April 20, 2010

What, who are these grey thought-tentacles
suckling on me, drinking drying up ruddy love?

What, who are these silken thought-ropes
that cocoon me in caves outside love-light ?

What, who are these desires that ejaculate
fear-words that plunge into me like smoke?

What, who are these prancing demonic forms
that make me doubt, purge go out out, go!

What is this anguish in the garden of delight?
Who is the one who remains to watch with me?

Who are these thought-beings without wings?
What is this nest of longing that does not sing?

What are these volcanic needs in body and soul,
Swirling like ash-doves, air-paintings I can’t hold?

What, who are these thought-lines snapping to
and fro, tempting me to cut love, to let her go?

I see the thought-enemies at my guarded gates
From my priaptic tower, I shout at my foe-fates

I have a love-sword that cuts tentacles to bits
I have a love-sword that dispels the ash-smoke
I have a love-sword that unties the deep-knots
I have a love-sword that quietens, no-thoughts
I know whom I love and, SATAN, I do not doubt
I know how to drive my love-sword to seal love.


April 18, 2010

I am a bad father
I left my children when they were too young.
I am a bad husband
I know not how to love a woman unceasingly.
I am a bad teacher
I tell students things I ought not to tell them.
I am a bad disciple
I found out that God does not need my help.
I am a bad friend
I have watched them dwindle over the years.
I am a bad cook
I feed others what I wouldn’t dare eat myself.
I am a bad angel
What you see is not what you get in the end.
I am a bad runner
I let others win and blame myself for the loss.
I am a bad leader
I let things fall apart and wait for none, no one.
I am a bad lover
I understand now why all my women leave me.
I am a bad moon
I circle around the earth and deceive the sun.
I am a bad priest
I steal the loaves from the altar and eat them.
I am a bad drinker
I drink too fast and being drunk I destroy love.
I am a bad giver
I give, I give, it’s always the wrong gift I give.
I am a bad sailor
I am an albatross, sailors cast me into the sea.
I am a bad writer
I write and I vomit and nobody gives a shit.
I am a bad song
I hiss and spit and you hear the wrong tone.
I am a bad man
I look into the Tarot and I see the Hanged Man.


April 14, 2010

i am a puzzle being pieced together by many-hued wise women,
they bring me to oases of calm whenever we journey together.
If one is not there, another appears, and my angry anguishes
dissolve into their still waters!

then one embarks on the next leg of the journey, the camel
of one’s purpose to unveil all never tires; only the inner man
is as sad as the sand that whispers only into the ears of winds
the hymns of the Desert Fathers;

they were alone too, just as I am; but they carefully kept themselves
away from Eve, someone said She was damned , she bleeds, labours;
read the apostle Paul, he hated them for what they were but, look,
i know them well, unlike castrate Paul.

“let the women not speak,” Paul taught, “except with their husbands”,
then I read the book backwards and came to Jesus who sat with Mary
and the Samaritan woman; they served him with their honey-substance
and he too found oases in the blight.

if only everyone knew that pilgrims in the burning desert are allowed
to find both mirages of water and oases; would you turn the tap off,
still the fountain, fill the oases with mud, cut down all the date palms?
I ask, would you ban my wet dreams?


April 14, 2010

fifty years of living and I realize
deep within me lies the serpent-
wisdom line along vertical spine
each vertebra images a precept
upon precept and line upon line.

coiled inside the tunnel of bone
lie the subtler channels of Moon,
Sun and the Bright Morning Star,
these pathways are intertwined
and criss-crossing them one can
perhaps chance upon the central
corridor, and find one’s way again.

she waked in 1979 as I read Blake
and spilled into a vortex of terror
hallucinogenic, disorienting, seeing
the play of forces, an energy rising
from below, an energy descending
and the planes colliding within me

the two have not yet met within me
in the cruciform rose heart-centre,
or the third eye that I will not open
lest it destroys the entire universe.

She arose and distributing gifts at
each festive portal on the central
trajectory – red orange yellow blue
green indigo violet – descended
to stop at my navel, my hollow cup.

There she has trembled for 31 long
years and sent out hot ropes of love
from my vibrating body to all those
sentient creatures in the universe
bound to the cycle of life and death

i have known the pain and joy of being
her companion on dark inner journeys
she knows she should not have stopped
at this place, she knows she hinders the
star of my rising, the descending of gold
rain on me, yet she does not move away.

“Seven of my sweet loves thy knife
has bereavèd of their life”, thus it
has been that I traverse the points
of love and loss, sun and rain in the
web of temporality she spins in me.

the play of forces, an energy rising
from below, an energy descending
and the planes colliding within me
the two have not yet within me met
the navel rules me and punishes me
and the cruciform rose heart-centre
bleeds as it resuscitates the sacral,
therefore I will not open my third eye
lest it destroy the absolute universe.


