aphoristic and rhetorical questions to the third king of uruk

FOUR QUESTIONS TO GILGAMESH

did shamhat ever offer her beautiful body
or did enkidu decide to ravage it forcibly
 with all the power of his animal?

did gilgamesh ever visit the cedar forest
or did humbaba only exist as a figment of phantasmagoria,
 nurtured in the composture of his fears?

did the world ever offer its beautiful wisdom
or did the human being decide to plunder and pillage it
 with all the bruteness of her animal? 

did the human being ever visit the palace of gilgamesh
or did the complex of inferiority put an end to it all
before she even reached the gates of it?

poem 30th of may 2017

TO THE EAST OF EDEN:
   A REFLECTIVE WANDERING INTO THE
   THEOLOGICAL AND EXISTENTIAL BADLANDS

 can we be aware of the existence of, and even experience,
    a world immaterial,
    while at the same time being incorporated
    in, and attuned with, the realities of the human body?
       i am facticity as much as i transcend it.
    is this kind of transcendency of dichotomy possible, the union of the dualized?
    is there a garden to the east of eden somewhere in the realms of nod,
    where cain built his hut out of clay, founded his gardens,
    planted his seeds and ploughed his soil,
    ripening all around a blossoming nature,
    breathing with the oxygen of immanence?
    if so, surely, there is where i should be,
    and better yet, surely it can outcompare even the babylonian one,
    with its beautiful, scandent flowerwork ---
    the awesome vines of hammurabi
    clinging and climbing abound all over the city-walls?
    the land of nod, can you remember gilgamesh?
           the land of nod weeps and looks abject ---
           luscious with the hebenon and paved with the glistening moonstone,
           fountained with the wine old as death,
           gurgled upforth from the mouth of the abyss... ---
   will gods' carrion-flower breathe anew
   and if so, will death even die with its unfold?
   land of nod, nihilistic dumping-site,
   will i hurt my feet on the nettles and the thistles of truth?
           yeah, probably you will hurt your feet;
           not even dantes' footsteps are visible in the mud afore us...

     can we make the case,
 that it is not easy to philosophically disprove or discredit
    the idea that the quantum of human experience
     is the religiosity with which we map reality, and that
    religiosity at its fundaments --- the founding stones of it --- is
    the belief that there is something, someone out there in the unknown,
    partly or wholly attainable --- introducable --- to us,
    and that we seem to be (at least some of us) equipped with
    intense spiritual instincts which somehow draws us nearer to it,
        just we dug past the first clay of our soils in pursuit of the gold-nerves,
        plentiful beneath the crust as they are?

 they would muster courage in the faithful of us,
       the ethos of war and love would bubble in the pure-blooded,
       they would imbue us with the strength of the jaguar-warrior;
 our hearts will beat to the threnodies of the night-sky
 for the harvest of the energies of the moon,
         those of us who are no longer fearing of dying,
         and those of us who gave their eyes to death
         now lay the founding groundwork,
    dig the defensive trenches and train ardently for combat;
    they erect the magnificent pylons, the massive pyramids, the gold-eyed obelisks ---
    the signaling fires --- watchtowers of a light even god can see ---
           a light
     that shines through the deadness of past and present things
    with the potential epistemological axioms
             of the future:

we can call it the numinous experience:
       the knowledge of --- and connect with ---
       transcendental happenings;
    the revelations of subjective passions,
    the mystical motivations, esoteric as they are;
          the deep psychological milestones,
          undeniable and unneglectable phenomena
          imprinting on the iconostace of all your holy temples  ---
          they stir havoc in the waters of disquiet
          and shake you to the ground with their gales;
             you lose footing for a second, and you fall about frontward:
             you become yourself a cute fire in the raging nights
             and your enemies will travel at the speed of insomnia
             through the deepest and holiest night of slumber;
             at this point, you could never disconnect the traumata;
             the black muck of love spills out of everything you touch,
             and ascendant through the auras of vermillion and purple,
             you crown yourself the martyr of god ---
      i call you gilgamesh, lapis-lazuli majesty,
          shūtur eli sharrī --- sha naqba īmuru ---
      the witness, the great witness, he who who saw the deep.

