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Handel, You Bastard!

Handel, You Bastard!

Unearth me. Without the salt of words that you borrowed from the people of yesterday, who sold you the poisonous idea of right and wrong. The blood that flows from the fingertips of honest poets is not accounted for by the gatekeeper of flattery. It is neither allowed to flow into the hearts of the wicked to change their ways nor make an entry into the castles of the perfectly positioned to help their eyes see a reality that transcends the sparkle of the gold they have collected from their legal endeavors within the fences of their doubtful morality.

As the final mourn of Handel’s left toe rings through the pink hallways of my manhood, I come to strip apart the falsity of my present envy. My envy for the men clothed in soft leather, with words that sound like milk spilling from the breasts of half-clad goddesses, watering the soil of humanity’s shit-situation and bringing flowers out into a sunlight that does not exist. I envy these men. And my envy is justified by my inability to be dishonest in the light of English Literature’s demise. Let them have their way, these men I envy. Let them suckle at the breasts of these perfect goddesses, and garden their pastures and grow fruit that will feed their hearts to enlightenment. Then what? Boring breasts. Boring fruit. There is more solace in the epilogue of Handel’s madness and the heat of Beethoven’s orgasms that, to my absolute delight, seem to carry no other meaning than their very selves.

I seem to have sold my penchant for strange and distasteful metaphor throughout the evolution of my severed public poetic self through the last few months. I’m unlocked now. Somehow, the real me seems to have found a way through the clouded sunshine of summer to find the foot rug of autumn to sell its apology of an existence to. And to you as well.

Distasteful metaphor is the calculative entity that determines man’s sanity. If all seems to be sunshine and honey, vagina and bunnies, nothing would make sense anymore. We need distaste in this world, don’t you think? A certain sensation of contempt for the erected edifices of human ideality. Such a distaste can only lead us deeper into the mystery of our un-intended existences. I’m not trying tragedy for an avenue of creativity my love. I’m a photographer, who uses words instead of light. Look at my work, won’t you? I might not be your perfect doomsday man, but at least, I seem to capture enough tragedy to give you the best perspective to life.

The last sound of midnight’s violin will tear your skin apart to reveal your raw, tender heart. You haven’t let anyone touch it, have you? Seeking your cowardly shelter beneath the dry-straw roof of yesterday’s broken delights, you’ve shelled your raw aliveness in a steely cage made of cheap pop music, golden dreams of the afterlife, and an endless addiction to the scents of the weekend. Let it out! Your raw heart darling, let it out. It wants to be touched. Nothing can hurt a creature that has never soaked in the slavery of touch before. Let it out.

Your raw heart, let it out. The intensity of hurt is designed to help you wake up to life again. It is like a scissor used to unveil the most delightful present you have waited for your entire life.

Let it out.

Itch

Itch

 

What makes you itch?
The fact that people know you,
Or spare a moment to bear thoughts of you,
Before they lay their lips to their pillows,
On nights when they meet loneliness,
In the middle of the road to optimal living?
Do you find the things that make your insides move,
In the twinkling of your neighbor’s eyes?
In the revelry of those falsely laughing other people,
In the craftily exposed exultation of your success?
What’s success? Hey, I don’t know.
What makes you itch?

Is it that a meager life, clouded in undirected misdemeanor,
Brings nothing but an allowance for soul corruption,
To your doorstep?
Corruption that you color with green and gold,
Drink and leaf, sweetness, mellow sour,
I know you; another escapist, dancing on the bottle rim
What makes you itch?
I know the work of your fingers,
The way they move, on paper, on women, on metal,
I know the cravings of their tips,
The little sips they take at subtle touch,
Drinking from the immortal ocean,
Of sensual feeling
But you haven’t listened to them, have you?
You were an artist. Now, you smell,
Of fraudulent indulgence and self-deceit
You broken child; you don’t smell too well

When we found our meetings too easy,
We took the long way home
So that we could meet the storm,
And dance with its tunes
We took the long way home

I’m lost now, and so are you,
What are we going to do?
Eat pickle and stew

What makes you itch?
Rock music, prostitution, delirious deductions,
Of decimal numbers and polarity
The sweet satin-clothed movement of milky skin,
On black-tiled dancefloors,
Or the cruel embezzlement of empathy and eroticism,
In the jailed gyms of our workplaces
What do you choose? What makes you itch?

