Parable of the Sperm A Novella
Exclusion from the Garden of Eden
I watch the pink walls diluted by the age of time. Pink, I love to dream of women—their music, their orifices become a haunting psychedelic witch. Color of her panties –yes I have sniffed with relish, savored the tasty fragrance.
I see a yellow banana; yes it’s my fruit when it is passioned in loves to be licked.
God—I want to write and write. Writing is an orgy defying death. Climax and orgasm are sweet. Death is bitter. She needs many orgasms to go to sleep. Adultery has been a luscious poetry for me.
Grace, I am in your theology, so that I won’t be excluded.
The novel of writing is an art; tropes sculpt an aesthetic of existence.
The memory of her haunts me. I need to be inserted between her legs and flower her to an ecstasy of being.
Time—a halo for being; in the world of time—an orifice for suckling.
Nirvana the state of exalted consciousness, sex is the only enlightenment.
The sky is clear like a sarcasm of shit. Sad to say I have met many women who will offer their bodies for money and few who relish me to fountain their beings.
The secret, sacred and the secretive woman—I adore you in the joy of passions.
I am in poverty; can I be optimistic about riches? Poverty, you cannot breed my thought into the insanity that’s not an art.
Love birds are caged, they speak for their freedom—their Palestine as their homeland.
Innocence, I was born with it, now I am mature in adultery.
Poetry, you can flower the meaning of bliss in sex.
Cannabis I have smoked you with love and sexual longing.
I saw a pink pen stroke with a P in the sky—it lit my heart with psychedelic mesmerism and quivered my soul in the poetries of epiphanic delight.
Waking up to a dream is pleasant as an erection.
Narratology in the voice of writing—I look at myself wrapped up in the ineffable apophatic voice of God, a voice that God shared with Moses in the burning bush. I have a pen that drips, penetrating the lava pussy of paper as an oasis of succulence. I try to write time in the memory of Borges, and I become like Minotaur confined in the labyrinth. My experience lies like mystical beads that chant extrasensorially into the haze of time that lived, into the mercurial present and to a being of futuristic optimism. Death is a haunting surprise that I cannot anticipate.
Realism of the novel, I have poured your book in temporal life, your meanderings into costumes of cultures; I excavate the sculpture of your textual narration; you are bourgeoisie rendering of habituation; you create signs that lull the historicity of meaning, a similitude of existence. You go to great extent of narco-opiating the psychologism of character sketches. In neo-realism –characters have lost their voice; they are a legion of an unstable author. There are Epics of realism—grand narratives of war—carrying a moral lesson. War is the phenomenologization of aggression. How can war become moral lessons? Peace is a lesbian—her voice is the sublimation in the art of writing. War of mythologies is privileging the Gods to be treacherous and bestial and inhumane. Krishna is an example. War crimes are not only textual relics but they are also suffocating realities for the marginalized people like the Palestinians. Gujarat is a classic example of communal wars. The load of the Hindus torched out alive the Muslims. Religion drives the human to be a maniac. Art perverts him or her to be a good existential being.
Just when I wanted to go out, God pissed from the sky. Scattered yellow petals lay like a trail of urine on the ground.
I invoke existentialism as the being of becoming—now a realization of the how! The becoming becomes an essentualization of being. Every negation and very affirmation is an essentualization of being. Time cannot revoke a being’s existence
Doggerel of Prose
Today I encountered a bizarre, zany bodily experience. I was travelling on the motorbike with a colleague and then all of a sudden my asshole started itching. What a horrendous situation it became. The scratching started mellow like a silent whisper and then it reached a crescendo of cacophony. I ached to insert my finger into my anus but then I was in public. All through the half an hour journey, my anal itching multiplied like burgeoning cancerous cells. I exclaimed: “fuck, what a perverted and untimely shit hole I have”. I thank heavens that at last I was able to reach home and rush to the restroom where I inserted my finger and scratched my asshole to an aesthetic glee.
