I watch the pink walls diluted by the age of time. Pink, I love to dream of women---their music, their orifices become a haunting psychedelic witch. Color of her panties, pink, yes I have sniffed with relish, savored the tasty fragrance.
I see a yellow banana. Yes it's my fruit; when it's passioned in loves, it has to be licked.
God I want to write and write. Writing is an orgy defying death. Climax and orgasm are sweet. Death is bitter, death is sour grapes. She needs many orgasms to go to sleep. Adultery has been a luscious fruit for me. It stings me as mosquito but at the same time it pleasures me as as a musical woman.
"Grace"! I am in your theology so that I won't be excluded.
The novel of writing is an art. Tropes sculpt an aesthetic of existence.
The memory of her haunts me. I need to be inserted between her legs and flower her to an ecstasy of being.
Nirvana the state of exalted consciousness---sex is the only enlightenment.
The sky is clear like a sarcasm of shit. Sad to say I have met many women who will offer their bodies for money and also few who relish me to fountain their beings.
The secret, sacred and secretive woman---I adore you in the joy of passions.
I am in poverty. Can I be optimistic about riches? Poverty, you cannot breed my thought into an insanity that's not art.
Love birds are caged. They speak for their freedoms--their Palestine as their homeland.
Innocence I was born with it, now I am mature in adultery.
Cannabis I have smoked you with love and sexual longing.
Waking up to a dream is pleasant as an erection.
Narratology in the voice of writing----I look at myself wrapped up in the ineffable voice of God, a voice that God shared with Moses in the burning bush. I have a pen that drips, penetrating the lava pussy of paper as an oasis of succulence. I try to write time in the memory of Borges and I become like a Monotaur confined in the labyrinth. My experience lie like mystical beads that chant extrasensroially into the haze of time lived into the mercurial present and to a being of futuristic optimism. Death is like a haunting surprise that I cannot anticipate.
Realism of the novel, I have poured your books in temporal life, your meandeings into costumes of cultures. I excavate the sculpture of your textual narration, your bourgeoisis rendering of habituation. You create signs that lull the history of meaning a similitude of existence. You go to great extent of narco-opiating the psychologism of character seketches. In neo-realism, characters have lost their voices; they are a legion of an unstable author. There are epics of realism---grand narratives of war, carrying a moral lesson like Ramayana and Mahabaratha. War is the phenemenologization of agression. How can war become moral lessions? Peace is a lesbian, he voice is the sublimation in the art of writing. War of mythologies is privileging Gods to be bestial, treacherous and in humane. Krishna is an example. War crimes are not only textual relics but also suffocating realities for the the marginalized people like the Palestinians. Gujarat is a classic example of communal wars. A load of Hundus torched out alive the muslims. Religion drives the human to be maniac. Art perverts him or her to be a good existential being.
Just when I wanted to go out Zeus pissed from the sky. Scattered yellow petals lay like a trail of urine on the ground.
I invoke existentialism as the being to the becoming---now a realization of how? The becoming becomes an essencesualization of being. Every negation and every affirmation is an essensualization of being. Time cannot revoke a beings existence.