Inside the puddingland

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MySpace Graphics Your kiss spins like a dice in the night air and finds a shelter in the naked geometry of my face. - For R

Friday, February 20, 2015

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Monday, October 1, 2012

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Sunday, January 1, 2012

Love poem, not again

Travelling with your soul in a suitcase
at 4 am in the morning.

You know,
the winter sun can be such a bitch in the closet
moving through the mist of the red garment.

The train has arrived,
there is blood in your kingdom of love;

women move in and out through doors
and Raphael stares like a beast from the clouds,
on the ceiling there are faces of angels
you lust for in sleep.

So you’re in your room,
with junk, weed and coffee
with lovely eyes and breaths of grass.

Polish the face of the sun
with lizard’s claws in a black shoe-case
and the mirror that blackened your soul

Travelling in a blue car across sunset,
you remember women with Nazi lips
who carried bombs inside their pink ribbons,

you fill the suitcase with mutilated women,
their breasts, thighs and lips jostling for air
and send them in trains through the blue sunset.

Naked American stripper on the highway,
her limbs chopped off, her voice glassed
like dried grapes in the sun;

pack her fingers with the moon
and spice up the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel,
feed her bones to the cannibals in the woods
and honour her as the last saint of modern art.
Preserve her breasts in vinegar and salt
as the last example of colonial peace.

You know,
I’m travelling with my soul in a suitcase
at 4 am in the morning

but you’re still unafraid to confess
that you love me,
can’t you see that every bitch with nuclear power
is trying to bomb us left and right?

Even my neighbour’s dog seems to be complaining;

Right, it has come down to sentences,
even words,
your letters have been flushed down the toilet.

So I’m in your room
growing my hair long,
tattooing every inch of my dark skin
and living on wine and Radiohead.

This country seems to have lost it
(just like me, must I say)
fighting for a bill in the parliament
like babies fight over broken toys.

I wasn’t complaining,
riding to the market on Sundays,
you’re with your mom and turned away,
really girls can be such bitches when their moms are nearby.

I could have puked, I tell you
back from Criticism class on Wednesdays
and imagining you in my arms naked all these years.

The room was dark
and I had put on the Ninth Symphony,
my lungs felt heavy and full of shit.

Outside there was a man selling ice-cream
like corporates ferrying a degree,
For some hours, I lost track of time.


Thomas, Thomas
the telephone is ringing,
it’s been quite a while;

it’s 1945
and Annie has passed away,
she has swallowed pills, you tell me
no, no, I believe she was killed.

The Jews are praying for a sun
inside their blue chambers,
I fancy being Satan at times, it’s fun.

After breakfast, it’s 2010,
it’s always 2010 after breakfast
and 1945 after lunch and dinner.

What is Ophelia doing behind the leaves
playing with radioactive waste,
posing nude for Picasso in haste?

Ophelia, isn’t it?
Going round and round in sleep
with sex toys and…

So, the street-lamp spluttered,
So, the street-lamp gnawed,

Ah, you’re back again, scream.
“Yes”, the street-lamp cried,
“Yes”, the dark sky cried,
“Because you are back thinking in circles,
nth time and Zeroth time,
inseminated time and test-tube time,
dilated time and inflated time,
Alice’s dream and…”

Yes, Alice it is, Alice it will be,
going down the time hole
in a TV commercial,

I was watching a Tarantino film
and with closed eyes could picture
a beer can on the white sands amidst the swaying coconut trees,

Time can be an androgynous, self-copulating beast,
sterile, deprecating, having endless periods.

Somebody nailed the clock to the moon.


Bitch on the wall,
you’re provoking me again,

this is my last joint, I assure you
(as if you are ever watching me)
I’m so fucked up that I can’t help it.

And after this, I promise
I will try to write a nice, polite poem,
try to resurrect your letters
and dial your number.

Please, pick up the phone.

Friday, August 26, 2011



We were seated on the wrong side of the room. You could stare through him like glass and see the streets and women flow like arguments. He had the breath of chalk and soul of the yellow fog that rubs its tail in the sunlit breeze. You could feel him wound up like the soul of a bird in the yellow fog and slither out of smokeless chimneys into the city. He was at motion and rest as he filled the room like music...women with braceleted arms and bare breasts in lamplight, had golden hair and spoke like dust. The music flowed through trees, through empty streets and teaspoons of vanishing breath.

