Monday, February 7, 2011

Eulogy

black holes of sensation
painted with invasions of velvet and a scream
and key holes of dust and fear
replaced
displaced
into rooms
with the
cavernous decay of rain and wetness
inside, surrounding,
overwhelming.
Alone, not lonely.
In togetherness
in illness
in stillness
in caress
It's a mess
Yes such a glorious mess
It's a blur
Of black-hole shine and heat scrapes
and abused thighs
and love letters of the body
incomplete anticipation
and clay centers
moulded, folded
goaded, exploded.
Running pain of the blood
and the madness thinning it
Within
within it all
contained
entwined
binding
touched
in a mausoleum
of history
and futures
of spread legs
and two fingers
tracing your lips
and a restless
sheet of bed
soaking the cyanide
sweetness of feeling
and confessions in the darkness
of innocence bartered
and battered
and scattered on the wind
gambled and lost
to adult hands
and moans
that never give freedom
but only fountains
of reluctant affection
in a memory
disturbed and raped with
holier than thou
mustaches
and whispers and
fingers that
are profane.
More than a whore's trade
or
a shallow grave
more than
sickness
and less
than love
and pure
in its corruption
and conquest
still
flower of nubile
joy
growing under the
belly button with other
golden cabaret flowers
and the eulogy
of love.

12 comments:

Anonymous said...

‘The waves reverberated in the background. The ocean. More calming than any sound. The eyes. Those just never lie. He swept the apprehension behind as he drew in towards her. He stopped in that moment. Just to draw in the prelude to a kiss that would be embedded in memory. The prelude. Beautiful at times. The act. So monotonous in ways. Words. So many of them had been spoken. But the moment had passed so quickly. The eagerness of a virgin kiss. The anxiety of striving for perfection. But the passion was already gone. He had played this role before . But she was still learning. He stripped her down, slowly. Tormenting her in each move. His touch was cold. Like the fever just couldn’t weaken him. He heard her cry. The ecstasy overtaking her. But he would never know the reality. Orgasmic. Seemingly. But the presumptuous weren’t singular in number. He entered her next. Again. And again. Bathed in cold sweat. Each penetration left something with it. The moans. The exuberance. Bosom over bare skin. Cold over warmth. Body over body. When he turned away, the pretence faded. The answers weren’t within him. The shame was back. Meaning lost forever. Like so much he wanted. Gone before he even knew it. He left in the dark of night. Her role was served. Hate was just another emotion. He smiled. Indifference was bliss. Explanations weren’t a pre-requisite. The world might judge him. But he never said he wasn’t flawed. He just wanted to feel. Feel like never before. Ordinary human. He had always been. He just wished ‘SHE’ would empathize one day. That day he thought. And the laugh was back. More amusing than before. Colder than ever. It echoed over his hollow insides.’

Julietdiadem said...

Touche. Very Chilling. But too dramatic. 'He' just oversimplifies the entire process. Human, yes. Flawed, yes. But Naive too. Pity.

Anonymous said...

‘The house rose over the hill. Immovable yet desolate. Unrecognizable at the surface. But still familiar on the inside. It was left clinging to its foundations. Having survived challenges of seismic proportions. The path that led to it was covered with weeds. Parasitic lives. Sucking their nourishment of the host. The gates creaked unwillingly. Refraining from giving in. The fountain had been a source of vitality for so long. Now it just lay. The trees had shed their beauty. They left themselves behind. Maybe in the hope of fitting in. The moor in the background lay barren as ever. For the gods had never smiled on it. Like the adjacent graveyard. With its secrets and burnt dreams. Created to haunt. Cursed to eternity. Yet the house pulled him towards her. Unfaithful lover that she was. He walked the unknown path. Creator that he was. Unknowing yet willful. But somehow he knew his way. Apprehension overdrawn by curiosity. Forgotten yet imbibed within. Like a heart he wished to give up on. She had held his soul for so long. Yet he defied her. In the hope of breaking free. He had left her in his wake. But he had returned. Even without wanting too. Nostalgia fed off his failings. She had taught him love. She had let him feel pain. In the shelter of her warmth. Passion and betrayal had flown. Hand in hand. For one couldn’t exist without the other. The door was ajar. Almost mocking him to return. Emotion grazed him. Nascent yet overwhelming. In the course of time, the furniture realigned itself. The roof caved in. But the aesthetics pushed through. Holding visages of unmatched elegance. So he walked down darkened corridors. In the midst of memory he awoke his senses. In the obscurity of his vision, he contested the stars. For buried feelings need but an outlet to surface. For we all were prisoners of birth. With all but one choice beyond us. In the soulful light of his past, his future shone through. Darker than ever. ‘

