post-modern philosophy.

Thus in my readings of the metaphor, I have left its discernment as aesthetics, as the religious, as the semantic, as the secular, as the historical, cultural and the political and also the philosophical.

 

Post-Structural Assemblage of the Sign

The assumption of this writing starts from the view that all signs are Signifiers. A signifier is a tangible reality with a sense of meaning. I have divided the post-structural assemblage of the sign into various categories.
(a) Semantoria
Semantoria refers to the phonic and graphic content of the letter. Here the letter of the language metamorphizes into a primary content of meaning which can be a spoken one or a written one. The presence or absence of meaning as implied by deconstruction can be considered as implying sensibilities. The essence of connotation can only be an implication of construction.
b) Verboria
In semantics verbs are performative, that is they perform an action. A verb such as swim is a signifier and it performs the action of swimming. For words to be the symptom of Verboria, they can form an idea that is sensible and not an abstract one like love, passion or kindness. For example: in a sentence: she dances, the meaning becomes complete and that state of completion is called verboria. Writing of Verboria taken in the grammatological sense of Derrida’s Deconstruction fails to become a deconstructive entity.
c) Logoria
Logoria is a state of forming a sign from a signifier and a signified. It was Saussure who introduced it into language. A signifier is a tangible entity and belongs to the sensate realm. For e.g. let’s take odor. Odor belongs to the sensate realm and it can be felt. Here Odor is a Signifier. If I say: the odor is nauseating, nauseating becomes a signified or a connoted idea. Nauseating becomes the Signified. Post-structuralists use deconstruction to deconstruct signs. When there is a presence in a sign, there is also an absence. Post-Structuralists argue that a sign privileges presence and marginalizes an absence. For example if I say that colored people cannot be intellectuals, I am privileging the presence of White and marginalizing the presence of the colored. For Derrida the stability of signs in a language is an articulated hegemony. Language by its very structure when prone to articulation becomes victim of structural inconsistencies. It is the duty of deconstruction to articulate critical readings to autonomic democracy.
d) Metoria
A Metoria is an effect of reading tropes or figures of speech. Let’s take a metaphor as an example. For example Palestine is a Volcano. The meaning implied here is Palestine’s political climate is very volatile. Palestine is the tenor the denoted part of the sentence and Volcano is the vehicle which carries the tenor. A metaphor can have a realism of meaning which is mere semantic content. At a secondary level, the meaning of a metaphor implies an aesthetic effect. The reader gets to appreciate the content of meaning created by the metaphor. For a reading of metaphor there is also a tertiary level of meaning and meaning becomes an ideology, a meta-narrative or a grand-narrative. For example: Palestine is a volcano suggests that it is nation longing for being recognized to an absolute status as a nation-entity. The opponents of this view might claim that Palestine is inducing terrorist activities and rampant unlawful behavior. The tertiary level of reading a metaphor can be deconstructive that is undoing the privileged status of meaning.

e) Symboloria
Mathematical and Scientific symbols fall into this category. For example the word DNA Deoxyribonucleic acid falls into the symbolic category of meaning. The structural presence of meaning is always one of being abstract and being in transformation.