Wednesday, June 4, 2014

Shitflies Riffing Keef

Keef's Ninth Fall-

I hear the holy syllable chanted by the local resident crow, and obviously the alpha-male leader of the flock that hangs around the Butcher's Alley in my locality
I'm in the Indian Chicken Neck corridor nestling in a run-down tenement with a room that I've begun calling An-A-Hole-in-the-Wall
Today's day two without a passage to sleep
I'm almost tempted to say what this chap says when he's asked "Do you sleep?"
He keeps a poker face and replies, "No. I dream"
The night's chameleon colors are now turning a faint blue with a tint of Yaya Toure and David Silva
It must be the hype of the English League making up for everything else that's fucked upped in that island
There's a hunger in the belly, and eating has become disordered owning to the Butcher's Alley, where I ravaged chicken and mutton curries with careless abandon, I now chew into sticky wet Arabian dates
It's had its good side-effects, this momentary vegan vigilance, as I gulp down Sugarcane juice, suckle down Coconut water, eat long green Bananas and make a mess chowing down fulsome Mangoes
Strong sexual-fruitarin imageries, those!
Staying up 48hrs writing long hand shit like these lines takes me to the 9th day that the legendary Keef stayed up awake, trying to find a riff, a tune, a melody, anything but the bedding sleep
On the 9th, he fell down flat but what kept the man up was, besides seeking a mouse more than a muse, were prescriptive fellatio, oral cunnilingus, nasal sprays and talcum powder, besides the grass in the meadows and lawns of his Country Estate
But before the 9th fall, Keef did find a riff
And lighting a fresh Kashmiri spliff, he'd wandered off with a gal named Alice to a place called Wonderland
He'd been certain of that, cos he'd been to Grace and Neverland, where he'd been culturally raped by Mike and physically taunted by The King as a 'skinny mammal'
Or was it Charlie's Choco Factory? Things get fuzzy at stages like these
When finally Keef reawakened from the 9th fall, he couldn't believe the riff he'd ripped on a scratchy ghetto blaster recorder
He'd gone country
And had the record anonymously dropped at Kenny's
It was Kenny's swan song
As His Beardness sang an insomniac's gambling country blues in "Ya got to know when to fold 'em, know when to hold 'em"
Today Keef, emaciated as ever being a millionaire since he was in his 20s, says it was the greatest song he never wrote
Its pretty clear, that besides Keef, I need some sleep

Keef's Deaf Fly-

a fly on the wall will arouse annoyance for being just a fly on the wall
but a lizard will arouse admiration
either way one misses seeing the frescoes for the fly 
or the murals for the geckos
for want of a wider vision
the art was lost
like a useless blade of grass
meaningless fistfuls of sands
dried up bones
insignificance tits and bits
neglected parts
shattered shards of glasses
like useless drops of water disturbing your sleeping dreams
in suspiciously isolated gestures
wherein singular gestures are doubtful
seldom trusted and carelessly dismissed
in the claustrophobic visions of narrow sightings
nothing fits
in its shallowness everything drowns
for want of a thread a web is lost
in seeking the sky the ground is lost
nothingness was always the womb birthing everything
that forms and empties
wherein our roles are insignificant and just as bewilderingly beautiful
and just as vital as the fly on the wall
the gecko on the move
and every cellular entity
that appears solid and separate
is anything but individual and independent
or even alive and living
wants are natural revelations
just as losses are the eyes that provide the panoramic views
of the fly and the art
the fresco and the gecko


Beauty stirs me

It overwhelms me
Makes me hapless
I counter it sedated
Dull myself to face its perfection
Beauty scares me
Drives me paranoid
I appreciate beauty but can't handle the look
Now what's deemed ugly has the opposite feel
I relax in the monstrosity
Find deformities lively
Can be myself in its leprosy
There really isn't a difference as such
Beauty that imbalances me does so for it reminds me vividly of its other face
ugliness comforts me 'cos I'm aware its fundamentally beautiful
And both shake me up
Neither remains permanent
To deface one is to denigrate the other
As much as i admire Spring Blossoms
Shitflies buzzing about a steaming turd of fresh shit is as fulsome
We pick and choose
Provided we're ready to pay the price- of desire and aversion
If one does pay, moaning, whining and complaining follow, as beauty becomes routine boredom and ugliness, a sickening disease
If one takes them in equal measure, there is neither anything to praise nor anyone to blame
Marveling instead at the honeybee as well as the shitfly
In amused tones and mesmerizing sighs

Bowling Heads-

Showered away the body
Cleansed the invisible aura
With shampoos and conditioners, courtesy of the cares of a woman
Now in bed with a traditional pen and a scrapbook in hand
I lie clean in a hard bed and a noisy three-bladed chopper overhead
Sharapova screams on the antique-telly
grunting to levels erotic
thankfully its love, set and match
Gotta love the French when they go English- one does not really acquire an accent, one just speaks non-mother tongues with exactly the way one speaks one's own tongue
But the French version is a blast, sounds like a croissant trying to wrestle a baguette
This is no deep writing, by the way, as I've dabbled and jotted enough ink on prescriptive exploitation descriptive wondering, obviously with existential trappings
Its good keeping it dry and wry
Light and airy- seeing as there's enough fury writ and reported on the channels, that if old traditions of beheading bearers of bad news were revived, why, we'd have more heads to roll than than alleys to roll them in
Having said that, I'd go bowling with a couple of my own heads personally decapitated
On second helpings, let them rot and carrion where where they stand- diseased, maggoted, wormed and vultured
Now if you'll excuse me, I must delve into perverted fantasies
And go lumbering in between bardos
In laboring slumbers

Ps: YourLustForLifeStartsRightNow!

1 comment:

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