Your views are gratefully accepted and in the light of open opinion, very seriously considered. For ‘dramatization’ is captured in the essence of the moment. ‘Naivety’ and ‘oversimplification’ are just traits of nature. ‘His’ nature. For he may be different. With ‘her’ and ‘HER’. This is a continued journey through his wretched mind. In the hope that you might influence his destination. Lost that he seems. At the end of ‘love burns’, I did leave you a proposition of thought. I do wait on a reply, seeker that I always will be. Until our stars align themselves.

Julietdiadem said...

It reminds me of a piece i had written a long time ago, called the Memory ruin. I'm posting it on the blog.

But

Your he, i think...

He will move, like he does.Shrouded in his mortal godhood.
His pain- a personal, selfish pain that he inflicts upon the denouements of every soul that he wishes to open with his lips, his hands or an artful word, is hungry too. He feeds it with the shape of his mouth upon another anatomically similar one. He touches the points of that anatomical twin like he touches all of her- from a distance. Because he is present only in HER body, HER eyes and HER hands as they alienate Him from himself. Most days it is automatic, this vision, this dream, this voyuer's blood that courses through the walls of his world. Because he is always present with Her, when she thinks she doesn't know.
He drapes this obscure victory over his thighs like a metal clice and celebrates it with another pretense of love in the streams of charcoal-hair, twisted over his pillow from last night.Any one part of the body tangled in his, sufficing for feeding his pain. A leg, an ear, navel or a finger. Different stands and colours, different bodies and only one being, desecrated each time. Him.

He will walk again ,orbiting the theaters of affection with his feet re-tracing every long-ago paused step. His mind...what is is his mind? A creature of its own, schizophrenic in its existence for Her and Him and somewhere in between, in the the throes of reality, a reality he can manipulate, Them.

His smell is primitive and heavy with the intoxication of a conquerors pride. A smell of warmth and the ink of desire on skin. And yet he is colourless. He has no tinges of humanity. The flesh-coloured epithets of identity that are conferred to lovers, is never given to him.

He is the absolute lover. He is the only lover. He is only a lover. Nothing else. Most times.

He is immortal, and yet death claims him each day, in each victory, in each kiss. Because She exists. She is the absolute love. She is the only love. She is only love. Nothing else. Most times.

(I think She is very evil, but she is an idea, not a person. She is personified into someone by him. She has flesh. But that flesh is only an instrument. She is immortal because the idea of her lure is beyond death, beyond life and she can change skin, but she will always remain. He attempts to piece her out of everyone else. in parts. But they cannot complete him. Only she can. In flesh. In mind. In vein. In vain.)

Anonymous said...

The legend had pointed to a fire. Strewn in the path of a forest, lost in absentia. The fire, they professed, burned away the past. It offered a road to salvation. Salvation of the sinner’s choice. Salvation for the present.

The path was set for a chosen few. The pain, they said was excruciating. But he had set himself to walk it. Like a gladiator who had grown to embrace death. A mortal god. One he envisioned himself to be. His faith would save him. Pain was momentary. Glory eternal. He had set himself to walk this path.

A stranger crossed his path. Not far from the beginning. Her face reflected radiance. Simplicity. The white of her clothing clung to her skin. Bosom to toe. It left him infatuated. In search of materialistic indulgence, he spoke first. His words bore a sense of loyalty. But hers a sense of pity. For what belonged to her was never hers to give away. Irony. For what he believed to be his was already scarred by the actions of an equal. Pleasure. Ecstasy. Feelings left behind. He moved forward with a sense of forlorn numbness.

