conceptual eyes of the fish
forget to blink
yet red wishbones
light harbours with decrees
and
it feels alright in coming to terms
with wholesome rejections afresh
miasma and bread in a crowded bakery
and they say
familiarity builds indifference
a wall between touch and feel
between fragrance and smell
between uncertainties of comprehension
you will never know me
yet i stand looking through
your window at my face
undecided whether to shave
or let my shards grow
stab your depth
red and white
capricious eyes
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Bracketcity (Complete: unedited)
Mr. Bean said – Don’t beat around the bush, It’s a long night already, come to the point.
Can we truly reach a point?
I’ve looked at points closely and realized that
except the point itself everything else is beside the point.
So what’s the plan?
Where do we go from here?
Where do we find relevance? be counted?
such is the need for being relevant
even your inhibitions weep in allusions to loneliness
and to think these inchoate poems will
survive their travel through periphery
is
a
joke
i never cracked
but
is always on me
me is a toilet paper
good enough for
an arse and a reference
to an unbiased form of
entombed green memories
--do you remember
-- no I don’t
--it was there
--no it wasn’t
and paradigms of uncertain metaphors shift
to become local versions of
truth
sweet sweet truth
It’s one wonderful evening
it’s not the time to search for coherence in a pomegranate
wouldn’t you rather pick-up a date, drink martinis and listen to
older melodies—versatile enough to both sweep away
and secure the relevance of being naked
in parts
Bracketcity
Chiming sovereign beside nostalgia
Bracketcity throws its casts in water
To retrieve shapes of fish
And fish related thoughts
In these days of census
The forecast says-- it shall rain
Let it drizzle at the least in the confines of my senses
I wish good luck to the spilling consciousness
to the bees that hover but never
Settle on the spilling consciousness
-- y’all stay hearty and hale
I am in the mood to find out what happened to missing Sophocles
Relate it to the evening news
yet have to explain the shaved Padre
How consciousness is merely a reluctant religion
In a bitter-gourd farm
A stupid informant secretly asked
About the relationship between Batman & Mr. Bean
--
Relation !
Relation is a glass jar
Where a comprehensible ecosystem
Tumbles
Layer by layer
Becomes murky
Mr. Bean’s nose is cleaved clean off
By Robin of Sherwood
Robin’s throat is ripped apart
by Mr. Rambo
Mr. Rambo is snatched
By the talons of Rook the Arab
confessions of batman
Dig out silhouettes of Nicolai Gogol
In Rook’s cave
And Gogol returns with
Mr. Bean’s nose
Mr. Bean
--
Mr. Bean said--life comes a full circle
I am thinking--A circle is a denominator of my own loneliness
pervading through society and landscape
encompassing but leaving things alone to their own loneliness
A light separates time
A light extends time
An indifferent wick ; still
A necessary paper kite
The wind it carries
lights flicker
lights grow
So does my soliloquy
Hello pomegranate, hello loneliness, hello growing up, hello you absolute bracketcity
--
A Seasoned explorer arrives in bracketcity
Explorer
It’s my city
And my own hesitations
A sleepiness in a glass jar
See here the sorrows sleep
And units of sorrows float
When you want to get back
You will find walls with imprints of hand
Unbreakable walls whose sole purpose
Of survival is awaiting
a breach
Explorer
I would rather not enquire about
The meaning and source of celebrations on
this fall-day this spring-day
The paper kite that drifts away
Keeps track of all incidences of color
The light shrinks
The light intensifies
In the observatory
A knife is placed in
the folds of my hesitation and
the units of sorrows beckon
--
See these mournful wall-songs ! These were written for the sea-horses in 739 BC. The civilization was then dependent on the labours of sea-horses. They tilled the ocean floor, recycled nutrients. The Carthaginian fleet started a bio-war. They brought a ferocious species of Diatoms to these waters. These Diatoms released their hitherto-unknown neurotoxin and killed all the adult horses. In the dead pouches of male horses they infested the brains of new-born horses and turned them cannibal. After a thorough collaborative research that great mind Archimedes, Mozart and Mehdi Hassan composed these songs and implanted them in the vocal cord of dolphins. It’s said that these songs started a madness in the diatoms and forced them to commit suicide. However, according to Descartes, it’s wrong to associate complex behaviours such as madness and suicide—specific to complex animals like human, lemmings and female Indian elephants-- to Diatoms; a rather simple class of algae. Descartes believed these songs to be wave-based enzymes that dissolved the bonds between silicon dioxide, amino acids and complex carbohydrates in the diatom cell wall and killed them.
Sophocles was narrating. It was raining outside. Rain was steadily becoming a universe.
--
Daft and clever
Like a blinded metaphor
Bracketcity loiters along these plains
a host of ways travel to your happiness
like reconfirmed sense of security
like reminiscence
there was a theatre here
now there is a graveyard
once there were revolts
against revolts
now incandescent peacocks
roaming mildly pecking
crow-food
a vague smell of spent cartridges
hovers from the lake. Glimpse of a rickshaw
a slice of the begum-saheba
adam’s apple bobs
in this day of reminiscence
bracketcity shakes all the water off
--
Beside these writings my written feelings tremble
In these woods dense as friendship
The shadow-oriented poems tremble
Oh, I am truly well in the most descriptive manner
Beside my wellbeing my writings tremble
This is a documentary about a white and a dark world
Bracketcity, don’t you question the fallibility of my sense of seasons.
--
A change hits Bracketcity
An indefinite boundary
Is placed
A necessary breach
and
The soul of the boundary
The souls of breach
All compromises are getting accustomed to
flesh, season, ambition
in wrong but necessary solutions
Beside the train-track ropes and razors
Are turning opaque
Becoming usable
--
Then talk, -- like a confession
Talk as if it’s all about to end
Here is light and its utensils
Here is night and its utensils
Away, there goes night and light hand in hand
Their discarded utensils are turning ordinary
Turning into necessities
See this humble spoon of ours
Even if all ends
its waterstains will never be erased
--
Bracketcity, who am I
Whose ego & consolation
Whose inanimate stone & hammer
The more I impart distance
My mask resembles me more
Exactly like me it tolerates and
Sows feelings
Perhaps I realized wrongly
The light that belongs to a rally
Is identical to the light that belongs to an individual mask
or face – only they are produced in different ovens
Bracketcity,
These to and fro walks between mask and face
Have impaled me dead
on a slow and knotted venture
--
Mr. Bean said--
Go easy on these thoughts
as all they lead to is amassing
fear and paranoia
bracketshahar
my innards know – this testimony that
the stone yields to the hammer-
is a conspiracy
the stone yields to its own uncertainty
and the hammer yields to its elemental metaphor
Oh I truly believe everything is alive
including you, me, this poem, the stone,
the hammer
It's just that we don’t own a bulletin board
that floats
--
Mr. Bean said— You need to understand the other side. However futile it may be, the humane urge to define/make sense of anything and everything is imperative, despite the irresolution. This process eventually leads you to accept the futility but not without relevant questions. These questions redefine what you essentially are.