I don’t know.
Do you?
Good night.

People in the Summer

People in the Summer

As I walk in sunshine,
And watch the many faces of an unnamed god,
Walk through these impertinent streets,
Filled with rapturous slang,
Scents of olive oil and melting steak
I turn around and remember,
The faces of those older summers,
In another place, another time, another age almost,
Faces I cared too less to value,
To kiss in my dreams and cherish over expensive scotch
I think of those faces,
And how each one of them,
Told a different story, a different drama,
An epic. Each one, waiting to be explored,
And yet I walked over those faces,
Trampled over them in the arrogance of my delight,
Soaked in the easy scents of mystique and reader’s delirium

The summer is young, the long summer,
And I lie in delight watching these figures pass me by
One side of me, swimming in endless ambitious dream,
The other in questions, scrabbling words and dabbling numbers
Two sides me, clashing beneath the August sunshine,
Battling for decision, for clarity in the middle of sinusoidal transparency

We ache to love, ache to know the insides of each other,
To look into each other’s eyes and know what makes us tick
You see, real compassion hides in vulgarity
In the deepest of intimacy, that each pair of living eyes,
Craves for.
But hey, we’re too lukewarm,
Too in diplomatic agreement with cowardice,
Settling for cheap handshakes,
And heartless salutations,
Greetings that never touch any soul,
Hellos and goodbyes that smell like socks;
Empty people, cruel people,
Funny? Well, who wouldn’t think so?

We need to touch more, look inside more,
To feel the heat that drives each other,
To sink ourselves in the passions of our neighbors,
To share in their delights, writhe in their pain,
We need indulgence to cure this comfortable world.
There’s no finding of that in our halls that demand courtesy,
In our homes that expect grooming and manners
No, we need wildness in our temples,
Of staplers, printers, and telephone harlotry
In our little rooms filled with the foul fragrances of formality
We need wildness, darling,
And we need it everywhere

People in the summer,
Our lives are longer than we have deemed them to be
Happier and blessed with more depth,
Than we choose to imagine
If you leave your eyes to rest in the ice,
You will never find the sun
You will leave your heartbeat to its cowardly convenience,
Your dreams in the hands of paltry soothsayers
And your eternal life in the claws of mortality

But you won’t let that happen, will you?

Depth, Yellow Skirt, and Other Things

Depth, Yellow Skirt, and Other Things

Sea and sky,
As the winter tame them.
All in, ecclesiastic tune,
Thunder, roar, yellow graveyard,
The leaves know of no self-discovery.
Summer comes, an autumn in a whisper,
And nobody spares awe a mention

Two men by a fountain, agree on depth,
The depth of love, the depth of champagne,
The depth of many things,
Like the bitch who spoke aloud,
Early that morning.
The fat-assed cherry damsel that crowned the corridor,
With her vocabulary-rich entrée’s,
Flavored in semi-pretentious small talk,
Bland love for soul-suicidal ritual,
And melted perfection.
The depth of many things,
They go on whispering, and the rare scream,
About the depth of life.
They like speaking,
About the depth of many things.

There’s the blush-decorated angel in a yellow skirt,
In sly movement across the cobble-stoned sidewalk,
That borders a white fountain, with stone ribbons around it
She meets a large-eyed monster,
With ponied hair and ice-cream eyelashes
Ah, pay attention my friend,
We now hear them speak of life’s many troubles,
The endless portal of breath,
That only merits whining without wine.
How sad? Who whines without wine?
Such sobriety is murderous,
And yet the wind dances with her skirt,
Trying hard to strip her off her necessary pretense
Yellow skirt, sweetness, ah the delight in pretense,
She bears us no harm, this child of god’s sarcasm
Her skirt conceals more than her deceitful virginity
It conceals an aching soul,
That has never tasted the freedom,
Of careless being, and absolute lightness.