The path grew darker as he moved swiftly through. His ignorance a double edged sword. His thoughts his only companion. The forces watched and noted him. But their apprehension kept them away. For resolve was omnipresent. But his failings would show with time. They waited for the tide to turn. Patient. Dangerous. Guardians of his dark soul.

The night drew a second stranger. Fragile in frame. A cloak covered her delicate body. But the outline of feminine structure shown through. Firm breasts and a strong will fed of her upper torso. Held together like a creeper clinging to support. Her words echoed longing. Untouched vagueness. A story lost through time. Her longing encased him. Like an addiction leading him to death. Like the requiem of a soul lost in solitude. Seclusion was her strength. Like a parasite giving life to its host. But empathy was misunderstood. His words lost in transition. He lost her in the darkness. An object left to raze emotion.

His dreams left him restless. His loneliness unanswered. His expectation diminished. His path realigned. For now he was wiser to emotions and feelings. Objects of human companionship that they were. Testament to faith and history. This sonnet would be rewritten in new light. A phoenix destined to rise from the ashes. His will sharpened again. He set out to banish the demons of his journey.

Greatness lay in the wake of a soulless existence. His work had taught him that. In true emotion lay betrayal. Like passion lost in a moment. Like pretence worn out from centuries. His armor would never yield. The fire drew him close. The path forgotten in the aura of warmth and luminosity. His adrenaline had begun to take over him. The memories. He left them behind.

The third stranger seemed inconspicuous. Her face hidden at all times. Her body reverberated vitality. Like a soul tarnished yet whole. But he hadn’t wasted time over her. Except that smile. Almost unreal. It reflected understanding. Just plain understanding… it crossed his mind suddenly. But he had left the memories behind.

He drew in the final step. The unreachable was his to touch. Feel. Burn in. Those fools who still believed. With the imprint of a smile..In the blink of an eye, he jumped. Into the fires of redemption. His soul was left to burn. Whole. More alive than ever.

PS: Your indecision at reasserting my role in your words does leave me intrigued. Like the end of a beautiful tale I’m not destined to hear. The parallels between ‘the memory ruins’ and my previous stanza leaves me yearning to explore more. Impersonal I mentioned was a word with limitless scope. But I always tend to question when I seek solace. The lost link in this journey I leave to you. Capable and complete you have shown yourself to be. And yes. ‘She’ is evil. ‘She’ will always be a part of him. But ‘She’ is real. In flesh. And soul. Forgive me. For I don’t believe in any other conclusion.

Julietdiadem said...

The reason i mentioned memory ruin was because i had written it at a time when i knew nothing of pain. I was very naive. I still am. In parts, maybe. But, it was written out of the words of another being altogether it seems, because unlike the woman in that piece, i had never felt anything like she had.I personally believe that memory ruin is not one of my best works. It's a rather juvenile attempt at fiction. The emotion though. At least some of it-the ennui specially, that this woman felt, was borrowed from my teenage life. And the element of romanticism was inspired by some paranormal fiction i was reading at the time. If you wish me to assert your role, in my words you will have to give me some time, not because I'm a miser when it comes to doling out credits, but because I'm a cynic. If you ever inspire me to write anything other than a piece in reply (which is obviously inspired from your comment), I will give you the credit, be assured of that. To acknowledge one's inspiration or muse, is the first tenet of any real writer, who writes from within, not without. And I have always tried to be a real one. I don't let things inspire me easily anymore.Muses are the hardest things to lose. I'd rather not go through that, it can be very painful and the greatest threat to a writer, even if the writer is a rather mediocre, unpublished one.

