Torches!

Ecstatic people steal the thunder from the Japanese girl. Blind thunder it was. Blinding. Not lightning. What did you say sis? Did you really say it? C'mon. C'mon. You! Run it now. Don't stay a moment longer. They are a'coming. Sis home! Run home now. Forgive me. There's nothing mother can do now. She's a flame now. Yaaahhh, the torches! If you hear my voice no more, take care still. May he save you this night.

Joyce Ape Bharat

Begin, let us, by blogging on blogging, or blog we never will. Cut straight to the heart of the matter, let us, or cut we never will or never will begin. Commentary:I had written some stuff. The comp got virussed and the stuff eaten up. So begin we must anew. Regret not the loss, let us, or create, we will not, anything anew. It is late night. And there has been time lost unquantifiable. Tell you strictly only what needs to be told, let us, coz there's no more time to be lost, unquantifiable. Commentary, paraphrase et al: Things are cyclical and commonplace. The night comes before time. Curse you. (I mean I got overpowered by sleep, to atone the sins of the day, as I was writing this line here. Unsweet caesura as I was waxing, poetical) To begin anew, anew, anew....ah! how lovely the sea waves spread out anigh, anigh, anigh (oh happy metaphor, you warm my cockles ennew, ennew, ennew...) Consolation, justification, and a defense: Crystallization and dissolution, a choice. And obscurantism, a sublimation. Nay, not an ossification (stonization etc), but a non-being of formlessness. A tendenz not ingenerate or unacquired, but not uninstinct either. But resisted, it must be. Tire not, let us, or stinting in our effort be. Patience unbounded, agape immoderate I demand. Nay, we demand. Thou do more than I. (By the bye, Mahatma, a busybee tale I remember, but there no place here be for it to be, coz our Tale all Arjuna the Great Archer and his Fish be. Thou await your moment mahatma, as I await mine.) Our tale begins at the flood-womb, the torrent-bed of the rib-cage. The Muladhar. (Required a scrapbook for busy-bee tales lest they be sparked out unrevived forgiten, Mahatma. Say thou, "What O' cosmosie, even Mahatma has no place in your tale?" I rejoin,"It be a tale, no driftwood." If unmemory is the price to say, so it be.) Before and as the seawaves drift afar, afar, afar, our tale must begin at Muladhar, O Mahatma. Like a fistful of sand not gripped be, there's no steering be for driftwood flotsam, unflotsam. Before the noon-tide the Muladhar must quickened be. O'God Satyanarayan, thy blessing beseech-ed be! Things are cyclical and commonplace. Be busy with business noble, O Mahatma, thy advisement be. Things cyclical and commonplace, the universe a neurosis be. And the noble path cannot short-circuited be. A prayer and a gift, we supplicate you. No conceit this, figurative and moral. Unapt and unaesthetic accidents among the jetsam and flotsam. A fistful of sand, a man and his shadow, things and words, poetry and idea be. If only a thing begun, could indeed begin. Or not be formless, even if it only the shadow of a shadow in a cave be. Whereto herefrom ? Aporia so soon? Gift me Satyanarayan the rock of eye! Concealment, Maya, bedazzlement away with thee! Scales from the eyes, shroud from the body, fall! Obvelation! Make way for Manifestation! Revelation! Necessities of mortal being call away the stargazers too. Mortal Beings? Get away with this incongruity, you must let me. More than an incongruity you must not accuse it of being, else the aporia, the cavernous earth-world, gapes again at me with its gob agape. Agape Eros Eros Agape not, ought not to be. Thou reckless lord of earth, world, the earth-world, being immortal Immortal being, how blissful thou be! May man not forgive thee, but thou 'O Incomprehensible, All-Forgiving, thou ought to have forgiven him ante-creation. The creature himself rails,"How ill-conceived a being thou has begotten!"World-ling, world-man, earth-man, homo, pisser, naked ape, endemann, biped, son of man, mother's child, piece of flesh, deathling, fragment, Adamite, mortal, terrestrial, personeity, tellurian, earthly, anybody, snooks, moosh, poppet, flipper, thou, I, earthite. Arthaat, i.e. philologically speaking, post-lapsarian, chronlogically stating thelogistically. To Sahasradhara, through unpassable geological crusts, we odyssey, we bessech thee O' Suryanarayana! Come, set to work again, let us. And again and again with agape unquantifiable, dimensionless, hugeuos, immensible. In the dimness of being, the dragoness borne the child of mist, the unman. Barehanded snatch the burning log from fire, let us, assoil the soiled shrouding. The wayfarer so bedimmed be, O' Satyanarayana, towards Sahasradhara, let the tread well lit be. The world without end traversed thee in three steps O' Suryanarayana! The two little sisters aborned of the orphaned, widowed mother, we saw the beloved little house, O' Satyanarayana. Lost his courage Arjuna the Archer Great, the slippery eel vanished into the oceans vast O' Satyanarayana. The two little sisters and