The universe panted...

the universe rubbed her breasts and arms
on the naked body of time,

the universe spat out a symphony
with golden hair and panting lips
across the slender, white fingers of the sea.

And then I measured time in teacups
as the universe, pinned to her dress
wriggled in pain.

Mon amour

Footmen with porcelain lust
lay sprawled along the body of the universe
squeezing it into the voice of time.

“No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be.”
I am not silence, I am not time, I just pretend. But then, I am almost you.
His speech came from hollowness and non-being. That he lived and loved,
that he sat across the table was enough. I and you can be you and I or just I.
A letter.  A mask.

We shall wait, we shall wait

Phantom of motion,
Phantom of time.

We hide, I hide inside the mask of the universe. Soft, cold nothing. The
universe weeps.



Sunshine spilled like cold laughter on deserted streets,
black rain on the last fragment of song,

People walking in the lilac soul of rain, transparent.

Escape the salt and mist of rooms
built or imagined in after-thoughts,

and the ecstatic murmur of women
vanishing in clock and sunshine.

For the evening in a thin musk of sweat
between your breasts, smells like grass
and you are the child of sunsets.

We shall wait, we shall wait
like empty time on sand and slate
for our last July morning.

Splash the oil and paint across the windows,
where old men sit and dream in rain,
across the dust and breath of  twisted sunsets,
the last empty mask of purple recompense.


And again, you sacrifice horses in glass
to smear their blood on window panes.

You draw curtains on cities on the shore of magic,

Memory of smoke fills the room with alienation,
the loneliness of the ninth symphony by the sea.

A few more words and it’s November almost,
what does silence mean?


Infinite, my love
infinite my lust for silence

as flesh penetrates flesh,
and metal penetrates the soft belly of light,
on that baked afternoon in Algiers.

We met by chance and kissed by accident,
our fate had the passivity of lover’s limbs.


She had salt in her eyes and silence on her lips.

Her soul was hyacinth, crumpled and wet
like forgotten paper.

She sliced the evenings with her convex lust
and smeared the petals on organs of the city.

She played Brahms and I read Brecht in the afternoons.

Her white body and breasts had the colour of silence,
like hot sun on the ocean at broken sunsets.

We shall wait, we shall wait
like empty time on sand and slate
for our last July morning.

Soft re-birth of the July sun, our palms are pressed;
do I have friends or enemies?


 A lonely R by memory and sunset,
amongst the power and silence of the dying universe.

You are the eye, of motions and reflections,
the orange pulse of silent galaxies.

Do I lie, do I faint and collapse
if I doubt the silence and motion of your lips? 

Gravity, women and traffic will lure
for mechanical points of harmony.

We shall wait, we shall wait
like empty time on sand and slate
for our last July morning.


Salt tang of tobacco sky
and principles of motion.

Two-thirds of time is time
and the rest is nothingness.

Thursday, June 9, 2011

Love-song to a stranger

Because this song has influenced my life so much and also the title of this poem.


Blue sunlight on lotus leaves,

leaves and prayer,
someone flits across the hyacinth door of sleep.

Rub out the poison from your eyelashes,
and watch the doorways turn into infinite mirrors,

pluck out the images,
the silken lust of poison in breath
and the slow decay of the empire beneath the gown.

A million conquests won or lost in bed,
as you hide your soul of bells
beneath the blue umbrella of sleep.

Like the wild autumnal fantasies in your eyes
or the rainbows spilled on  the liquid walls of time,
a stranger flows like the wild river at sunset,
beneath the street-lamp.


The street-lamp travels through sand and glass.
The street-lamp yawns and falls like time
from Naera’s hair,
across the cosmic music of the stranger’s lips.

Her lips conceal a violet prayer
for the earth,

her eyes like a Grecian stalk conceals
the unsaid spectrum of lust.

Cars of sand triumph through constellations,
lyre of the scorpion rose in the glass,
a smudged factory of dreams.