Copper flowers in the sepia-city
Bronze wheels
On a snowy day,
I am not thinking about a potter’s wheel
In terms of its heavy and balanced relevance
I am thinking about its infectious
Spatiality that follows no definition
Thinking about future of the wheel
Past of the wheel
Before the snowfall
After the snowfall
--
trappings are quite common in
this landscape
routinely evaluated
serene
hollow
yet
brimming with life
trapped
and the trapper never asks for
your ID
It's not the destination
but the framework of a sustainable prose.
avid ears
wet ideas
ambivalent
punctate words that
give shape to a cemetery
lingering in the shadow of
hallowed windows
--
Realizations come, sit on my bedside
And the air becomes opaque
Feelings fade
I wonder when Incidents
will attain fulfilment
like the scenes
--
Mr. Bean said--All realizations are interpretation of data acquired by your senses. Since, all senses are suspect, realizations attained through them are deemed uncertain, suspect.
Those indispensible errors
of kitchens brothels
were used to construct
the rules concepts
concept derived structures
and I have exposed my back to
sharp lances with no purpose in mind
I have noticed
Every single wound is different and distant
yet the inevitable tendency of
a wound is to attract other wounds and
construct a plurality
I have exposed my wounded back to
the sun
and adjacent to dusk a paranoid dawn rises
--
We were sad and satisfaction
did cast its shadow on us
On shed snake-skin
A deluded mongoose’s shadow
note this inchoate separating line
Its propensity moves so fast that
It seems stationary
This inchoate line casts its shadow
On my indivisibility
We stored our silence in a sand-clock
Our shadows did all the talking
--
“This is the sudden road to Rome whose Shadow builds a pavement/ it purges, it lurks in corners, it’s never shy of bereavement “—this song was composed by Rabindranath Tagore in 1922. City-lore says it was originally written by Kamal Chakrabarty in 2003 and Tagore, quite the far-seer, adopted the song in 1922. Colonialists vested a lot of interest in the Shadow and employed Jean-Luc Godard as its surveyor. In 1522, Godard made that memorable documentary on the eternally violent units of the Shadow – “Shadow building; a whispering art”—which is known as the first kaleidoscope ever made.
I saw the shadow yesterday – in a Fotoshop. It was wearing a young Macintosh. Yesterday, it didn’t rain anywhere in the world although repeated thunderclaps were broadcasted in Radio.
--
Eventually it all boils down to comprehension
even if you spell it all
it bothers at spots
marooned and wise
memories trying to decrypt their memories
I have spilled enough to know
no memory is worth courting, hanging
out with -- in a backyard sun
and then
there are memories that are
felled futures
a tea-cup that never went back to China
--
This city
will enable you to write
these green faces
percolating light through
green eyes
silent green words
leaching down
nourishing
dead plants
Hey dense and pedantic consciousness
I am not facile enough
To follow
Although my habits are facile
In their designs no pistons of light
Weave an incident
And they preach – O revered mundanity, O my true sanity
--
And the decanter and the decanter's metaphor and its vulnerability and its innerself sloshing at the hand's approach and the hand, its guarded manicure and the featureless hesitation travelling from the hand to the decanter and the sloshing innerself succumbing to the hand's lonliness and its nowheredom and the etymology of the inner sloshing and its despotic truewhereness and the mouth’s gullibility and…
--
Damn it Mr. Bean, It was never my ambition to write a memorable line, I just wanted to write a memorable pause.
Mr. Bean said--
It’s alright to feel cheated as this is the only emotion that truly is existential in principle. By the way, did you know that “morality” is a byproduct of the sense of being cheated.
I don’t understand purity
I know an allegiance
Whose innards are complex and eternally
Against demands and attractions of fundamentality
You who pray, you who preach—know this
My only allegiance is to the spatial, temporal, primal resistance of my headless body.
--
Yet you float your elemental belongingness in unknown water, yet you acquire newer fears, yet you go searching for avoidable traps, yet you learn to love the arena where you have tasted your gore, bile, soliloquy, pride, helplessness, your continuum … time and again…yet time and yet again…
Mr. Bean said –Epigenetic modifications are heritable changes that take place without altering the genetic sequence – your habits/surroundings may switch off/ on genes by just methylating or demethylating them...
and my fears now know-- I thought, so I became... yet time and yet again...
Oh how my fears inherit their fears...
--
It hurts ! This petulance
Mr. bean repeats – wisdom is the art of unlearning the obvious…
Fucked up, I am so fucked up…
He says: abandon this drama, theatrics
Come on !
How the fuck, do I unlearn my nourishments
my soul
That undulates on a fulcrum of
Non & Yon
bugger you and bugger all, Mr. Bean
--
Mr. Bean said-- Ignorance is the strongest force, beware.
Am I merely the interpretation of my own undiscovered coordinates?
An imperfection conjoins the values of this sublingual weather
My only regret is that I am forged to remember
Oh I figured out—to forget is to attain freedom in its truest
Let me appreciate a bronze-flower a flesh-flower
and their muted decorum
striving to bury
the immediate sense of necessity
Interpreting me through my follies
interpreting me through their follies
--
Baracketcity burns in its own desires
While I am trying to think—I am not apolitical as such,
Well, I am aware of the market politics concerning light & air, gender
And it makes me think—do my light & air, my gender
posses an awareness
Of me ?
Mr. Bean said—Politics is an organic interlude to an imposition of structure. Mind you, although the “imposition” inevitably looks for stability, the structure may turn out different -- decisive or dynamic.