Arjuna knew naught of each other, O' Satyanarayana. The two little sisters in Nabokov's hellish island, O' Satyanarana. Living on time bought from thee, O' Merciful Satyanarayana. Thy rock of eye Krishna salved Arjun's wounded light O' Narayana. But blinded the two little ones, the glitter of the tussle of your world, O' Narayana, as they crawled down craggy rocks to Mother River, O' Narayana. The little one tugged at the hem of her sister's dirty frock, O' Narayana. And the tussle of thy world glittered as mother beat her guts on the rocks of Mother River, O' Narayana. The sisters shed salt tears down the tongue into the river into oceans vast, O' Narayana. World without end Thee traversed in steps thrice, O' Narayana. Lovely were the tresses of mother, of mother river, O'Narayana. Strangers to each other were Arjun and the sisters, O' Narayana. And the tresses and tears both mingled into the rivers and Oceans, O' Narayana. Mother and daughters mourned by the Mother River, O' Narayana. Love and pain made love to each other, O'Narayana. For once the tussle lilted to the world Ears, O' Narayana. The battle bold ensued for love of frightened souls, O' Narayana. Mother River reddened of horror old, O' Narayana. The girls arfight screamed at night of terror untold, Narayana. Ha our tale, woe our tale must not remain untold Narayana. For she our mother will curse our soul If the corpse unburied remained O'Narayana. Madhuri what price thy music Asks the Shudra old O' Narayana. For love of blood O'beloved mine Burst the cloud-vault of manna O' Narayana. With grinding teeth thou must not make music The creation symphony gala For labour of love are man and all beings O'Narayana. A game of dice was forbidden thee For one false throw has unloosed chaos sheer And there's no reining the carnage O'Narayana. Man after man unblooded And the last grain of patience strained out Cease quenching thy unseemly curiosity with man's blood. O Maker thy creatures screeching shrieking Make a din of the world Caco-caco, phoney, phoney Blood splatterd on the floor and wall. It does not behove thee O Narayana Make truce and cease now Washing the laundry of gods in our unholy blood. Drop a doleful tear for the laundress mother Beating her guts on the river bank The children be screaming their own little guts But the river of blood would cease not reddening The drink of life from the womb of holy River Mother. We love and revere thee O Holy Father Cast a glance down at our wormy world Look not askance or turn in disgust For who else we be but the children of thy loins father. The world was good that thou created Father Wherefore these oceans red? A desiccated tear into the overflown lotus of our heart Drop O' quivering flame of our eyes Satyanarayana. Be darned the maze of thy spider yarn Liberties countless shall we take With the last strand until man can count. There be no prayerless drought that beset the hearts down here It be a matter contrary if we state it thus We be drowning and dying now of overlove. Love thy god, love for thy god Kill and be killed O' crusader man. Until the victor, the last man standing Has lost all thou had gifted him Narayana. In the bounty of thy heart The red till this day Hastinapur Stood naked, orphaned, widowed Narayana. Thy church widowed, thy man naked propose a toast let us in the name of the glorious Rended lilting throats of the children and women Narayana. Women?-Mothers, sisters, wives The holiest of holy And reward of the sacred world of heroes war-scarred. Draupadi, Sita, and Mary Magdalen The skull too small to lodge the soul The echoes love lilting dying eternal Lullabying tales of terror sublime Julia Juliet July eternal O Lingaless tongue dripping red mother. And many as was the man acreate She sprang from the loins and rib O'Mother. Loving alot the lion her lord Of den, domain, and Eden O'Mother Of ken, lane, plain, rain, Of mighty main and mane majestic O Mother Drooling, saliving in lanes and loins Lorn with lust loveless unbloodless Athirst unsalted liquidless for For lioness, the unantlered indiffrerented undifferentiated Mother Acreate divided the halved unsalved wounded awandered Mother Bodalisqued revered prostituted prostrated Strumpeted harlotized forwhored bejaded Brothelled bordelled estranged drivelled Commoned womaned walked paganed polecatted Ventured frigatted nightshaded nighttraded Flingdusted pleasured masqued vizarded Meretricianned marmalade-madammed Flingstinked shetraded dollcommonned Whetstonewhored Man-leeched mermaided nocturnalled bulkered strummed Visormasked highflyered mother. Marketdamed barberchaired barberchaired Girl-about-towned Mother. Screwed hacked loosevirtued trugmallioned Womantowned townmissed kennelnymphed loosefished Mother. paphianed cythereaned cyprianed Recievergeneralled dollymopped Mother. Hookered horsebreakered flaggered rollered Scuppered scrubbered Our Lady of Evening and Night Mother. Prosteyed prostied prosticuittoed Prossied prozzied prossed proed prodded probed poul-de-luxed The prince's palace of pleasure publicsectorized Mother.