I know, that she is real, your muse. But this muse is a universal idea as well. Like dark matter, that is beyond human comprehension, but exists like an intangible force of the universe. Because darkness is a part of the human psyche and at the same time it is bigger than the human psyche. Much like poison, which is but a complex protein, except to the homo-sapient nervous system. This darkness is like that i feel. Untamed, eternal and powerful. And your muse, whoever she was, or is; is a part of that darkness, manifested in flesh from that darkness. It might sound very dramatic, but i personally feel that some people are carved that way, out of that matter. It is energy of a different form altogether, that not everyone can wean from. It destroys most people it comes in contact with, because it always haunts them. I know an energy, a muse like that. Simply put, a very mysterious and dark person who has destroyed much. Very much, in countless lives of others.Their sheer brilliance is surpassed by their ability to inflict misery.....The most terrifying part is, most people end up craving for it.

Anonymous said...

‘Her face swayed at that instant. But that smile was infectious. The strands of hair over her face supplemented that picture. The eyes completed it. Deep. A dark shade. It reflected innocence. But also intentions. Intentions that contrasted what her eyes were made to reflect. Her smell. Intoxicating. Her touch. Craving. More desirable than ever. He drew in. Senses drowned in a sea of inebriation. Knowing the memory would be his to mould. Her lips were magnified. Succulent. Pink. Sweet to taste. So sweet…

The rain left him cold. The sky was dark. A reflection of solitude. Was it his solitude? The drops struck his face. Their continuity imprinting an occasion. The smoke cut through. Shapeless. Searching for an outlet from within him. Cutting out its destiny. Before losing itself. Into nothingness. The beauty of oblivion. The fall from where he stood was immeasurable. The mountains enclosed the valley. Like a mother protecting her infant. Water gushed through from a fall. Its origin incomprehensible. Like everything else. From nothing. The trees spoke words. Words lost in his psychedelic state. He wished to decipher something. He knew there was meaning in those sounds. He had to understand. He just wished he could. But..

He remembered that voice. He had heard it so many times. So familiar. The simplicity of form. It comforted him. In knowing that immaturity could be so useful. The adventures of time. Spontaneous. Crazy. Defying logic. Whether drunken stupor or stoned sanctum, that voice has always meant something. It echoed through his head for so long. He had grown into himself around that voice. That voice told him he would be fine. ‘Be around forever ‘, he said. ‘We’ll always need each other. Always’…

He remembered that face. So knowledgeable. Like it has found its place. Like the choices didn’t change it. The regret was lost. Lost in the wilderness of the battle. The choices were his. Ironic. They were always his. The frustration eclipsed him. Him. So calm. Always calm. But the face didn’t reflect empathy. It just smiled. A smile that hid it all. A smile that reflected so much. A smile that had lost its genuine form. A smile he would never forget. Never…

In the dead of night, it laid the grave. The physical work had taken a toll. But the fatigue, it would willingly accept. It could empathize with humans now. Their various forms. God’s creation in His own light. From the thought rose laughter. It echoed through the night. Colder than death. The body was wrapped in white. Clothed for his own comfort. His insecurities had killed him. The loneliness of ambition. The solitude of his choices. The path he had chosen at each crossroad. He had always been an introvert. But he couldn’t go back. So late in the night. Death had taken him away. Hers to keep for eternity. He remembered the voice. He remembered the face. The smile. But he was gone. Gone forever. The stone read crude words. ‘In his isolation, may the seeker find his true place.’..

It awoke to a howl in the distance. The sky bled tears of pain. The tears hit down on the earth. Drenching the mundane object standing below. It stared around at the graveyard. Restless souls. Lost along their path. Never to find their way. A rat scuttled away. The night howled its displeasure. It had seen this moment coming. For so long. It felt no remorse. He deserved his fate. Emotions. He had fallen prey to. It had warned him. But he never listened. It was left to take matters into its own hands. It had killed him. For his existence was pointless. Like his dreams. Like his desires. It had killed its own creator. For none could live without the other. Foolish notion. It had put that to rest. It smiled at the stone. A smile that lacked any sense of understanding. A smile so devoid of life. The stone read, ‘In his isolation, may the seeker find his true place.’..’

Anonymous said...

