Vagabond irises drifting closed,
Burnt with a little oil, bleeding out of both palms.
Floating, disturbed and irate
And so very disdainful.
Curling and cursing into hooks of melancholy oddity.
A shallow dweller in the eyes of a sorrow-headed woman,
Corrupt and agile, animated plume of mortification.
Guarding all spades in a crumpled fist,
Too open-ended and naked to be valuable.
And they laugh-
At her thief's cloak.
Her shade's feet and eyes,
Running over everything in her world.
Touched and untouched.
Fucked and unfucked.
Loved and unloved.
Done and undone.
It will follow,
Always,
The sprite's shoes bending over the roof of crime.
Hold her hand and pinch the flesh,
To bruise reality into the childish skin,
In all the places left without scars.
Everyone must know the artwork of a thief's body,
Her lovely naked edible mistakes.
Her lovely naked edible misery.
And they must have a trifle of the fount,
An immortal fount of circular supply.
Eternally lovely and edible.
That leaves only faint traces of decay on the corners of the mouth.
No price to pay for the lovely nakedness
No price to pay for the thief's crime.
A punishment in glee to naked, vagabond irises.
Drifting closed.
Burnt, with a little oil bleeding out of both palms.
9 comments:
The warrior had gained a reputation. It preceded him. Indestructible he was. Spoken of in whispers. Omnipresent like the wind. For he attained impetus from the profane. Driven to push the boundaries of human perception beyond an attainable imagination. Everyone he crossed lived in awe. For they could not challenge him. Somatically or spiritually. They worshipped the incomprehensible. Flesh and blood substituting a god. For his presence gave them strength. They found solace in his reputation.
The darkness was impenetrable. But he watched the stranger draw closer. Cloaked from head to toe. The hands were small. Soft in features. But stained crimson with blood. The stranger held a lamp. Almost unnoticeable for it barely fought the darkness. Burnt with a little oil. Movements betrayed a body packed with defiance. Yet physically abused beyond repair. The cloak fell to reveal a face. A face which would live with him forever. A moment to last for eternity.
He stared at the lasting visages. Features of simplistic beauty. Torn by grief and misconception. She replicated the act with bereft eyes. Eyes that reflected a soul. Tarnished by time and human hands. For even though she was covered. She seemed more naked than a nascent infant. Naked. Knowingly. But not shamefully. For she had nothing to hide. Nothing to protect. Nothing to lose.
He recollected a face from his past. A face that haunted him. One with a striking resemblance. One he thought he would carry to the afterlife. For he had a simple life before they christened him ‘Dominus’. One he would choose a thousand times over. But his deeds had left him vulnerable. His faith had been punished. His world had been shattered in moments. It was in his darkest hour that he found the warrior within. Merciless. Invincible.
He couldn’t explain what happened next. He couldn’t hear the words that were spoken. But he knew in a moment of weakness that he let her in. Not out of sympathy. But need. Need that didn’t want empathy. Need that didn’t crave desire. Need that didn’t grasp emotion. Need beyond human understanding. A need that was his. And his alone. The night dwindled to an inevitable conclusion. And she left before he rose. The moments they shared a secret lost in time. Sacred for both observers. For irony won another battle. The two would never meet again.
The warrior’s tale lived on for centuries. His life retold in a variety of hyperboles. Some believed he was blessed with demonic abilities. Others said he was driven to insanity. Insanity beyond human perception. But each tale had the same coalescent climax. For he fell not at the hands of a ruthless nemesis. Rather hung from a far off tree. In a forest lost in absentia. With a few words carved in the wood. Words which yearned for a reply. From a conscientious vagabond. Never destined to read them.
Dear Juliet,
My thoughts echo a sense of disappointment in believing in the uniqueness of human nature. We were made to conquer every challenge put before us. But here we stand defeated. Ironically by our frail selves. The purists seem overpowered by pragmatists who will find a senseless existence. Comforted by desolate objects. Irrevocable feelings lost to a darker side. Pitiful people. People who under the pretence of experience forget the depth of human emotion. People who believe that cutting the heart of from something it naturally gravitates towards will help in a smarter, more comforting existence. You believe in blunting romanticism and killing the beauty of dreams. Understandable as you have repeatedly called yourself a cynic. You pour a large part of your pain into words so succulently summarized. Beautiful to read. Yet they cover the underlying essence of someone that was whole, untarnished and a dreamer once. Candid human action can scar. Yet it seems unfortunate to believe that it can kill the dreamer. For if every dreamer was murdered in cold blood, the world would be inconceivable. Just fools who spoke for the sake of cold empathy.
