This life here i am dwelling,
it is already the next;

Nearby things sound distant,
distant things come near.


Of a brusque and brutish lion at midday i dreamed,
to rack, bite and tore my each and every limb.


the only thing worth doing is read, the rest is brickwork, nothing more but brickwork. reading is the only noble thing left to do, and as such is something to do, because to be noble is to be ridiculous, and to be ridiculous is irridiculous, and one must not ask for redress. to read, that is, not afterwards to write, to write from having read, to write of what you have read, or simply to write, read, no, but to read, and nothing more. one must read so as to be able to unread what one have read. one must read until blindness sets in: and then, blind, one can finally begin reading, though not yet. one must read, not in order to extract knowledge out of what one reads, not so as to wallow in the self-forgetfulness imbibed in reading, not either to sharpen one’s puny intellect, but simply because one must read. it is like being a slave, who is commanded by his master to pluck his ulcer and stuff it into his mouth, not in order to satisfy the master’s desire but simply to pluck one’s ulcer and stuff it into one’s mouth. in reading one must not ask for meaning, because meaning brings in no tea, because meanings are meaningless. just as one must not be pragmatic about meaning, one must not be practical about reading, one must not ask for retribution. it is a vocation in which nothing is concerned, in which one crosses oneself out of account, in which one gain nothing, profit nothing, savor nothing, suggest nothing, do nothing, save nothing, save read.


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i am cigarette’s amputated hand; i sang sing song sang sang; i am fallacy, i spit against the fallopian tube one-handedly, i am amputated, my cock is sewn; i am saturated in spite all the persecutions spat unto me, i let myself take all the blame, i absolve you all, old phalanxes, old spleen, old garlic remembrances from the stupendous days of yore; i am tired, tired, tired, i am unused to the heady glib of prophetical gliding, tongue-swede tongue perspiring; i am the cancer that grows on literature’s bony rectum, i am sublimer than all their morning dung combined, i shall become their twilight, their death personified, their final quagmire, the Lascaux catacomb into which all things jump headlong irreparable; but what kind of fiction am i? – a dull one, no doubt: fit to don one’s moustache with greasy slobber. my beard i have berated, my jaw hangs limp before the raucous pulpit, outweighed by the whole panoply of gods sitting on my tongue cackling, bragging, sagging, all the while postponing the act of creation assigned them. shall i cut my ear too, leaving the earlobe dangling, the voice sluicing eloquent but unheard, the tales gleam iridescent but unseen, the eyes perspiring, weeping no longer, laughing no more? my earplug’s gone, swallowed by the piqued esophagus of Helicotrema, the world now may thrust their din upon my holed ego, i have no defense left but my cowardice. i am over-through. there’s nothing left to unravel. psychology no longer concern me. i have none. any semblance i may still have to the living must be tracked back to the amoeba – whose genius of individuation is grafted upon its very atom. to whom shall i write long letters now? to whom shall i lavish my becoming? i once thought it fit to make a monument out of my solitude: “for it is but history,” i bragged – for it has but passed. the young ambrosia-pissing Pessoa that i was! nay – i am that monument. nay – i am that solitude. my figure loom as big as it is small, a gross remainder all to my own. La tristesse durera toujours. Comme il fait sardoment. blase. the self… is its own lost referential, its own unbending Beauborg, skeletal, fleshless, resistant, chancrous. a blind tumor of amputated energy.


(2009 – 2010)


Bandung, yr steel-cold midnight air strangles me so with yr dying lapse of breath that  brought sullen fits of anguish like that faltering frozen lips of an old queen;

Too long i have breathed you, too long, too long i have drown soaked, lying prostrate in your icy deathbed listening to your languishing melody of nocturnal thoughts;

Too long i’ve been in yr vain lapse of searching, hiding, towering cowering and everly falling and crumbling and wailing under the shadowy swarms of yr dead dreams!