I know an unstructured ruin; I know its passions and crimes
Through melodies and metaphors it has entered our mirrors
--
These streets you will walk again
Mr. Bean said-- seasons change, so do street signs
a teardrop on a copper jacket
a teardrop on a copperhead
once everything had a season
now a season has it all
--
Every season has its golden fool-house
Pompous bye-laws
Garish wish-halls
And total vanity
I’ve learnt about wishes
Whose prosaic forms are
the birthplaces of intensely adorned metaphors
Like a mention of the sky
without its tall trees
--
My knowledge is not shaped like me
My soul is not shaped like me
I can’t think of a poem without a soul
My poem is not like me
I intently observe the souls of my soliloquy
I steal those utterances make them mine
Yet none of them are like me
Bracketcity I have learned this much
My absence will hunt me out
My absence will hunt me down
--
I will walk these streets again
I know, the future
Of all these streets have walked through me
With their flora-fauna-water-air-land
With their desperations and hatred
With their reasons and garbage
A copperhead and its gold-wire-like
Malleable virtues
--
I don’t know about piety, virtues or religion
I just know about unpretentious questions
and their decors
whose perfume and glue ripple
in my mute balcony
see this earth that fruits on a tree
we know it as an orange
although its scent, fiber and juice remained
unused in metaphors
--
Bracketcity, ignorant as I am, it took me 37 years to realize, that you actually need an appropriate language of thought. And now I am dumbstruck by its implications, considering the empty graveyards where a language blossoms, its coherent fences, colors, strictures, variable degrees of freedoms….
--
The veritable fences and their
rogue signifiers
colors lapping colors
sounds chastising sounds
obdurate values hardly recognizable in
lengthy satin suits, funny hats
it’s a fair basically
an all night affair
carriages and their defined horses
rein
car
nation
everything is a necessity down here
even this perverse deployment of inevitability
--
Today’s reader is Piano Kumar, we will listen to his poems in this mild and mellow wine-isle. Our questions will churn his poetry from woodense to 100 years of Tsunami to derived honeycombs. Like any independent soul we obviously won’t want to copy his mild, subtle and telephonic style –we just want to listen to a neuron’s fill and get inebriated.
A mother sea-gull pushes her young from the chimney – the young’s flight, its everything…
--
Flight & flight’s fossil sibling
Gaps inundated in shadow & light
through yellow trellis
a hint flies quick, flickers away
yet its threads are shy and slow
How you remain healthy in the company of care
Sweaty sun
Youngish chill
Adjacent to these questions
Shoreless
I sit
Still
Shoreless
O enormous “sitting-alone” you are an incessant restlessness
Your periphery is adorned with flea markets, brothels, evening lights
My wellbeing heaps adjacent to your wellbeing
Satiety dissolves neurons
of my body rendered
headless by Gravity
claims of my belongings
are repudiated in leaves and waters
in heavy birthdays
A rejection is all I can carry for my
Itinerant entity, my artisan solitude
I’d rather not think about you
You are that indefinite edge
From where rivers return empty
In absence of stream and flow
my reflections turn droplet-centric
mass and wave
wave and velocity
wave momentum
momentum wave
mass and thought
thought and velocity
wave thought
thought wave
When I think of awakening
I think of sleep
At 12 a.m. in my coffee cup
I notice a 12 p.m.
Precipitates
Churns up
a December in a tropical bird sanctuary
On my earnest non-creation
Your chisel strikes
On this barren field
a hint of crops
on the edges of my cogitation
resistance of your thoughts
sparkle
--
Mr. Bean said—resistance is merely a closed door.
Beyond the closed door
you will find
a premonition of this door
breached
although a door is free from usual constraints
a room is not
so is reality
I have decided to cut reality some slack
Just can’t bear this moaning undercurrent
Sawing
ceaseless
I would pass through the winter
And winter would pass through me
It’s a deal
Where everybody wins
--
The concretion I’ve acquired
serially
this winter
that superfluous wholeness
has stabbed me weak
The prayers and confessions
Socionomic values of spending and tending
Midnight related darkness
In this peripheral world
of hesitations
(I’ve learnt about some subaltern Giraffes that in February full moon days dig trenches 18 feet deep on empty stomachs. When the moon rises they enter the trenches and start eating grass. A feature on the above matter was broadcasted on a popular NEWS channel on 18th February 2011. The new generations of diasporic Giraffes have welcomed this unique tradition and ecstatically termed it as revolutionary)
So, coming back to the point--
That superfluous wholeness
Has turned me into a wet hanky
The winter is over
A pussyface spring
And its green eye-shadow
arrives in bracketcity.
--
Bracketcity,
I feel all the shadows are
Addicted to a fall
From a four-storey window
a plunge is framed
A tiger roars in my eyes
A tiger roars in the gutter
Roars that are born in the mirrors
of our vertigo
A tiger roars
Framed on a fourth floor window
my contemplations
glow
ebb
glow
--
Tathagata said-- any matter is a condensed ore of a quality. Put this condesned quality in a gun’s breach and if the feeling that speeds from this gun has a minimum velocity of 344mts/sec—it can influence sound and meaning at ease.
This was the origin of materialism.
I couldn’t say—O Tathagata, I lack the inherent sound and meaning to get influenced and thus mold myself. I have lost it all in collective waters. The clocks that dissipated after they reached 3.00 a.m. were all my ancestors. They never had the velocity or the direction to influence, or the necessary sound or meaning to be influenced.
What I thought but couldn’t bring myself to say – was the origin of Idealism.
Water droplets lose their individual identity to unify and make a waterbody. The dragonfly that flickers playfully on a droplet turn engrossed contemplative on the waterbody for the purpose of laying eggs.
From the viewpoint of the waterbody – this is non-dualism
Dualism is prohibited in Bracketcity.
--
The rain thickens
The rain becomes a habit
The rain becomes a failure
These are the utterances of an unmade bed
that knows there is no one to make it
no hand will question the door
There is no handing over
a sleeve and an ace are the consolations of an escapist
Gloves are hanging from the door knocker
Fingers have escaped to the rain.
--
Mr. Bean said—can you really give shape to an idea unless it’s dead?
The light that passes you in an instant has
Never noticed you – don’t mind it
The slow and heavy light that
sticks with you is perilous
it turns into a sadist sculptor with
shadows in hand
intentionally forgets to build blood & sweat
These thoughts were against the land
In stoned waters prowls Picasso
Yesterday I had a chat with him
About conceptions
About a’priori knowledge
About post work rationalizations
About pre-intellectual feelings
About salivary glands
that spill over
in contact to both fragrance and stink
--
A long freight train is passing
Through my expressions
The freight train emanates an
Air of orange and tobacco
The abandoned encampments
Are getting drunk with the smell
They are transforming into gentle
& astonished expressions
This is the story of an interim balcony
that instigates the homely orchard to
become a cheer garden
peerless pompom
A pressure cooker’s whistle is drowning
The sounds of hatchets and prayers
Somewhere boiled pumpkin and bitter gourd
are turning violent
--
After the freight train and the kitchen
It’s time to come back to rain
It’s not raining now
There is no sun either
So there is no prospect of wetting
No prospect of drying up
Whatever is absent is the signifier
In the signified matters
Its cartoon essence is seen.