April 13, 2010

She is

a dark edge overlooking the river of peace
a razor slice that slits open dual genitals
into cliff-lips and outcrops, effusive rush
that warm outpouring of menstrual blood
the taste of my lover’s sweat in her pores
the dead phone that tells no she won’t call
poems written at night left unattended to
a plane that soared, the departing swan
the voice that said ‘I am going, no return.’
a man who stole her time from his heart
a sleeping body, you can’t touch or wake
my presence wet in the sluices of her inlets
the slap of her hips moving in acceptance
a message appearing as pupils of distrust
kissing her back as she lies on her stomach
nuzzling her navel but her eyes are closed
wanting to invade, yet stuck at the border
desires that don’t sleep but take you closer
to a dark edge overlooking a river of peace

She is


April 12, 2010

out in the marketplace there was a preacher
teaching expounding pounding the pulpit
“love is a moral love is a moral love is a moral”
and as he panted and ranted and extended
his palms to rake in the gold coins, he forgot
“love is a moral love is a moral love is a moral”
when it came to his love for that offal of gold.

can love be immoral wherever it’s made well?
in stable or street , bordellos or secret rooms,
it is love that binds bodies together, releases
a fragrance, the preacher’s bud ne’er pleases
for this love is immoral love is immoral love is
made well, and whenever it’s made well it is
for whoever makes it well and immoral love is
love that’s immoral love that is immoral is love.

The preacher took gold, hammered out a ring,
“Love is a moral” he taught them to blind-sing
and with such rings he true soul-mates bound
with prison-spells that did them cell-surround,
“Love is a moral,” he whispered in their ears
listening for something other than dry prayers.

swallowing this hideous preaching and teaching
some people concocted yet another sermon:
“love is amoral love is amoral love is amoral”
so they could do as they please and dishonor
one another whether ring-bound or lust-torn
lost lovers loveless beasts lovelorn were born.

beyond the words and the dark inner meanings
beyond the spell-circles cast by those gold rings
beyond the teachings of mad preachers or priests
beyond the call of the wild or the cold domestics
beyond the male and female bodies that co-exist
beyond the turning and twisting in wet bed-sheets
beyond the moral, amoral and immoral love is love
immortal love is love immortal love is love immoral
love that is made well wheneverwhereverwhoever.


April 12, 2010

A silver-haired stranger stood outside my tent
and asked: May I come in? I have journeyed
long to take you with me, you are my chosen.

Being a naïve fool and addicted to generosity,
I told my wife: Love, kill a fatted calf, fill to brim
a carafe of creamy milk and light him a full pipe!

All this she did; we bade him sit and eat his fill;
He did not touch our food; only contemplated
and puffed at the pipe, his smoke filled my tent.

Three gifts I have for you, the stranger said:
wine, women and myrrh. He clapped black
hands and I listened to the sound of anklets.
She took me into her bosom and spayed me.

He clapped again, green absinthe I quaffed to
descend into oval, spiral-curved mad nebulae.
I fell to the floor, stripped of all, chained fast
by anklets, absinthe-burnt, myrrh-anointed,
I became a sweet cuckoo, bird without nest,
Laying eggs another would hatch, wandering
a world without end in simian glades of fear.

I came to the end of those spiral pathways
with nothing left for me, no wine or women,
only receding laughter, that old silver-haired
fox, and a body tattooed by myrrh-needles.

I awoke and lifted the back flap of my tent, there
(if only I had noticed this the moment he entered!)
stood a silent steed, a soft-haunched she-buffalo!


April 12, 2010

This analog clock with unequal hands is love,
It has an hour-hand, minute-hand and second-hand.
I am Nimisha the second-hand, all I am good at is squeezing out
a micro-second or two, a nano-second or four and before I can touch
this ancient woman’s face and say “stay”, time has vanished, exterminated.

This analog clock with unequal hands is love,
Some get all the hours they want, others get minute minutes,
I always get the shit end of the stick, the minutest mini milli-second,
The creatures of desire that appear and disappear like will o’ the wisps
Have fated me to traverse the circle, the globe, the sphere, as evil Nimisha.

This analog clock with unequal hands is love,
It divides its face into two and one thinks that the halves are equal,
But suddenly you will notice the smaller divides, the thirds and quarters,
The depreciation and the declension, the imbalance and the fragmentation,
And Nimisha runs round in circles unable to stop to even stroke the frail face of joy.

This analog clock with unequal hands is love,
One gets a loaf of bread, and the other the crumbs from the table,
The hour-hand dispenses its queenly pleasures, the minute-hand rides as a prince,
and lowly Nimisha keeps ticking and tocking second by second running still upon a treadmill
and must decipher how and if motionless centrifugal motion round an axis of despair helps anyone.

This analog clock with unequal hands is love,
They say time itself is illusion and that the sun dissolves self in an hourglass,
And that things turn around upon a centre, a spindle, and what is upside down
Can come back right side up, they say that one must ignore those ignoble hands of death
And transcend, Nimisha must learn of forever having shut his eyes to run-time’s mocking face.


