in honesty,

can we not all see what is happening,

just we open these eyes?

the hypnotic spell of this modernity,

the egalitarian and solidaric idealism,

the sisyphean task of equalling every human life standard,

this collapsing experiment; the incorrigible failures of its predictions,

its idealistic sophistry as methodology

and the apparent dissatisfaction and embarassment of outcome,

surely must be harrowing to us all? just we looked.

life is weird and mysterious,

i burned myself on gods' stove ---

now i try to alm the burning sensation

with the aloe vera of self-deceit.

revised dhumavati intro #3

my attack withstands; my storms endure;

the trebuchets hurl, the walls collapse ---

i am a conqueror with the nimbus of smoke;

i hold the staff that shoot panspermia into the burning galaxies;

my breath is the burning mist and my weapon, Asura-forged...

welcome, prince of rape and ruin...

day, night, my siege unrelenting...

emotional war of attrition against the way stronger enemy;

but my hostile neutrality; my victimless terror;

my kalasjnikovs shooting blanks like failed men

and my bleak indifference towards the world

will shiver my enemies with trepidation,

for i am the sorrow of Dhumavati,

and i wish to be to my own sensibilities, urges,

weaknesses and temptations,

what Kali is to Shiva;

consort; lover; friend; advicer ---

but never ever subordinate:

hand in hand I have leapt over small rivers and climbed hillocks with the beautiful woman, the woman inside me, anima --- I have called her Vasilisa, or Lalleshwari, or Enheduanna, Mirabai, or maybe Edith or Rani of Jhansi... they have all gazed with me from the crenelated terrace of love out over the steppes out there, down there, unexplored, dangerous... Did not Lalleshwari, ferocious Lal Ded, the wolfess in the shroud of a woman, tear the modest rags off her body and give her away thoughtlessly to the burning woodlands, the nigrescent horizon, the terror of the unknown, having renounced the fixed marriage of her honor-obsessed family, having suffered under patriarchal suppression like a fucking hound, having warded off rape and desecration since childhood... Did not Enheduanna, the high priestess, cry and wail at the thought and sight of Lugalbanda destroying her temple in Ur? Or Edith, as she fought off the imps of tubercolosis with rusty scimitars, stubbornly, passionately... As did Rani with her British invaders... And I have fallen handlessly into the web of love for these wolverines, I have enucleated the gods and goddesses of causality... they have not been able to see me in my arrogant tamperings with space and time, the continuum is no longer continuous... for I have loved all the way through it... Such was the power of my passionate love!

the Islamic religion was born with a series of sleep paralyses,

as having been experienced by Mohammad; it is with this first dictum that I launch the archaeo-islamic esotericism...

POEM ON THE STOCKHOLM TERRORIST ATTACK

many days have passed and we no longer care;

no more crying children and no more crying parents ---

so what happens

when all the blood has been washed away;

when all the tears have dried in our suns' eternal indifference,

and when all the limbs have been repatriated at best or thrown to the dogs at worst,

when you can no longer cut the atmosphere in half with a knife;

when you can no longer separate the the ones who pretend to care

from those who aren't even bothered to play along with the act? ---

the asphalt never forgets; it remembers everything ---

do not mistake the shortness of your own ridiculous attention-span

with the resentment with which the world swallows its tragedies;

the ornery with which it conduct its negotiations

and the spiteful vicissitude with which it variate its cruelties...

no-one ever believes the warning; no-one ever assumes responsibility;

cry wolf, cry wolf, cry wolf, no, cry apocalypse ---

it is all fucked --- no-one knows how it will end ---

but from where i am standing, it does not look good.

the street lies empty for some days

after the catastrophe...

out of some kind of respect, they figure---

out of some kind of shame, i say.