The Star of Redemption

We shall know death

Not in good tim e

No time

We shall not deny death

Then

When it is no time

Good time

For the All

It is Nothing

Dialectically conditioned

Universal

And all

In a place past time

Manuscripts

Begin, let us, by blogging on blogging, or blog we never will. Cut straight to the heart of the matter, let us, or cut we never will or never will begin. Commentary:I had written some stuff. The comp got virussed and the stuff eaten up. So begin we must anew. Regret not the loss, let us, or create, we will not, anything anew. It is late night. And there has been time lost unquantifiable. Tell you strictly only what needs to be told, let us, coz there's no more time to be lost, unquantifiable. Commentary, paraphrase et al: Things are cyclical and commonplace. The night comes before time. Curse you. (I mean I got overpowered by sleep, to atone the sins of the day, as I was writing this line here. Unsweet caesura as I was waxing, poetical) To begin anew, anew, anew....ah! how lovely the sea waves spread out anigh, anigh, anigh (oh happy metaphor, you warm my cockles ennew, ennew, ennew...) Consolation, justification, and a defense: Crystallization and dissolution, a choice. And obscurantism, a sublimation. Nay, not an ossification (stonization etc), but a non-being of formlessness. A tendenz not ingenerate or unacquired, but not uninstinct either. But resisted, it must be. Tire not, let us, or stinting in our effort be. Patience unbounded, agape immoderate I demand. Nay, we demand. Thou do more than I. (By the bye, Mahatma, a busybee tale I remember, but there no place here be for it to be, coz our Tale all Arjuna the Great Archer and his Fish be. Thou await your moment mahatma, as I await mine.) Our tale begins at the flood-womb, the torrent-bed of the rib-cage. The Muladhar. (Required a scrapbook for busy-bee tales lest they be sparked out unrevived forgiten, Mahatma. Say thou, "What O' cosmosie, even Mahatma has no place in your tale?" I rejoin,"It be a tale, no driftwood." If unmemory is the price to say, so it be.) Before and as the seawaves drift afar, afar, afar, our tale must begin at Muladhar, O Mahatma. Like a fistful of sand not gripped be, there's no steering be for driftwood flotsam, unflotsam. Before the noon-tide the Muladhar must quickened be. O'God Satyanarayan, thy blessing beseech-ed be! Things are cyclical and commonplace. Be busy with business noble, O Mahatma, thy advisement be. Things cyclical and commonplace, the universe a neurosis be. And the noble path cannot short-circuited be. A prayer and a gift, we supplicate you. No conceit this, figurative and moral. Unapt and unaesthetic accidents among the jetsam and flotsam. A fistful of sand, a man and his shadow, things and words, poetry and idea be. If only a thing begun, could indeed begin. Or not be formless, even if it only the shadow of a shadow in a cave be. Whereto herefrom ? Aporia so soon? Gift me Satyanarayan the rock of eye! Concealment, Maya, bedazzlement away with thee! Scales from the eyes, shroud from the body, fall! Obvelation! Make way for Manifestation! Revelation! Necessities of mortal being call away the stargazers too. Mortal Beings? Get away with this incongruity, you must let me. More than an incongruity you must not accuse it of being, else the aporia, the cavernous earth-world, gapes again at me with its gob agape. Agape Eros Eros Agape not, ought not to be. Thou reckless lord of earth, world, the earth-world, being immortal Immortal being, how blissful thou be! May man not forgive thee, but thou 'O Incomprehensible, All-Forgiving, thou ought to have forgiven him ante-creation. The creature himself rails,"How ill-conceived a being thou has begotten!"World-ling, world-man, earth-man, homo, pisser, naked ape, endemann, biped, son of man, mother's child, piece of