Experiments with the idea of poetry-prose.

It’s the silence. The silence is golden. It’s the silence of those muted by the thoughts of the oncoming holocaust. It is the slow paranoia of the trees waiting to be chopped. It is the phlegm at the bottom of the mouth waiting to be vomited out. The drum rolls are yet to come. The base is yet to kick in. Get introduced to the Orchestra Celestia. It is silent for the moment, anticipating the opening of the curtains. A thousand scriptwriters on one side, playing a weird instrument like the dried teats of a cow. It is unknown if they suck or blow into it, but they do so trying to extract every bit of the long dried up milk. On another side are a thousand cameras. The people them are immaterial. They do nothing important with the footage, they just show it here and there. The whole assembly is flanked by various flat screens that shows anything that the camera captures. There is a circle of judgment around the whole thing, these are the people with the computers, typing away in insanity. And at the centre of the whole farce is the audience, happily conducting the whole thing away, not knowing that God himself is watching over his back.

Whoa, where does that land you in me? Within the realms of prose-poetry.

Hence it lies. It is a mere glitter. It is the secretiveness of those subdued by the fantasies of the looming Armageddon. It is the slow fear of environmentalism. It is the onset of feminism. The weather forecasted is bad. The base, has however, totally kicked in. Get introduced to the concept of Lateral Thinking. There are a thousand scribes of your every idea. There are a million things you have milked dry. You have chronicled, witnessed and experienced a thousand things. You are in an imaginary realm of subconscious psychedelica, and the only circle of judgment around you is your own halo, your aura, your range of influence, your personal power quotient, the karma that is granted to you by the society, the extent to which it tolerates your indulgence, it is both a shackle and a mark, a tattoo grosser than any that can be drawn out around your skin, it is drawn our around your very soul, your fantasies and your dreams. It is a horrible bondage, more perverse than any that B grade films can conceive. Someone loses track of who is conducting whom. The conductor is so lost in the orchestra, that the roles of either are dissolved. It is like a trapped Schrödinger’s cat. Neither alive nor dead till it is observed. Imaginary till it is shamed. God is busy throwing the dice.

It’s a fine marriage to hate, prose and poetry mate!

Cosmic roulette. Rhyme not metaphor. Phantasms nor orgasms. Fake the orgasm, fake the tits, fake the success, fake the feminism. Fake the imagery, fake the metaphor, fake the allegory, fake the monster. Fake the alien, fake the predator, fake the narcissist, fake the navigator. Fake the beast, fake the beauty, fake the paradox. Fill the brain and fill the brawn into Pandora’s box. It’s a mythos as fake as public belief, a cosmos as real as god made it, a genome as devious as a blind watchmaker devised it. It is human beyond question, real beyond reason, firm beyond treason, and honest beyond vectors. It is the rhyme behind the reason, and the crimson symbol of a crime. It is a measure beyond calibration, and a subject without objectification. It is above all a collision. A script, a rhyme, a post, a movie, a piece and an essay all at once.

In the fine lines of eternity, the truth chooses to hide

When you have lost count of the number of shooting stars you have seen, when the myths around it survive despite every wish you have every made didn’t come true, lies a belief beyond question. Your particular good luck charm. Any notion or idea that brought hope into you. That is enough, that is something that you forever hold on to, your anchor to society, to the real world. It swarms around you like an infinite anthill. You look at it as a panorama, but your eyes focused on one thing. You believe, and make a wish despite every single star you have wished on has proved you wrong before. Wish on my friend, catch as many shooting stars as you can, and wish on them. Every shooting star that you see and wish on seals your fate in a very big way. The chances of the next wish actually coming true increases exponentially. You are bound to get more and more lucky as shooting stars fall unnecessarily. Therefore, logically speaking, making bigger and bigger wishes every time you spot a shooting star would work wonders for a star gazer. Why this does not happen in real life, is evidence of God having most to profit in the gamble. You see, Casinos earn a lot of money when people walk into roulette tables always doubling there money hoping to make a big hit on probability.

And from the infinity of grey nothingness, from cracks of the sub consciousness

Bursts out the obvious shit…………

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