Bonds formed by pure coincidence are generally destined to disappear into oblivion. Nothing ever lasts. Whether good or bad. But hope springs eternal. And hope is a very dangerous thing.
Your intent on living in reality, confined within a world that affects no one but you. Smart. Selfish. Acceptable. It seems that you have given enough back to a world undeserving of your charity. Your wisdom now seems fulfilling in a world dominated by those you have fallen prey to. So you weren’t successful in beating them. Hence you joined them. Your simplicity seems marginalized within your worldly self. When I talk, I appeal to both sides.
My words are spoken from a genuine self. And you treat them aptly. I am courteous enough to be apologetic of my presumption. But I believe in a human. A human made to fulfill potential. One who stands up to each challenge knowing that he can dominate it. Whether emotional or spiritual is irrelevant. My experience might not be the most fulfilling but it has taught me a few things which are common to us all. I realize my mistake in a brief phase of naivety. But I stand a dreamer confident that he can achieve the inconceivable. Dependent at times on strangers who line my path. But I’m quite capable of walking this path in solitude.
But if your confined methods, help you reach a better place or even walk on the moon. Please enlighten me. For I’ll gladly follow you.
Dear Anonymous,
"A first sign of the beginning of understanding is the wish to die."
-Franz Kafka
And i'm dead already. In many ways of the world which are not seen or even heard of yet. I'm dead to most meaning. Again Kafka said,
"By believing passionately in something that still does not exist, we create it. The nonexistent is whatever we have not sufficiently desired."
I have no path to tread, no labels to operate within, or no shame to ornament, when i think or write from a place alien to my usual self.
I'm not pragmatic, nor a dreamer, nor a realist or a masochist. Actually i'm not even a cynic when i pour out myself to be recorded here.
I'm floating and passive. An observer. A reactionary sometimes, when occasion calls for it, But mostly, i'm an idea here and nothing more. An idea that you can see and understand and resonate.
That is all. As ideas, you or me do not need any dimensional attributes of existence, nor mental.
We can flow mulit-directionally, randomly, all over through and against and it wont matter. As long as it remains that way.
You cannot follow and neither can I lead to anywhere.
Everything i believe, is just ephemeral here. Gossamer almost. Faint and ethereal, and it will be better than any reality ever seen or heard of. Just waves along indefinite paths.Like you said, they are parallel lines. Co-existent and illusory in their meeting and safe to remain pure that way.
Unsoiled from the reality of my dimensions,(poisoned with self proclaimed cynicism) and your dreams,(infected with hope and potentiality). The negative and the positive.
Dear Juliet,
A writer has the gift of making the profane sound seamlessly touching. The reader‘s perception naturally adds an unattainable dimension. Franz Kafka’s words strike a chord. Almost like the requiem sounded at the funeral of your wholesome self. But if those words are true, I would wish myself to be immortal. Because in the servitude of analysis of every aspect of human nature, the incomprehensible still amazes me. And I don’t believe that everything can ever be understood. You don’t have to look too far either. You’re the perfect precedent to my words.
To believe that you are dead to most strata of human empathy does leave a mark on me. But you are unique in that aspect. And I’m confounded in the sphere of your thoughts. But I relish the interpretation of these thoughts. For I believe that’s what I was made to do.
Franz Kafka’s words should push me to now wake a few non-existent objects from their hibernation. For I’m intent on touching the boundaries of human intelligence supplemented by thoughts, ideas and emotions.
Your projection of the both us being ideas with no direction, multi-dimensional in nature and not heading towards a pre-ordained destination is welcomed by me. I must admit that my insecurity was born out of my naivety. It reflected a futility in searching for warmth from a stone. Especially when warmth was never a requirement. Rather a desire. And desires are discretionary to human logic. Separate entities engraved within us dependent on countless factors. Predominated by experience in your case. Your views do vary at times from impersonal to realistic to even a tad nostalgic. But you seem intent on keeping an emotional (for the absence of a better word) framework even within a world which you have defined as one of infinite possibilities. But you seem in a different league. A league where adjectives associated with Homo sapiens ceases to hold meaning. You walk no path and you have no followers of your own accord. As long as this projection of yourself finds its origins in ‘your’ solitude, I thrive on it.
The words in my vocabulary seem very incomplete to add to your assessment of the potential that exists for ‘us’. In that case I will stay quiet to avoid sounding foolish. Your ‘self proclaimed cynicism’ and ‘my dreams’ might soil the purity of what we share. But pure things are at times weak and brittle. So I don’t feel these impurities are too damaging. They hold true to us. Under the pretence of the roles we play. Just lost in translation. After all no one cares a shit about the lead. But without it, gold would never be extracted.