THE LEGACY OF ABRAHAM (revised version)

THE LEGACY OF ABRAHAM

emigrant of mighty Ur, city of fortitude;

longevity; grandeur; city of heavenly architecture ---

the resplendence of the mightiest of gods;

abode of ancient ancestries;

kings sunken in quicksands of turning time---

in the blaze of the mighty sun,

and in the shadow that great, great ziqqurat,

whose flesh is kissed by Nanna, the moon,

Abraham contemplated the theorem of monotheism,

the tenets of such a proposition,

and the psycho-philosophical freight

such a massive train of thought would carry:

over the lapse of

one hundred and seventy five years

this rugged man tried, and thought, and wandered,

and sought god--

there is, however, a disruption of concensus, over whether

god was ever found,

and we to this day

try to deduce concluding arguments

from the ever-morphing, thousand-tentacled

monstrosity of religion, all the questions it asks,

and the eternal inward pathos they trigger...

what does the example of faith,

the abrahamic servitude,

present us with, save from its cultural anchorage

and the sheer weight of history?

can we find within ourselves

legitimization … can we subsidize

a religion built on the blind faith

and the personal surrender of will?

I compare the birth-pangs of christianity with the nuclear catastrophe at Chernobyl;

boom, and everything goes sour;

this world; this society; this culture,

this spiritual landscape has become

so ravaged by the nuclear waste

of the Abrahamic meltdown

and the precipitating acid holocaust

bombarding entires cities with disease and decline,

that the people soon fall for solace; surrender; utopianism;
fawn lie down never to stand again; strong men fall to their knees;

crops grow downward in social angst and decide to never grow again;

weak ideals take shape like dung in the hands of a master sculptor;

birds fall to the ground hundredfold, the ethos of surrender plays with society like a puppy,

and all the swaths of land around

soon corrupt as well --- nothing is safe at all.

we should not forget that Abraham wilfully

sacrificed his son

to the glory of the hidden god --- with dear love!

supposedly god prevented this by sending his best angel to stop the ritual filicide,

as a measure, on god's part, of mercy (it is told anyway...)

but nothing can be said of Abrahams' motif, crystal as it is!

no apologetic defense legitimate enough can been presented;

god hungered for the blood of a child, it is true;
such is the arrogance, self-importance, psychopathology,

egomania, sadism and power-hungriness of this god---

and, not only that---

what does all of this tell of Abraham, the meek fucker?

is this a proper way to manage the legacy of Mesannepada? ---

in the face of the living god the opium of solace may seem nice,

and now i feel myself sometimes such sensibilities;

now i sit myself on the prayer mat

that have seen so many dishonest genuflexions

and have been wettened so many times

by all the forced tears of remorse:

the agonizing anathemata

to a god that never even fucking sobbed

over our miseries; our grievances; all our monumental sufferings;

he watches silently the pains that could surmount even the love of life;

i pray into the void --- the hopelessness that is embedding us,

and i see a

god of insolence and laziness;

god of hallow promises; god of tyranny through a deception

colder than anything measurable

on earth, in heaven, or in hell ---

hypocritical, self-important god of human sewage ---

semitic spiritual tumor, ugly and feeble---

i do not know much, but what i do know

is that i smell a rat

on Abrahams' pungent breath.

i am cleansed of abrahamic venom.

and my barbs sting at modesty.

i worship nothing

and nothing shall worship me.

A DEAD END

may i be just one

among a milliard others

waiting in line

for my turn

to dance

awkwardly

with doubt and with anxiety

into death, the final portal ---

as the individual.... nothing more nothing less...

i wish to be

an evolutionary dead end ---

all relations abandoned;,

all families cracked;

all soil dried out

and all blood miscoloured with the arsenic of renunciation

no children

no heritage

no fucking pet even,

no anything ---

just finality, the genetic entropy

of my own life-strain

speeded up just a little

with the help of my bandit soul---

confusion, my heredity;

I would not want to bring about confused children to this world

because I aspire not to be mean

and I do not wish to lead a petty life;

thus I ask you --- what is a greater pettiness;

what is a a greater existential parsimony;

a more shameful surrender unto dull averageness,

than having children...

all life on earth shares a common ancestor --- which is nothing ---

and precisely that will be the only fossil of our existence.

i am a dead man trapped in a near-life experience ---

that is all life seems to amount to;

despair

nothingness

abjection ---

the dna of the human spirit.

let us reverse the principle of

never attributing to needless complexity

what adequate banality may evidentially explain;

let us take this Occams' razor ---

and cut our wrists open with it;

life might be explained by evolutionary, reproductive necessities

but that is a fucking cop-out!!!