I have drunk the cheap working class rum of Kerala—proletarian rum. I can afford only that much. I am taken to an asylum forcefully by my wife and sister; they lure me by saying: “it’s not a hospital, we are taking you there only for consultation”. The bastard pope of a psychiatrist called my wife for consultation in private; an hour of sickening time passes by. Then she comes out beaming with a bitchy smile. I am ushered in the doctor’s chamber. He gives me a velvet smile like a model on the ramp. In my drunkenness, I shout at him: “Do you know Foucault? I told him that there is no madness and madness is alienation”. I also told him that the postmodern world is dissecting the discourse of psychiatry and the clinic formed through rational philosophy of Descartes. Psychiatry and the clinic are alien subjects, clinically discourse-ing and dissecting the body of being as surgical machine to be manipulated upon and devising the machinations to thwart it from enjoying the bliss of being. The discourse of the clinic subjugates passion and imprisons it in the Descartian hospital of reason. The fucking psychiatrist blinked at the brawny nurse; soon strong arms overpowered me and I became feeble to offer any resistance. I was dragged upstairs into a shoddy dingy space and given a sedative injection.
When I awoke the prison of awareness dawned into me; this asylum was a shit hole and my mind became an amalgam of claustrophobia; space threatened my thoughts like a spider, building webs of fortresses all around. I became completely devastated; the asylum was filled with a medley of people—lunatics, junkies and alcoholics. I have always favored the discourse and dialogue of the feminine—but to my Kafka-ian insect full of woes, my matriarch, and wife and sister all wanted to imprison me in this shit hole.
I have heard the terrible agony of patients who tried to resist. They were beaten and tied up to the bed. There was a lunatic who was crazy about building a hospital. There were lunatics who behaved much less than their age.
Is it a crime to have a bipolar disorder? Is it my fucked up birth? Why I can’t I have the thrill of experiencing both the manic and the depressive states of this cursed disease? Yes bipolar disorder adulterates my mind and perverts it to a sexistentialism.
Another interesting thing that happened was, a lunatic read my hands. There was another zany who preached evangelism all the time. One asshole boasted that he had three BMW’s and he is going to start a medical hospital with a tie up with John Hopkins medical school in USA.
In the asylum, I gaze out of the window and receive nature as a mother caressing her new born child. The humid heat of the tropics curdles milk changing it into curds. An unknown tongue blows its strong breeze through the window. Clouds of abstract art darken in color and swell up like buxom breasts of a horny woman. It rains! Many many women have started menstruating. Oh how they wet and soil the earth.
My nights were special to me. I had the unlimited freedom to gaze out through the window and I could see in the night sky, a pearl, shimmering its light at me. The magic eye of the night became my silent companion. It enveloped all my subjectivity accepting me as I am. While watching the star I encountered loneliness, but also optimistic anticipation. Another friend of mine who lived with me, strange to say was a house lizard. An unusual thing about it was that it had a very short tail. At times it squeaked and at times it positioned itself with agility on the wall. Hearing it squeak gave me tremendous bouts of joy. It used to ballet on the wall and sometimes settle itself on the reflection of light coming from outside the room. It’s always moving with an existential restlessness. It’s comforting for it as its existential abyss is merely being skillfully throned on the wall.
Language can have a semantic poverty and yet a structural richness. Buffaloes wallow in muddy water and I am a buffalo wallowing in muddy sin. When undergoing a profound or poignant literary aesthetic experience, one becomes immune and unconscious to the structural and semantic underpinnings of language.
I happened to encounter a literary experience where I knew the meaning but I forgot the word. Later on after two days the meaning surfaced and it was kleptomania.
I love the word ravish and it’s a double entendre meaning rapture and rape.
I wonder why the red flag with the hammer and the sickle did not spread all over the world.
The killing of the Medusa is a discourse of patriarchic sadism. Why in myths the woman’s body has been a dark continent of the grotesque? Is it the anthropic misunderstanding of her nymphomaniac sexuality?
I have learnt in life that one should become the Master of one’s own purse.
Orificial Orphism is a religion for me…I am in Satyriasis to graze the oceans of the orifices of the woman with my tongue and lips. Hearing their ritual moaning intensifies my body and mind in multiple awakenings of amorousness.
Oilflation, oil and inflation caused due to rising of prices of oil in the international market is making a downfall of the Indian Rupee.
Who is the real de facto behind the United Nations? Yes, the answer is secret societies, the Builderbergers, the Illuminati and the Free Masons. Their ideology to create two classes of people the beau monde and the proletariat is an enigma-mystic-cratic regime.
Nabobs of India are impetuous, arrogant, and snooty. The vast multitudes of the subaltern live a pathetic life.
I am trying so hard to evoke subversive humor in the writing of the novel-art.
Mind and consciousness form a syzygy.
The ne plus ultra of life is authenticating one’s existence.
The symbolic in language has a mystery—an abstruse concatenation, linking a visual subject with a grandiose idea.
Ambiguity in literature is the richness of wit.
