Thorns of an evening set on Osaka chimes And sultry moon climbs gingerly on its ladder Hazy smoke drools like detached hairs And flutters around vacant halls of night To web a name for those revolutions repelled To brace those stars dissolved in black holes Of whispering nightingales Squealing and murmuring in their shredded nests Closed silences assembles in their veins A world of epics, a world of misled fascinations Lovers of centuries kiss closet of parched lips To bemuse jittery spreads of grass In gowns of clamoring disbelief On that river of dreams lonesome foot prints reside A passive creeps of sovereignty conspires In hall marks of a whistle with endless seasons ahead Scandavian winds hustle onto oriental remains Chains of Africana sands ramble in submission When ecliptic journeys culminate Alchemist mold those sand Gods into gold Stories of those that remain un-owned, unsold Shoved in many storms They remain as insignificant as ever Sculptures that are bread stand as montages Illuminate shadows of cryptic gardens With children singing quivering anthems And slaves swelling their arms to bind falling pebbles Harmonic beats play onto those dry roses Pools of black water dance as a witness To flutes of obscure messages In harem of unholiness She reels onto the sewing machine Pinning those needles to bind those fragile veins Moths wrestle and jostle aimlessly To brace trickling weeps of that fountain That continually eludes elusive cries confined in Contours of those empty and screeching eyes Howling creatures sip on to that blood From swollen corpse capped under arches of frozen loaf That taste so sweet yet revives no pleasure Oh this bitter saccharine, these stains of liquor Who exist as a carpenter in the delusional mind? Who turn this over flowing stimulus? Into non chantlant dissonance Leopards of my soul Ramble away to befriend Shooting stars of erupted plains Up rooted scars of silted pains On those terraces beats disintegrate Of those wands, of those reconciliations Nothing exist to commemorate this time Nothing salvages to be attained as reprieve Eyes of that imbecile meander in unsure blocks Mascot of sophist plays on with those empty cards Melancholic Operas of fat ladies tirelessly linger on Toxic waste and filth of countless tragedies Like baggage full of contradicting symmetries Crusaders collide and discord Stained armors exhaust in countless brawls Cries growl and bruise Who be my victim, who be my cause Of father lost, of sons unborn to be Wombs disowned, virgins drown away In dark rallies, with generations in blitz Privilege callously swept, Only disposition of those glassed residuals I happen to gather Falling empires abridged in cumbersome denials Another soul dies in this claimless autumn Field gets numb in their remorse As pipes of marijuana exhales out of limbs of china gate Winds quash and disperse onto those evangel skies Clouds mumble and form sketches of funny men Yellow fire flies roam restlessly along narrow alleys With gobbling tears into enlarged eyes, With savoring heart without a resonance to voice In bedsides comforts linger those naked maidens Their piercing nipples stretched by dragons Their flabby bellies blooded with poison Bearing sanctuary to instable men With shaved heads and whiskers of Cheshire Their bare bodies and over filling tummies laced with decorated abrasions Within those blatant chambers lay those witches Weaving their spells in piles of snakes With sheepish disguise With broom that skirts away on to skies of hell Glitches of Paparazzi steady on with their combs Shinning hair and pointed noses in disorientation Phenomena muddled and probabilities remain over burdened Scholars of faith cushion their blind switches Poised on their desks With handcuffs folded Kneeling down at instances To see legs crossed Skirts unfolding those pinkish bones Of fragile dolls Of nimble blonds Manuscripts cluttered every where And ink ails on historical deceptions In brittle summers of sapping heat Farmers encamp in shades of rust Sowing those barren lands With leaves of wriggling lizards Sweat filled onto their foreheads Wounds they carry have no vents Nature witness countless deaths In those rudimentary lives Carriages of fates tumble and wilt Whistle of morsel seems drenched in sands Bridges of ailing prophets disintegrate in thickening rain Those angles of God hover on whitish wings Like sparrows only summoning their silences Collaring dreams perspired Amplitude of some past live In gullibility of its own realization Heaps of desires clutter in startling metros Scurrying away bare footed Crowds I see are like wriggling earth worms Coached in black suits and glossy ties Yet scattered and dispossessed by any admiration Shattered windows, disbeliefs of centuries Chariots floating in timeless miseries Clocks tick away on to newer domiciles In minor windows with heaps of discontentment Like a lullaby of some