April 12, 2010

Silence is the strength of my hammer of love
Silence as it batters the marble into forces
Silence as it whooshes down with red sparks
Silence as it chips away at my waiting being
Silence as it breaks down the burning coals
Silence as the embers scatter into a million
Silence the moments of stone cold fireflies
Silence as the night-stars glow go light-years
Silence because it awakens thought-anthills
Silence in the skies breeze trees troll –caves
Silence on the screens of our straining eyes
Silence in the distances that bind, releases
Silence the net that never catches anything
Silence that sets free insects inside its web
Silence that preserves the skeletons as gifts
Silence that falls like water over a cup’s rim
Silence that the hammer of love won’t break
Silence that tells of sin’s redemption in love
Silence as marble withers into skin and flesh
Silence in the marshes where slow reptiles live
Silence in the thin gaps between green leaves
Silence where a dryness crackles underneath
Silence on the lost roads I am forced to travel
Silence at the crossroads, in the uneven middle
Silence between her empty thighs and breasts
Silence as the marble turns to hot-toned milk
Silence in its flowing long-soft tresses of night
Silence that watches the emergence of lights
Silence that breeds in me like unread poems
Silence that the hammer of love sculpts firm
Silence as blue happy birds swarm in my mind
Silence in the gardens of memories and lives
Silence is the strength of my hammer of love.


April 11, 2010

A relentless hammer of love is breaking up
my heart of marble into shards on a shore.
It is not made of metal or stone but strikes
like a music that pierces penetrates pours
out fire-rain to re-shape the hard precipice
jutting out from my flesh like Antarctic ice.

This hammer of love first soothes and cools
Like a touch of flowers and wine-fragrance
A feather-sigh that elates, quietly embraces
my moods to cast them mould in a red-furnace
of co-mingling passions penchants prefaces
etched into fetuses of the formless faceless.

This hammer of love is steered by a kind wind
And as it crashes in, it breathes its siren beat,
I know not whence it comes or where it goes
I only know I am lashed by its gull call-chords
to the mast of a destiny I cannot yet discern.

This hammer of love invisible, is it that God
or Goddess that I have met or am awaiting
granting me a sign of a presence unerring?
Sometimes, I can just grasp its swift curve
arcing me into cloud-heads of unknowing.

This hammer of love is woman-flesh touch,
only Woman can this sylvan breeze bring in
that wafts hot across the sands of my body
with kisses that devour all the desires spent
and the marble melts into a sculpture poised
to fertilize, fill let flow a once-fallow spring.


April 10, 2010

she plunders me with her soft hammer of love
it escoriates, one must have a hard open skull
so she can slowly prey into it, inscribed upon
bones shattered, pried apart, she must see
what lies are now there in me that do collide

with hoary truth, she breaks me with hammer
of love, soft gel under my cold resistant bones
i am hurting but she goes on blasting my rock
that bursts into doves, yes, she gives crumbs,
feeds well on soft brown turmoiled egg-shells,
speckled muck, phrenologist beyond integrals

she is free to to do pleasure, it hurts hits me,
i have now opened myself to a burning eye, i
am manure, she will discard me i see someday
as someone who was a fool for loving touching
wait, she can love me with her hammer of love

i know the love of women, they always leave me
they know what they want, and what will be so
i can go through the multitude, the crowd, her
paths that will cast out love as cold shit refuse
and yet i will love, i will be pained, i will perish

she will find other bodies to feed upon,vampire
and leave me in a wormy coffin, she will be my
nemesis with her hammer of love and i will die
happy that i gave, she takes and she receives
lovers other than me, i am not jealous envious

let her take all my love. she takes and she goes,
the fuck, the woman, the moment, the orgasmic
and then nothing till the next such moment that
i can give and expect nothing in return, i can die
she lives, she lives, she lives, i really so happy.


April 7, 2010

she watches with kitten-eyes
her baby-claws into me slice

it does not hurt, she glides
in and out of quiet breaths,

her warm laughter resonates
in dark depths our love makes

she comes with whate’er i need
to return home, man-love filled,

her paws love tousling my hair
nip-teeth nibble lips and nipple

kitten-eyes are calm innocence
pulse purr beneath my strokes

she bears her hurt with dignity
sleeps light on my soft stomach

she invades my tear-empty eyes
with tenderness and acceptance

sometimes, she lies back silently
her body heaving in its sadness

i know for sure i am the cause
for a wetness upon my pillows

i wonder, am i unworthy of her,
this kitten wrapping me in fur?

yes, she knows i’ve been so cold
a frozen embryo she must hold

and try and bring to life again,
kitten-eyes remove my pain.


April 6, 2010

That red-black tiled house with crumbling plaster
I see you again in my softened mind, the little gate
Close to the butcher shop where the crows cawed
Nestling in that banana grove we planted together
And the tamarind and mango and drum-stick trees.
I see you now, my little son, playing in the weeds,
We plucked them often, but they grew and rose up
to invite rat-snakes, Russell’s vipers and mongoose.