--
These are the woes of an incomplete window
That aspires to become an unmade bed
And unceasingly abrades itself towards opacity
The signs are slipping their necks into existence
Shards on their back weep
--
Bracketcity,
Fermented sounds make the truest wine
my inebriation sculpts a yoni
filled with meaning
and meaning is a snake that harbors
spent curiosity
curiosity lurks around a lyric-brothel
knocks on doors
and devoid of expression
enters into
experiment
teeth
knowledge
and
nothing is left behind
Yet we require
validated paths
fogs
corsets smelling of hospital
a monsoon
suspended between
two poles
--
And then the inspiration of a second storey turns into just another structure and a belated fruit sheds in spring. My intuitions, methods, inorganic textures turn dissolute. Somewhere a drowning language violently strokes a swimming lingo.
An exhibitionist seed lies dormant inside the fruit
An engaged apron –tireless inside the seed
An alert dusk in the apron signals-- it’s time
For the routine 9.30 crossing of the bridge
So, this is my language that adorns paint and grease grows mineral fruits and their thorns and turns desolate--turns into a measured pause. Deep inside me plumb-lines and trowels become redundant. Bracketcity, where would I bury my loss, the glow of my uncertain aesthetics? Values of my abrupt cognizance, my style of losing the battle – will they become a slowly decaying necessity under concrete and marble?
--
A jestist tiger in bracketcity and its
Pedantic strolling
The stone that crushes beliefs
turns porous and yellow with beliefs
pedantic roar fills its minute pores up
and all astonished feelings turn yellow
The yellow tiger is sitting on a yellow chignon
My yellow eyes forgot to blink
--
Between
Tools of sanctity in a broken mirror
And oxymoron of a kiss
A cul-de-sac is placed
Where fire-trucks do not enter
Vague smells of a flower market
a spring uncoils violently
in my sleep
a screwed-up spring bird
its shouts
wakes me up in a hurry
at 3.00 in the morning
love turns huge
in groaning glands
Oh, spend it down
Turn it mild
Make it a straight forward love
One love
--
I have never written a love poem nor I intend to write one all my life. I wrote the above portion on this assurance that it will transform itself into a love poem. Why write about it when you just could love.
I wrote the above lines
While thinking about a mouse-trap
that is separated from a mouse
its cheese and its reasons
distressed with the absence
An uninterpretation hides
Behind the intellect
Pokes its head in and out
Allures the trap
Just enough influence to
cover for the absence
--
And then I opened windows
Came out of conjectures
I saw nothing of import
I have made some dry acquaintances
No embrace to halt a track
“Going” itself has gone afar
Hand in hand with my heart
vision is not enough to build
enough salt for wounds
--
I come back to my salts
I see direction and chaos sitting together
A heavy night descends
The door-hinges fall asleep
I peel all the inertia from my fingers
Put it on white china
Make it valuable
Then sun rises
My reflection enters
Sounds of light splashing
Oh, his expressions
Where did he find them so easy?
All the elements return
So does Maya
--
Behind Maya you hide your watch
And exclaim--“no road can come out of this”
True, no road is a road if it doesn’t return
A caterpillar plays with caution
A bell chimes
And the nature is foiled inside a leaf
These all are self criticisms of a metaphor
Who knows-- no language is articulate enough
to mean.
--
In exchange for Artha
Will tolerate anything--
an enema, a prostate exam
affordable healthcare in a third world country
-- Then only it can be a language
When you shake the validated potholes
You find a path or two in them
The paths that descend inside relations
Inside agony
And no word remains left
to reach you to a definite subject
--
Such are tangible alternatives
of reality
A footbridge hibernating
among detonations
distorted spaces among continuum of confusion
scared shitless of their own images
portrayed in tireless museums
hugging themselves
And here you are
Worried about your forgotten medication
--
You will be unable to hold yourself
you will open your kernel, Smiling
run playfully towards denial
A pellucid sky hovers on the hospital
A transparence looms
Feelings have set their traps
They await you
No shape exists today
No shapeless
From neurons to glands
Only a movement back-n-forth
And floating over this movement
Expressions flutter
--
There is time
You may think about anticipation
There is no need to think about its limit
A limit is capable of taking care of itself
Inside the structure of a phallus
Mercury rises
and falls
learns all there is to love
and is there a limit to love ?
you may think about
how you may attack
thorny bushes with
your tongue
snatch away its language of silence
You may think about suspicions
And their renewal
Or
You can witness from a distance
How a language loses its gait
Kneeling down
Bites a shudder
--
So healthy and coherent becomes expression
That exception seems like an erroneous window
Yesterday it flowered
Today the garden will walk towards rain
It is a perfectly foiled edge
A desirable monotony
Don’t you sit on the edge
A query may lengthen its reach
Explanations may want to get evaluated
A plunge is all it takes
It’s easy to be in center and watch
How a perfectly believable smile
Runs toward skeptic lips
A dawn emanates from the bed-room
Yellow and fragile become shadows
A rehearsal into fulfillment
Is turning transparent
A dawn is what it takes for questions to dissolve
--
Mr. Bean said—Ask questions if you may, but never seek an answer, every answer is a trap
And then there are illusions
every illusion needs a face
a decapitated body does not exude transparency
It's a slow winter
we talk more about
the nature of stories
appropriate for a winter like this
about coiled springs
emotions
a distant frozen harbor
dead images of dead ships
buoyed up to float
buoyed up to last
we wonder if transparency
is truly a reflection that beams with a certain sense of assurance
I don't have much problem with my transparency then
It’s one gorgeous winter
for a springloader
in search of strategic structures
immortal faces
that came out to bask in
paltry sun
--
O absolute Pomegranate, what is ignorance ?
--Ignorance is a fog
O absolute Pomegranate, what is knowledge ?
--Knowledge is a fog
O absolute Pomegranate, then what is the difference between ignorance and knowledge ?