forgotten nights Of mothers, of sister our refuges to be In arms of those, childhoods once sucked spaces Eyes unfulfilled, lives deprived Well do I care to exist A mayhem which so soothingly evolves Disarranges of these suns Those that haven't blinked for a million years Victims dance in many extravaganzas Like stage littered with many blots Voices clenched with many dissolves Disappointments greeted with clogged doors A cycle that continues In wavering fire with fluttering locks As another star nose dives into hollow of centuries At an age of 5, I had scarlet dreams Dreams which I envy now Miracles flowed through my imaginations Sands formed such alluring fragrances Well those tears I may heal Because pain has journeyed many years Well those shadows I may shred Because darkness has now a light of its own Those swings may not delude these minds Because mind has been deduced so many times Meadows of my sunrise Oh that fragile, feeble desire floating on the waves of no return Sprawling seas and sea gulls threshing their legs On these salty floors Shores besieges me company My fragments crawl like withered yet blinking fuses Foot marks so uncanny I may conquer threshold of so many desires Only to extinguish all I had for love of non existence
The claps grew louder as I pushed him to the ground. He scrapped with his open scars into the corner.
The slipping fingers engraved his defeat onto the walled graphite. The mask of his immunity now rested on the floor.
The army looked in affirmation. The chained cuffed hands were folded behind and lips were muted in ecstasy. The whirls of smoke blew from their trumpets. The assembling sparrows danced to the anthems. The rupture crawled onto their mantles. Truth of the veiled oppressed had emerged.
I tried to wash it but it was engraved. It was now part of me.
The real was waiting out there for me. The tracks were stranded in anticipation. I had to get back into merges of sand people.
I could hear their Laughter and whispers….the noise of the commons. The tapping of the footsteps, the joy of being delusional.
Yet I couldn’t go. I felt strange. It felt inappropriate to confront them. I was turning into something, which I didn’t know. Something which wasn’t from amenity of these streets. Something which was lonesome in tavern of its own.
I sat on the wooden stool staring at the mirror. It was silent, yet in remorse. I tried to wash it but it was engraved, it was part of me now.
The noise of the crowd, the whirling smoke, the inevitable wasn’t there. I couldn’t see winds of victory. My rupture had culminated. The shadows mounted like barren mountains.
The curtains had been shed, pied Piper was whistling on narrow alleys… Few nomads in tattered clothes were smoking pot in seclusion.
“What language do you speak” the superintendent asked me
With degree of assuredness I replied ” The language which you hear and feel. The language that silently grows onto mountains”
He grew impatient and said “Apart from your mumbles I can’t hear nor feel anything ”
“You need to listen to it, you have to follow the tracks of the sparrows. It won’t come to you” I said rather philosophically
“Look it doesn’t make sense to me, it is important that you speak a clear language to make things easier for you” He said rather cynically
I didn’t know what to say. His gobbling eyes and thick mustache layered upon me The paint of his skin grew thicker and eyes were paused over me.
The mirror was still staring at me, and I was staring at person that was someone else
“We act and perform as if we have no real faces. The characters are our life. The blood of these revives our soul ” I told him
“What your character do is your creation. You are responsible for their action. You have to pay for their rupture, you can’t wash them away” He said
My lips were colored in red. The face was spreading painted seas of the unreal. It was engraved. I couldn’t wash it away. I had to go back, but it felt inappropriate. It felt strange.
The hand were untied and army dispersed into narrow alleys. They were real, the stains of the graphite had been washed. The streets were again emblem of sanity, the noise, the puff and the footsteps were again the inevitable.
I tried to wash it but it was engraved, I was the rupture but that moment was my mask. And My mirror… possession of what I had left on narrow alleys of the sensible……
This prose depict masks and frames we cover onto our real on a daily basis. These masks are engraved on our sensibilities and have a life of their own. They speak a language and act in a manner which creates ruptures around us.
However this masks, which we embody subconsciously becomes real to us which we can’t wash away. Yet the actual real which remains in the sensible distances away from us. This leads us into zone of fragmentation where we both yearn for the mask but resonance and calling of the sensible disrupts what we mask in the unreal.
