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Kolkata, West Bengal, India
A FLAPDOODLE ... A COPROLALOMANIAC ... A DOPPELGANGER ... a blog when written when deranged for a man to give one gyp and what a gyp with a gusto ... this blog a mistaken ladder furnishes its one carrying self-lagoon ... rotten blog holding a periapt to vomit to laugh and cry and shout and yell ... a preface to the birth of an ablazed moon ... all white all gay all blood all sand ...

Monday, 13 February 2012

A WAY A LONE A LAST A LOVED A LONG THE


Exorciser   :    When you pass by a temple in an Indian bus, all the hands move thrice between the forehead and the chest, with eyes shut or half-shut burdened by piety. One day the dogs of India too will do the same, and perhaps the pigs also; if they have not already started doing so.[i]

Howrah Bridge is falling down falling down falling down …[ii]
NO NO NO … NO WAY.
Dry bones can harm no one for they are dry.[iii]
Yes … no one.
And for I am the Howrah Bridge,
Hanging over Kolkata,
With one column on each bank,
One being the Euclidean gnomon,[iv]
And the other … simony, in the Christian catechism.[v]
Shit on me and spit on me,
But never forget your tiepins,
And the final peg of your own yellow urine.
You can stitch up your daughters’ hymens,[vi]
Even circumcise your sons,
But you can never feed them the breasts of Tiresias.[vii]
Clowning, fooling and mad-scenes,
Masturbating too,
Clairvoyants never know their wives’ lovers.
Till tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow …[viii]
Me, the Howrah Bridge,
The deathless leg-puller,
Sparing none … not even myself,
A renegade penning blasphemies on my own epitaph.[ix]
I have slept among the wolves to forgive my own dreams.
I maim words,
Words maim me;
Words … now are all scared of this ‘me’,
The penman who is no one’s protégé.
And again me, the Howrah Bridge …
Just like Kafka,
My life is also a hesitation before birth.
I don’t know when I died.[x]
Save my last drops of semen, if you can.


COUNTERNOTES


TITLE : cf. James Joyce’s ‘Finnegans Wake’ (culminating and/or opening sentence)

[i] cf. Samuel Beckett’s comment ¾ “I have no religious feeling. Once I had a religious emotion. It was at my first communion. No more ... when you pass a church on an Irish bus, all the hands flurry in the sign of the cross. One day the dogs of Ireland will do that too and perhaps also the pigs.”

[ii] cf. T. S. Eliot’s ‘The Waste Land’ (line 426)

[iii] cf. ibid (line 390)

[iv] cf. James Joyce’s ‘The Sisters’ (opening paragraph)

[v] cf. ibid

[vi] cf. Heiner Müller’s ‘Hamletmachine’ (1. Family Scrapbook)

[vii] cf. Guillaume Apollinaire’s ‘Les Mamelles de Tiresias’

[viii] cf. William Shakespeare’s ‘Macbeth’ (Act V, Scene v, lines 17-28)

[ix] cf. Paul Claudel’s accusations of James Joyce’s ‘Ulysses’ as “blasphemies uttered by a renegade”. It reminds me of another comment by William Burroughs : “I think ‘Finnegans Wake’ rather represents a trap into which experimental writing can fall when it becomes purely experimental.”

[x] cf. Samuel Beckett’s ‘The Calmative’ (opening sentence)