A syntactic accident in language can lead to the occult formation of a structure into an aesthesis of experience.
Meaning is a labiated polysemenic expedition.
Art can’t be defined –it has to be experienced as a rhythmic subjectivity, capturing a nascent experience into a neoteric existence of the probable.
I would love my text to be a writing of cunnilingus.
Affirmation and Negation are hypostatic ontological attributes of existentialism.
Meaning fucks you when you are fucking meaning. He was blasé to the stirring passions of his mistress, his significant other. A vicarious pleasure undertook me when the heroine undressed to make love to her paramour.
Even though I will gallivant all over South East Asia, I won’t be crossing the Rubicon.
Why can’t I have many Shangri-Las?
My doxies are many.
Jung spoke of the Anima as (psychic feminine) existing in Man and the Animus as the (psychic masculine) as existing in the woman. However both the Anima and the Animus are integrative cathartic states of being humane.
Orientations are psychic fabrics internalized into the sexuality of the integrated Anima and Animus.
Saudi butchery law cruelly decapitates humans for criminal offenses.
Being Janus-faced is wry enigma of many aspects: a Jekyll and Hyde, an optimistic and pessimistic, a crooked and straightforward—and the list goes on ad infinitum.
Kowtowing and rolling all over the temple precincts is an austere irrational act.
The Indian judiciary is a juggernaut that imparts prejudicial verdicts in favor of the rich and famous.
I am a Kafirized, Hellenised, Philistineized and Bohemianized nihilist.
The FCKU T-shirts are an incorrigible slutesque.
The rason d’ être for living is to write, make love, make enough money and enjoy a sybarite liberty.
I am Parnassain beatnik.
Communists of Kerala are still agitprop with Che Guevara cutouts.
The word Quotation has acquired a new meaning in Kerala’s cultural mores. Quotation refers to gangs take money and will willingly Kill or Maim lives. Many of those gangs enjoy the sleaze of political privilege.
I leave the F—Word to live in F—Wording.
My amatory exploits need no personal justification.
The three Graces of Greece or the Grace of Christ—I am warped up in an apophatic existential paradox.
The asylums of Kerala are a grunge of tyranny and perverse sadism.
I am plagued by the seven deadly sins: PCLAGES, Pride, Covetousness, Lust, Anger, Gluttony, Envy and Sloth.
I will have many significant others.
Grace theology as an unmerited favor…I try to accumulate into the similitude of being.
All running dogs have no time to bark and bite into ideologies.
Bacchus Valhalla—orgies, feasts and inebriation—I am carnal-Cornelius of addiction.
The vaticinatory seer baptized me with blessings.
The will to overcome nihilism through suicide is a vellity.
When she loud-mouthed herself, her veneer became a cracked mirror.
The vain gloriousness of celebrities stultifies the acceptance of the Ego into flotsam of junk.
Screw, Screw, and Screw money—Money cannot screw me…I am screwing it.
Even in angst, there’s a winnowing of an optimistic futuristic projection.
It’s fascinating to metaphorize the myth of the werewolf into an ID of bestiality.
Dollarization of the World is a wile stratagem…The oil is paying meek obeisance to its surreptitious machinations. The Jewish banking hierarchy in America is shrewd in devising policies of the dollar to survive.
Xanthippe, the wife of Socrates, the soul breadwinner of the family has been marginalized in the periphery of philosophy as a shrewish termagant. She is an apotheosis of femnity.
Kerala politics is based on candidature preferentiality that gerrymanders.
Can I cut the Gordian knot for financial prosperity and literary recognition?
I have Babeled my fictional narratives into many poly-phonic-voices of writing.
Shit-hole is a dysphemism for the asylum I have lived.
Albert Camu is an enfant terrible of nihilism.
Hamadryad is a double entendre for a King Cobra and also a nymph that lives on trees.
I am coining Platono-eroticism….subverting the Platonic.
The hypostasis of the consciousness of being is being in-itself, being-for-itself and being for others.
The hypostasis of Christianity is a paradox of the Trinity as being separate and one.
Binary oppositions in deconstruction as notions of privilege and marginalization are a haecceity.
The charisma of Christ was je ne sais quoi.
The lumpen petit bourgeoisie are shackled to religion, a petty, paltry culture and a boorish life.
The susurrus of the brook was a sonata of music.
I would love to be a lotus eater.
Leprechaun, you are the kundalini of my loins. I am always lecherous Sileni.
An ontological monetization could happen to me.
