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Naked Brunch: Dreamscapes dripped from the sickly honeypot of Burroughsville

Ceres

in a car

In the back of a car with Ceres and the reading girl. The reading girl seems to have been seeing Ceres for a while now. He claims she is madly in love with him but she never looks up from her book. The car judders and trembles at every pothole, rolling partially digested lunches around gently lurching lurching like submariners in a whirlpool funnel of seamen jokes, waiting to touchdown into the navel of the beast, the swarming, fishsucking, pustule of it all, funnelling slowly except in reverse, towards the mouthhole where the gorge begins to rise. I look greenly at her, and her calm alabaster corpseface engrossed in the seductive wordmonsters of her book make me retch, more greenness, until it surrounds me like a blue haze. Ceres stares wildly at the road ahead of him, wearing a black bowler hat and an undertakers costume, hooked nose protruding phalluslike no beaklike into the windscreen. Occasionally he gibbers on about people who are not to be trusted, bastards the very existence of which guarantee us our own private journey into the pustule. We are heading for the border, not to cross, but for a picnic apparently. His eyes scream incohate hatred into the road ahead of him, as his nose probes the steering wheel gently. Occasionally he removes his hands from the wheel and allows his nose to steer. On these occasions, a happy gurgling noise issues forth from the recesses of his sinuses, and the steering wheel is gripped by the tough, stringy embrace of his snotstrands, as they expertly steer the vehicle into the most vicious of potholes, lurching our lunches ever loser to the gorge. I can see his eyes and nose in the rear view mirror, and they seem to leak some sort of phosphorescent green fluid, almost a gas, but viscous, like the condensation of some sort of superheated vile contempt and disgust. Ceres loves me like a brother and trusts me with all he holds dear, including his life and his collection of snotchildren. The fool. For some reason, the looks very funny, in an amusing sort of hahawatch those ribcages crackle and pop sort of way, not in a deadfish deadrat way. I try to pry at the source of this funniness, the reason for this sudden uprush of the mirths at the sight of his hate smeared, disgust and contempt spewing visage, and it begins to worry me like a piece of gristle in my tooth that has somehow come lodged in an inextrciable position and I try and try to work it loose with a tongue but to no avail and all around me grandparents, relatives, bosses and priests stare open mouthed at something that clearly appears to be a stroke and then subtly subtly I cover my mouth and try to work it free with my fingers but its slippery this disgusting thrice damned goatligament and eventually the subtle mask slips free as I wrestle with the innards of my mouth, loose sections of gum and teeth flying, small ruby gobbets of blood splattering clean white lungis in an effort to yankyankyank and finally the unbelievable pleasure, the undeniable salt-copper tang of blood fills my mouth as I extract it and the subtle sweet satisfation of wallowing the offending offal as offended relatives ogle my destroyed mouthhole.
"Why Ceres", I exclaim jauntily, " you look just like a crow over there". The I begin to laugh hysterically, braying like a donkey, , and look about the car conspiratorially. Ceres says nothing, hooked beak of a nose, offended, blows rude noises out at me while he continues to glower with zombielike concentration at the potholes ahead. The reading girl turns and looks at me, smiles, and then returns her gaze to her book, her eyes glazed over like a coma patient.