You’ve painted a very beautiful picture of my so called ‘muse’. It would be naïve to ever compare us. But our paths do seem parallel in form. The ironic part is that science teaches us that parallel lines never meet. Perception tells us that somewhere beyond the horizon, they do converge. Beyond human sight. An interesting thought. You talk of a muse as something that will inevitably kill you. And your pain is reflected in that view. I do wonder how open those wounds still remain. The scars do seem certain to be long lasting. I look to that muse to draw strength. Maybe I lack enlightenment. Or maybe my definition still remains traditional. Almost raw in form.

None of my works have ever been inspired by fiction. They reveal reality in different forms. It amazes me that I have poured out so much to you in these passages. But even if my inspiration seems to lack a definite form, I take pride in its existence. Illusive. But sensual in form. Your work reflects unpredictability. A sense of underlying spontaneity. Like listening to a sweet melody infused with a few jarring notes. But the melody seems monotonous without those notes. At times I question the sense in unknowingly breaching the ’impersonal’ barrier. A personal motive I must admit. For in your solitude, your pain, your understanding, you deserve privacy. I don’t wish to be even remotely the cause of any grievance in your life. (I do hope I don’t sound too predictable). But my reference is to your creative life. I would be pleasantly surprised to invoke inspiration within you (without my works). Till then id continue to thrive on this connection. I hope you might gain something (if anything) from this experience.

Julietdiadem said...

Each experience gains us things. Some expected. Some unexpected and some mostly unwanted.

Every muse has their own flavour and their own meaning.Orhan Pamuk, in a book i once read had spoken of a writer's tragedy being his greatest material. A voluntary emptiness for the beauty of cleverly cloaked meaninglessness. Not of the words themselves. But of life.

Scars and wounds. Tangible proof of an intangible tragedy. Tragedy being the most cliched human epic.Nothing original about that, nothing ponderous. It can only be trivialized to actually be understood. When one categorizes it under labels. Like one categorizes war and death. Only then, can it be fruitful and coherent to the voyeur or the sympathiser. Writers. Or so-called ones, play to that.Nothing more. They trivialize their personal tragedy to create beauty and meaning out of a frankly common and befuddling chain of events. That beauty exists only in its perception and not in its inspiration, as with all tragedy. Because reality is ugly. Its not dusted with the luxury of comprehension or rationale most times. But, a convoluted Danse Macabre of physical laws touched upon, by the unknown. I personally believe that its a symmetry sometimes without an answer "beyond human sight" like you said, and so in our own little world of labels, it is still another label- ugly.

As a self-proclaimed cynic, i think of grief as something intrinsic. To a cynic, it becomes a science. To a cynic who can measure and barter words, make pictures out of them, it becomes a profession. Grief only intensifies with the addition of senses. Tactile. Aural. Visual. Olefactory.Oral. The virtual realm and an anonymous one at that, is beyond all of those. Tragedy needs more vehicles to perpetuate. So,rest in peace. Thrive. I certainly am.

No harm done. Boundaries ensure that. Physical, mental or meta-physical. They are the anti-dotes to all great tragedies. Most times.

Anonymous said...

‘He seldom went beyond the fence. The fence demarcated his world. Closed. Shielded. Woefully incomplete. Tragically fulfilling. Yet simplistically comforting. Like a blooming embryo in an infected womb. Ignorant of the fact that life and death walk hand in hand.

In a moment of sporadic spontaneity. He fell prey to virility. Lust of a varying form. He tested his faith in the realms of a lost acquaintance. A world he was encouraged into by the strangers he knew. He walked in tentatively. Riding on a wave of inevitable disillusionment.

He lost himself in sea of superficial smiles. His gaze left a mark on the ones he recognized. The faces from a past life. He searched for change. But with the air of someone who had resigned himself to disappointment. His body ached from desire. Desire coalescent with a lonely soul. Pleasure. Human touch. The heaving breasts. The flirtatious stares. The bare skin flaunted so knowingly. And he felt the adrenaline flow. With a strong current. After so long.