Art shares a mutatis mutandis with literature as art permeates meaning to new realizations of experience.
Labia of a woman is a tongue ‘a’ lacious word—a lyric erogenizing into a licking of blossomed petals.
Truth is a paradox, surviving in a word and living in an experience. And when confronted with another truth it collapses into a black hole.
To be mammonized is money’s Zen.
Promiscuity is in my blood.
Every pensée is literacized into epiphanic, aesthetic and philosophical reflections in the art of writing of the novel.
Hospitals charge exorbitant sums, treat you with scum food and surgicalize your mind and body.
Vulvas you are beautiful beings.
Vérité era of literature was an icon of hoary days, but in today’s scrutiny, it imposes the mind with an anachronism of the naïve and recreates experiences of mimesis.
The languid backwaters of Kerala, blue and crystal clear shone and smiled at its visitors enjoying rapture.
It’s an irony that my facetiae writings won many admirers but my real writing has few readers.
Today I had a vatic ‘cartassis’, a spoonerism for catharsis. I delved deeply into the ontology of elusiveness. By invocation of the melodious gay morning star, I found its élan resting in Proteus. Proteus was Greek mythological prophet who had the power to prophecy. But Proteus remains an elusive character. The moment one approaches Proteus for a divination—he changes shape. Thus Protean became adjectivized as elusiveness in literature. It was at this juncture the witch Sycorax crept from the reservoirs of the collective unconscious. She permeated Proteus with the fondness for scatology. From that time all that was needed to arouse Proteus from the protean appearance and make him prophecy was an acrid odor accompanied by a fart. So from this day onwards, I fart and emit a pungent odor and Proteus comes to me meekly and makes prophecies.
Ellipses as an art of writing bear the aids of a postmodern syndrome—it ejaculates on the reader, a wit puzzle, an uneasy conjecture, a hysterical laughter of conflating the phallus into the logos of deflation.
It’s an amazing fact that when I start writing—I am in a paradox of thinking about words to write or thoughts of words to write.
A bacchanalian ritual is an interesting experience of consciousness to facilitate the body into anarchy.
The racial similarity and the racial difference of being Semitic is antimony.
Similarities have to recognitions of a sect to become a nation and differences have to be written upon with humor, delectation—a laparoscopy of cultures to stick to a unique monotheism that is similar and yet different.
The andante music trembles the body in the silence of anarchic whispers.
Amorousness shrinks with an orgasm and rises with an erection but in women it is poly-arousal and poly-orgasmic.
Temperance, I skin you alive and I wallow in the ravishment of passion.
The disequilibrium between passion and reason is qualia.
The only Talisman that I seek is an aesthetic in every experience.
The tabernacle that I carry in my mind is warped in a Diaspora of many isms and iconoclastic aesthetics and in my apprehension to utter and write the ineffable cabbala of the trinity as existing as God.
The facetiae of literature has changed from figurative descriptions to a fin de siècle sensuality of graphic content.
Daemon is the God of the intellect and passion of the body.
Übermensch should transform the novel to a writing that involves the Philosophy of writing in art as the aesthemensch.
Oral sex by lesbians is called femilingus.
I teased her pussy by blowing a zephyr into it.
My Zen of meditation is a fetish of asses, cunts and breasts…a gynemorphicmania.
The comprehension of volition can be an analogy of extended galaxies of the universe.
I am a worldly world ling.
Tares—let the deadly sins plague me.
I find it idiotic to venerate icons.
He could not say that the venereal aspect of his personality was a strength or weakness.
The creation of the tree of knowledge and its verboten to be eaten is a paradox.
I hope I won’t encounter an albatross in my life.
Albion! My dear Albion you have englishified into polysemic narratives of speaking and writing in colorful continents.
I wish I had the avoirdupois of intellect carried for me in Santa’s bag for 2015.
The haecceity of ‘being’ as a word does a meaning of trifle sense to a reality that is consciousness.
The salacious graffiti on the walls of the bathroom in the train were mediocre. India is so sex starved.
The halcyon days with Sheeba, my college lover are precious pearls of lyric poetry flowing through a celestial stream.
The gloaming cloud drew a moustache across the sky.
One has to be God if one does not have the feeling of schadenfreude.
The ghoulish content of dreams needs to be excavated and decimated.
The argument on ontology was germane to its being as a presence of being in the word and outside of it as consciousness.
She wore a gauze negligee that poured her curves as a poem.
A Saudi Sheik has many Ganymede’s.