(unfinished draft may 2017)

THE TRIALS 
OF THE 
SOLIFUGE

the abominable solifuge is caught in a stalemate with the desert ---
   the loss of momentum for natures' own pessimist gladiator,
      eight-legged abomination;
the solifuge is stranded in the outskirts of the biomes
   and, having been compromised in the natural hostilities,
   it is weakened;

the broken solifuge stern and ominous
   walks about Job-like, unhealthy, unwealthy, unloved;
   it crawls atop the hillocks to gaze the might of dunes;
   it seeks the cooling refuge; the shadowed path of deceit;
     the repose in the damp and the cold ---
     a dwelling-place for the scared and hunted ---
         so that it can tend,
     tend to its offspring, its hundred disgusting eggs of nihilism
         in order to atleast assure its continuation
         into the future of all things
         before it abdicates from life as a failure
         spirited with the desperation and discouragement
         that broke Enheduanna and left her for dead
         at the sight of her great temple falling to dust and shards of clay;

     though it reproduced, it did so in meaninglessness ---
     the anxiety to end all anxieties.
   this solifuge claims only pyrrhic victories
   in this hopeless belligerency against the universe.
   caught in a battle no-one winds
   against the burning orb of light ---
   death-sun of Šamaš; glorious disc of the sun
   which never discriminates, nor privileges, nor excludes
   anyone nor anything of this earth.

         sun, o mighty sun ---

all systems fail and all biologies bankrupt
with the fluctuations of its surface:
   all species die off no matter how kingly or slavelike:
      so with the elephant also with the hyena;
      so with the dung-beetle also with the lion-majesty;
   death is inevitable and all-pervading like the albatross
     scouring a forest-fire earth:
     being cleansed top-down
   on the command of Šamaš, foul extermination-campaigner of mankind;
   cosmic schutzstaffel purge door to door
     all the galaxies from every living cell and every trace of oxygen...
    
   the engineers of the universe die
   with the memories of collapsed star-systems;
   the waters swallow the coasts
   and the coasts respond with submission;   
   the emperor scorpion, the opiliones, the ticks and mites
           hold hands
        in a final moment of essential brotherliness ---
           and all the while
      the solifuge wanders about
      sad and lonely
      staring upward
      into the infinity of everything outside of itself
      immured in the forgotten catacomba
      of existential contemplation.

   surely the simple arachnid is pathetic in the grander scheme:
   uncared for by the universe; disgusted and killed by the humans;
      yet it weeps
      and yet still
      it is also a center of the universe.

   cataclysmic astroquakes change the course of whole worlds;
   upsurges of dark energy clip the strings of all fucking theories
   and violently redraw the aesthetics of our beloved constellations;
   planets die off and
   the space expands indifferently;
   galaxies wither like flowers
   and the stars collapse into the swallets where even light drowns;
   majestically incomprehensible in grandeur
      all this is:
      as the puniest of mites can not fathom the earth(, only its tiny corner of it),
      as can I, the strongest of solifuges, not fathom space...
  the happenings of the farthest cosmos
  and the -mysteries of the outside
  breaks the philosopher in half
  and leaves every true astrophysicist
      in religious crisis,    
yet in the heart of the solifuge
the problem is how to find its oasis ---
   when your throat runs parched, water becomes everything.

the solifuge endures on
    his trepidating perils
as the great clock of the ages tick on!
   the deserts expand their territories and out here, the caves get rarer by the minute,
   the shadowless sun belches aforth the warmth
   and the oases dry like menopause (here is no lushness and here is no idyll);
   the qanats and the aquifers no longer serve the needs of the people
   and the water has become old enough to even threaten the bugs with disease;
   and the cadavers of the dromedaries wither like love in marriage and
   the cobras are pinched tight in the beaks of starving vultures
   but the questions none can reject
               lives on
               in the heart of the solifuge;
      the questions whose answers
      would disarms the anti-theist
      in the swiftest blink of a moment
      with the revelation
      that no living thing can easily brush off, or even at all.

excerpt from "the angels lost faith..."

    the angels descend and
    children starts their sob in the cribs;
    husbands betray their wifes with passion, and
    brothers masturbate to their sisters in their sleep;
    the tower falls     and
    the rivers of joy and trust ebb and then dry out
with the clinging of their apocalyptic swords of the angels;
 its melodies and harmonies, the threnody of sodom and gomorrah,
  and the disgusting sound of their blue-balls
 downloading the .exe of rape and murder into their minds:
 these are no serene flag-bearers of grace;
these angels come with bullet-belts, and pillaxes, and chloroform;
these are
    the angels whose mouth breathe deserts
    and the angels whose hands
    hold the burning staff of droughts and impuissances;
as you near them, they scatter, and fewer still
    can claim conversance with them;
these are the angels
    which "blesses", and "reprieves", and hands out in pastoral "love" and "care"
    curses; sorrows; heartbreaks; misfortunes and all other impious devilries ---
  not as carefully judged punishments,
  good-willed acts of tough love, or an otherwise
    calculated implementation of judicial principal,
  but as small, seemingly random explosions
     of petty emotions and spiritually unhygienic behavorial schemata