I was so happy there.

My wife and three children and the friends I trusted
were a Happy Home, the Church of the Living God,
Until, one black day, the Man stared at me and said:
“I have prayed that you leave this city, you’re dead.”

I left.

Now I do not know whether or not I should hate the Man
Who wished me gone or the Lord who heard that prayer,
But I have been entombed in this wilderness for 12 years
And I have known friends and lovers who often promised:
“I will never leave you” but even as their honeyed words
sped into air, they were already leaving or had left. See?

You say you love me? I believe you. But it is not as you think.
When I listen to you, I hear the voice of that God whispering:
“Go and buy yourself five arrows from the dark smith, keen-blue
arrows to take home and for love’s sake pierce yourself with.”
There are five points of love in my body and I must be wounded
in every nave of love; a blue arrow each for my groin, my liver,
my heart, my lungs, my throat. Be wounded now for love’s sake.

I am pierced.

So I wait in this smoke-city, this dark horror-ridden city of lust,
I wait for my lovers, I wait for my arrows, I await my wounds,
I sing as I pierce myself and I put on my clothes and dancing
I enter the business of life. I ask: Who will strip me and find
my living wounds, dare you stare at this red love-spectacle?

That red-black tiled house with crumbling plaster
I see you now again in my mind, the little gate
Close to the butcher shop where the crows cawed
Nestling in a banana grove we planted together
With tamarind and mango and drum-stick trees
I see you now, my little son, playing in the weeds
We plucked them often but they grew and grew
to invite rat-snakes, Russell’s vipers and mongoose.

Before I left, I was so so very happy there.
But ever since, I gladly fall on broken knees
at your quiet altar and bow to worship you,
O God of my Unhappiness.


April 6, 2010

the water that slips out quick
from fingers that’ve lost grip

sun’s rays eaten up by shadows
rain that ends in wet pillows

a voice that no longer echoes
smiles that oft bring sorrows

songs listened to, forgotten
whispers of love, a dead-end

warm fur that’s turned sodden
wet bedraggled tousled sadden

a boat sans rudder oars or sails
coursing oceans of dead entrails

a road that hides and only frets
to disappear with one’s unbreath

the shunted train that stops afar
in a dimlit back-yard none enter

skies that beckon all to follow
into fields self-denials allow

in everything the pattern of loss
in everything my pattern of loss.


April 5, 2010

golden-hued dragons
are writing stories
that silver-mouthed
monkeys are singing

and the Black Mass
deep within
my head
buzzes a sweet
songbird dread.

the dragons are
a story a day
the monkeys
perform a play

but the Black Mass
deep within
my head
buzzes a sweet
songbird dread.

who’ll kill
the dragons?
who’ll eat
the monkeys?
the hunter
or the hunted?

and the Black Mass
deep within
my head
buzzes a sweet
songbird dread.


April 4, 2010

dear god why do you hate me so?
every thing and every one whom

i cherish i love

you cause them to withdraw go
away and i am left to have no

cause nor purpose

you make all that i hold dear
crumble slow and turn to rust

dust unto dung

you prevent my health O Lord
every flower i touch withers

touch me not

you’ve thrown me to dire chance
i am weary of this slow torment

upon this rack

i know you are beside me when
your black moth-wings blanket

blankety blank

my flame of life seeks to char
you, to turn you to cosmic ash








April 3, 2010

it can work well
yes, this is how
under cover veil
well-closed eyes
cell-phone lies
make night trysts

communication is
cut off cut off
no hottie words
no starry looks
nobody can know
no no no no one

two gutsy strings
are sin, broken in
each wanton look
is sideways took
each hooded word
carefully recoded

set up cover decoy
it can work well
even seem sosososo
rah rah celluloid
be an uber-android
brain sun-unplugged.

it can work well
yes, out outside
she can have all
the known cyanide
while an unmapped
call beeps inside.


April 2, 2010

it takes

to be loved
to love

in turn


it takes
to be a lamb
a truck-top

i was

in that
i understood






10 P.M.

March 31, 2010

look into my round eye-balls,
cracking up like an eggshell,
bloodlines on white tracing
out a name on a black screen

she’s not here yet

look at the hairs on my chest,
whitening every winding hour,
waiting for the tick-tock fingers
that listen to my stifled heart

she’s not here yet

look at my balding head bowed
under a weight i cannot move,
but i here sit unmoved unmoved
for moving would make us part

she’s not here yet

look at my shoulders defying
the gravity of silent lament,
stooped so that i won’t rend
more the tear within my tent

she’s not here yet

stroke my back bent under wood,
walking the seven stations good,
at each one i look out for help,
there’s none, i must help myself

she’s not here yet

look at my arms stretched apart,
twas hard to let sorrow depart,
uncalled for, this punishment,
this sure sign i’m god-abadoned

she’s not here yet

mary mary mary where are you now?
my brow is scarred. my palms red,
my knees are bent, my feet nailed,
my love, sour breath that has failed

she’s not here yet

six hours more to hang up here
they laugh, my robe they tear,
for drink, they pour out vinegar
on lips that always tasted wine

she’s not here yet

i wait, the sun is blotted out,
i hang, the night is luminous,
blood fills slow the thin grain
of dead wood, will i live again?

she’s not here yet

now cold i lie in a rented tomb
mother, am i back in your womb?
the stone-door rolls shut upon
a body wracked, the spirit torn

she’s not here yet

i lie here, left by friends for dead,
a rock my pillow, the rock my bed,
mary mary mary where’re you now?
i need you here to warm this bed

she’s not here yet


March 31, 2010

Sometimes, travelling under our gold-stained fire-sky,
a satanic cloud comes above, it’s a window of love!