Ceres is sitting next to me in the car, at the window. I am sandwiched between him and the reading girl whom I hardly notice for some reason. Suddenly, I catch a glimpse of her foot, the colour of alabaster corpse, if alabaster corpse was a place in the sky where there were free handjobs all day. My gaze travels up to her skirt, a blue calf-length summer skirt, with strange exotic flowers, captured in various stages of décolletage, some of them caught up in the most lascivious poses imaginable, queer flowers with stamens entwined, paedophile fruits sodomising a young bud, bouquets of debauched orgymaking, pollen spraying in every direction imaginable. My pants bunch up uncomfortably around my waist as I stare down into this beautiful kaleidoscope of floral lust. Suddenly, I snap my head up and look to the reading girl. She remains engrossed in her book, but the porcelain dollness of her face is flushed by twin blooms of red across her cheeks, like impossible to remove bloostains on an otherwise pristine washbasin. I smile at her feigned alabastercorpse innocence, and look away, to find Ceres missing. So lost was I in attempting to hide the uncomfortable loneliness of my crotch from the seeking eyes of frotting flora that I failed to notice that the vehicle had stopped and dislodged Ceres like a reeling, raving craven raven into the night, his undertaker's gown flapping behind him, his nose probing into the mists ahead, carving a path straight through, his eyes lighting up the mist like some sort of green monstrosity probing through the night to frighten little children and put the fear of slit throats and drowning in their mouths, their screams unable to give full vent to the delicious, all-consuming horror that is childhood fear. The readingalabastercorpsegirl parts her lips for the first time, and I see that her teeth too are alabaster and porcelain, and her lips in contrast so deep and dark a red as to be almost black. With her lips slightly parted and her teeth barely visible, her lips look like a gaudy last-minute addition to a beautiful, symmetrical whole, like a fake moustache slapped onto the Venus deMilo. I imagine her without those gaudy bloodlips, with no break between face and mouth and teeth, her jaws snapping delicately like crocodile mating calls in the night, and none of those pink gaudy gums either. I realise that if I were to see her skull right now, I would find it most beautiful, enthralling, erotic even, and I make a mental note. She parts her lips to speak. "He forgot his wallet in the apartment" she breathes theatrically, like one of those noir actresses who smoked too many cigarettes. Ironic that it was the cancer that made their voices beautiful so.
"You have a most beautiful tumour" I tell her, face focussed towards the radiation of maximum earnestness, so that she may see the worship in my mouthhole.
She smiles, looks down at her book and murmurs delicately through lips that almost do not part "he'll join us soon enough". I cannot tell if she meant this statement to reassure me or to warn me, or even to inform me of the limited time that I had left at my disposal. I stare openouthed at her glorious face, peeling of skin and flesh and muscle and neural tissue with my eyes until the skull is laid bare, still reading peacefully into the distance, calm, serene alabastercorpsegirl.

We wait, at the entrance to a park. All around us, nature abounds with the chaos, the frenzy of what it does best, fuck it up for all of us and make us feel inadequate. Can you blame us if we want to dig a hole into her and fuck her with a skyscraper now and then, stupid bitch making us feel inadequate all the time. The air around s is a miasma of green beauty, meadows and woods, rolling up the gentle slopes of the hillocks as far as the eye can see. And of course, nature gets all showboaty and adds a perfect blue sky (blue as the beautiful veins on the arms of the reading girl after they are exposed to the air, just before my eyeholes peel them off her palepale alabastercorpseskull) and soothing breeze that ruffles reading girls hair and plays mischievously with the curls. Jealous beyond belief I wish to grab at the wind. If it had an arm I would break it, if it had a face, I would punch it in the mouthhole until it was capable of bleeding no more. I stare balefully into the wind, as it attempts to force bits of grit that are undoubtedly retired cowpie granules into the space between my eyeball and socket. Alabaster readingirl is sitting on a dry stone wall, feet reaching down towards the ground but not quite making it. The wind ruffles her skirt, showing me hints of alabaster and setting the flowers to flailing chaos, quick inoutinout movements and intertwinings all around, like a pervert attempting to peek up a skirt under a flight of glass stairs that would of course materialise out of nowhere. I move over to the wall and lean my elbows over it, staring balefully at passerby, disgusted at their revels in this fake mother, in this surrogate shewolf of a Goddess, sickened by their deep breaths and their self-congratulatory attempts at communication with an evil older than they could ever fathom. Reading girl reads next to me, and I ignore her, recognising her as another manifestation of this virulent evil disease that sickens us all to the core. Suddenly a foot appears out of nowhere under my forearm, followed by a knee and an inner thigh. Reading girl's inner thigh comes to rest under the knuckles of my fingers as her other leg dangles languorously over the earth. I look up to see the flowers dance their rutting dance, and a dark void in the space between her legs, with promises of must and tumescence and the other beautiful seductions this ancient evil lays down for us. Reading girl doesn't lift an iris from her book the entire time the words trap her and tell her to do things, things which she must obey as if she were under a spell, cast upon her by the unknown, mysterious author, who in another dimension walled off by time and space, must pleasure himself daily with the thoughts of the multitudes he has led down the pathways of ruinandestructiondestructionandruin with the intricate webs he has woven in the words. I open my lips to speak but the pristine clarity of this idyllic scene is shredded by toxic electronic sounds, piercing shrieks emitting plaintive paeans to the ur-gods of wires and electricity. Horrified, I look down to realise that the shrieks emanate from my crotch. I reach down fearful of what I will find, and extract a cellular phone from the front pocket of my pants.
"Dammit, is that you?" Ceres. "Are you at the border?"
"Yes" I respond, throat parched, suddenly reminded of the warm lipglossy taste of must and tumescence.
"I'm going to be late. Bloody demons and their hearts made of sealing wax. Listen, I my be very late. Beware the passerby. Beware the mugwumps. They're out to destroy us, to foil our plans, to rain on our parade, so to speak. Kep your nose pointed in the direction of trouble and run as soon as you see the evil coming. Now, there's a young man I must minister to here, so I leave you in charge. Do with the border as you see fit. And Godspeed, Jung soldier". The beelzebub voice from the phone dies and I look at it in wonder. I look up at reading girl. Her eyes are on me, for the splitsecond that it takes mine to reach hers, and I almost wonder if I imagined them flitting rapidly back into the spell of the book. Slowly a smile breaks my face and cracks my lips. I look at the phone and smile at it. Leaving it on the ground, I move up next to reading girl. My nose detects the scent of her alabastercorpseskin, sweet musk, fit to offer to the Gods if you wished to be driven mad. In one movement, my left index finger brushes gently against her inner thigh, while my right index finger moves to find a place on her page. The short electrical contact of forbidden skin on skin is far, far, far deeper than chaste sex. Amongst the gentle ministrations of the hairs of my forearm being fellated by the pores of hers, and with the orgasmic intensity of my index finger on her thigh, alive to every rising goose pimple, I lean up behind her, and my lips brush against her ear as my eyes begin to scan the page. I can feel her smile radiate in front of me, and the warmth of her body as she leans into the points of contact.

