God! Do you have to be virtuous and so pious? Why make me feel ashamed with the concept of sin? What good is life if life on earth is a misery? I become repentant, yet you are not kind to me. Why mock at me with goodness? Why can’t you tolerate my inequities? Why can’t you grace my fortunes? I am not the nails that have crucified you. I am not the hands that have been washed in public proclaiming that you are innocent. I did not betray you with thirty pieces of silver. I have not liked the wife you adorned me with. When you say that: I am the way: truth and the life: it makes no sense. I have searched my within and found an abyss of angst. David committed adultery and yet you forgave him. Since 2013, I have been living with a b* of a wife in a rut. Lord why don’t you feel pity for me? Is there room in your heart for the fruit tender kindness? Have you forsaken me forever to live in my misery? God, I am heartbroken, weary and tired with the ways of men and with you. Solace is an existential worm.
God is kind to me is a hyperbolic idiom to signify that all things are going well. For example: God has been kind to me in my life.
I met her on a dating site (connecting singles). We instantly fell in love. Soon I used to Whatsapp her with sweet nothings. She said that she has been to India many times and is planning to come again. I used to write erotic love poems for her. She used to emoji me with love icons. Then she told me that she is in India to do business. She told me that she works as an agro-consultant. She told me that she wants to procure Sacha Inchi a herbal extract used to make medicines. She told me that I should be a middle man and contact the company email given by her. Meanwhile her boss called me and said that he is pleased to do business with me. Then she told me that she will be coming to India to purchase 15 liters. I was to purchase 3 Liters as samples. When I wrote to the company they said 3 Liters comes up to 17000$. Then I did a web-search and found that 1 Kilo of oil costs only 50$. Then I realized that she was a scammer.
I learnt this term from a
reader- comment on my writing. I had to look up at the dictionary. The dictionary states that Paraphilia is an abnormal s*xual condition of intense s*xual excitement which is of a pathological nature. Do I suffer from Paraphilia, I ask myself.
The crystal ball was out early, hanging as an immaculate witch in the sky…I gazed at her like a poetic ornament…I was tantalized by her reflection on the mango tree…I felt my phallus being sodomized by a witch…I became a poet and started writing poetry…There she lies gazing at me with poetic splendor…She made me a wizard of imagination…I said a hi to her by pinching my nipples…There, her reflection is falling on the window sill of my house…I am listening to Bach and eating electric sandwiches…My soul is over amorized…Witch from a coven, yield your poetic soul to me…Yes, I have fallen in love with you….
Babel meaning an idiom of confused noises came from the Biblical Old Testament when people tried to build a tower reaching out to skies, God scattered them as nations and different tongues. Resurrection of Babel is an idiom meaning globalization of the English language with the spread of the internet and social media. As an example: resurrection of Babel is synonymous with the coming of the New World Order the Illuminatium, the World of Abundance and Light for all as prophesied by the Illuminati.
They came to my house with two books. I thought they were giving it for free. Then they said the books cost 200 Rupees. They asked please help them to have lunch. To my irony I didn’t have a single paisa in my pocket. I told them that, they went away angrily without believing me. I thought of celebrity evangelists and I thought of them. All beg in the name of Christianity. When I was having a good job, I was liberal with my money and I used to dish out hefty sums for Christian work. Now I am penny less. ‘Christ’ you are an irony for my purse. I have stopped worshiping Christ and now I follow the path of Mammon. Christ himself has said you are free to worship me or Mammon. I think ironically of Christ’s saying ‘what gain is there if you gain the whole world and yet lose your soul’. Rabbi: I haven’t gained the world. I think it is better to sell my soul to Lucifer. Yes, I long for riches, money, women and fame.
My body is corpse of rotten flowers –my soul an angst ridden Sisyphus—Where’s warmth of a woman gone? When can I smell sweet Jasmine on your hair? When can I caress your hair with trembling fingers—your lips are sweet wine—When can I immerse on them—I long to plant loving kisses on you—When can I kiss the vermilion on your forehead, the sign that you have a husband. Adultery is the passion of poetry. When can I fondle your mounts of Venus, suckle your nipples like a child. I am fond of lesbian voyeuristic sex. How playful are they when they fondle their erotic breasts…How adorable are they when they sodomize themselves with their tongues…oh how I love to hear them moan in ecstasy.