Complete. She believed she was. For she found pleasure in worldly pain. Understanding in the illusion of the incomprehensible. Ambition in the unattainable. Her eyes complemented a face carved in elegance. Her body was something that men lusted for in the nude form. The pink lips. The heaving bosom. The smooth skin over her back. Encompassing the virgin opening. Feminine perfection. Erotically exquisite.
But her soul was distorted. For physical ecstasy meant little to her. Her faith metaphorically represented by glass. Brittle in nature and shattered to pieces. The fire of her passion drowned in the ignorance of humans. And in the ensuing darkness, it found its end. For she was no dreamer. Neither cynic nor pragmatist. Dead to every perceptible human sense.
During the course of her pointless wandering, she ran into an unpredictable stranger. Their relationship bloomed in the absence of any physical form. For he had set his eyes on her in the chaos of this superficial world. She was oblivious to his existence. But was lost in a world of words which offered an infinite universe of countless possibilities. They seem destined to meet. Not by chance. But out of human need. But fate played its part to hand her body over to death in exchange for her tarnished soul. But fate was ignorant to change. An everlasting constant.
But he unknowingly waited for that day. Waited in expectation.
On the banks of the river Styx, she pleaded with Hades. Begged to return for one last night. To experience the sacred matrimony of corporal desire with cerebral satisfaction. Hades agreed mockingly. In exchange for castigation on her return. So she made her last journey to Zeus world.
In the dim illumination of familiar surroundings, she waited anxiously. The last few moments of her life had seen her paint a shapeless picture. Her image of him. For his physical appearance meant nothing. The desired hour passed tardily. Each moment controlled by time. Toying with her. Yet she waited.
In her last few impatient seconds, a stranger walked up to her. Sinewy muscles and a tall frame supplemented an intelligent face. Their eyes met. And she saw the recognition in them. Like they were searching for a common objective. His unpredictability and abnormality fitted in. In her desperation she let her insecurities out. She had seen this moment in her dreams. Compressed emotion finding an outlet after ages. She felt pain in her solitary moments of physical pleasure. But it was pain tinged with discontent. Had human expectation reached such an absurd level? The ghost of those last emotions haunted her on her return to the afterlife.
She punished herself as atonement for breaking the tradition of the spirit world. After her imprisonment, Hades called for her. With a sinful grin he asked, “So was it worth it”? Her head bowed in shame. Her pride drowned in sorrow she replied swiftly, “No. And it never will be”.
In the dark alleyway behind familiar surroundings, a cloaked figure stood. Bowed down with a sense of grief. The grief of acceptance. His head was a sanctum of countless words. Words of crude brilliance. Her words. He had kept his promise. He had come. His hesitance had cost him a few moments. But he had seen her with another man. That face. That same face. Carved in elegance. The only face he would ever remember after that. And realization dawned. In that moment, as the night howled a painful symphony, he shed a tear. The tear betrayed the smile he wore on his face. For it echoed an incepted thought. That she was just from another world. Invariably beyond him. Just beyond him.
Dear Anonymous,
Your muses are too many. I fail to keep track often.'She' is dark sometimes. Pure sometimes. Virginal sometimes. A succubi at other times. These ideas are gender specific though. Of her and him. What you call human and beyond. Do they exist only as male and female?
Your protagonist is an anti-hero i think. If it is you, or parts of you, or apart from you; that you wish you be embodied as, or self-identify as, i do not know. But he is an ambiguous idea. So very ambiguous. Hard to pin down because he is a sort of doppelganger.
Lead, gold ,shit are all elements, are all ideas with physical properties. Equal in appeal to the true alchemist. When i say, that i choose not to operate in labels, i am still theoretically speaking of a label. Just as "nothing" is a label even though it denotes something absent or non-existent. Metaphorically however, that is a sort of as you put it" emotional framework" i choose to operate within. We are all tinged with the hues of an operant reality. A mental one. A process that exists within and without the boundaries of logic, simultaneously. I try to mould myself into words of my choosing as and when i see it fit. However, these self-prescriptive ideas of existence are never accurate. Hence i have always tried to communicate to you the "ideas" of ourselves existing in a Utopian place where, all things, all variables remain constant and idyllic and very academic. We study each other through these words and definitions and these projections of who we were, or would like to be, or be with.