Sometimes, riding under a hammer-cold viscous sky,
a hard-hail rain sheet flows, it’s a window of love!

Sometimes, wondering if the nuptial knot wears thin,
and a fat fear-ogre drops in, it’s a window of love!

Sometimes, in our hearts scratched sliced and diced,
weighed as without price, ahh …a window of love!

Sometimes, when fate deals out its false trick cards,
a black ace beats our red king, ah! a window of love!

Sometimes, when envy lets loose its army of rapists
and your love-nurse bleeds, now it’s a window of love!

Sometimes, when old friends turn into keen vultures
who circling descend, devour, it’s a window of love!

Sometimes, you and i and i and you sit, lie silently
and our clothes are cast off, it’s a window of love!

Sometimes, where no eyes can see under stripped skin
a hapless longing stings, see, it’s a window of love!

Sometimes, when the white-mad rushed desire-waves
turn into piranhas of hate, another window of love!

Sometimes, in the aloneness that turns me to stone
and their Gorgon-smiles mock, it’s a window of love!

Sometimes, counting empty days till we are one again
and warm silence lies between, it’s a window of love!

12 years

March 30, 2010

What is this damp feeling of this body melting?
Almost 12 long big dark years, no light appears.
Three maelstrom-fish are eating his small head
and pluck out his eyes for the crime of passion.
An octopus with a sword chops away his soft ears
and that Hand is not there now to patch them back.
Two red ready sharks pull out his invisible beard-hair
and peel away his wretched wet-brown cheek-skin.
A swordfish pierces through to his bluing tongue
and rips it out to wave it like a flag, be very still.
Black eels scurry through the aft-holes of nostrils
chasing his yellow breath snarling out as tendrils.
Every year the seas tossed him, set him adrift
mauled and maimed midst dervish whirling waves.
Here his headless body smashes against a rock
or his broken limbs are twisted around wrecks.
There,his flesh streaming away,turns into coral
so you can come to a cove beside a gentle shore.
There, look – a coral outcrop as a headless torso!
There, in hidden waters, swim healthy purple fish
gaily beyond this damp feeling of a body melting.


March 29, 2010

and now, get back in the box, Jack
back back back get back in the box
where eight corners east west north
south pull hard together the tight
cobwebs that bind and green-limbed
predators find Jack lashing out out
with amputated arms that do not reach
walls he cannot he can never breach.

so now, get back in the box, Jack
back back back get back in the box,
Jack, stop pulling in the fine ropes,
thinking “anchors aweigh, sail away”
there is no ship, only silent waters,
no skies above, only a pale cold roof
that mocks and looks he looks looks
at his crushed brain pulsing on the floor
crumpled paper-balls with black gashes
once moist now dry on a bleeding tongue

now, get back get back in the box Jack
back back back get back in the box
where there are no windows no lights
no whispers no kisses no sudden flight
of love or caresses or warm wantonness
so hang in there, Jack, hang in there
in the good night in the sly silken night
hanging hanging hanging hang in Jack
in the box that’s closing in in into black.



March 28, 2010

so when i die
cremate me
my soft soul-ashes
to the crying winds

my soul

i want
i give

so much



March 26, 2010

hello there in the right corner lie the bad blue jeans
minus that brown belt zip open legs sadly a-skew
treading water beside two faces on a hippie t-shirt
gifted in a white plastic bag you can so correctly
use to suffocate me with when the mid-light blinds
all these are propped up on two cardboard crates
whose stiffness sags sags how like wet limp penises
deserted by the illusion of the love of wine-women
besides what is an orange box with a thin black neck
sticking out, hollow tube to vacuum out every hope
head limbs pointing thrust out away slyly towards
the speckled floor that spins spins spins in in in-out
a foot this way another that way here or here-there
stretching as a waterbody to the old dirty mattress
ah where lie two pillows now well-caked with loss
at the left corner brown blood stains on the i-wall
where a head has beaten in perfect timeless beats
to lying lullaby strains and slash-sharp sword strokes
the blue sheet spreads motifs that mean rip-whipples
following its circular pattern-meanderings all alone
going down six feet and noone knows the pus-tears
this mattress bears cunt-sweat no swift stitches heal
the rift-gap the ravine the cut the ditch the unbridged
then a black bag full of heavy tit-weights lies open
motionless squeezed lifeless and a red red suitcase
that once held queer treasures is now a death-sack
besides another blue bag full of clothes well-ironed
to cover the cripple and make him seem tall till tall
inch forward to the next corner the brown cupboard
with skeletons, black leather, dead webcam, icepick
edge alongside it look under it two packets of positrim
c’mon lose the belly but hold the beer down, fucker!
another green bag and a maroon mock hard-helmet
atop more speckled floor-birds crushed into mosaic
at the last corner the door that has shut in upon me
traverse it sideways this table these books paper
the songs that whisper lies lies lies white on black
ink pens ashtray phone spectacles matches cotton
modem bandage packing tape ointment pin pain pain
clips needles knife burns balm mosquito coil razor
alert sitting perched precariously on a broken chair
a beakless bird waits waits waits waits waits wait
nothing noone nothing noone nothing noone nothing