--Ignorance has an inherent darkness. Knowledge has an inherent light that is incapable of penetrating the fog. Acquiring this light is the only purpose. This is the light that truly is unusable.
A dawn descends on bracketcity
Efforts and Karma move
In orchards or in stalls
no fruit remains left
Whatever is absent is the signifier; in a signified matter a desire for it is seen.
Can we truly reach a point?
I’ve looked at points closely and realized that
except the point itself everything else is beside the point.
So what’s the plan?
Where do we go from here?
Where do we find relevance? be counted?
such is the need for being relevant
even your inhibitions weep in allusions to loneliness
and to think these inchoate poems will
survive their travel through periphery
is
a
joke
i never cracked
but
is always on me
me is a toilet paper
good enough for
an arse and a reference
to an unbiased form of
entombed green memories
--do you remember
-- no I don’t
--it was there
--no it wasn’t
and paradigms of uncertain metaphors shift
to become local versions of
truth
sweet sweet truth
It’s one wonderful evening
it’s not the time to search for coherence in a pomegranate
wouldn’t you rather pick-up a date, drink martinis and listen to
older melodies—versatile enough to both sweep away
and secure the relevance of being naked
in parts
Bracketcity
Chiming sovereign beside nostalgia
Bracketcity throws its casts in water
To retrieve shapes of fish
And fish related thoughts
In these days of census
The forecast says-- it shall rain
Let it drizzle at the least in the confines of my senses
I wish good luck to the spilling consciousness
to the bees that hover but never
Settle on the spilling consciousness
-- y’all stay hearty and hale
I am in the mood to find out what happened to missing Sophocles
Relate it to the evening news
yet have to explain the shaved Padre
How consciousness is merely a reluctant religion
In a bitter-gourd farm
A stupid informant secretly asked
About the relationship between Batman & Mr. Bean
--
Relation !
Relation is a glass jar
Where a comprehensible ecosystem
Tumbles
Layer by layer
Becomes murky
Mr. Bean’s nose is cleaved clean off
By Robin of Sherwood
Robin’s throat is ripped apart
by Mr. Rambo
Mr. Rambo is snatched
By the talons of Rook the Arab
confessions of batman
Dig out silhouettes of Nicolai Gogol
In Rook’s cave
And Gogol returns with
Mr. Bean’s nose
Mr. Bean
--
Mr. Bean said--life comes a full circle
I am thinking--A circle is a denominator of my own loneliness
pervading through society and landscape
encompassing but leaving things alone to their own loneliness
A light separates time
A light extends time
An indifferent wick ; still
A necessary paper kite
The wind it carries
lights flicker
lights grow
So does my soliloquy
Hello pomegranate, hello loneliness, hello growing up, hello you absolute bracketcity
--
A Seasoned explorer arrives in bracketcity
Explorer
It’s my city
And my own hesitations
A sleepiness in a glass jar
See here the sorrows sleep
And units of sorrows float
When you want to get back
You will find walls with imprints of hand
Unbreakable walls whose sole purpose
Of survival is awaiting
a breach
Explorer
I would rather not enquire about
The meaning and source of celebrations on
this fall-day this spring-day
The paper kite that drifts away
Keeps track of all incidences of color
The light shrinks
The light intensifies
In the observatory
A knife is placed in
the folds of my hesitation and
the units of sorrows beckon
--
See these mournful wall-songs ! These were written for the sea-horses in 739 BC. The civilization was then dependent on the labours of sea-horses. They tilled the ocean floor, recycled nutrients. The Carthaginian fleet started a bio-war. They brought a ferocious species of Diatoms to these waters. These Diatoms released their hitherto-unknown neurotoxin and killed all the adult horses. In the dead pouches of male horses they infested the brains of new-born horses and turned them cannibal. After a thorough collaborative research that great mind Archimedes, Mozart and Mehdi Hassan composed these songs and implanted them in the vocal cord of dolphins. It’s said that these songs started a madness in the diatoms and forced them to commit suicide. However, according to Descartes, it’s wrong to associate complex behaviours such as madness and suicide—specific to complex animals like human, lemmings and female Indian elephants-- to Diatoms; a rather simple class of algae. Descartes believed these songs to be wave-based enzymes that dissolved the bonds between silicon dioxide, amino acids and complex carbohydrates in the diatom cell wall and killed them.
Sophocles was narrating. It was raining outside. Rain was steadily becoming a universe.
--
Daft and clever
Like a blinded metaphor
Bracketcity loiters along these plains
a host of ways travel to your happiness
like reconfirmed sense of security
like reminiscence
there was a theatre here
now there is a graveyard
once there were revolts
against revolts
now incandescent peacocks
roaming mildly pecking
crow-food
a vague smell of spent cartridges
hovers from the lake. Glimpse of a rickshaw
a slice of the begum-saheba
adam’s apple bobs
in this day of reminiscence
bracketcity shakes all the water off
--
Beside these writings my written feelings tremble
In these woods dense as friendship
The shadow-oriented poems tremble
Oh, I am truly well in the most descriptive manner
Beside my wellbeing my writings tremble
This is a documentary about a white and a dark world
Bracketcity, don’t you question the fallibility of my sense of seasons.
--
A change hits Bracketcity
An indefinite boundary
Is placed
A necessary breach
and
The soul of the boundary
The souls of breach
All compromises are getting accustomed to
flesh, season, ambition
in wrong but necessary solutions
Beside the train-track ropes and razors
Are turning opaque
Becoming usable
--
Then talk, -- like a confession
Talk as if it’s all about to end
Here is light and its utensils
Here is night and its utensils
Away, there goes night and light hand in hand
Their discarded utensils are turning ordinary
Turning into necessities
See this humble spoon of ours
Even if all ends
its waterstains will never be erased
--
Bracketcity, who am I
Whose ego & consolation
Whose inanimate stone & hammer
The more I impart distance
My mask resembles me more
Exactly like me it tolerates and
Sows feelings
Perhaps I realized wrongly
The light that belongs to a rally
Is identical to the light that belongs to an individual mask
or face – only they are produced in different ovens
Bracketcity,
These to and fro walks between mask and face
Have impaled me dead
on a slow and knotted venture
--
Mr. Bean said--
Go easy on these thoughts
as all they lead to is amassing
fear and paranoia
bracketshahar
my innards know – this testimony that
the stone yields to the hammer-
is a conspiracy
the stone yields to its own uncertainty
and the hammer yields to its elemental metaphor
Oh I truly believe everything is alive
including you, me, this poem, the stone,
the hammer
It's just that we don’t own a bulletin board
that floats
--
Mr. Bean said— You need to understand the other side. However futile it may be, the humane urge to define/make sense of anything and everything is imperative, despite the irresolution. This process eventually leads you to accept the futility but not without relevant questions. These questions redefine what you essentially are.