Tilly, C. (2008) ‘Claims as performances’, in Contentious Performances, Chapter 1. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 1-30.
Ranciere, J., et al (2006) ‘The distribution of the sensible’, in The Politics of Aesthetics, London: Continuum, pp. 7-46.
Scott, J. (1990) ‘Behind the official story’ in Domination and the Arts of Resistance: Hidden Transcripts. New Haven: Yale University Press, pp. 1-16.
Eyes opened up to confide, there was faith, there was belongingness. Sea shells were deposited unaccompanied on shores and shallow water receded so silently into its origin.
Moist of sticky sand covered hues of those bare bodies. Bare bodies that were stripped into their entangled yet unbounded fantasies. The shapes and images were obscure, yet bulkiness of the flesh was lucid and untamed. There was no separation it seemed. The budding civilization connected pulses gravitated in earthly soil.
The resonance of the heart beats could ring across their thudding bodies. Strokes of different layers amalgamated into feelings of pain and pleasure.
Time was lost, waves were subdued in oceans and they both wanted more of the unknown, uncertain and the unreal.
He whispered “If pleasure was unguided, my body is only a occupancy to brim spaces it requires”
She replied “I feel if my body is getting soaked in this pleasure, this fantasy. I have let loose my vanity, my possession to become part of it.
He said “We are creatures of the sand, made out of mud and it is only inevitable we must return to it so to acknowledge its magnificence”
The wind started to bustle rapidly as waves rose from their depth. Few droplets poured onto the bodies and they knew that nature had summoned them into this ritual.
They cried in salvation, in melancholy and in freedom. The nostalgia of the past had been surpassed and what they could feel together was real, beautiful and Divine.
The Goddess of Earth has risen and so was her confession to arms of nature
The sun was beating persistently on the crackled walls of old buildings and melting bodies rambled on the streets like shining armors. There were many shapes and textures, all which were unique and expressive. In being silent they had so much to say and converse with each other. The unrealized connections in shaking hands, touching shoulders or meshing hips in clutter seemed trivial yet very powerful in different ways. However conditionality for such expression was of physicality. This notion of physicality was ceremonial in bodily experience.
As the evening gathered heat of the day onto its arms, in room littered with scattered paintings was he. Puff of smoke exhaled out of his dry lips decorated with his unkempt facial hair The paintings were of lower abdomens of different forms. However inappropriately the upper body halves were camouflaged with obscure figures of medieval dragons. The room was spacious enough for her to play rusty tunes on un-tuned acoustic guitar. She had slender fingers colored with black nail polish. The guitar pick was fixed in her middle finger and there was continuation between G Major and E Minor Chords. It was a liminal space of uncertainty yet there was resonance between her earthly tunes and his obscure imageries.
It was erotic, it was smooth. The bare navel flirted with the burning candles and warmth of the aroma poured into her sweat. She crawled into his veins, and he laced onto her sweat. The symphony began to play and dance of the crawling spider emulated in different moves and turns. He began to submit and shrink .The brittle veil began to disappear and images weaved lucid colors. Colors that were now beyond mystification. No more were tunes rusty no more was She a dragon of the medieval times. She was real and so was her emerging aroma.
“Strip me of this comfort, abstain me from this threshold, as I have no threshold to honor” He said
She smiled in admiration “I could muse in centuries over this stillness, stillness which shakes clouds and feeds rain with the surreal. I could dance in this silence, silence which shatters mountains and melts moments in submission”
Bodies have a conditioning of their Own, they can both create and emulate what they create. Darkness has a light of its own, it spins our imagination and allows us to appropriate what we consider as insensible and unintelligible.
This prose has been indirectly inspired by Works of French philosopher George Bataille, Pakistani short story writers Ismat Chugtai and Saadat Hassan Manto. Their use of bodily analogies and metaphors had ability to express the unsaid and allowed them to venture into unchartered territories that are part of our daily lives in different ways, yet we feel inhibited to acknowledge their significance.
Butler, J. (1993) Bodies that Matter. On the Discursive Limits of “Sex”. New York: Routledge.