croak croak croak croak croak croak croak croak oak


March 11, 2010
“Come, roam over my dolphin-cold body”,
I spoke to the Wave and her sisters, the Wavelets,
“Pour salt seas through the orifices of my pleasure;
Drain me.”
Then, laughing fish leapt out of my hot nostrils,
Ears and mouth, singing:
“We drown you and spit you out onto shore,
Flap awhile and be still, forevermore.”

“Come, caress my wild comet-haired body,”
I spoke to the Star and her sisters, the Black Holes:
“Penetrate with light the orifices of my pleasure,
Enflame me.”
Then, coal-scarred asteroids pummeled my chest,
Arms and thighs, singing:
“We set you adrift as pinpricks of fire in space,
Twinkle awhile and die with the night.”

“Come, pierce with sharp nicks my ripple-fed body,”
I spoke to the Wind and her sisters, the Breezes,
“Waft and warp the pores that bleed and weep,
Choke me.”
Then, butterfly-teeth tore into bits my soft sinews,
Stomach and loins, singing:
“We cast you afloat on the leylines of memories,
Remember and be tormented.”

“Come, tempt with fragrance my destitute body,”
I spoke to the Flower and her sisters, the Petals,
“Stab me, scrape away the skin that envelopes,
Wither me.”
Then, thorn-fingers put out my dark-lashed eyes,
Tongue and navel, singing:
“We steal from you all you are and ever will be,
We leave you forever empty.”


March 6, 2010

1: What we will attempt is to understand “space” and enter it through with Gestalt perception leading into a civilizational inquiry as a possible methodology.
2: Why Gestalt? It is kind of obsolete in some levels.
1: It is an attempt to design an alternative theory rooted in the body. Body = Holicism
2. Jainism – very strong on the relationship between Body and Perception.
“Do not emulate; simulate the spirit” – a National Institute of Design precept. WTF?
1. The imaginary is a different trajectory. Why do they keep on harping on what’s been?
2. A generation is passing away; let’s just say goodbye ..
1. …with respect. (Pause) MONEY … I have a thought. So let’s FLIP the notion of exchange; what would that be? So now you buy a car. The rule is that along with the car you get “money” from me of the equivalent value. So I sell you the car plus I give you its equivalent amount in cash.
Observe: When I make the car, I am driven by the same motive even when I make the care for profit in the old way of exchange. Under both conditions, I want to make the car without any excess expenditure.
2. Flipside is Giving …nishkama karma. Giving without expectations of returns. Action with no desire behind it.
1. Action with no desire … frame this biologically.
2. Balanced food chain – a lion wont kill two deer when it needs only one.
1. The condition is need.
2. Exactitude of need, not excess. And what will you do with notions of obsolescence or depreciation concerning the car?
1. You mean – if I want to “sell” the car again – if there are no “wanters” or “buyers” for the car – it stays with me?
2. Junk piles up.
1. I make less.
2. Materiality outstrips consciousness.
1. Do you know anyone who has experimented with this? A theory of “less”?
2. Mahavir, Buddha, Christ, Ramanna, etc etc etc etc. All quoted but not practised.
1. In form?
1. Material?
2. Only Body (minimal) and what resides in it. No shaping of any tangible materials. High cognition – abstraction. Direct transfer takes place from body to body. Has fallout on materiality but that is secondary.
1. But the body is itself material.
2. But not entirely subject to its form. Like quarks in particle physics, it is ambiguous.
1. Secondary, means what? Earth/materials?
2. What material forms can emerge from here? Poetry for instance? (Kabir).
1. Energy within – going into yourself. But it needs expression.
2. Poetry, Dance, Music.
1. Music – sound – we are all from sound?
2. Sound is ‘finer” material. So it is transcendent. We need to find this “stuff” like quarks in particle physics – ambiguous, dual natures. Learning the patterns of the “invisible” or “intangible” and seeing how to “incarnate” them in denser material forms that seemingly “decay” or “pass away”.
1. Do you see this as an exchange of forms?
2. Yes. But this is volatile stuff. Hold your horses.
1. Who do we ask?
2. No-one. It has nothing to do with asking. You arrive or depart, that’s all.