Copper flowers in the sepia-city
Bronze wheels
On a snowy day,
I am not thinking about a potter’s wheel
In terms of its heavy and balanced relevance
I am thinking about its infectious
Spatiality that follows no definition
Thinking about future of the wheel
Past of the wheel
Before the snowfall
After the snowfall
--
trappings are quite common in
this landscape
routinely evaluated
serene
hollow
yet
brimming with life
trapped
and the trapper never asks for
your ID
It's not the destination
but the framework of a sustainable prose.
avid ears
wet ideas
ambivalent
punctate words that
give shape to a cemetery
lingering in the shadow of
hallowed windows
--
Realizations come, sit on my bedside
And the air becomes opaque
Feelings fade
I wonder when Incidents
will attain fulfilment
like the scenes
--
Mr. Bean said--All realizations are interpretation of data acquired by your senses. Since, all senses are suspect, realizations attained through them are deemed uncertain, suspect.
Those indispensible errors
of kitchens brothels
were used to construct
the rules concepts
concept derived structures
and I have exposed my back to
sharp lances with no purpose in mind
I have noticed
Every single wound is different and distant
yet the inevitable tendency of
a wound is to attract other wounds and
construct a plurality
I have exposed my wounded back to
the sun
and adjacent to dusk a paranoid dawn rises
--
We were sad and satisfaction
did cast its shadow on us
On shed snake-skin
A deluded mongoose’s shadow
note this inchoate separating line
Its propensity moves so fast that
It seems stationary
This inchoate line casts its shadow
On my indivisibility
We stored our silence in a sand-clock
Our shadows did all the talking
--
“This is the sudden road to Rome whose Shadow builds a pavement/ it purges, it lurks in corners, it’s never shy of bereavement “—this song was composed by Rabindranath Tagore in 1922. City-lore says it was originally written by Kamal Chakrabarty in 2003 and Tagore, quite the far-seer, adopted the song in 1922. Colonialists vested a lot of interest in the Shadow and employed Jean-Luc Godard as its surveyor. In 1522, Godard made that memorable documentary on the eternally violent units of the Shadow – “Shadow building; a whispering art”—which is known as the first kaleidoscope ever made.
I saw the shadow yesterday – in a Fotoshop. It was wearing a young Macintosh. Yesterday, it didn’t rain anywhere in the world although repeated thunderclaps were broadcasted in Radio.
--
Eventually it all boils down to comprehension
even if you spell it all
it bothers at spots
marooned and wise
memories trying to decrypt their memories
I have spilled enough to know
no memory is worth courting, hanging
out with -- in a backyard sun
and then
there are memories that are
felled futures
a tea-cup that never went back to China
--
This city
will enable you to write
these green faces
percolating light through
green eyes
silent green words
leaching down
nourishing
dead plants
Hey dense and pedantic consciousness
I am not facile enough
To follow
Although my habits are facile
In their designs no pistons of light
Weave an incident
And they preach – O revered mundanity, O my true sanity
--
And the decanter and the decanter's metaphor and its vulnerability and its innerself sloshing at the hand's approach and the hand, its guarded manicure and the featureless hesitation travelling from the hand to the decanter and the sloshing innerself succumbing to the hand's lonliness and its nowheredom and the etymology of the inner sloshing and its despotic truewhereness and the mouth’s gullibility and…
--
Damn it Mr. Bean, It was never my ambition to write a memorable line, I just wanted to write a memorable pause.
Mr. Bean said--
It’s alright to feel cheated as this is the only emotion that truly is existential in principle. By the way, did you know that “morality” is a byproduct of the sense of being cheated.
I don’t understand purity
I know an allegiance
Whose innards are complex and eternally
Against demands and attractions of fundamentality
You who pray, you who preach—know this
My only allegiance is to the spatial, temporal, primal resistance of my headless body.
--
Yet you float your elemental belongingness in unknown water, yet you acquire newer fears, yet you go searching for avoidable traps, yet you learn to love the arena where you have tasted your gore, bile, soliloquy, pride, helplessness, your continuum … time and again…yet time and yet again…
Mr. Bean said –Epigenetic modifications are heritable changes that take place without altering the genetic sequence – your habits/surroundings may switch off/ on genes by just methylating or demethylating them...
and my fears now know-- I thought, so I became... yet time and yet again...
Oh how my fears inherit their fears...
--
It hurts ! This petulance
Mr. bean repeats – wisdom is the art of unlearning the obvious…
Fucked up, I am so fucked up…
He says: abandon this drama, theatrics
Come on !
How the fuck, do I unlearn my nourishments
my soul
That undulates on a fulcrum of
Non & Yon
bugger you and bugger all, Mr. Bean
--
Mr. Bean said-- Ignorance is the strongest force, beware.
Am I merely the interpretation of my own undiscovered coordinates?
An imperfection conjoins the values of this sublingual weather
My only regret is that I am forged to remember
Oh I figured out—to forget is to attain freedom in its truest
Let me appreciate a bronze-flower a flesh-flower
and their muted decorum
striving to bury
the immediate sense of necessity
Interpreting me through my follies
interpreting me through their follies
--
Baracketcity burns in its own desires
While I am trying to think—I am not apolitical as such,
Well, I am aware of the market politics concerning light & air, gender
And it makes me think—do my light & air, my gender
posses an awareness
Of me ?
Mr. Bean said—Politics is an organic interlude to an imposition of structure. Mind you, although the “imposition” inevitably looks for stability, the structure may turn out different -- decisive or dynamic.
