ha ha, charade you are

"Dogs look up to man. Cats look down to man. Pigs look us straight in the eye and see an equal."

no deeper meaning here I just wanted to look at a pig that wonderful, magical animal on a wing in a wig in your stomach crawling creeping bleeding on a stepladder waddling wading cleaning squealing think of these pigs as I am, in some similar dead of night

dogmatic

... [used by Wittgenstein] to designate any conception which allows for a gap between question and answer, such that the answer to the question could be found at a later date.

the pattern for a love poem

would it work if you  think i think

you smell like a rainy day

 cleopatra even, sometimes 

that you think like you're thinking, eat 

just the right amounts 

could say anything I wanted to hear say everything I want to hear

that i roll on my tongue the dark silence you throw at me

with all the false bravado of a corned dog 

if i ask would you give me 

the light hairs on your arm

the layer of fat you wear around your middle 

the back of your knee ever so lightly layered with prickly hair

your thin shoulders shrugging off my stupefying calm

I stagger around the right spaces you fill

lick from the floor the munch you use to turn your brain to mulch

the steam spiraling out from behind  your ears

your bony ankles your lucid days, few and far in between

the meaningless snigger you let hover in the air between us

knocking too and fro between us

your lack of interest, the coldness. 

you believe in your karma don't you? your stars and your preordained destiny

i pin you like a fly to this pattern.

i watch in every single way 

the things you let me think you say

you touch my wrist

i quiver, flinch.

ink

Inked onto my ankle like a prison stamp is the mark of my bondage to this world. The mark of our common bondage? Perhaps, because we came from the same place. Physically atleast, you and I can trace our existence back to one definite point: this womb, cold like a cave, warm like an island. And one way to know things is to know where they come from. 

For ends are not shadowy but impossible to capture under reason. I could maybe use imagination? But my superstitious mind refuses to play with karma by clumsy attempts at forecasts.

Does hope gather dust or become dust? Does it disappear into its primary constituents, or do they all lie intact, like dust ridden green bottles lined up stacked up neat shelves sparkling with trickles of eggwhite sunlight. 

To think of structures, shelves, sunlight: ;all this is comforting. 

It is perhaps the only access we have to the world: the structure that reason imposes on it, our tinted glasses.

birthday presents anyone? buy me sunglasses. 

शान्तिः

The silence of the Buddha points to the impossibility of trying to use reason to explain phenomena. Metaphysical reasoning will get you nowhere, the only access we have to it is what the structure our imagination and our creative minds impose upon it. And therein lies our bondage to Samsara. The cessation, then, of our thought process leads to the dissolution of plurality. Nirvana is the quiescence of plurality. 

The silence of my disfunctional phone has been interpreted variously. Speechlessness, an absence, the inability to say something. A warning, cry for help even, causing late night are-you-okay calls. Extensive meditations on the perlocutionary effects of non-speech, in the absence of the person even. Contentless, it is taken as a sign for something else. An ineffable something else, to be filled in like a post-modern fill-in-the-blanks orgy.

The silence of Akira means she has eaten something.

But this silence I leave with you is like a pus-filled boil on the verge of explosion. One false move and our noses and eyes and hair will be swimming through an unctuous trickle. Can you feel this dank coldness slowing down your face muscles? Are your eyelashes stuck? 

I could say honey if it made you feel better.

Dreamer

 easy in the chair that really fits you

trying out

something new is almost as good as ice cream
(but ice cream is always better)

packt like, pack-it like

shanti weavedin your hair through your full beard

through ears and eye lids dropt like tinfoil

painted over like blinds

creepingcrawling packt with hysteria

words, all we have 

time is running out! 

nestle my head into

flying squirrels red brown little men in striped suits

 an army of me

dissonance! guilt ridden outpourings more, again

 packt like tight tobacco

into your atlas shaped deserts mountains seasides blue grey eyes the eating of the man

the drilling of holes the dropping into ends

under trees crawl into the insides of chicken flesh and buffalo meat unmarked but for your native squiggles 

 dropping like flies packt into your- mouth how many would fit? open your mouth to see! blow them out like smoke rings think of this: billowing clouds of flies  

buzzing buffoonlike 

i situate you in my perlocutions 

uzak! there are worse games than waiting games and i wait 

packt like sweaty men in bottles of fruit vodka

do your mothers eyes see through my radiance?