I whisper into her ears "do you mind if I read as well?"

Faded Kiss.

I wonder if it is possible to forget you
Today, I couldn't imagine, I couldn't dream of losing
hair flowing across my fingers
nipples taut and fresh against my tongue
the brush of skin on skin, like lightning silk

Like the first time I ever touched you
Really touched you
Just two knuckles kissing in the breeze, shyly
But nerve endings tingling, exploding all over
Like Vesuvius exploding in sympathy with a kettle

But I have been, once, twice, many times, without you
The days grow fatter and are consumed by the months
And your face fades
Softer and softer, like an ancient portrait
Of someone's grandmother in her youth

Still beautiful, but austere, like a Goddess,
Not like the girl who stuck her tongue in my ear
To see my face dissolve into mercury ecstasy
And the hair rustles softer through my fingers
And my lips thirst for the memory of something they have lost

But cannot find

On a fight outside a Khan Market bookstore

This is something I saw once
while browsing through a bookstore. Two men were standing outside a little
bookstore in Delhi, a Khan Market special, where you can pretend to riffle the
books on the inside and watch all kinds of perverse attempts at the human
experiment on the outside. Old ladies in feather boas and leather pants
shuffled past two young boys, their faces barely registering a trace of fuzz,
their heads securely covered with a skull cloth, who looked past at them
angrily, then turned forward to stare grimly at the world before them. Dogs
wandered by, fat and comfortable, and clothed in cute doggie sweaters, and
maimed, half-malformed bodies shuffled alongside them, gums and scarred face
almost hiding the fact that the body belonged to a teenager. Around you, the
hustle and bustle of Europe, China, Japan and the wonders and freaks of the
Americas, packaged free with a gigantic katoriful of India. As I looked out, I
saw a human drama that transcended and encompassed these. What I saw was a
little play, with an imaginary beginning and an imaginary end, but no sense of
context or reference, like watching an isolated snatch of some much larger
movie. It was up to me to place it in whatever context I wished to, and it’s up
to you as well.

 

Two men were arguing over some
matter. They seemed to be poised at that precipice of an argument before it
descends into simple animal violence. One man held in his hands a small, worn
cricket ball. He held it away from the other, as if his life and soul depended
on it, fear writ large upon his eyes and body. The other was a tall, moustachioed,
well-dressed man, in an expensive suit and a tie that carried colours the
rainbow (very sensibly) had never heard of. He held the man’s shirtsleeves in
one hand and groped wildly with the ball for the other. The other man dressed
pretty much as the opposite side to such an opponent would under these
circumstances. We shall call them, under these circumstances, Jared (call me
Jared) Khataria and Muninder Chamiya.