Its all illusory. In our search for meaning we engage ourselves with these puzzles of intrigue that add a sort of random meaning to our otherwise dichotomous existence. And within that dichotomous existence we are ideas as i like to see it, free and full of potential and paradise. Even in tragedy. Even in death. Because we find something here that we do not otherwise find in the throes of reality- meaning.
You get very dramatic sometimes. Very chilling. All these debauched anti-heroes are so intriguing.Your purpose as i think of it, is to add meaning to otherwise black and white definitions of personality.However, the grey areas of these projections,though delicious in their ambiguity and so very romantic in their alleged thrashing about in the 'debris of meaning and existence' are still unreal and by my experience never worth it. Ambiguity is beautiful and meaningful and so very heart-breaking when written about. But reality is something else.
This very ambiguity is the foundation of self-denial that sets the stage for reality's fornication with comprehension. Where conditioned ideas about the quintessential 'tall dark stranger' are shattered to reveal the essential emptiness of human interaction. The Tabula Rasa of life and its unpredictability. Its uncertainty. Its ordinariness and its simplicity.
I don't mean to say that all human interaction is meaningless. But i believe that all of it is impregnated with the kind of potential that we wish to see it fulfill, nothing else. Sometimes i think of it as a very elaborate, complicated harmony of deceit, that elevates the senses into a state of tremendous stimulation so that the anti-thesis of its actuality can gradually be revealed.
However, all of this contemplation is still intellectualized.All of it is analyzed to fit into my ideas of reality and non-reality which you are always open to question and interpret.
After all, what is life without begged, borrowed, or stolen meaning?
P.s.: Loved the last post. "His" story is getting very intriguing. Also, addictive.
He had her more times than he could have ever imagined. In forms that left an everlasting image. Contradictory to his own beliefs. For she had shattered every assumption he ran his life on. Like a child scared to walk through a dark room. She had set ablaze a path through the valleys of perdition. A path for him.
She was no succubus. For Agni blessed her with a different form. A virgin for everyone bar him. But he had her so many times. Like a shape shifter with no consistent form. It was more than sexual nirvana. More than cognitive empathy. Beyond the realms of human discovery. He had found something unique. He pitied them. For they would never understand.
There she stood in a traditional Indian sari. For she loved to accessorize. Still attached to pretence. The black brought out her eyes. Fittingly conformed. Bringing light to a face which sheltered unseen darkness. Her lips were dry. Dry from the absence of human care. Her body sensually shaped. Her bare back boastful of a velvety tanned cover so perfectly proportioned. Over her face. Her shoulder blades. Those fragile hands. Those concealed feet.
He kissed her a forehead. In reverence. Then her eyes. Before he stopped to stare. To remember the futility of his presence without her. Lost in the inebriation of that moment. He savored each lasting second. Before he felt her lips. Tender. Dry. Craving for real touch.
He stripped her. Each action measured. For she had nothing to hide before him. Her breasts drew an overdue gaze. Simply present over a thin frame. Her body drawn out by that feeling. Orgasmic. Pleasurable. Tainted by foolish perception. He drew down to the genital opening. A place he was familiar with. He let his touch stray for a moment. To watch her moan. To watch her lose her poise. Sinful. No. This was repayment for being granted human form.
She was wet when he penetrated her. Wetter than she had ever been. He never had to try. Never with her. She pleaded for more. Physically overpowered. High on ecstasy. Sexual. Hormonal. He left his mark on her. As he lost all sense of control. And her shrieks kept him up all night. He could hear him calling her. The only name he ever used. For she symbolized love from a childhood legend he believed in his naivety. The name ‘Juliet’ rang through the night. Like the notes of a well rehearsed symphony.
He suddenly awoke in an unfamiliar setting. Lying naked next to a stranger. A woman he had never seen. She bore a few scars on her back. Fresh scars over whitish skin. Her face was hidden from him. But he sensed her to be attractive. For her nude frame was elegantly carved. Like her creator had a lustful purpose in mind. She was asleep. Deeply so. Satisfied it seems. Scared and lost, he quietly moved out. Out of her presence, he raced away.
The weather mocked his feelings. For it was incomprehensible how the sun could reflect warmth and light. His insides felt cold and dead. A stone left in the cold. Bound to wither. But infinitesimally so. He unknowingly retraced a familiar path. Towards the only place which held meaning for him. As the sun beat a luminous glow over the grass, he wished for hell to accept his abused soul.
He reached a stone he religiously visited. It offered him solace in the misery of his solitude. A face passed through his head. The image of a smiling face. Shedding a tear in a familiar dark alleyway. His face. It held visages of genuine feeling. He looked down at the stone. It had a face carved on it. A beautiful face. One he remembered from an eventful night. The tomb said she was gone. Lost to the underworld. In hope of salvation.