Too long when night falls heavily pressing on my chest i pretend to sleep so as to take no heed to yr hideously jesting ghosts that crow under the dark clouds of my sheet whispering mockery in such ungodly tone, preaching humility in such preposterous drone – O let alone the aching of the drone; let alone the echoing of the drone i hear so loudly like a thousand pounding on the wall — “Failure! Failure!”, they say!

Too long i have managed to cope with yr dull yokes of dead souls, dead dogs, dead logs that engrave not a bit worth of memory on my head, that left not even a tiny bit of inspiration to shed!

Three and a half years too long ye feasted over your victory so callously and i fed over my defeat defeatedly; forever now ye’ll plague me like that plague of an unwanted child,

To live in you is like living in a box of mirror rusting itself: i could no longer see myself.

I am whom i long to escape so much, so much like you, ye wretched city that i love only when i’m drunk!


O how my heart trembles with glee                                                                                                         as i ride a hundred kilometers away from thee; away, away, to mount the vertical top of some impossible hill, upon which i placed myself before yr city scape, lofty and pathetic, watching yr buildings and shacks bedraggled in rains and fogs that burst from the vehement clouds in which, upon the calming of the weather, spread over its distant frame a rainbow monochrome, that towered with such a sickly hue, and hovering on the top of its curve i see my doppelganger—my first vision of another—grinning in a loud grimace, standing there unaware of the cruel flash its very presence provokes, hovering, pulsating below the bellowing gallow-birds that guise themselves into the form of a distant storm—i thought this is my eyes deceiving but from what else can i see?

My heart?—i forgot where i buried it.

My mind?—i forgot where i lost it.

I can neither see outward nor inward in this plateau of inverted abyss, from the very below of which i saw thousands of human ghouls assuming figures just like me, motioning like ancient apparitions over a sunken ship who see without seeing, who listen without listening, who speak without speaking. . . . . —who are they? are they not simply the consequences of my blank projections? i see how the light passes through them unashamedly, as uncomprehending as a fly passing through a dead screen. . . .

—Humans! vague, senseless moving objects. . . . . ! humans, if not mere gambols! humans, if not malingerers! later, shall this sickness be finally ripe, i shall teach them how the game is to be rightfully played . . . .

(And then sleep too, my one and only recourse, has done nothing but betray me; it grew into nothing but torment; i came out of it ever more exhausted than before i entered—O how the Voice presented itself before me only to later deny me! how close, yet how distant! Spirits, they descend into my dreams—their presence filled me to overflowing—the self, having no autonomous space left, withdrew, clearing up a vast hollow in which words, disemboweled from their everyday penury, scatter themselves like disposable loins—and lo!—the most beautiful poems i have ever seen composed—the most magnificent visions—ways of reasoning i have never thought possible—thoughts i never have thought plausible—wondrous, ecstatic insights—burning maxims, anecdotes, dialogues—the typewriter racking manuscripts after manuscripts without respite—O this god who is so set on expressing himself on human language, pity me! Breathless, i borrowed the cosmic breath—i inhaled the stars, the planets, my whole inner constellation — my dilated chest make as if to burst—but no sooner than i wake up then everything became quiet, i am thrown back again into this worthless mortal morning shell, dumb, paralyzed, pale, blasted; in vain do i try to spread my hand, reaching for the glorious white inks that shone in the bottomless depth of night i have just been snatched from violently. . . the words dissemble like smoke into the air, nothing is left except this foreground consciousness, this gaol of being in which my rejected genius lay hidden behind the curtain, jacking and wasting itself off into one long empty masturbation that is this life. . . . . .

—O Voice! begone, tease me no more! i know that i make such a pathetic figure, unworthy even of your pity—let alone your charity! Angel, doppelganger, dare not open your masks before i open mine!—O vulgar mortality. . . strange horns that sang lowly in the depth of the night. . . . —O consciousness without body! sparks of divinity that came storming, magnificent as lightning, only to later vanish, as stupid as lightning!

