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Tuesday, September 19, 2017

A Political Doctrine of All That Has Been Lost

The problem with all "revolutionaries" of this century is that they cannot predict when it's about to rain.The madman sees no glory in what is about to come,but he knows what is going to come shower on him the night lying next to his senses,crawling up like an earthworm in its shallow nest.

He who swallowed two bullets down his throat last night is haunted by gallows of heaven,of empty apartments and blatant,sleepless nights.Of as comradeless a situation as this,come ravens flying across the deathly spirits of grey.We go on swimming like carps in stealthy ponds,in evenings were fireflies come swarming in late autumnal eves.

The poet never writes about a heartbreak,the taste of sunshine runs a chill down our weary bones.Even dystopia looks like an organised event,a microphone or two,speakers magnifying patterns of sounds in vain like a bat circling around a Banyan tree - aimlessly defying the layers of time that have gathered in the air in between.

('Guernica' by Pablo Picasso ; Source : Wikipedia)

The reflections awaken at midnight,not even the silent clock has any idea about this recurring occasion of terror.Of the little time in our hands,infinity rises like a drowning Sun - about to delve into theories of big bangs that never happened.

On a day as such,you will spot a face or two who disappear out of nowhere.There have always been a dreaded list of strangers who walk away at night,like an owl's whisper to an empty dawn.The serenity of running away clings to our shadows,accumulated around the corner of our lips."What do you believe in?" "What do you believe in?",they say. 

Back at night,when all the noise is gone,the song in the  head circles across railroads in the country.The leap of the summerbird,the map of galaxies on a Syrian boy's face 
half-burried in sand as old as the embodiment of wombs,the story of you and I,the calls in the dark,the surrounding tales of butterflies and torn pages lost in storms ; where would you manage to bury your face when the siren sounds,anyway? Where would you run away? 

There were footsteps that lead to inter-galactical planes a while ago.When you look back,the track is lost,the keys are gone,the maps are burning in hell,melting into lubricants and ice caps all at once.The stark odour of genocide in your hands will never fade out into nothing,a distraction or two will take you up and down the hillside once or twice - what is a revolution,anyway? Of creatures as petty,as idiotic as homo sapiens,as downtrodden,as poor as us - who destine waves into record labels and cut down a soulful touch into commands,a rotational specter
of notes run through the nerves time and who managed to make it to survival at the end of a reign of divisibility and consigned terror,where do you hide at night?
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