flesh, deathling, fragment, Adamite, mortal, terrestrial, personeity, tellurian, earthly, anybody, snooks, moosh, poppet, flipper, thou, I, earthite. Arthaat, i.e. philologically speaking, post-lapsarian, chronlogically stating thelogistically. To Sahasradhara, through unpassable geological crusts, we odyssey, we bessech thee O' Suryanarayana! Come, set to work again, let us. And again and again with agape unquantifiable, dimensionless, hugeuos, immensible. In the dimness of being, the dragoness borne the child of mist, the unman. Barehanded snatch the burning log from fire, let us, assoil the soiled shrouding. The wayfarer so bedimmed be, O' Satyanarayana, towards Sahasradhara, let the tread well lit be. The world without end traversed thee in three steps O' Suryanarayana! The two little sisters aborned of the orphaned, widowed mother, we saw the beloved little house, O' Satyanarayana. Lost his courage Arjuna the Archer Great, the slippery eel vanished into the oceans vast O' Satyanarayana. The two little sisters and Arjuna knew naught of each other, O' Satyanarayana. The two little sisters in Nabokov's hellish island, O' Satyanarana. Living on time bought from thee, O' Merciful Satyanarayana. Thy rock of eye Krishna salved Arjun's wounded light O' Narayana. But blinded the two little ones, the glitter of the tussle of your world, O' Narayana, as they crawled down craggy rocks to Mother River, O' Narayana. The little one tugged at the hem of her sister's dirty frock, O' Narayana. And the tussle of thy world glittered as mother beat her guts on the rocks of Mother River, O' Narayana. The sisters shed salt tears down the tongue into the river into oceans vast, O' Narayana. World without end Thee traversed in steps thrice, O' Narayana. Lovely were the tresses of mother, of mother river, O'Narayana. Strangers to each other were Arjun and the sisters, O' Narayana. And the tresses and tears both mingled into the rivers and Oceans, O' Narayana. Mother and daughters mourned by the Mother River, O' Narayana. Love and pain made love to each other, O'Narayana. For once the tussle lilted to the world Ears, O' Narayana. The battle bold ensued for love of frightened souls, O' Narayana. Mother River reddened of horror old, O' Narayana. The girls arfight screamed at night of terror untold, Narayana. Ha our tale, woe our tale must not remain untold Narayana. For she our mother will curse our soul If the corpse unburied remained O'Narayana. Madhuri what price thy music Asks the Shudra old O' Narayana. For love of blood O'beloved mine Burst the cloud-vault of manna O' Narayana. With grinding teeth thou must not make music The creation symphony gala For labour of love are man and all beings O'Narayana. A game of dice was forbidden thee For one false throw has unloosed chaos sheer And there's no reining the carnage O'Narayana. Man after man unblooded And the last grain of patience strained out Cease quenching thy unseemly curiosity with man's blood. O Maker thy creatures screeching shrieking Make a din of the world Caco-caco, phoney, phoney Blood splatterd on the floor and wall. It does not behove thee O Narayana Make truce and cease now Washing the laundry of gods in our unholy blood. Drop a doleful tear for the laundress mother Beating her guts on the river bank The children be screaming their own little guts But the river of blood would cease not reddening The drink of life from the womb of holy River Mother. We love and revere thee O Holy Father Cast a glance down at our wormy world Look not askance or turn in disgust For who else we be but the children of thy loins father. The world was good that thou created Father Wherefore these oceans red? A desiccated tear into the overflown lotus of our heart Drop O' quivering flame of our eyes Satyanarayana. Be darned the maze of thy spider yarn Liberties countless shall we take With the last strand until man can count. There be no prayerless drought that beset the hearts down here It be a matter contrary if we state it thus We be drowning and dying now of overlove. Love thy god, love for thy god Kill and be killed O' crusader man. Until the victor, the last man standing Has lost all thou had gifted him Narayana. In the bounty of thy heart The red till this day Hastinapur Stood naked, orphaned, widowed Narayana. Thy church widowed, thy man naked propose a toast let us in the name of the glorious Rended lilting throats of the children and women Narayana. Women?