I know an unstructured ruin; I know its passions and crimes
Through melodies and metaphors it has entered our mirrors
--
These streets you will walk again
Mr. Bean said-- seasons change, so do street signs
a teardrop on a copper jacket
a teardrop on a copperhead
once everything had a season
now a season has it all
--
Every season has its golden fool-house
Pompous bye-laws
Garish wish-halls
And total vanity
I’ve learnt about wishes
Whose prosaic forms are
the birthplaces of intensely adorned metaphors
Like a mention of the sky
without its tall trees
--
My knowledge is not shaped like me
My soul is not shaped like me
I can’t think of a poem without a soul
My poem is not like me
I intently observe the souls of my soliloquy
I steal those utterances make them mine
Yet none of them are like me
Bracketcity I have learned this much
My absence will hunt me out
My absence will hunt me down
--
I will walk these streets again
I know, the future
Of all these streets have walked through me
With their flora-fauna-water-air-land
With their desperations and hatred
With their reasons and garbage
A copperhead and its gold-wire-like
Malleable virtues
--
I don’t know about piety, virtues or religion
I just know about unpretentious questions
and their decors
whose perfume and glue ripple
in my mute balcony
see this earth that fruits on a tree
we know it as an orange
although its scent, fiber and juice remained
unused in metaphors
--
Bracketcity, ignorant as I am, it took me 37 years to realize, that you actually need an appropriate language of thought. And now I am dumbstruck by its implications, considering the empty graveyards where a language blossoms, its coherent fences, colors, strictures, variable degrees of freedoms….
--
The veritable fences and their
rogue signifiers
colors lapping colors
sounds chastising sounds
obdurate values hardly recognizable in
lengthy satin suits, funny hats
it’s a fair basically
an all night affair
carriages and their defined horses
rein
car
nation
everything is a necessity down here
even this perverse deployment of inevitability
--
Today’s reader is Piano Kumar, we will listen to his poems in this mild and mellow wine-isle. Our questions will churn his poetry from woodense to 100 years of Tsunami to derived honeycombs. Like any independent soul we obviously won’t want to copy his mild, subtle and telephonic style –we just want to listen to a neuron’s fill and get inebriated.
A mother sea-gull pushes her young from the chimney – the young’s flight, its everything…
--
Flight & flight’s fossil sibling
Gaps inundated in shadow & light
through yellow trellis
a hint flies quick, flickers away
yet its threads are shy and slow
How you remain healthy in the company of care
Sweaty sun
Youngish chill
Adjacent to these questions
Shoreless
I sit
Still
Shoreless
O enormous “sitting-alone” you are an incessant restlessness
Your periphery is adorned with flea markets, brothels, evening lights
My wellbeing heaps adjacent to your wellbeing
Satiety dissolves neurons
of my body rendered
headless by Gravity
claims of my belongings
are repudiated in leaves and waters
in heavy birthdays
A rejection is all I can carry for my
Itinerant entity, my artisan solitude
I’d rather not think about you
You are that indefinite edge
From where rivers return empty
In absence of stream and flow
my reflections turn droplet-centric
mass and wave
wave and velocity
wave momentum
momentum wave
mass and thought
thought and velocity
wave thought
thought wave
When I think of awakening
I think of sleep
At 12 a.m. in my coffee cup
I notice a 12 p.m.
Precipitates
Churns up
a December in a tropical bird sanctuary
On my earnest non-creation
Your chisel strikes
On this barren field
a hint of crops
on the edges of my cogitation
resistance of your thoughts
sparkle
--
Mr. Bean said—resistance is merely a closed door.
Beyond the closed door
you will find
a premonition of this door
breached
although a door is free from usual constraints
a room is not
so is reality
I have decided to cut reality some slack
Just can’t bear this moaning undercurrent
Sawing
ceaseless
I would pass through the winter
And winter would pass through me
It’s a deal
Where everybody wins
--
The concretion I’ve acquired
serially
this winter
that superfluous wholeness
has stabbed me weak
The prayers and confessions
Socionomic values of spending and tending
Midnight related darkness
In this peripheral world
of hesitations
(I’ve learnt about some subaltern Giraffes that in February full moon days dig trenches 18 feet deep on empty stomachs. When the moon rises they enter the trenches and start eating grass. A feature on the above matter was broadcasted on a popular NEWS channel on 18th February 2011. The new generations of diasporic Giraffes have welcomed this unique tradition and ecstatically termed it as revolutionary)
So, coming back to the point--
That superfluous wholeness
Has turned me into a wet hanky
The winter is over
A pussyface spring
And its green eye-shadow
arrives in bracketcity.
--
Bracketcity,
I feel all the shadows are
Addicted to a fall
From a four-storey window
a plunge is framed
A tiger roars in my eyes
A tiger roars in the gutter
Roars that are born in the mirrors
of our vertigo
A tiger roars
Framed on a fourth floor window
my contemplations
glow
ebb
glow
--
Tathagata said-- any matter is a condensed ore of a quality. Put this condesned quality in a gun’s breach and if the feeling that speeds from this gun has a minimum velocity of 344mts/sec—it can influence sound and meaning at ease.
This was the origin of materialism.
I couldn’t say—O Tathagata, I lack the inherent sound and meaning to get influenced and thus mold myself. I have lost it all in collective waters. The clocks that dissipated after they reached 3.00 a.m. were all my ancestors. They never had the velocity or the direction to influence, or the necessary sound or meaning to be influenced.
What I thought but couldn’t bring myself to say – was the origin of Idealism.
Water droplets lose their individual identity to unify and make a waterbody. The dragonfly that flickers playfully on a droplet turn engrossed contemplative on the waterbody for the purpose of laying eggs.
From the viewpoint of the waterbody – this is non-dualism
Dualism is prohibited in Bracketcity.
--
The rain thickens
The rain becomes a habit
The rain becomes a failure
These are the utterances of an unmade bed
that knows there is no one to make it
no hand will question the door
There is no handing over
a sleeve and an ace are the consolations of an escapist
Gloves are hanging from the door knocker
Fingers have escaped to the rain.
--
Mr. Bean said—can you really give shape to an idea unless it’s dead?
The light that passes you in an instant has
Never noticed you – don’t mind it
The slow and heavy light that
sticks with you is perilous
it turns into a sadist sculptor with
shadows in hand
intentionally forgets to build blood & sweat
These thoughts were against the land
In stoned waters prowls Picasso
Yesterday I had a chat with him
About conceptions
About a’priori knowledge
About post work rationalizations
About pre-intellectual feelings
About salivary glands
that spill over
in contact to both fragrance and stink
--
A long freight train is passing
Through my expressions
The freight train emanates an
Air of orange and tobacco
The abandoned encampments
Are getting drunk with the smell
They are transforming into gentle
& astonished expressions
This is the story of an interim balcony
that instigates the homely orchard to
become a cheer garden
peerless pompom
A pressure cooker’s whistle is drowning
The sounds of hatchets and prayers
Somewhere boiled pumpkin and bitter gourd
are turning violent
--
After the freight train and the kitchen
It’s time to come back to rain
It’s not raining now
There is no sun either
So there is no prospect of wetting
No prospect of drying up
Whatever is absent is the signifier
In the signified matters
Its cartoon essence is seen.