An old chap, 22 years old, approaches,
There’s nothing much here.
Move on, move on.

Incoming,
Seventeen years old, cigarette,
Pants that look like a plastic cover,
Holding an ass that seems bigger than his brain,
This fellow carries the fate of us all;
Of all humanity,
This worthless piece of fainting symbolism,
That represents the scarred inner existence,
Of the entire monkey civilization
This expression of the totality of our doom,
If you look into his eyes,
You will see desires as soft as pancakes,
Broken memories as tender as baby skin,
And a mask, made of black ivory,
And educated ignorance

The scene plays on my friend,
And we, what do we do?
We watch this world roll on,
Through its miseries and ecstasies
And we say nothing
The scene, is holy, holistic,
Sacred.
And hence, we say nothing.

There is quite a bit to be enchanted by,
In this strange old world.
And in your pursuit of endless alphabets,
Beside your little name,
And your little sweet precious idea of a life,
You seem to miss quite a bit.
Or maybe I do?
We miss quite a bit.
But hey, it’s never too late to quit running,
And start walking.
To quit chasing,
Start being.
It’s quite a delight, watching this world from a little corner,
Coffee in hand. Long cigarette,
A taste for honest cynicism,
And an invincible love to be forever amazed,
With the glorious symphonies of the eternal sky.

Come now, the night is too awake,
To set our glasses down.
Tomorrow’s just a schedule,
Now’s alive.
Fill em up!

The Art of Psychedelic (The Midlife Melodrama of Wit Warrior)

The Art of Psychedelic (The Midlife Melodrama of Wit Warrior)

My name is Wit Warrior,
83 years, 13 months, and 32 days old
The world doesn’t seem any older to me,
Than it did, when I decided that I was bored with it
The many myriad images,
Of desolate forests and broken souls of flowers,
Are but a tiny flickering to me,
In the endless expanse of space that I access

I broke the boundaries with old friends,
All those many years ago
We, like kids in a candy store,
Having a go at every molecule we found colored,
With even a tiny ounce of rebellion
I’ve seen things, heard, loved, and hated,
Opened avenues within me that,
Only the skies can know the true nature of
That sweet word, REALITY
I stitched the fragrance of it fibrously onto,
The deserted canvas of my imagination
And how I’ve danced with its many meanings,
Throughout my years

I’ve seen so many children in the sunshine,
Making choices, that broke them, that made them
To live on omelettes, chai, and rolled cigarettes
To scale the soft cushion covers in high penthouses,
Drinking bourgeoisie wine and making love,
To plastic dolls and rubber toys
Men drift too much to the east, and sometimes the west,
Some choose principle, honor, patriotism
The others choose love, madness, dancing, and rum
The few choose polished shoes and trimmed beards,
The many choose daytime jobs and evening whisky
Men choose too much, but me,
I’ve been as clueless as the sea waving blindly,
With open eyes, at the sky

There is a dimension to living,
That my way of mind has opened to me
It is, a kind of secret door in the psyche
There are two intelligences
One made of numbers, analysis,
Endless counting, metallic, perfect
But the other, is mine
It is untouched, yet entirely felt,
Ungrasped, yet so tangible
There is a kind of style in this way of life,
To groove on the edges, of risk,
And yet stay unbitten, unsmitten,
By it all
To notice the leaves dancing in fall’s death rhyme,
Is one aperture for human eyes
But to see, the sweet untold songs of death,
Being sung in the silence of red and yellow leaves,
To see the sweetness of death’s ugly feminine touch,
To waltz along with the absolute meaninglessness of existence,
That is the other aperture
Through which all men find a strange,
Lasting peace

