Take off your clothes.
Peel off every last layer.
Squat, further down.
Place your left arm over your left knee. There.
Bend your upper body to the right. Just there.
Right foot a tad over to the right. Lean forward
the other arm straight down touching
the coldness of the earth. Don’t look
at me, look down as if something
great and heavy was pushing you down
restraining your mobility, locking you
with the awkward chain of the body itself.
Untighten your abdomen. Relax the brow,
look defiant as if you’ve been angry
for years, but tired and nearing hopelessness,
like an irrational animal that’s exhausted
from growling in its cage.
There, let your member hang. Let the
pain of the bones and joints led
to convulsions, feel the crush and the pendulum.
Begin to accept this position as your end,
as your skin’s predestination.
There, that’s it. It will be over soon.
I almost got it.
It will be over …. soon.
The covers of privacy are ripped off; the pages of the book of life shiver in the warm wind. One does not find chapters or divisions in this book. All is intermingled in one long narrative. The truth is exposed in the streets. It wears no make-up, it does not disguise its raw semblance. People wear their hearts as an unpolished jewel over their chests. There in the streets you read the secret print of every soul. There – out there: misery, happiness, poverty, tradition, greed, compassion, goats, cows, ox, worship, tears, dirt, smoke, smiles, sun, phalli, disease, deformity, piercings, struggle, suffering, patience, motherhood; and above all, silence untouched by the honks, guffaws, the shitting, screaming, the suffering. A mysterious kind of suffering everyone seems to bear peacefully. This is INDIA. Where life is not speculation, postponement, or expectation. It is an open book, where every act or event happens simultaneously, where the cruelty of fate and arbitrariness of poverty is somehow justified in their placid and stoic faces. In this story one must undress from the cryptic paraphernalia of self-hood; one must descend as an open wound into the balsam of reality. – this is INDIA.
Don’t know how to drive.
Can’t even park
into huge chasms
How can I comb
the hair of my
the incredible wobble
of the universal flux –
my feet are spaghetti
and the air around
one gigantic block
I can’t breathe,
my incomplete dreams
have begun unfurling
in an inexplicable atmosphere
I used to suffer
I see a huge ball of beauty
the corridor of experience
amazed, initially b/c there is a ball
but later simply b/c it is beautiful!
and this ball keeps rolling
beautifully, sometimes impelling me to say
it’s all dream… it’s all dream!
and yet I used to suffer
because I was sure
the end would come
this uncanny ball would
simply vanish once experience
removes the surface for it to glide
and I was so damn sure it would be over
I suffered mortally
imagining all this thrusting beauty
wasted in an absurd instant of death
I used to suffer
but now that suffering is gone
and I keep the reasons why
run by a strength
gathering in every bouquet of fire
that my lungs take in
in the crushed earth of my heart
with the noisy smoke of the blood
running stronger still
digesting the night as the sweetest charcoal
drunk with fire, hot demise
swimming in the lurid steam of desire
making love under the encroaching moon of suffering
the hand sloughing the disease of touch
the temptation to feel,
the strength that has gathered
spewing boulders as wild bullets of despair
impossible to even begin telling
about the layers and the failed anchors,
is a miracle of the body
an outcome of the rocks and veins
a mistake of the mind;
nothing can be revoked
I was aware
the puke was everywhere spreading
like the universe
I could see traces
pain spiraled in
this was suffering
free of content
as a substitute
Nihilistic Poetry Blog
What I call true living
is found at the periphery of all modality
after a week of uninspiring tragedies
small unrecognizable anxieties
a tiny indulgence
like a return to a temporary home
that is true living, to say
“I am a great sufferer”
and drink the bottle
to curse the others
after a nagging narcissism
pretends to obliterate a reason
to go on breathing.
That is true living
to hold tight to the street
a great wide hole
at the bottom of any common asphyxia
is the edge
the final wound.