--
These are the woes of an incomplete window
That aspires to become an unmade bed
And unceasingly abrades itself towards opacity
The signs are slipping their necks into existence
Shards on their back weep
--
Bracketcity,
Fermented sounds make the truest wine
my inebriation sculpts a yoni
filled with meaning
and meaning is a snake that harbors
spent curiosity
curiosity lurks around a lyric-brothel
knocks on doors
and devoid of expression
enters into
experiment
teeth
knowledge
and
nothing is left behind
Yet we require
validated paths
fogs
corsets smelling of hospital
a monsoon
suspended between
two poles
--
And then the inspiration of a second storey turns into just another structure and a belated fruit sheds in spring. My intuitions, methods, inorganic textures turn dissolute. Somewhere a drowning language violently strokes a swimming lingo.
An exhibitionist seed lies dormant inside the fruit
An engaged apron –tireless inside the seed
An alert dusk in the apron signals-- it’s time
For the routine 9.30 crossing of the bridge
So, this is my language that adorns paint and grease grows mineral fruits and their thorns and turns desolate--turns into a measured pause. Deep inside me plumb-lines and trowels become redundant. Bracketcity, where would I bury my loss, the glow of my uncertain aesthetics? Values of my abrupt cognizance, my style of losing the battle – will they become a slowly decaying necessity under concrete and marble?
--
A jestist tiger in bracketcity and its
Pedantic strolling
The stone that crushes beliefs
turns porous and yellow with beliefs
pedantic roar fills its minute pores up
and all astonished feelings turn yellow
The yellow tiger is sitting on a yellow chignon
My yellow eyes forgot to blink
--
Between
Tools of sanctity in a broken mirror
And oxymoron of a kiss
A cul-de-sac is placed
Where fire-trucks do not enter
Vague smells of a flower market
a spring uncoils violently
in my sleep
a screwed-up spring bird
its shouts
wakes me up in a hurry
at 3.00 in the morning
love turns huge
in groaning glands
Oh, spend it down
Turn it mild
Make it a straight forward love
One love
--
I have never written a love poem nor I intend to write one all my life. I wrote the above portion on this assurance that it will transform itself into a love poem. Why write about it when you just could love.
I wrote the above lines
While thinking about a mouse-trap
that is separated from a mouse
its cheese and its reasons
distressed with the absence
An uninterpretation hides
Behind the intellect
Pokes its head in and out
Allures the trap
Just enough influence to
cover for the absence
--
And then I opened windows
Came out of conjectures
I saw nothing of import
I have made some dry acquaintances
No embrace to halt a track
“Going” itself has gone afar
Hand in hand with my heart
vision is not enough to build
enough salt for wounds
--
I come back to my salts
I see direction and chaos sitting together
A heavy night descends
The door-hinges fall asleep
I peel all the inertia from my fingers
Put it on white china
Make it valuable
Then sun rises
My reflection enters
Sounds of light splashing
Oh, his expressions
Where did he find them so easy?
All the elements return
So does Maya
--
Behind Maya you hide your watch
And exclaim--“no road can come out of this”
True, no road is a road if it doesn’t return
A caterpillar plays with caution
A bell chimes
And the nature is foiled inside a leaf
These all are self criticisms of a metaphor
Who knows-- no language is articulate enough
to mean.
--
In exchange for Artha
Will tolerate anything--
an enema, a prostate exam
affordable healthcare in a third world country
-- Then only it can be a language
When you shake the validated potholes
You find a path or two in them
The paths that descend inside relations
Inside agony
And no word remains left
to reach you to a definite subject
--
Such are tangible alternatives
of reality
A footbridge hibernating
among detonations
distorted spaces among continuum of confusion
scared shitless of their own images
portrayed in tireless museums
hugging themselves
And here you are
Worried about your forgotten medication
--
You will be unable to hold yourself
you will open your kernel, Smiling
run playfully towards denial
A pellucid sky hovers on the hospital
A transparence looms
Feelings have set their traps
They await you
No shape exists today
No shapeless
From neurons to glands
Only a movement back-n-forth
And floating over this movement
Expressions flutter
--
There is time
You may think about anticipation
There is no need to think about its limit
A limit is capable of taking care of itself
Inside the structure of a phallus
Mercury rises
and falls
learns all there is to love
and is there a limit to love ?
you may think about
how you may attack
thorny bushes with
your tongue
snatch away its language of silence
You may think about suspicions
And their renewal
Or
You can witness from a distance
How a language loses its gait
Kneeling down
Bites a shudder
--
So healthy and coherent becomes expression
That exception seems like an erroneous window
Yesterday it flowered
Today the garden will walk towards rain
It is a perfectly foiled edge
A desirable monotony
Don’t you sit on the edge
A query may lengthen its reach
Explanations may want to get evaluated
A plunge is all it takes
It’s easy to be in center and watch
How a perfectly believable smile
Runs toward skeptic lips
A dawn emanates from the bed-room
Yellow and fragile become shadows
A rehearsal into fulfillment
Is turning transparent
A dawn is what it takes for questions to dissolve
--
Mr. Bean said—Ask questions if you may, but never seek an answer, every answer is a trap
And then there are illusions
every illusion needs a face
a decapitated body does not exude transparency
It's a slow winter
we talk more about
the nature of stories
appropriate for a winter like this
about coiled springs
emotions
a distant frozen harbor
dead images of dead ships
buoyed up to float
buoyed up to last
we wonder if transparency
is truly a reflection that beams with a certain sense of assurance
I don't have much problem with my transparency then
It’s one gorgeous winter
for a springloader
in search of strategic structures
immortal faces
that came out to bask in
paltry sun
--
O absolute Pomegranate, what is ignorance ?
--Ignorance is a fog
O absolute Pomegranate, what is knowledge ?
--Knowledge is a fog
O absolute Pomegranate, then what is the difference between ignorance and knowledge ?
--Ignorance has an inherent darkness. Knowledge has an inherent light that is incapable of penetrating the fog. Acquiring this light is the only purpose. This is the light that truly is unusable.
A dawn descends on bracketcity
Efforts and Karma move
In orchards or in stalls
no fruit remains left
Whatever is absent is the signifier; in a signified matter a desire for it is seen.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)