The language of poetry only creates walls,
Around the sting of life’s true touch
But all men must write, for it is the only medium,
Through which our thirsting aches for expression,
Find fruitful waters

When I watch the news,
Have a little conversation at the grocery store
I cannot help but perceive,
The separation of my soul from the rest of it all
It is not, that I loathe it,
Or that I wish it was otherwise
Perhaps it was meant to be;
The flavorless tunes of loneliness,
The dull vibrancy of a settled happy life,
The absolute security of a lovely damsel,
And the cherishment of fresh, beady-eyed children
I construe this universe to be a great chaos,
Through my melodic explorations into the endless psyche,
With molecules, shortened breaths, and simple silences
I have seen this chaos, and the choice to find melody in it
Men are too lost in choices,
Our confusion is too great to truly communicate
You see me? I walk the middle, the inside path
I am neither this, nor that
I have no principles, I am bound by no reason
But I am reason

I watch the dabbling noisy ocean of humanity,
Striving to induce meaning,
Into their words, their treaties, their theories
So many men who are so convinced,
So sure, that death can be avoided,
By chasing some great dream
I saw it the day I opened my eyes,
With the molecule, without it
It didn’t matter, my eyes were open
I was looking at an old friend,
Death, dissolution, end, finale,
And it felt good.
All men must die, that is what they are born to achieve
There are some things, however,
That last forever
Like questions, born from old answers,
What is man? Who dies? What dies?

“The seeking must stop!”
We’ve heard that before

And all those many years,
As I swayed into those dangerous realms,
Of clear tangible beauty,
And little sweet droplets of tormenting wisdom
I felt it for the first time,
I felt the weight of being alive
And it released me,
Into a blissful corridor of absolute delight
And I saw the origin of this entire cosmos,
It came from, why ‘ME!’

There is an art in life that too few men find the time,
To discover and master;
This art is ancient, so ancient,
And yet so timeless
That drives us to live with magic,
Crawling and battling at ease,
To birth ecstasy in the concrete manors of mundanity
And find fullfilment in the smaller perspectives of movement

We set ourselves goals so high,
And parameters too unreal to be tuned into our realities
Men live with such delightful theories,
Of perfection
It is not that we need change in this world,
You see,
As it is; this cosmos is splendid
This little earth with its little germs,
Creating war, endless murder,
The perpetual social catastrophes in our communities
Lovers appreciating intricate architecture,
Thieves and rapists, terrorists, and masked bombers,
Milkmen and prostitutes,
Drunks and drug addicts, conmen,
The children of midnight doing business at dawn,
The machine maker, the code cracker,
The marketing maniac, the suited salesman,
The suicidal, the ambitious, the artistic, the calculative
I see them all as one creative movement,
One explosion of life
Ah the several aspects of living,
The numerous creaks through which we find expression
These are the lovely little acts of living,
Are sweet scenes in a delightful drama,
And it makes no meaning,
To proclaim the elements of this drama,
Within the drama itself!

But well, that is the folly every poet must turn to,
Every artist, artisan, and engineer of innovative living,
To proclaim the drama, within the great act

We must, so that a few men,
Might wake up to see,
That life after all,
Is quite an intricate thing
Quite a complex thing
And, is quite worth living
Whether entrenched in meaning,
Or abandoned to oblivion

It is not, my friend, that these things,
Might come to your understanding,
One great eventual day
Most of these things are left to die,
Without finding the halls of universities,
And worse, the hearts of living sentient beings
But, what drama is there in understanding alone?
What adventure will we find in complete revelation?
What joy will we discover in eternal clarity?

The dance is in the chaos,
And the truth in the laughter,
That erupt from our untouchable innocence
My friend, it is sweet when we look at the colors of living,
The delectable opportunity for eternal exploration,
Answering the mating calls of the unknown
And yelling, “That’s fucking psychedelic, man!”

artwork: Archan Nair – Alchemy Resonance