Flashback: October 26, 1998

in desolation

comes a time in every life one uses
or rather grinds one's mind on one had

when everything mockingly fails
and one morbidly entails
the cheap riddles and the fairy tales
those one has heard lying cursed
in unmeaningfuly bored
yet deliriously mad
beds of intercourses of meditated heads

and much after when one was dying
or remembering and loathing
every spec of existence one has spared
from revengeful nightmares
of fearful legs and slippery breasts

so

when floating scorn ripped open one's glaze
in the ivory tower of an abandoned blaze
and by the way also a sick fucking craze
was it an angelic smile on an idiotic face
bleeding cold and cultivatedly dazed
with dirty rhymes that everyone detestedly
amazed?

ha ha ha!

Sunday, November 30, 2008

as i become ever more a derivative of myself
on these pages
a hall of mirrors
trying to catch a glimpse of who i really am
i can't help but remember
an old black and white movie
which was without much of a point to make

like these words i punch away

Thursday, November 27, 2008

i walked to the office today

it was raining

my heart was heavy
so was my mind
with memories of cities

trieste, columbus, chicago, new york,
toronto, london, warsaw, bonn,
cleveland, raleigh and istanbul

and i recalled a simic poem
about his city he walked under rain
with a burning enthusiasm about
a volume of poetry he bought
with most of the money in his pocket

i had the same dread of going back
to my dark lonely room

i was as broke

but i did not belong to a city
and lost my enthusiasm
about my 'shelley'

'model categories' does not evoke
the same impact as
'universe of everlasting things'
for some reason

and the rain

it relentlessly followed me
to the office

Sunday, November 9, 2008

the immutable fabric i am made of
is composed of imperfect stuff
once i read somewhere:
history,
language,
squalid human incident
and dreams

the first three are the
witches which once bore witness
"fair is foul, and foul is fair..."
the last is incapable of
washing the bloody hands of our
individual pasts
knowing perfectly well
"the past isn't dead.
it isn't even past."

Flashback: October 29, 1999

why does the issue of death
reappear again and again
in all i write and say?
or the problem of consciousness
or the problem of existence
and meaninglessness of it thereof?
why do i keep asking
questions starting with
an impossible 'why?'

I,
who has a couple of billions
of years of mindless collision
of huge amounts of matter and
energy
before and after my vain existence
am nothing but
a spontaneous order in matter
a spark
who has a glimpse of the universe
however simple and partial it might be,
feels pain, whatever it may mean,
for being so finite or
feeling so small before
what i saw, or i thought i saw

i want to reach an understanding of it
without why's and how's
with me being a part
yet, however insignificant it may be

i want a piece of my consciousness
to live, perpetuate,
seek what i partially saw,
hold it,
understand it fully and completely

why can't i?
how can't i?

Flashback: October 5, 1998

anywhere
between desperation and
death
my heart stops at
shallow waters of a
bleak feeling of smallness
horror and tragedy:
the feeling of increasing
entropy.
i am suffocated
with it.
without it i am
clinged to nothingness--
a breath of something
larger than myself,
slightly.

Monday, October 27, 2008

this is where dreams are grown
and fall victim to history

persistent threads of memories
pictures
sounds
smells
--believe or not
they have the most impact--
trail one another

with whole armadas of new beginnings
on the horizon

yet catastrophes
bigger than ourselves
smash everything
under the sun
unto the harsh wall of
statistical variability

"most of the time
things just happen, you know"

listening to maddening
shrieks of random noise
as hopes transgress to become
nightmares