-Mothers, sisters, wives The holiest of holy And reward of the sacred world of heroes war-scarred. Draupadi, Sita, and Mary Magdalen The skull too small to lodge the soul The echoes love lilting dying eternal Lullabying tales of terror sublime Julia Juliet July eternal O Lingaless tongue dripping red mother. And many as was the man acreate She sprang from the loins and rib O'Mother. Loving alot the lion her lord of harem Of den, domain, and Eden O'Mother Of ken, lane, plain, rain, Of mighty main and mane majestic O Mother Drooling, saliving in lanes and loins Lorn with lust loveless unbloodless Athirst unsalted liquidless for For lioness, the unantlered indiffrerented undifferentiated Mother Acreate divided the halved unsalved wounded awandered Mother Bodalisqued revered prostituted prostrated Strumpeted harlotized forwhored bejaded Brothelled bordelled estranged drivelled Commoned womaned walked paganed polecatted Ventured frigatted nightshaded nighttraded Flingdusted pleasured masqued vizarded Meretricianned marmalade-madammed Flingstinked shetraded dollcommonned Whetstonewhored Man-leeched mermaided nocturnalled bulkered strummed Visormasked highflyered mother. Marketdamed barberchaired barberchaired Girl-about-towned Mother. Screwed hacked loosevirtued trugmallioned Womantowned townmissed kennelnymphed loosefished Mother. paphianed cythereaned cyprianed Recievergeneralled dollymopped Mother. Hookered horsebreakered flaggered rollered Scuppered scrubbered Our Lady of Evening and Night Mother. Prosteyed prostied prosticuittoed Prossied prozzied prossed proed prodded probed poul-de-luxed The prince's palace of pleasure publicsectorized Mother. Dennedkennedpennedlanedlentrentrentsentpentpaintbentment Abetmentpresentment to all our crimes O'Mother. resentmentamendmenttenementattainment The plate scraped and off-dined Mother. Relentmentrelentlessprefermentpreponement The postponement of all predeterminatement Mother. Ointmentofall lointmet the loins of Lucifer's dethronement mother. Fallenmentpollenmentstolenment purloined mother. Brodelwomanned strangewomanned Catted puted polecatted stewpotted Mother. Causey-paikered streetwalkered hackstered twiggered Wistcoateered nightradered Our Lady of Pleasured Mother. Nightwalkered shetradered bulkered highflyered Generelgomorrhealreciever firedraker horsebreaker Mother. Hooker flagger roller pusher Scrupper scrubber goose of Winchester Mother. Commonwoman strangerwoman horebedabbed whorewoman Publicwoman stalewoman croshabel-lady bedabbled badlylabelled bordellwoman. Hackneywoman hackneywench hackneyedbuttocktown-woman Treadlebeadle marmalademadam Hacneylady mermaid dollcommon. Marketdame dollymops Queen's woman Our Lady of tears, Night, and evening Mother. Workinggirl streetgirl nightgirl motheatentom'sgirl Publicommoner our lady of customers Nightmoth hellworm hellmother Mother. She Mariabedecked highhollowcheeked Communitywelfare meretricious mother. Drabbed stale pugged pun Twopennyupright jailedmother Mother. carryknave fireship maux manleech In company of motherunaccompanied Mother. Kennelnymph Caucodette cocotte common Venereal splitarsed mechanic mother. Curtal yumyum-girl brassnail whiteslave Broadshawl soileddove geisha trollop unvirgined lady longlong dollops time ago. She don't come easy The easyvirtued one The Hussied-bussied sister Mother