Butler, J (1990) Gender Trouble: Feminisms and Subversion of Identity, London and New York: Routledge
Ranciere, J., et al (2006) ‘The distribution of the sensible’, in The Politics of Aesthetics, London: Continuum, pp. 7-46.
Vanderwees, Chris (2014) “Complicating Eroticism and the Male Gaze: Feminism and Georges Bataille’s Story of the Eye,” Studies in 20th & 21st Century Literature. Vol 38 (1), pp 1-17
“Death has a language of its own
Psychedelic and celebratic in tragedy
Death has a symphony beyond limits
of freedom, of transcendence
“I am liberated today” He yelled to himself, like standing in a theatre of empty corridors The corridors were empty, yet the wind had a howling resonance, within that resonance was he and his newly claimed sovereign.
He asked the Sovereign “what I have become?”
Sovereign replied “In the land of the bountiful, you are the purest, where slaves bow their heads in submission, you are the King of these lands and seas”
His heart started to beat rapidly as if veins were separated from his body, he asked “You are the sovereign, guardian of my soul, I find the continuum of my rivers through you”
Sovereign paused for a moment and said “I am bones your flesh embrace, I am veins that your blood paints. I neither deny nor reciprocate. You are the origin and the conqueror of the sovereign”
He could hear his voice resonate in clog of smoke, yet only silence of his ambushed victims could revere him company. The lull before the inevitable, whispers before the dazzle had ended. The storm had arrived and with it hour of celebracy. Death was a dancing companion, as if demons were transformed into angles. He could see nature smiling on him. Heaven was pouring blood and tattered flesh was a souvenir to illuminate aura of victory. Each footstep detached him of his material remains, remains which were decomposing into shattered glasses, debris and rubble. He felt light, as if nothing tied him to before and after. The smoke gradually settled and arms of Angels carried him onto World of eternal happiness. He was rekindled solider who had transgressed beyond the realm of pain, misery and material obscurity.
After moments of silence, the lull finally capitulated, there was sudden burst of noises and voices from every corner. The anthem had began, Sirens, horns, shrieks and cries. There was struggle, shock, despair yet the moment of so many switches had little clarity of what had occurred and what the response should be. Emotion tussled between utter numbness and vocal despair Death was still dancing as a companion but as a demon taking away souls from tattered bodies. There was air of helplessness and sense of heaviness in the mist as corpses scattered like lightened morsels. How can nature be so unkind, why is God watching this mayhem. These questioned brimmed in remorse of the smoke, that trailed into cracked walls of some nearby building to castle transcendence of another tragedy.
The early morning Sunlight embraced his face, which seem like a stone untouched by light since centuries. There was little unique about the day, a sense of predictability in daily traffic, small tussles between roadside vendors, aggrieved eyes of beggars and rushing suited men in anticipation of another ambition. He was a passive passenger in trail that was carrying him along, however in being passive he carried a pursuit much bigger. The pursuit of death or for him pursuit of eternal transcendence. It was the hour he had waited upon since so many years. In his blandness he carried many memories . However he was a man who had extinguished his emotions in nights of many a remorse. Self doubts were behind him instead what he believed in was truth of his internal power. The power of Suicide Bomber, which was revelation of the sacred, a celebratic affair of glory, liberation and self actualization.
I wrote this piece in backdrop of twin deadly suicide bombing attacks that hit two Pakistani Churches killing about 15 people injuring 75 in Lahore. The attacks are continuation of series of targeted violence against Christian Minorities, who make up 2% of entire population of Pakistan. The ratio of minority population has been on the decline since waves of extremism has intensified.
The tragedy again poses us the question of pervasive role of suicide bombing as modality of action by supposedly oppressed and marginalized against the sovereignty of the state. Is this modality, more celebracy of Sovereignty over in-capabilities of the state or more conscious target killing. I believe it is more to do with celebracy of norm of Suicide bombing which is becoming a strategically defined means of political action. These fundamentalist groups have defined their own judicial norms so what lies beyond grounds and rules of these is considered as exception and thus is treated in an exceptional manner.
Agamben, G. (1998) ‘Part two: homo sacer’, in Homo Sacer: Sovereign Power and Bare Life. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, pp. 71-115.