Wizard—I can spell, but put me in positive spells of meaning.
Boorish and conservative people are my bête noire.
I am a bibulous maniac of rum.
The wilding in Baltimore is colornonsensiouness.
I am a follower of Couéism a philosophy of auto-suggestion for gain, improvement and accomplishment.
Spell is a conceited double entendre.
Being to becoming is an essencesuality.
The mutatis mutandis between phenomenology and ontology is a similitude as well as a paradoxical conundrum.
Musings of Nostalgia
Socrates philosophized to a nothingness of solipsism, rendering the argument of his opponents with ideational levels of conception that juxtapose into hierarchies of ritualistic discourse.
Pun—I wish I had a word to Pun you!
I was reading a dictionary of critical literary terms and by chance, I happened to be reading Baroque. Then I decided to integrate myself into the culture of the Baroque. First I chose music, as all art aspires to the condition of music.
The maestro that I selected was Monteverdi. I became mesmerized to its cosmic lull; I became sedated to its succulent melody; I became in rapture, listening its consonance of harmony. Through Monteverdi I was able reincarnate my life into the ornate celestial bliss of that Era.
Next I turned my attention to Baroque art. I became tantalized by the works of Caravaggio. I took two of his paintings, one that of Bacchus and the other, the conversion of ST. Paul at Damascus. Bacchus or Dionysus was rather a silent youth, wrapped in gay colors with laurels of wine on his head. I tried to juxtapose the Nietzscheian theory of Art the Apollonian of rhythm, harmony and melody with Dionysian with cacophony, ecstasy and orgy. I tried to reconstruct Bacchus into my era as a one dancing in orgiastic revelry. Caravaggio has permeated Bacchus with an ornate, rich tapestry of color a chiaroscuro, hypnotizing the eye to gaze the marvel of the ritual in the orgy of a symbol.
The conversion of ST. Paul at Damascene was an ethos of aesthesis. There lay Paul, fallen from the horse, struck blind by the divine fiat of God. Baroque art is reminiscent of expressionistic naturalism richly suffused in the drapery of hallucinating colors.
I am happy to have experienced the Baroque which was an eclectic catharsis of melody and color with the bricollage of the divine and pagan, circumnavigating into realms of the occult and the thaumaturgic.
As I read this I shriek ecstatically and accumulate sensenonsenseciousness of meaning. Meaning is strangely positioned in the magic of sentencialism.
Colored Albion, you speak and write utterances of many voices, narratives, continents. You are a diasporic paradigm migrating in the flux of Heraclitus to a Babel of ploypolysemenous meaning. Literature should transcend convention to a neovention. Postmodern narratives kaputs the narrative voices into poly-phonic speech as a legion of writing multiple texts.
Sartre’s being can experience nothingness or a thingness of experience. Sartre’s conceptuality of Nihilism alone can be satisfied for the Being-in-itself. The Being-in-itself can also experience a Yeshiliation. Being is the bodily and the consciousness to express and experience it is the mind. How can the other be incorporated into the being of consciousness? It can be appropriated or misappropriated or dialogically converse as a democracy of subjective experience.
The futurist writer has to evolve from the transcendental structure of being’s experience to a geoscendentalism, interacting with the language and experience of the telluric world.
The unconscious controls us but again when it shifts to realms of consciousness the Ego and Superego may annihilate or democratize it.
From the absurd springs forth the hope of hell and the bliss of heaven. Our mental negations are equilibrium of competing against philosophical suicide.
Christ was (fig) uratively obsessed with the fig tree. He cursed it when it bore no fruit. Christ loved luxury when he allowed Mary Magdalene to wash his feet with fragrant perfume.
God—my bum itches and I laugh in hysteric agony.
Luck climb on my head and dance like an acrobat.
My hopes are lovingly licked as wounded dog, bitten by my fascist hypocrites who claim themselves to be a family of democracy.
Word—I have to explain you, analyze you, experience you and excavate you and enjoy you to the fullest.
In the Bible I have found not only Catholicism but also Devilologism.
Liberty not America’s idol—it has to live in me and it has to be freed.
I want to write, make love, travel and smoke. It’s a whispering wish, no it’s an irony now.
In a heap of crumpled lottery tickets there’s frustration.
I can’t control my mind and body—it controls me and it’s my pleasure.
If Helen can be hedonistic why can’t I?
My libidinal urges release a schmuck of thought.
To be idolic is to be dead without any emotion. Idolic has been coined from the idol of the Virgin Mary.