My honied bunnied sissy O sister.

Lovelied bullied sillied killiied

My ribaldpallidsallied salad darling

Darlinged marlined saltlinged longlinged

Don't envy the fate of my beautiful darling.

Tied up like a woodoed doll

and raped against the wall my darling.

Other loins purloined the due of my loins

The salt of my eyes my Eden's apple

The little sisters' gutflinging mother my darling.

She died for shame in Solomon's lap

My wooden shodden well-trodden darling.

Tales of you go whispering through jungles

tingling through bay of shingles darling.

For a brief moment we pause to listen to the silence,straining to catch the notes of a faraway music. The drums beating so distant, the clouds thundering, you can see them a-coming from so far-far away. O Caecelia, you are hereby addresed again. Jingle the man without conviction. Every woman's lover, every person's and non-person's poet. The shape of a river, the face of a mirror. And if I am not you, blame it on the crack eternal in the receptacle that lets the shadow slide out and holds not well the liquid. An apt simile would be a man impotent. I am all silence and you must wring out the necessary sounds by thundering with exquisite fingers on the keys of my being. Who said a man cannot be a musical instrument and a woman a musician? The man who invented the old romantic cliche knew nothing about music, let alone seing it in its true essence.

Have you seen a woman unafraid of dying? Where does the absence of fear come from? It must have its origin somewhere. Then you also must have seen a man afraid of dying? Where does the fear come from now? It must have its origin somewhere too. So, they both have their origins and herefore, they both are-fear and its absence. Now what does it mean to say that something and its absence both exist? To say that absence exists. How can something, that is not, be? Now, I must admit that I can smell sophistry creeping in here. The mode of articulation of a few of these questions is inadvertently sophistical. And it is this inadvertence that has been the foe of man and philosophy. It depends on what you are asking and how you are asking.

They cannot both be-the something and its absence. If something is capable of being in its absence, then you must tell us what is being meant by that something. But there is also the obverse of it, that is, the mirror. Imagine our world as a labyrinth full of intertwiningly serpentine paths lined by mirrors. Now imagine two persons walking throuh the labyrinth. What one sees, the other doesnt, and vice-versa. But that does not make the seen unseen and the present absent. The soul, on the surface, is infinitely labyrinthine. Therefore what you divined in the other has gone unseen by himself. Therefore, it is not the end of the world, when what you divined within yourelf has too gone unseen by him. And when it has gone unseen once, it will never be seen again like the river that has flown and gone for once and all. A moment gone by never comes again, and something having been and dwelt in that moment is never the same again. No wonder then that the world's battlefield is a labyrinthine mirrored maze where the warriors are, have always been, and will always be tilting at no go windmills. History, human and philosophical, has adduced enough evidence for this hypothesisation of human destiny. And if one is to objectively infer from this labyrinth of a human locus, the same inferences can be drawn about all speculations regarding things metaphysical. Nay, we should rather say, especially regarding things metaphysical. We have failed miserably in the layer between the physical and the metaphysical, and sadly for us, in the ascending order. There have been greater battles lost to nature than victories won. The war overall tilts askewed for us. We will come back to the physical facet of this world to rebegin the investigation. We will probe for the spiritual mnalaise of the physical. The world as we make to inhabit it is not a shred more b eautiful than the world inhabited by our ancestors. How do we know? The spirit lives and constructs in the remembrance of past. And eschatological speculations forebode their worst in history. We have betrayed and been betrayed by them all-the physical, the real, and the metaphysical. The reflections multiply and the confusion grows in that order. A spiritual malady afflicts the world and the mirrors go on engendering truths and their reflections. A disorder of echoes reigns, and there's no denying and no asserting. All true in their own right and yet the sum of the parts never adds up. So all our exertion should aim at resting content with the human condition? But that is not to be. We are conditioned and destined to be restless. Truth is an insatiable seductress. Man must earn his bread in the sweat of his brow. He must breed with his kind nd populate the earth. And so he must go on multiplying the mirrors with their reflections. This is also the allegory of man's soul. For unsoul is the condition for belief in soul. Until the last link of the chain is not unbound, the being shall wander and groan in thraldom. Buddhists call it 'unatma'. There must not be a soul to be freed. And indeed there is none. And the labyrinth of mirrors is an optical illusion. The Hindus call it Maya. Instantaneous liberation, the chain broken, the labyrinth unwound, the serpent uncoiled. There is no separation between man and freedom. Man IS free. And that is the truth. But to know it we must hear. Hear with all our being. Hear what percolates and winds and echoes through every pore and hollow and bend of the labyrinth. It must be gone through wholeheartedly as a necessay rite because we do not know what the preconditions and causes are. Everyone beginning from their own unique poisition in the link. And it being a labyrinth of links, one should neither compare the position nor the nature of one's link with another's. It is enough to know that it is beyond us to fathom the interinkages of destinies. It is one destiny, multiple manifestations, incarnate lybarinthinally. It is one soul, the oversoul., undifferentiated. The feeling of individuation is a trick of Maya. And this is for the time being. We must await a longer period and go a further distance. The kaleidoscoping eplosion, ever expanding big bang.

