Howling soliloquy


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
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Mask of the insensible

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. 

 

References

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.

Ritual of Earthly Bodies

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.

References 

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

Dance of Death: Transcending boundaries between Angels and Demons

“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.

References 

Agamben, G. (1998) ‘Part two: homo sacer’, in Homo Sacer: Sovereign Power and Bare Life. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, pp. 71-115.