Money can liberate me—it’s my promised land and the book of life which I have to experience.
Hell, I can defile you even your deity. Let God be confused about what punishment he can enforce.
Heaven—how I wish I could fornicate every day.
Palestine is my homeland my oasis in the mind of desertified Diaspora.
I curse the soiled currency of my thoughts.
Yesterday I defecated Catholicism. I smile so wretchedly. I am in nirvana.
You can canonize my by a smile or a smirk.
My body is a brothel: my mind a brewery and my soul: rings of smoke.
Hallelujah, I am a born again nihilist-hedonist.
That Bastard Mother Fucking Son of a Bitch is my psychiatrist.
She sleeps like poetry when it is time to make love.
Zen—I swallowed emptiness. What remains is saliva.
When all religions are dead Art will be free.
Cows piss from their behind unlike us. That’s a beefy piss.
A sacred cow is an idol –a milking cow an exploiter.
Fashion is adornment of nudity. Vision reveals it.
Wow! What devotion I have in myself.
Fiction covers the gap between reality and realization.
I hate doctors—they are morons with a surgical consciousness.
Life, I live in odors—I long to taste perfume.
Silence found me in the noise, pervading the mind.
Literature begins in foreplay and ends in orgasm and then resurrects again.
Christ left out this beatitude: blessed are the ecstatic: for they shall obtain ecstasy.
My Priapus baptized her in reservoir of sperm.
Experience, you have to carve an existence from the abundance of scarcity.
I cannot forgive you or forget you. I can penetrate you.
Patience is like shit waiting for a long time to come.
Psychiatry is a prison imprisoned in the gaze of a clinic.
I have been tied, beaten and bruised. I hate it!
Bacchus I have loved you because you are so gluttonous and lecherous.
Suicide—you demon of the absurd, I have to overcome you with the eccentricities of life.
I have to live in futuristic projections as my present is becoming liked a decayed tooth.
My envy for God exceeds that of the Devil.
Institutionalized fascism—thy name is family.
I have a wife who is a scheming bitch, a mother who is diabolic and manipulative.
In a class on Postmodernism, feminist Prof. Ms. Eroticorax addresses eager students.
Erotorax: “Queer has to be desemeninated!”
The students with an erotic sigh drool: “How miss.”
Erotorax: “The clitoris as a tiny Phallus is feminine in the wetness of discourse called clitorocourse”
Students: “Ms. what’s the difference between a Phallic discourse and clitorocourse?”
Erotorax guffawas: “That’s a clitorallus questions”
Students shout: “Ms. What is clitorallus?”
Erotorax: “You nincompoops, it’s a feminized phallus capable of multi-erotic-oral –femi-lingual pleasures of making the hitherto unexplored dark of the Feminine continent of Freud accessible to the futuristic discourses. I am oralizing the fellatio of Freudian discourses. Passion and reason blend as poetic incursions of a writing of prose in the carnival of liberated feminine libidos or feminido (a reservoir of feminine energy)
Students again to Ms. Erotorax: “What is the extent of articulations in the clitorocourse”.
Ms. Erotorax: “Clitorocourse has articulations which are feminertoic, psychoanalytical, post-structural, and political.
Students: “We are impressed to a level of clitorifications. Please elucidate.”
Ms. Erotorax: “Clitorocourse as feminerotica is feminoerotic exhibitionism, foreplay and feminastsy (a combination of ecstasy and feminity). As a psychoanalytic discourse, clitorocourse re-signifies feminity beyond a phallic as law, as envy as an irrational desire for the male phallus which theorists have irrationally classified as a symbol but contradictorily also being a sex organ. Freud has spoken of it has being trans-cultural. Clitorocourse in the politics of discourse addresses those people who have been violently displaced, the oppressed, and the marginalized and also tries to analyze personal sufferings as feminumanism.
Today I entered a pet shop; it was a portmanteau room; the inner room was air-conditioned. I gazed at the wide array of fish swimming in tanks; they were floating with the music of temporality; they glittered gold, black, green and blue. I gazed at their captivity and smiled reflectively thinking of my own as the zodiac. I glimpse into their tiny eyes wondering how they configure space, view time and experience presence. At least they have they have the freedom to be swimming in flux. Yes I am swimming zodiac in space but temporality has caged me, weighing my body down like rocks, carrying my granite and making me pregnant with angst; time is a fossil of eclectic experiences; the past floats in memories. Is there a way to make sex last long? I proceed to the outer confines of the portmanteau room and see various puppies. I see a white one with black spots whimpering for attention; I see a German shepherd. It’s “wuf wuffing”. I cover my nostrils: the smell is awful, similar to the one of hordes of wet leather in a factory.