A lot of preparation is required before the rug is pulled from under the feet. Disillusionment is the giving way of the ground. But this is a disillusionment in the real sense of the term. The stripping away of Maya. Truth in all its glorious emptiness. Misapprehend not this emptiness on account of your myopic prism. For lack of a better translation we call it Emptiness and, let us, therefore glorify it.

Unshodof her shroud

Unloved of her lust

Some phosphorus exercises for my brain.

So we tell of the underbelly of the world

The stenchful pool where lilies die

Of the foul vapors of the ghostly jungle

The lover weeds coil and twine and tangle

Around their beloved saplings

The paedophiliac cannibalistic monsters

Preying on the flesh of their own

The seed of their loins, blood of their blood

But for how long shall the predators gorge on others

The internecines shall turn on each other before long

And the survivor shall at last devour himself.

It cannot go on in thy world O Narayana

Cease thy seep of human blood o Narayana

Thou shall have created a creature pale bloodless

Like a sapling's milkwhite sap o Narayana

And then the sport of lover-beloved

Could go on forever

Even after the honeyed moon had hidden behind the clouds Narayana.

Drunk senseless on lunar love

The wolfmen grow deadlier every passing night Narayana.

How do you say you will save the souls of

The two litle girls now vulnerable motherless Narayana

Shall they also beat their guts on the bank of mother river?

But you will squeeze not much blood out of the two litle guts Narayana

The saplings must be let to grow into fullblooded young flesh Narayana

But sickly souls, their own or others'

Shall devour them before dawn Narayana.

I remember the tale of a twelve year old

Found dead and naked

At the edge of the town Narayana.

Let us skip the unseemly details

Of the rest of the story

Let it suffice

That the little mortal did not die

A destiny natural deserved by her untainted soul Narayana.

Let me add too

That the predator did not deserve the name

The name of a lion or vulture or scavenger Narayana

For thou had hollowed his old soul out

Before he could look

Towards where his destiny had b een carved and sealed

His heart with a glinting knife of steel

With an evil sparkle in thy eyes Narayana.

In the light of this tale now tell us o enlightened One

What do you wish done to the two little defenceless ones Narayana?

Do thou still wish the epic lay of evil to go on?

Mercy on the unknowing teller

Blame it Lord on his unseeing eyes

But beg and sing he must until alive

There be throbbing blood with soul aquiver in his life.

So ho our tale, woe our tale

It must go on till the end of our days Narayana.

The song of thirsty longings

Would not be quenched with sugared lies

A glimmer of thee

Nothing more nor less

Like a crystal honey drop

On the lips of my beloved Narayana.

Genteel be thy touch

On the cusp of my throbbing longings

Let me hide all in thy dewey mound

I shall cup thy hills

With all the love my lips can carry

Tonight I shall show thee How well these vampire lips

Can love thy nape, beloved.

Among the mists of the night And warm clouds,

Amidst the fetid waters of fearful jungles Exhaling vapors hot and sweet Intoxicating, Suffocating, I shall hide And bide my time.

I shall wait this night For the clouds to hit the moon

And vanish behind the snowy tufts of sky.

Then shall I rise In all my awful glory

And bare my teeth For thee, my beloved.

Thou shall know me by the glint in my eyes

And my blood-red lips And incisors snow-white, And the grin to send the chills Down down thy spine, my darling.

All these centuries

I've been drooling and salivating For the chance To sink my steely Glinting Wolfish teeth Into that shapely Ivory neck of thine, Silky smooth

And snowy soft.

Oh it makes me delirious And faint With delight and desire.

But it be no time To lose my senses And swoon away, Coz tonight is the night Having awaited the millenia Of writhing ache, I meet my darling.

So I must beware And watch out

Lest they steal her Or she slip away Like a never meant to be dream my darling.

Jonathan Harker's Journal

Early was Munich left

Vienna is awaited the morning next.

The train be an hour late

A wonderful place seems Budapest.

I missed Mina my darling.

Then hush and lovely came the nightfall

Full of full moon and stars sparkling bright

Hotel royale was our night halt

Served for supper

Chicken some way done with pepper Thanked be lord

I could make do with my German smatter

The dish was called peprika hendl.

