kagablog

At The word-bazaar.

It was some certainties that brought the poet to discard the habit of speech; that is, among all other functionaries of pious orgies still self-ingesting. But the integuments, between which he was stretched-drawn back into the womb, stank of earth’s mouth dug-out ruthlessly by acids of mortal breaths. The jowl before him was decreed by birth, yes; that sin of truth ever unvarnished. Like a phallus spent, all his prior endearments were seeding in regret. He’d transmuted through zealous perversity of poison common on faces he identified in his. Was he pretending sorrow? He asks his other seer.
Did he fail an obligation to mourning and ministrations of his insecurity? He was suckling at the honest margin toward solitude and world-hatred.
He felt all nobility hewn treacherously out his soul-modicum; left in a heap guilt that whirled with unabating tempests of multiple selves.
Those agonies of street-dependence endured thus far, all transitions to this painted clime, all reveries of dispirited minions; he could finally simplify into myths of his fulminated mud.
Poems tremulous innards, others spilt over admirations staged commonly in back-alley platforms sponsored by patrons.
This night, perhaps a gathering scheduled for workaholic breeds whose listings of priorities had time for an enemy… was a night of breathing his pain out, too. They scheduled their rage… yet he couldn’t, laboratory base earth hadn’t freed him; it all felt his suicide’s last attempt – a gauntly respite after those paralyzing soul-strides.
That was where I met Lazar; at this cabal of infamy, he dispassionately sat the drag along… beer in front his posture leant over the oval table. Hordes clattering around his indifferent pose… it was hours of the sun’s last leap through the horizon. He seemed the type who spent longer time asleep, but now… he was locked in labyrinths of obsequious demeanors and disorienting occurrences with all the dying young.
I sit opposite him, unable to restrain the urge to encounter his mind – he nonchalantly adjusts in my presence and other rude cliques. And beneath a gloom-ridden breath some unruffled whine bursts…something like
‘Isn’t birth a divine right to die?’ I imagine he said that.
The cursed language which fosters multiple meanings; why such an introduction? “You don’t believe me. Anyway, belief is never sure.” What… I think. “Lou Reed.” I love him, I say. A brief introduction entwines us and soon as he beckons me to lean over with a wag with his seemingly boneless lower arm.

Smoke-puffs cling nebulously unto his face – leaping ceremoniously towards the ceiling, shading hues seeping among eaters of machine-food as we watch others’ arrivals. Permanent residents and spenders of energies; more resonant transfusions of words… from smiths gloating over kitchen odors and factory diets. The scourge of language being a necessary evil, here – kept afloat tongues of idealists. Poetic disorientations booked theatres without ghosts, filled with Bibles of ornate verbiage yielding reversed curses and somber assaults in tedium.
Fictional losses and ambivalent literary orgasm roared as marketers of soul-marrows buried yet more evidence of a nation’s molten bones.
Lazar watched this spectacle notoriously, obscurations of thought-realities to pedantic ridicule; word-machines with further abscesses of hearts modified into stone-weights. Begrudged women – word victims loving the mess. Dogs laying eggs for fragility’s test, poetic hounds apart from the rest of campaigner of blindness.
And suddenly Lazar spoke a whisper of a defeated expectant: “You should be up there.” Like a poet he meant. “Otherwise die with tattooed wings of truths’ corpse – in your mind.”

He jabbed a thumb at my skull “A poet unheeded? That until age moles furrows into thine face?” This he said black-eyed akin a death gaze of a dream monster.
“Don’t be a hypocrite.” Those words scarred me in view of the frenzy of juvenile ranting – demonic jubilations at pleasure’s station called Freedom.

The poet begins to sweat names – tonight’s day solemn, metallic crafts in a blinded cafeteria. Telling beads of his wrath shadow drawing over this museum of lost laments; into vacant ears seethes like a cure the bites of his tongue streaming lines of paralyzed sparks.