I happened to read the story since I had to teach it to eight graders. The story belongs to the genre of the Gothic Vintage. The protagonist of the story becomes obsessed with the killing of an old man. The whole story revolves around his pathological mania for killing. The reason for killing is psycho-analytically revealed in the story. The old man has an eye that resembles that of a vulture. The evil eye is haunting the protagonist. The wealth or possessions of the man like Gold does not interest the protagonist. He visits the old man’s house several times in the night and goes through the ecstasy of the thought of butchery. And finally one night he accomplishes the mission. He decapitates the body and buries it in the wooden planks that make the floor of the house. Then Poe brings in the cops who come to house on the pretext of having heard a shriek. The protagonist at first manages to maintain his composure but in the end looses it and spills the beans to the cops that he has liquidated the old man. It’s true that Poe has been characterized as a mad genius and as a tormented artist. The protagonist is suffering from narcissistic, psychotic melancholia. The narcissism is an obsession directed with quirk of violence that shifts the mind from reason to that of passion. The protagonist is going through an intense psychotic phase of psychosis where he is not able to distinguish murder as something diabolic and goes against the Super Ego, the laws of the society. Melancholia is pining for an object that cannot be obtained. Here it becomes a phantasmagoria, the vulture-eye of the old man. The psychotic character is unable to distinguish between fiction and reality. He does not want to take responsibility of the crime and willingly surrenders himself to the police. The psychological build up of psychotic anxiety is a super rendition of art.
What is the soul…is it a puff of cloud…is it a whisper of sacred secret…the soul is the magic of life…a tiny faint whisper…a chant of the hymn of the birds…a psychedelic music of the heart…ants creep into the soul and sing a lullaby…the soul should be rid of fanatic faith…the soul is a fecundity of the heart…I have been writing the sin of the fruit…I long to fornicate and adulterize my soul….sacred heart of Jesus forgive me…Yes, I am drunk now…proletarian rum of Karl Marx…where are my values…they are buried in a heap of dirty clothes…I am sunk in the abyss of existential shit…Nations you have to be f*cked up in the Illuminati of the UNO…I am not a f*cking Hindu living in Indian shores…let me coin metaphors of poetry…love, you have left me Sheeba Johnson…I am a f*cking piece of shit…How many times do men and women shit and piss in a day? Every day I pour incense on to the all Seeing Eye and the Unfinished Pyramid. I don’t care about money. I am under the tutelage of the Illuminati. I am a wandering piece of shit. I am a f*cking brown. I enjoy shitting. I love the feeling of pain when my an*l muscles contract and expand. Pieces of shit long ones, short ones are released into the commode. Shit is the poetry of music.
Vladimir Brodinsky was writing a report in the New York Times on the murder of Professor Ioan Couliano, the Prof. of Religions at the University of Chicago who is famous for the book ‘Eros Magic and Murder in the Renaissance’. Prof. Ioan was shot dead in the bathroom from a bullet sustained on the head. There are various conspiracy theories at work about the murder of the Prof. and they range from him having plotted against the Communist regime in his native country to him having been assassinated by the secret cult called the Signeggmati for having been blunt on the agenda of secret societies. The police and the FBI remain clueless about the murder. He sighed after finishing the last letter on the keyboard. Yes, he was loyal to the cult and he contemplated that a brilliant mind had to be put to sleep. After that he gave an enigmatic smile.
As the literati, I wondered passionately about the clouds…white and blue! The white is the sperm left by countless angels copulating …the blue is the piss left over by the angels…a thunder burst is the angels farting…I wonder how many times angels copulate in a day …they must be equivalent of the earth’s population…Unlike humans, angels have pink farts…there’s an art to angel-farting…The sperm left by the angels is a novel art…The piss of blue is an idyllic lullaby….
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