but they loved you

But it’s because they loved you, dear daughter.
They loved you so much they had to have you.
They told me, dear daughter.
They told me they liked your eyes, your little rats’ eyes.
The ones you got from your father.
Just like them to like you.
How like them.
Let me stroke you now, dear daughter,
let me stroke your hair and your eyes and your face all blue.
Because you choked on their little cocks now, didn’t you?
But you’re my blue baby girl. You’re my blue monk baby.
And I won’t let them see you again.
I promise, dear daughter, because you’re blue and your lips are brown with rust.
We must get it off.
I must wash you now, in the river.
I must wash the taste of cock out of your mouth.
Dirty man-cocks, dear daughter.
Just like your dear father's.
Oh, I'd eat soap afterwards.
But I won’t let you, because I love you, blue.
Because mother loves you.

a nightmare

it was to do with a bow, booboo, i remember. and a book. and ants. to use the bow you had to read the book, but to read the book you had first to go through a ritual that would prepare you for the 'impact' of the knowledge. you had to coat on your arms with honey and let yourself be stung by the ants. a friend of mine screamed while he watched his penis wither away. but opening the book did worse, booboo. far worse. but the bow, with it you could make music from the air itself. but not just any music, it brought forth the very words god communicated to create everything we saw around us, and the things that we didn't. and it reduced you to a trembling mass of guck.

now, booboo, you and i were having a party at our place and the guests were being entertained by a girl who played the viola. we knew her. and i knew the bow she held in her hand for what it was. but she didn't. that was crucial. the guests meanwhile kept on smiling cluelessly and sipping from their cocktails.then the girl got off and a loud, guitar driven band began to play. i went to find the girl, i knew, as we know these things in dreams, that she couldn't leave our house because bad things would happen.

when i found her i couldn't tell her everything i knew because my tongue kept tripping over itself. i managed to tell her she shouldn't leave because she will die, but this was greeted with peals of commonsensical laughter and a torrent of words too fast to make out, by the girl and the surrounding people, who were really rocking it by that time. the girl grabbed her case and left. and the first rumble of thunder was heard.

then i completely lost my mind and scared the guests telling them they shouldn't leave because things were coming to get the girl. you took me to our room, which was awash with light the colour of nostalgia and soft red cushions. i started trying to explain things to you but you shushed me. then as i buried my face in your hair i heard the screams. and i felt, rather than saw, the two purple halfclosed eyes staring from a bruised face. beneath those eyes was only an obscenely wide purple mouth. and the purple lips puckered and began to whistle the saddest song we'd ever heard. and we cried until we were nothing but bloodstained droplets trembling on the floor.

belief

to be an atheist
is no more braver
than praying
to a god unseen
while walking faith's tightrope
stretched between
the towers of
madness and humanity
to be dogmatic
is no better than
to be blindfolded with
"reason's" lustrous garb
and to walk into the shadow
with the devil's own torch

s*#@

all about us are
shit filled monstrosities
masquerading as
literature
political parties
mothers
NGOs
drugaddled daughters
and doctors groping
patients in
skimpy
shit filled underwear.
the shit is everywhere,
and omniscient.

art

art is what artists do,
pure artists' do,
be it a urinal,
or a hanged man made
of waste material.
or the imprints of boobs.
art is a can of artist's poo
or a troupe of ugly nudes
art isn't always true.