December 31, 2009

“I desire you.”
This mechanism of desire is interesting. I keep trying to understand it within myself.
What did you understand?
I found out that desire can come upon you suddenly in a moment – so it may actually be chemical and physical and biological and have nothing to do with your mind emotions or will.
Then i found out that sometimes something called ‘love’ is felt which leads to desire and this desire leads to a person whenever it arises out of love.
Both these forms, the ‘biiological’ and ‘love’ are connected to the sexual drive, the need for bodies to connect physically for pleasure.
In the first case, it is primal and akin to how animals do it (I am not looking down on animals). It is about the fulfillment of a biological urge. When this urge arises, for instance, dogs can make it with any bitch. The biological drive is in control and so it is with human beings too if they let the drive take them to where it leads them. This is natural and there is no judgement upon it.
In the second case, an emotion arises and links up or arouses this drive. Both emotion and physical sexual pleasure come together. It is a heightened feeling then. This dual experience, that is experienced often as ‘one’ experience, is what most people call ‘LOVE’ in its fuller sense. Perhaps an even more heightened form of this ‘love’ is when they feel the emotion of ‘love’ and ‘make love’ and together decide to ‘make a baby’. This is that super-feeling or experience between two people that they are ‘one’ and that they are ‘making life’ out of ‘making love’.
Then what puzzles is how love or desire or love-desire can ebb or flow – go up or go down or just disappear or turn into hatred and distaste.
Biologically speaking, this process could have to do with the chemical processes in the body. But these chemical processes could also be tied in with the experientiality of the relationship where the ground of ‘distaste’ replaces the ground of ‘love’ and ‘making love’ and the figure of ‘companionship’ is replaced by the figure of ‘separation’.
But I have also, through sheer experience, discovered that I can desire with my will (is desire an aspect of will?). This means that even when I do not feel or experience desire or love, I can dig somewhere within me and find desire and make it work. In this manner, I can also will myself to desire and thus seek and enter a physical experience with another or keep one end of a relationship going.
I haven’t thought about it as of now.
What I have found on occasion and also feel is possible is that one can WILL TO LOVE even when one doesn’t feel like loving at all or circumstances are working against ‘love’.
This seems to me to be a higher practice because it goes beyond the physical experiences of loving or desiring.
What is loving someone?
What is ‘loving someone’?
The question I am pursuing: Is ‘love’ and ‘desire’ selfish or are they unselfish?
Loving someone is to become the other person inside you.
That is my theory. Well, not exactly mine, but it is something Christ spoke of.
These two principles have always troubled me – because I keep asking myself ‘how does one make this practical?’
But there is something higher with which also I have struggled much – something that seems to me to be higher than these two principles.
And that is?
I mean – those two principles are tough enough.
But the higher ones are:
1. Two becoming ‘one’ in flesh, mind and spirit – can you imagine that?
2. Treat the other body just as if it were your own body.
Hmmm. These are tougher.
I mean I have seen in my own life – at a point when I was really sick and I felt really fucked up, I did all the things necessary to get it fixed up fast and wanted others to do everything to help me get better. But when someone very close to me fell sick likewise, I remember i didn’t do half of what I did for myself for her.
So the balance was not correct.
I discovered the depth of selfishness in me.
See, then again, the body decays or becomes diseased. One always notices how it happens with the other person. If your own body is diseased or decaying or smelling or something, you still accept it somehow and do the best for yourself. But if another body is like that, even the body of the one you claim to love and desire, you will suddenly find that ‘love’ and ‘desire’ ebb. Will you look after that other body just as if it were your own body?
I have tried practicing this in small ways and I find it is extremely hard to practice.
All of it points to my own horrible selfishness.
Hmmm. Yeah, it is and will be hard.
My ego and ‘love’ for myself as a primary condition. What Jesus says is: Accept that primary condition, Yes, realize that you love yourself so much and want all the best things to happen to you.
But then he really goes further and says: If you accept that, why don’t you treat another person or other people just like yourself – with exactly the same love and care and intensity as you reserve for yourself?
Beyond the two levels I spoke of earlier – Christ goes even further into the deep. He says: One can go from love of self to loving others as one’s own self, but if you want to cross all boundaries then you must enter into the experience of sacrificing self for others all the time.
Seeing these truths is difficult, because then one sees the benchmark. Both the benchmarks and the milestones on the journey of evolution.
So, for me, life has become a journey to discover how to find the ways to make this possible. All help that is provided on this journey will be accepted with gratitude – from any and every source including God.
You will find it.
Thank you.
Does what I am talking about make any sense?
I am revealing what my spiritual quest is all about. It is not possible to show anyone this in detail. I have not shown anyone this aspect of my life in as much detail.
I had a friend with whom I used to speak about some of these things. That was a long time ago. I have traveled many miles since. She used to feel that she was hindering my journey because of our relationship which was very physical and driven more by ‘desire’ first than ‘love’. Later, it seemed that ‘love” had become the driving force for our mutual ‘desire’.
You had to convince her that she was not at fault but that it was your choice and path.
Now which path do you choose?
Now i am lost, though all this lies in my mind.
I am not happy anymore. I don’t know where to turn to for the next level.
This is some sort of isolation.
Some energy channels are shifting, I think.
So how does one find new pathways? Somewhere?
The theory is that new people bring fresh ideas and energy.
That is true to an extent. But I think experienced people who are still changing their ways and continuing the questioning brings in a higher energy. Where does one find such people?
I belong to the school that says in the end process must result in product, service, applications, etc which is creative and gives the creator a deep sense of satisfaction
Having tools (skills) and process (knowing different ways of seeing and thinking and doing) are not enough in themselves?
Today people speak of ‘process’. What it means is that people are eternally wandering without a destination to get to.
There has to be balance between tools, process and endpoints.
Aren’t tools and products part of the process?
Yes, tools and products are part of a whole process. But if the rope is weak in strands then it will shred and the journeyman will not reach the destination but wander about in the twilight. The result will be a feeling of deep and paralyzing inadequacy.
It can be a strong rope with all three strands intertwined or a weak rope with one strand or another fraying and affecting the whole.
Do you understand?
Yeah, I understand.
So in this ‘work’, one must strengthen all the strands involved as much as possible before one can reach the destination or one’s destiny as it were.
It is like working at the same time with three hands on three things but actually only ONE thing is coming forth, emerging, creatively speaking.
One thing?
Well, when I say ONE THING, I mean the aesthetic outcome or the spiritual outcome.
The one thing that comes out is actually YOU, the integrated ‘you’ as opposed to the plastic ‘you’, the integral yogi or artist, the one who has synthesized tools, processes and destination/destiny into one rope.
And people can hang themselves with that rope, use it for the Great Indian Rope Trick, or use it for their salvation.
Ha Ha.
Just now, I understood the meaning of that line.
It is about combining not just two but three to ‘make one’.
It is about weaving. Weaves that make reality tangible or subtle. The subtle weave and the tangible weave. And the unity across both.
You can go anywhere physically, but Ii have drunk your spirit, this spirit.
So you will be with me always?
I will be with you.
I know.
You let me be myself. You do not get angry with me.
I love you. I don’t get angry with you.
Do you sometimes feel you should possess me just for yourself?
No, I don’t feel that I need to possess you.
I mean that ‘you’ won’t be ‘you’ if i possess ‘you’. What’s the point if ‘you’ will not be ‘you’?
Deep calls to deep.
Thank you for being with me.
You take care.
Let us wash into each another and be awash in one another, you and me, all of us, together.
‘People want to possess each other instead of flowing into each other like waves.’