I gaze at my computer screen, its milky light as I tap loudly at the keys. I am playing Bach and I am transported to exotic world of the surreal, sublime, melodic, serene now flowing my body into an epic; all of a sudden I am disturbed; a fugitive has stuck on to the computer screen; it’s a baby house lizard; I wonder how it hangs on the screen in topsy-turvy yet perfectly balanced defying gravity. I flick it with my fingers; it darts away like a scared refugee.
My body is a chaotic desert but I long to be an erotic poem in many poetries. Dusk stuck to the sky forming beards of a hairy seer….they are in motion like fingers on a cello….lo, what have they formed? Now they are an abstract painting….there they go again resembling Picasso’s brush…..Now they are gargantuan beards….lo like Proteus they are changing shape again.
Word married to God is purity but when the word marries me she fornicates with me…In adultery, there’s a gentle hymn of poetry….Oh fornication, you have squeezed the marrow of lust and freed my body from the belongingness of being….Within orgasm, I experienced the music of an echo of light ….My body trembled with strange cadences of fleshy musk….In its ritual I dreamt of music …I felt like a soul …..I became a body of death, a vegetable and I sunk into my abyss. She poured whisky into my swine mouth….and spread her mounts of Venus like a grotesque witch….I drank again, her fish….exalted by lips to a lyric sublime.
A Marxian Hypocrite
Though I am suffering from lack of money; it’s lack orgasmied Though I am suffering from lack of money; it’s lack orgasmied mentally and I found a pun for Harmony and LOL it is “HARMONEY”
The sky oiled into dusk of pink abstracts shedding its skin like clueless thoughts. Lord—I gasp at the images so slurry in speech, canopies of clouds with jagged edges, flirtatious cabbages posing like brazen sluts; if I had wings I could grope my way through them serenading my wings in wanton lust; at times these hazy cauldrons are phantoms of a bizarre architecture; at times they are floating corpses; now pink is changing into an orificial music of crimson flames; is that Druid licking his tongues in orgiastic carnival?
I am on a bus, on a road steep and winding like Serpents; beside me on the side of the road are umbrella shaped, pruned tealeaves. I admire the beauty of the damsels plucking tealeaves, their raven hair flowing like eternal fountains, their amorous beautiful bosoms jutting out of their straining out of their peacock blouses; their sickles are gently swiping the stems to uproot the leaves; it’s a motion to so similar to what they do their lovers when they fondle their balls. I see a gypsy woman by the side of the road openly breast feeding a wretched infant who in eagerness is mashing her nipples to a suckling pulp. I relish the sight of milk drops spilling out of her earthly breasts, drops of sky white liquid which failed to enter the ravenous mouth of the infant; through the windows of the bus I see an isle of hills and holy smoke coming out of their chambers; I wonder, are they women’s orifices which have become music as breathing domes. Though interview to teach English was successful, the pay was a beggar—a paltry 150$ a month. I ended the journey in contented existential edification.
‘Hello I am Madam Sostrois, the wife of the renowned seer President De Gall. I am going to read you the Piscean Tarot scope for the month of August 2015. Lo, here I am now shuffling the pack—oops, sorry, that was a fart which I produce during moments of cathartic inspiration. A fart is a good sign, an omen for things to come. Olalah olalah hockuspockusabracadbra—see what card I got? Oh my goodness, it’s the ass of pentacles. Now what can that be? Let me tell you for sure. During the month of August 2015, you will have a period of joyful shitting. You will have the ecstasy of emitting blood in your stools. Your bowels will empty more shit than the food you consume. Shit is also a magical word, a mojo word, a mantra for well being. Wake up in the morning; take some shit and put in a bowl; that will be your holy nirvana cauldron, your holy grail; chant OM SHIT NAMA OM SHIT NAMA thirteen times and you will ward off bad luck and attract the karma of good luck into your life. If you do this you will satisfy the all powerful Goddess of shit, the holy shitnik shitshmuck. There ends the tarot reading. If you are eager to have personalized reading write to me at firstname.lastname@example.org. Remember Shit I charge 1000$ of shit for a personalized reading.’