 

As they struggled, they launched
into a curious dialogue that seemed to be encompassing a lot more than I could
know of:

 

"Give it to me"

"No"

"God, its falling apart,
give it here, I'll give you another one while I fix it.""

The man looked horrified at this possibility.
"Please don’t do that, it’s the only one I have," he cried through
plaintive tears.

Call me Jared looked angry enough
to crack the other man's skull open. "Look you fool, I have one exactly
like it right here."

The man looked puzzled at his suggestion,
wondering what that ball in Call Me's hands had to do with the one in his,
failing to understand the import of his suggestion, as it were.

The Call blackened considerably
and hissed into the other one's face "You can use the other one until I
fix this one, then when I'm done with yours, I can give it back to you."

The man's fear turned into
revulsion, as he pushed away with all his strength. He seemed ready to vomit.

MeJared stopped suddenly and said,
"Look, I can show you something. It's not even similar to that one. It's
the same." He pointed to a mark on it and to a similar mark on the other
one's. "See, you put that there yourself, it’s on this one too."

The man returned to fear, mixed
with some awe, as he gaped at the mark as if transfixed. Then he shook himself
together and screamed, almost as if like a small child "No!"

Call Me RedJar looked about ready
to burst, but he tried again. "It's not just the outside that's the same,
the inside's exactly the same too, all the way to the core. In fact, you could
never tell the difference between the two if you had a million years and a team
of experts."

This stopped the other man for a
second. He stepped back, holding the ball protectively in his hands so as to
examine it. Majeredcall, sensing that that other man may have developed an
interest, stepped back as well, and held the ball in his hands.

"Look, I'll even give you
this one to keep once I fix that one. I'm only doing this for your own good,
you know".

The other man stood transfixed,
staring at the ball in his hands. His hands seemed to grip a little less
protectively over his ball as he stared at the other one, curious. His eyes
shone for a second, then filled with fear again, as he stepped back, holding it
to his face like a small child or a precious pet. "No" he screamed,
favouring consistency over variety.

The De Majrecall bowed his head,
almost defeated, and then lifted it up again. In his eyes shone a determination
to try a final time.

"They're practically the
same, only mine is stronger and wont fall apart so soon. You don't even want to
keep the other one until I fix this one. I give in. I only ask you this thing
sir. If you answer me in any fashion aside from no, I shall give you this one,
to keep along with that one. Why will you not part with that one?"

The other man fought his fear
down, then stepped up with a simple, quiet pride that bordered on humility.
"I don't want that one." He looked at the ball held tight between his
hands, as he held it up to Jarmeadcall, he looked at it with the pride of
owning a watch since the time he was a child. "It's not this one," he
said, softly.

 

At this point, the altercation
tipped over into violence and I lost them in the melee of observers who had
crawled up to watch. I watched the throng for a while, and then disappeared.
All throngs look the same. They're fun to watch under the right circumstances,
like a lynching, or perhaps a violent protest, but otherwise, the milling brain-dead
throng that obeys simple herd instinct to circle a curious event was a boring
and pathetic thing to watch. However, as I left, I could not shake the feeling
that there had not been a proper resolution to that argument, no matter how I
turned it around.

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On eating honey

Eating honey is a semisexual experience



Its vaguely psychedelic, especially if the honey is cold.



Then, when you tilt the jar ever so lightly,



It lolls toward you like a tongue,



Licking its lid lasciviously, lolitalike



Tantalisingly hovering inches above your tongue, just refusing to trust to your moisture



Then it drops and the world shimmers for a moment



A little shockwave haze envelops the world, radiating outward from your tongue



Jets of electricity shoot through your head, hitting just the right pleasure centers



You watch its golden yellow viscosity wind its way sinuously into your mouth



And set your tongue on fire.



And you bask silently in the glow of the aftertaste, ignoring the obvious verbal innuendo



And in the mixture of pleasure and guilt you come down, and raise the jar again.





You should try it sometime.