October 10, 2009

And when the purple is past, thrust behind,
the shadows remain, blackened, so pat down
the blanket here, there, unaware, unknown
elsewhere, the form of the another suspires

touch me, touch my depression, wet, lighter
than the softened fabric spun to be a wonder,
bury my shadows, my three-dimensional lips,
in layers blue-skinned, 3-eyed lovers engender

our lines curve, bend, stretch, edge, jump, sit
still, turn here, there as swimming mad birds
slip, startle, sing, slide side by side, sidle, sing
sin phrases wet whispers hot death feathers.

so we have turned and rocked, rolled and run
away from the moon, beyond purple, tasted
the burnt, turned into golden the dark rivers
where priaptic stars sell small waves, wasted.


October 10, 2009

so we meet again, under purple,
two shadows, not yet blackened.
inevitably, again reversal meets,
under purple, not yet black-end.

why do we meet? who are we? two
or many? multiply legion to soften
one another, insatiate eyes remain,
toiling, blanket of purple, a soft-end.

where did we meet? to what end?
end to end on end, head to feet,
toes to nose, navel to navel, even
the purple unfolds, uneven deaf-end.

and we are those that meet under
purple to sink into black, to shake
hands with eyes and eat bread in
secret, to flow satiate to dead-end.


February 24, 2009

A bunch of pale-yellow, wrinkled Indian
Women wrapped in grey, cotton coverings
Chant-faded, wind-blown granny slokas
Worm-holing, eddying, meaning less and less;
Oyster-shell mouths, closing, opening

To drone a requiem for dull-clad Indian
Women dyed in yellow, orderly saris
pleating a culture of blind humming,
drumming up the ancient, spent, ashen,
sperm of routine, illusions and emptiness,

Voices drowning, bowed down Indian
Women lie down, thighs pried apart
by lusty, wheat-eyed industrial men
Carving up, fragmenting Sita’s purity,
burning, pock-marking, disemboweling

This bunch of cow-ish, cowed down Indian
Women bent down, beat low, eating dust,
Offering cold-spread buttocks to fascists;
Pink-soft vaginas speared by black lingams;

See now, watch how, the Third Eye opens



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