Who, if i explode, could contain me?—Who, if i cried, could hear?—Who, as i speak thus, could understand?

—O futile, useless lament!


—Away!                                                                                                                                                  Freed i be from the shackles of the cities!

—Away!                                                                                                                                                Freed i be from the tangles of the world!

But lo! what of it even if it were so?                                                                                                         —For forever I shall stay bound by this thing called self.


no one has ever been given to record it; no coffees nor wines has ever been served as the means by which one guzzles one’s time talking about it. (perhaps its because it is so obvious that it has never got mentioned?) one sensed it, but one would rather not trust one’s sense; one acknowledged it, but one would rather have one’s knowledge erased. for thousands of years it has been going on in this way, humanity never learns, it refuses to learn, even if once upon a thousand years a potential teacher comes up and elaborated the white, chalky truth over the sky: quite effortlessly then one prayed for rain, for the clouds to come and wash it away, as if it was a bad omen or something. the fact that mankind has always been able to avoid it is unavoidable; and that the game’s reach extends even to physiological sphere is of no avail: one inhaled it, but it refuses to be exhaled back; one devoured it but it always got lost somewhere between the appendix, or the intestines: one could find no trace of it whatsoever even if one were to dissect one’s shit. it passes every means of digestion, inscription, transcription. one writes, one reads; but there were never any fingers nimble enough to jot it down as quick as it appeared; no gazes are astute enough to be able to see it, transfix it: human eyes are too given to blink, yet it is within the instant of the blink it revealed itself; it is within the spaces that stretched between the words––not on the words themselves, which is only a formality––a thing written for the sake of form––that it breathes; it is in the armpits and groins of literature it dwells best; it is in places that few has ever dared to put one’s nose it lurks and groans. for millions of years it has been passed on in silence, until the silence became heavy and rotten of it; o how i have heard it breathing, how i have seen it flaring up dejectedly at sombre times, waiting and longing to be liberated from ignorance! even now as i am typing this i could smell it reeking, the odor wafting from every steaming gas-sewer and empty biles….. i see how the wind carries its seed everywhere, i see how it gets landed on one’s hairs, one’s hands, how it travelled down the gutters, the roofs, the streets, the oceans, yet at nowhere mentioned i have seen the seed grow; i carried the flower over my mouth but no butterfly came to suck the juice out of it…… perhaps it is afraid lest it gets turned into a dragon…… (tonight i slept a butterfly, tomorrow i wake up a dragon…..) today the sky eyed me hypocritically, i guided my eyes elsewhere, i knew not where to stare….. and this night too, i shall hear it snore, gasp and choke, it shall cough blood and shit chimeras, it shall get thinner and thinner. aye, i, too, kept on taking from it without giving anything to it back. tonight i shall hear it asphyxiate. like one stricken by consumption, it is dying..


I cometh upon a stone and I spake unto it: BE. But nothing it be; then with my finger lifted I spake unto it once more:—BE! WHY, BE!! BE A STONE!! Nothing’s game; and hearing me raving like mad, swearing, perspiring, the owls that stood watching giggled; the trees around rustled with a subtle hint of mockery; and through the foliage I see the sun glinting, shining with a loud, blinding grin. I stood benumbed, even the whole mountain, silent and bewitched, joined the heckle. Then for the whole hour of the week I stood still upon these bullies, pondering and reflecting, pondering and amazed, baffled, lost amidst their jeerings; until one day it came unto me—AND MY! How i too giggled! How i too guffawed! Grinned! For suddenly it dawned upon me: why, they, too—the stone, the owls, the trees, the sun, the mountain—aye, they, too, have been pointing to me all this time, coming unto me as i cometh unto them, speaking unto me as i speaketh unto them: BE!—it saith; BE!—but I no more BE-ing than they do.

closed eyes, closed lips, closed words and a closed world

January 2019
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