 

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The Summary for my novel as a hero story

A hero looked into his dreams

Inside he found nothingness

He had no feelings you see

So he hitched a ride into nothingness which was made of a hyperlinked, cross-referenced, referenceable world

But a beautiful one nonetheless

The subtle imagery of a world in transition lay behind that era

For the dreamer was coming.

And his presence carries ripples through the space-time continuum

Infecting and mutating many before its time

Finally tearing apart the host

In an explosion that would rip the seams of space and time

The dreamer never woke up

His subtle mememnemonic message trapped within his body, unable to explode into birth

Unable to grip the ears and eyes and mouths and mind and soul of the nearest planet, sometimes an entire solar system, occasionally the odd galaxy

They found him and saw him for what he was

You know, them.

Those guys

The ones

The ones who're always there

Black (as a state of mind, not a colour)

Ha

The traitor watched his pawns linger by

The first and only real violator of society

He placed his pieces carefully, then snatched up the deck and squeezed them into each other

The hero screamed into the depths of the dreamers mind

And his hyperlink followed him

And he saw hell and heaven and the stars and the cockroaches and the Gods and the Demons and the violent long haired hard living rock stars and the blood of the angels and the holy grail

And he emerged, unscathed, for he drew inspiration from his dreams

And summoned up the colours of his past

From the depths of his memories of tarot cards lying on the floor of his house

In a neat, orderly pattern

The inspiration of the multiverse written into the cards

The cross of the celts incscribed upon the floor

And to children and wraiths and gentle good men and to horrifying slavering monsters and to the emptiness of addiction and to the heady giddiness of pride and vanity and the bitter taste of fate and probability he had an answer

And he did what was required of him for a time

Then he realised the answer

And he prepared himself carefully, and drew strength from his hyperlinks and his dream guardians

And rose up into the sky, and made the ultimate sacrifice

He fused his mind with the dreamer

Their bodies never survived the impact

But their memes survived, and fused into a communicable whole

And travelled into the hyperlinked world

An act that transcended the era, plunging it headlong into the next step in evolution

For they discovered infinite existence in energy,

Infinite patience in the strength of a spirit without a weakness of the flesh

Infinite Omniescence in pure energy existence

And eventually they transcended time and space

In the meantime, the traitor watched open mouthed, then saddled his horse and rode into the energy zone. unprotected.

He lives on to this time as a tormented snake in this new dawn of creation

For every creation must have the seeds of its destruction in its womb and every slide into entropy leaves behind a few crumbs of life-dust as it crashes in on itself

Confessions of a Creature from the Black Violation of Society

In my dreams I saw a fit of violence.

We live in a society where violence is a gene but not a disease

It grasped me in its claws and thrust me into the act

A man lay before me

He had violated some tenet of my fundamental being

Or he'd just pissed me off somehow

I moved through a world that had been turned into jelly around me

Every living breathing moving immovable object had been turned into blurs of stone

Except me.

As I grasped his neck and waist I felt the clarity rush into me

As I lifted him off his feet I wondered aimlessly what I had done to see him on the floor like that

As I hurled him into a cupboard, body shuffling down the wall like a slinky,

I felt like I had just been introduced to colour

And I lived for a time.

Yesterday I spoke to a girl who told me she wanted to return to nature

So did I

As she lifted her eyes and rolled them in the air she told me how she wanted clothing to be an option, not a rule

So did I

A she looked at her feet and admired her reflection in her toenails she told me she loved all God's creatures as her brothers and sisters

So did I

As she shrillingly imitated a cheerleader doll she told me she lived to see the death of inequality, violence and oppression

So did I

As she stared blindly out at me from sunken sockets she told me she loved the innocence of youth and the feeling of freedom and rebellion

So did I

And yet...

We never could see eye to eye.