Headed for the country of Transylvania

Close by the carpathian mountains

Of Bukovina and Moldavia,

The country of castle Dracula.

Wallachs and Magyars

Huns And Saxons

Szekelys and Dacians

Our citizen Carpathians

Form a curious mixture

Like any place and all populace where

Descendendants of Attila the Hun steer.

All the spirits of world are gathered

Into the Carpathian horse-shoe

If there ever was

A truly real whirlpool of horrors.

I must ask the Count

When I reach that castle of castles

Dracula Castle.

More paprika and porridge of maize flour

Mamaglia and impletata

Eggplant stuffed with forcemeat

And cooked for hours

A hurried breakfast and a rushed run to the train

Had to sit in the cariage on end for hours

Dawdling through a country beautiful

Little towns and castles on top of steep hills

Like made in missals old

Rivers and streams

With wide stony margins

To tide the ancient

Flowing floods cold.

Folks all in colorful attire

From France and Germany

In short jackets and old trousers

picturesque and pretty the women

Round hatted, big belted, and white sleeved

Something fluttering with a lot of strips

High booted, bras nailed

Heavy baggy leather belted

Barbarians and mistresses of some old

Oriental band of brigands.

My sleep was fitful that night

All sorts of queer dreams

A wolf howling under the moon light.

The paprika and carafe still hot in my belly

My sleep was thirstful for the strange

caresses of the night

Slept towards the morning as dawn

Crept up and knocked at my door.

The Eye of the Tiger

The universe has one eye

That sees all

Seen by none

Existential Insomnia

A sleepless night

Abnormal dreams

Howling wolves

Dark moon

Darker clouds

Burning innards

I was thirsty for the strange caresses

Of the night.

Fell asleep towards the morn

As the dawn curled and crawled

And crept up

Like white smoke

And knocked cheerless

At my door.

Nabokov’s Hellish Island

I remember the tale

Of a twelve year old

Found naked and dead

In the woods

On the edge of the town

Let us skip the unseemly details

Let it suffice

That the little mortal

Did not die a death

Deserved by her untainted soul

Let us also add

That the predator

Did not deserve the name

Of a lion or vulture or scavenger

For Thou had hollowed his soul out

Before he could look

Towards where his destiny

Had been carved and sealed

Like his heart

With a knife of glinting steel

For the cliffs, the cliffs

The cliffs of hell

Called had him away

Unshod of her shroud

Unloved of her lust

Don’t envy the fate of my beautiful darling

Tied up like a wooded doll

To her weeping cot

Raped against the wall.

Other loins purloined

The due of my loins my darling.

Orphans’ Mahabharata

The world without end

Traversed Thee

In steps thrice.

The two little sisters

Aborned of the orphaned

Widowed mother

Remembered

The pretty little doll’s house

With its small bright lamp.

Arjuna the archer great

Lost his courage

And the slippery eel vanished

Into the oceans great.

The two little sisters and Arjuna

Knew naught of each other

The two little sisters

In Nabokov’s hellish island

On time thrown away

Like husks to the wind.

Arjuna’s wounded light was salved by

Krishna, the rock of thy eye

But the glitter

Of the tussle

Of thy world

Blinded the two little ones.

And she

The little on e

Clutched the dirty hem

Of sister’s frock

And crawled down the craggy rocks

To Mother River

And the tussle of thy world

Glittered evermore

As the widowed mother

Beat her guts

On the rocky banks

Of the flowing Mother River

And the sisters shed salt tears

Down the tongue

Into the river

And the oceans vast

To perstruct thy exquisite pearls.

As the world without end

Thee traversed

In steps thrice.

Lovely were the tresses of mother

Of Mother River

Strangers to each other

Were Arjuna

And the sisters

And the tresses and tears

Both mingled

Into the rivers

And oceans

As the mother

With her two little daughters

Mourned by Mother River.

For once the insulted tale

Lilted to the World Ears

And he looked into the river

Reddened of horror old

The gils affright

Screamed at nights.

Ha our tale,

Woe our tale,

Must not remain untold

For she our mother

Will curse our soul

If the corpse were unburied left.

Creationism

Creationism angled

Bird dangling

Fuhrer infuriate

Blind design

Then

And then there is a certain relief

And why shouldn't there be?

To keep us going awhile.