Nuances of Kerala
Kerala, a state of India hewn out of the axe of Parsurama has a bizarre practice. There’s a temple dedicated to the Goddess who of all strange things in the world has periods. Call that phenomena divine menstruation. Her shedding of blood is called reverently as divine vaginal pour. After she sheds her woreish fluid, the idol is taken out as a procession to be washed and purified in the river. To make matters even more eccentric, there’s a great demand for the menstruated cloth buy the ardent devotes and there are devotees who have to wait for years. Legend has it that the entrails of the menstruating Goddess felt on this spot during times past. I don’t know whether to brush it off as the irrational; yes for the devotees it is truth stranger than fiction.
Kerala is also famous for the legend of the origin of weed. Legend has it that the people of Kerala were fed up with alcohol as that was not intoxicating them anymore. So they poured their lamentations to God Shiva. God Shiva went into a fit of rage. In the grandeur of divine fury, he untied the knot of his hair and plucked a few pieces of hair and threw it on the ground. And that is the story of how grass was born. Kerala grass especially the grass which grows in the hill stations of Idduki is known as Idduki Gold is very famous and is a source of enticement for tourists. Once, the environment Minister of Kerala was travelling beside an Austrian chick and he asked her where she was visiting in Kerala and she said of a remote hill station in Kerala and to the consternation of the minister he was ignorant about that place.
Oh grass you birthed in me, the longing to lick vaginas to orgasmic ecstasies. Time slowed in my veins and I became a cosmic Buddha incarnated with a rainbow. I felt my silences to be speaking in loud noises. My consciousness became warped with the fecundity of a swirling vagina; things, places, situations, experiences all floated in my consciousness as an anarchic music, a frozen medley. I became plagued by gigantic bums, breasts and cunts devouring me.
Voice of Silent Vandalism
Words were staring at him like hangman’s noose. Is the book an orgy to defy death? I hear the echoes of darkness whispering diabolic hell. Through the terror of the dark—I clutch my defeated terrified self. If I could swallow light by swimming to a shore. I am tired and broken as a flute which before a short while ago was singing a requiem. I rummage through the conscious in the consciousness of the dark. A baby’s cry stings me like a wailing banshee. Humans appear in my dream as frozen monsters. I would like to exhume my corpse by laying a wreath on it. Time is stuck on my corpse—I scent its rotten fruit. I excavate a longing to eat my flesh; now putrid soul you feed my animal body with dusky desires. Am I dreaming or am I awake? I am in a state of the absurd, a prison of poisoned consciousness. I am tied to a bitch. Is it a pillar or a cross, yes it is both. I feel so itchy and hot. Why is consciousness so random, so fragmentary and so imprisoned? Void—the space of time, now the faint echo of music, the distinct thud of a sound. I shriek. I try to think of the church—the Zeus like thunderclaps of hands—the cacophonic hallelujahs. All I long for is a whisper called the solitude of a prayer. How can you live with Jesus, imitate Jesus and worship Jesus? Yes consciousness comes like a whirling top; its nail has thrust into my skull and gorged out my brains. I can feel myself being crippled to an essence of a decaying flower. My soul awakens like a cosmic flower. Harmony rhythms of pentatonic scales become a flesh of writing with the spirit of the pen. Alas I am alone; I am filled with a marching army of words. But my thoughts like a collapsed bridge. I dream of her, my tongue licks my lips longing for the flavor of her flower. I am a Biblical Job in the body. I protest its needs like a creative anarchist. The writer is a self without a self when he writes. Consciousness becomes a possessed legion. Screaming demons put an abrupt end an art now ejaculating to exist in time. Morning menstruation starts to dusk. Pink fawns start to scatter the sky in dance, their bodies arching and legs pirouetting. They make love with the haze of weed. Time becomes a paint brush and scatters loins with oily paint. My hands are trembling and longing for an early morning drink before bed coffee. I grope for the coffee mug which has a picture of Roland Barthes and a quote: ‘Literature is the answer minus the question’. I wonder how I can be a literary structuralist. How can my consciousness chop the wood of the sign and break the axe into signifiers and signifieds. Why I am an amusement of signs? Is my meaning an awakened penis—a defied signifier of a morning to hallucinate on the signified idea of the morning. What will happen to my consciousness when I desecrate language into a chain of signifiers and signifieds? I lose the phenomenology of an aesthetic catharsis to be in existential affirmation or negation when I wade through the experiences of words. Consciousness—I can’t imprison words into a machine of signs. The structuralist is crucifying language. Phenomenology, I want to feel it. I spit into my palm. It doesn’t like sperm but it is colored like it.