Starry hurricane rides into the star blinded city of dreams and smegma

Bloody violence with the rushing of the wolf's fetid breath in your nostrils and the fragmented throat of your prey in your teeth

Cold rational insanity in the face of the perverse violent ribaldness of normality

These are the answers to the black violation of society

From the shreds of this we shall create a new evil,

An evil, perhaps diabolical mirror to goodness, but never a perversion

We must craft an evil that is unlikely to return our society to normal

In regression lies hope, so that in going back, we may retrace our steps and pave ourselves a new path

Cauterize this wound against its festering explosion

Soap Bubbles and Jagged edges

Strange spheres revolve through the depths of my visions

Of times gone past, and times to be

Many places I have gone to, many sights I have seen

But never enough

 

In the night, the spheres assail me with their visions,

Curled in bed, I see their lights shining prettily, and I touch them

Some of them sting, some of them soothe, some of them caress me softly

With dreams of bygone things and things to come

And things that may never be

 

Reality is a jagged edge of rusted metal,

Cutting, ripping, infecting pure spherical bliss

Hiding from it never helps, separating the spheres from the metal

Only shatters them

 

I fling them at the rusted knife, the concrete floor, the broken saw of reality

The only way I know to separate soap bubbles from solidity

And I will cry over the twisted shattered wreckage, picking through the pieces of my dreams

Something will survive,

won't it?

 

And I will treasure it, like a perfect marble, a universe to explore,

And hold it tight within my hands

And walk towards the rust

Waterborne

Two random poems about water, after a long lost love was rekindled.

 

Water forms like a puddle,

Pools, collects, in corners huddles,

Water soars and water flies,

Water pours down from the skies

 

Water washes down on us and forces us to look

at life anew

As all our veils of civility and refinement are

w a s h e d   a  w  a  y

And we are finally revealed,

either as sputtering cowards, who spit and fume and curse at the water and all the audacity of nature,

or creatures of the moment, who soar and rejoice in a chance to be cleansed.

 

 

Water winks at us out of azure peace

It calls us to fall to the sand

And worship

 

Water picks us up, like little children, and tosses us into the void,

the vacuum,

the unknown

For personal aeons we are lost within its warm cocoon,

Wrapped in turbulent current like an unborn child within a turbulent parental cocoon

And then, when we emerge,

Spit out like so many watermelon seeds,

Our bodies bruised and scratched and torn

We emerge reborn, like phoenix children

 

The waves wash against us for hours afterwards, and our heads are filled with the rush of the currents

 

 

 

 

 

Dead Rags and Dust

Something stirred him as he stared,

something quiet, something scared

turned his head but failed to look

or did he?

From office cramped to office dusty

Aboard the sturdy not quite rusty

Jeep

He smoked, and stared into the sky

Barely nothing caught his eye

But barely nothing's something still

Dead rags and dust

A hint of elbow, a hint of shirt

A hint of brown skinned, shambling dirt

and no fingers

A hint of hatred, hint of pain

Hints of anguish, hints of shame

Hints of bruises, cuts and sores

Hint of sweat from tired pores

Blood and sweat and hatred hinted

He never saw, he merely squinted

At mounted lingerie

To fail to see is quite a task

How do you do it? One might ask

Think of British Comedy

Existentialism

Bertolt Brecht

Conquistadors

Large Breasted women

computer games

post-modernism

Beer

Anarchy

Anime

Deadlines

Maya

Comics

Salman Rushdie

Wait.

The mind it is the queerest thing

A bell once pulled forever rings

And strange detectives dig the earth

Uncovering skeletons spouting dirt

From the subconscious

From a book where once he had escaped

To hide from taunting kids who taped

the memories of childhood tears

and taunts and insults, calls and jeers

A book where shambling cudgel knees

Crunched at skulls, and of a man who sees

India and Indira in a strange double-vision

A word reached out, to drag him back

To the traffic, where commuters hacked

their lungs out, and the smog-filled sky

played strange games with the sun

And squinting worked upto a point

but city eyes can only blind

He who has learned, with his mind

To dull the screams, the blood, the tears

To separate models with big bustiers

from dead rags and dust

He rolled up the window, and looked away. Stared at his files, reached for a coin, flip flip, drop. These lights are too bloody long man, why the hell do they put those stupid ten minute intervals in who the hell does that choot sardar think he is, oye maderchod, hatao!

Still staring.

He gives up, finally, reaches for a coin... two rupees, no way man, that's one Gold Flake, ah, fifty paisa, just roll down the window and...

No, it doesnt want anything more, but to stare defiantly, spit at the windscreen and shamble on...

You saw me. How dare you! you Bastard! with this spit do I consecrate thine revelation!

ptui.

He stared embarrasedly at the dribble, watched it travel slowly down the window screen.

The honking started.

He cursed, rubbed his eyes, moved into gear and drove on.

Dead rags and dust.