But his eyes lingered. Lingered for a moment too long. And they noticed. They cringed. Unfamiliar face in their socialist world. Black sheep that he was. Neither member nor outcast. The conversant seemed to disappear. Intent that they were. On fitting in. For the apprehension didn’t lie with them. The choices were his. The burden was his. The loss was his. His alone. His alone to bear.

He walked through the exit. Intent on returning to his afterlife. For that was the plausible alternative. The only solution. He had left his gratitude behind. For those who tried. Tried to offer him solace. He belonged there once. But now he played a prodigal son. But one not embraced. One looked upon with indifference.

Realization seeped through him. Like a poison reframing its path though his veins. For he knew he would struggle to fight his instinct. His instinct which reflected what that world meant to him. It had never nourished his soul. Rather his needs. Materialistic. Selfish. Yet predominant. Like any organism.

So he returned in his insomnia. Intent on drying the hopeful spring through him. He disfigured each one of those faces beyond recognition. Whether smiling or indifferent. Beautiful or conventional. Familiar or unknown. The ghost of those looks vanished into oblivion. And they screamed in pain. But he found a telling symphony in their screams. For he orchestrated them. It was the only music he would ever hear again. For those notes scarred his soul. A deaf soul. Left to wither. Wither in regret.’

Anonymous said...

Dear Juliet,

Time plays on my mind and words in this moment. For I sense insecurities which I can’t comprehend or banish. This piece is a lot cruder in nature. For it reflects an intrinsic struggle. Cynic that you term yourself. You might understand. The piece is ordinary. But the attributes behind it, crave a deeper sense of empathy.

The world is ugly and miserable. In our solitude we find words to let our grief out and live a pointless existence. So it would be foolish to term our pain as unique. Your words reflect a strong and irrefutable claim. Yet, most artists find nourishment from this pain. For it forms cornerstone of their most sacred work. I might not be wrong in terming you as one of those.

To say this connection intrigues me would be simply put. I’m not intent on coating my words for I must admit that I feel an unattained sense of freedom in this connection. To expect you to reciprocate on some level would be foolish. For your words reflects a strong sense of realism. ‘Unwanted experience’ if this is, I would ask you to walk away. Gratefully. For I live in the knowledge of knowing that I have gained. Most importantly I have enjoyed each engaging word shared with a deeper sense of unraveled meaning. I feel no shame in admitting that your reaction is the source of inspiration of each piece I strive to write. In my grief and insecurity I have never strived for comfort. I rather enjoy the beauty of solitude. Maybe in the fear of it being predominant in the larger sense.

My words should not encapsulate the fact that while sorrow seems omnipresent, I strive for a happier existence. At no stage have I ever intended to be satisfied. But it will never cloud my senses. For grief might be a temporary escort. But happiness is an eternal claim. Soulful nirvana. (cheesy though it might sound). You have quietly steered away from lingering doubts. Hidden behind captivating words. But I intend to understand more of you. A unique you. For our words have been overshadowed by a dark side. Dark and similar. Similar tending to common. As ‘you’ termed it.

Boundaries it seems can invariably exist. Protections of intangible form. But when this link disappears over the horizon and beyond human perception, I will be left a little emptier to learn that I haven’t left a mark. More importantly a mark to which no anti-dote exists.

Julietdiadem said...

Well, emptiness is everywhere. We just fill it with personal meanings. I choose not to let things leave their mark. Blunting romanticism and the beauty of dreams is something I practice in real life. It is better that way and i much prefer it after knowing the truth from varied experiences.

Links exist and dissipate all the time. Each interaction is a pattern or cycle of things shared and learned with different people. They cant all be meaningful. They cant all be desirable. That is life ,I believe. Nothing comes out of naivete but wisdom.

Instead of searching for Nirvana, i believe in understanding reality and living up to it as honestly as i can. Take what you want from it. Add what you will to it. Up to you. I choose to dwell upon only things relevant to my space and time and world. And that is how i will always treat any remotely whimsical sounding notion. Be it an anonymous interaction about the universe and the human condition or the possibility of peace and running on the moon.