The house beneath the blue dress
falsifies salvation,
an endless portal of desire.

If you could sing to me in sleep,
like the street-lamp engaged in the shameful act,
trembling beneath its innocent horror of thwarted escape.

If you could welcome me beneath the fancy lights
and show me your eyes are also the mirrors of dancers,

and if you only knew that my eyes are also blades
whose tendrils can grasp like infant claws
and fracture the quiet solitude of the evening.

Beyond this partial horror and ecstasy
of this enormous, soft lucidity,
we descend.

Like the soul of sparrows in twilight,
we descend.

For the unmanageable weakness of our body,
we descend.

Across that enigmatic horror of that smile in Louvre,
we descend.

Across the smokefall of future,
the embrace of salt and germanium laughters,
the shrieking voices and slow rotation of the stars,
our speech borrowed from frozen savages
and the soundless withering of daily time,
our descension has the flavour of an untamed prayer.

And when June is a hot baked moon
swelling through the dried semen on the street-lamp,
renunciation is only soft retaliation in bed.
The smell of the afternoon bursts like an elegy,
in the calamitous purple mask of women
dressed with futureless laughter and etiquette,
only to drop their masks with their gowns in bed.

Your beauty is dangerous in the voice of the street-lamp,
your fragile lips calculating wreckage of history
is a partial fallacy in your notion of existence.

Fulfillment comes like a naked shriek of the Ganges,
and across Seine, Thames or the Nile,
your halogen grin electric under the street-lamp
is a destroyer of primitive fancy.

Lady, on a drummer’s voyage,
at the shrine of orange ships that sail for future,
light the harpsichord with omens
at the half union of the womb.

This semi-automatic dream shall wreck you
across the temporal illusion of music
and the wild incantation of lust.

Yet heedless my soul,
heedless the fleet of eyes.

The rhythm fallen from her sleeve,
her enchantment inching towards liberation;

her bosom expanding like an empire,
the hollow pail of her voice receiving inwards,
the liquid spiral of her breath like a henchman’s reins.

These are the streets I visit and re-visit in sleep
for re-incarnation.

Children playing in golden breeze on pavements
while the asphalt tongue of time licks up the dust
of the uncertain hour,

the dark caverns of her breast
evaporate language from the eyes
as the dead tongue of time is suspended in un-belief,
green pastures of your mother’s voice,
the metal cries of women washing clothes,
the spectral honking along un-existing streets
are all like rehearsed fragments of horror.

What exists can’t always be real…

And then her bosom falls
with the soundless finality of a death-knell.
Three contradictions of sorrow:
between the scarecrow and the sky,
between the language and final motion
(commotion, motion and disdain)
and between the lip and the lip.

All is silent,
As Beethoven comes to the ear
like a wisp of fantasy.

Between the dead choir of memory
and painful aftermath of speech,
the girl is stranded at the hyacinth door,

naked beneath the glance of the street-lamp,
and the endless flowering of eyes
as a witness to the lust of her existence,

frozen symbol of ice,
the onslaught of aqueous eyes 
like a train at the door of sleep,

Scorching glance of the sky,
scorching glance of  the street-lamp,
my eyes leave my body.

A million weapons of vision exalted at the death of time,
incandescent tongue of time defeated in fire,
caresses along the soft, suffering epitaph,
noiseless wars beneath the gown,
along the soft corners of sleep,
the faint tremor that runs
along her body.

“Yet stop”,
cries the street-lamp,
echoes the sky.

My eyes blinded by the language of rock,
shakes and falls like an ageing leaf.

To begin at the beginning
is to end without ending.

The street-lamp travels through sand and glass.


Awake. Arise.

Yet this is not sleep,
this is not the pain of birth or death,
this is not the supernatural destination of the mind.

This is the fear of consummation
falling through the dark throat  of time.

“You shall not touch the wind,”
the street-lamp cried.

“Your body will shield our fortunes
at the funeral of water and life
before we pawn your body to the devil
who builds a flute with soul of murdered cats.”