The tomb read a name. It was the only name he ever used for her. From a childhood story of love he believed in his naivety. She had represented everything he imagined he could never attain. There carved in the granite was a single word. The word read, ‘Juliet’.
Dear Juliet,
My muse has no definite form. She/he are just ideas with the freedom to evolve into anything that psychologically satisfies me. Yes, they only have human form. For that represents the closest connection they have to me. But pay attention to the metamorphosis rather than the end product. Rarely does the end justify the means.
My protagonist is not an anti hero. He is a distinct form of reality. Ambiguous, you term him. But he lives each day. Very much around you. Breathes the same air that you do. His needs and wants are similar. In fact too similar at times. Is he me? Is he a projection of me? Is he just a part of me? If you care to delve, you will find your answer. That answer might lead you down a winding, worn out path. Would you care to get lost so as to find something different? Well your experience should hold you in good stead.
You said you’ve tried to communicate ideas of ‘us’ in a Utopian place. Your words reflect the fact that if reality merges with this Utopian place, it will raze it to the ground. A very predictable climax. This Utopian place gives us the liberty to flow in any direction we choose to. But every action in that place is academic. With no realistic form. Not bound by any constraint. I choose to disagree. This Utopian place is a figment of imagination. Thrown out by people who seem let down by reality. To prevent remolding reality, they accept an idealistic, ‘Utopian’ world. A world they can’t attain. Screw that world. You projected us as ideas and I welcome your thesis. Today I tell you that your human form will always drive me towards keeping ‘us’ alive. I might not be able to do that single handedly. But I will mould us into something very much within reality. Poisoned by its very own host. But a charmed existence. Bound to fade away. Yet elegant in an immeasurable form.
I’ve found misery in reality. But that isn’t hard to find. But to say that I haven’t found meaning in it would be hypocritical. When I write, I don’t write from a world which doesn’t have a specific form. I believe in my ability to give that world a realistic tinge. It will be a part of me. And even if it is my world (bound by the constraints of reality) for a fleeting second, I will accept that the battle was worth fighting. Nothing is illusive and nothing is beyond me. Or you. Maybe you’ve walked down that path once and were taught a harsh lesson. I appeal to walk with me again. Cautiously. Apprehensively. And I assure you, what you will find, won’t disappoint you. Don’t interpret my request as a proposition for us to change form. We can be anything you want us to be. Even ‘nothing’ seems a very plausible label.
You throw light on the fact that ‘ambiguity’ can be interpreted in so many tantalizing forms. Each as appealing as the other to a person who cares to interpret. My words might be dramatic, but they aren’t intended to seem that way. Human emotion has limitless potential. But only its dramatic form seems well appreciated. Your insistence on interpreting reality as a meaningless, pathetic form of life amuses me. Each story of mine fits a realistic framework. There’s nothing to be misinterpreted in pain. Pain is beautiful and an introspective emotion. If my work has a ‘chilling’ theme to it, it’s because reality shouldn’t be different. Let it touch you. Feel that chill in your bones. Let yourself flow through in the world of feeling. You will find strength unknown.
Life in its purest form is blank and worthless. The Tabula Rasa, you term it. Unpredictability is through our actions. Fickle. But it sets the tone. It gives life a needed flavor. You will never have a worthwhile moment repeated in your life. So don’t close your eyes to it. Our simplicity left us a long time ago. Finding our way through the maze of uncertain emotions, we play a tune with a few jarring notes. But a musician isn’t going to touch a rhythmic paradise without tuning his instrument beforehand.
Human interaction in general is meaningless. People can survive comfortably in solitude but still harbor the need to be understood by confounded souls. It’s a joke at times. We are such hypocrites. Selfish. Materialistic. And fallen prey to a misinterpreted concept of empathy. Your words reflect it. And so do mine.
Our words have a nice sounding beat to them. And I do like this new genre. Whether it has effective meaning? I do have an answer. Rather a belief. An instinctive belief. But I choose to wait on it. We do seem to have contrary beliefs. Open to interpretation. Analyzed by our own overloaded minds. But I find meaning that continues to satisfy me. I have borrowed and stolen from you. I am certain about that. But it does give my distorted form a slight tyrian hue. And I believe it’s rather nice to look at.
PS: I have waited on this reply for some time now. Maybe in the hope of killing your addiction of. In life there’s only one thing worth getting addicted to. The ironic part is, that too will kill you.
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