The stranger I met that violet afternoon
is a distant chord of ash,
violins burnt on the walls of sleep
echo the chorus of the winds:

“Dove on the horizon of memory
Whirl now in a vortex of motion and emotion
The first panther that died at dawn
Will purge you beyond the dancer’s body.”

My arms tied from pole to pole,
as long as the music lasts (or the lust in bed),
the lamp-post, the sky and the earth

will torture me with strange history of my genesis.

Zero-th fa├žade, Zero-th time, Zero-th lust,
let’s start again.

Let’s play a game, just you and me.

Imagine for a start you love me,
you might think that May comes after December,
or we eat with broomsticks if you want,
but it’s important you imagine.

Now imagine the cellophane song of spring,
(it’s just a memory game, mind you
so why bother;
(yes, straighten your hair a bit
and loosen your dress if it’s too hot,
for it’s really summer you know
and I am not staring)
(Not that I won’t like to kiss you
(even though I don’t love you
but after an entire evening together
and a kiss, who knows)
(I’d like to actually stare while you’re undressing
and imagine my body pressed against yours,
my palms sliding like water across your breasts,
my thighs pressed against your vagina)
No, I never said that, I was just thinking
and even if I did, it’s none of your business,
you indolent slut, stop intruding)
just stare at me and think)
and yes, where were we?

Ah, yes, the cellophane song of spring,

“Stop wandering away” commanded the street-lamp,
“You’ll think what we want you to.”

Oh! The endless loops,
and the tragedy of being lost in them,
makes me wonder what is real.

“Of course, we’re real”, cried the street-lamp.

“Of course, we’re real”, cried the earth, the sea and the sky,
“And we are glad to use this light,
to light your soul,
now spread out in arms in crucifixion.”

(Only if it were so, as they think,
but I’m deluded, so let’s give it a try)

“Now Zero-th time. Zero-th space,
Stare at me”, cried the street-lamp,
“What do you see?”

Soft fibrils of pre-natal night,
mixed dread of comfort and alienation.

 A dark room furnished with the language of love,
water, blood and fluid guard the solitude
and the fear of language ebbing through synapses.

“Re-wind, drift like a speck of dust and anamnesis,
what do you see?”

Speech breaks down here, at the holy moment
through the music of throbbing body and falling stars,
the star, shrouded in white mist, comes like a sacrifice;
the star travels worlds in sleep through time
and the intersection of endless spaces
where the Oedipal streets crumble to dust,
it transcends and merges like faith
into another world.

Sunlight chokes on hidden laughter,
Word moves word, thought moves thought.

“These are then sins of the air”, the street-lamp cried.

“I wheel with the slow burden of sin,
the slow and rotting burden of flesh,” cried the earth
my efforts are a cyclic failure.”

“Like Sisyphus’ arm, you are cursed forever,
and I, like the nonchalant stranger in sleep
shall shoot till death.”     

The cellophane song of spring,
(let us imagine)
my palms sliding like water across your breasts
(let us imagine)
melting banks in the wreckage of the violin
(let us…

In the last failed effort of resuscitation,
the street-lamp, the sky and the earth surround me.

“Last chariot of peace, curse thee.”
“Last fantasy of soul, desert thee
“First chariot of love, heal thee.”

Words sting me
like a spirit stung by holy water.

“And you will be Demogorgon”,
the sky said to the street-lamp.

“And I shall be love, while you
freed of your daily burden, can hope.”

My eyes blinded forever, collapses
like the fallen star.

The epilepsy of sleepless nights,
the narcotic pleasure of vision,
and the soft rustle of hallucinatory motions all lost.

With my eyes, we all fall through memory.

The safety of the phantom mind is guarded by seals,
on the rock on the sea protected by the hyacinth oars.

While we all drown in the tendency of conscious art
and mystery of vision,
hymns of the lamp-post soothe the mind.

Incense stick, candles and holy water,
prayers written to the lamp-post
for healing the ghosts of vision.

To heal is also to kill
(The cellophane song,
Your thighs against my…

Ah well!
 Hallowed be thy name!


June evening. 4 p.m.

The stranger flows like the wild river at sunset,
beneath the street-lamps.

Rest in peace.