Saturday, April 18, 2015


The  roaring wind rippled my trousers and gusts of my hair , fastened ineffectually by the pin, loosened themselves strand by strand. They got into my eyes and my mouth. The furry ticklish feel of curled hair was sharpened by my nail varnished ,lacquered  fingernails extricating it . All at once, the accoutrements of my femininity wafted up and subsumed me in a scent so overpowering that I  staggered  where I stood.  Soon order restored itself, the vertiginous feeling got over and I wended homewards.

My brother awaited me at home. He had already put the bread in the oven and peeled the potatoes. Today, more than on any other day, I felt a rush of gratitude that he was supportive enough to ease the onerous nature of domestic chores.   I just needed to do the bare minimum . As I went about preparing dinner I chatted desultorily, giving him tidbits and anecdotes from my day. As a freelance writer he works mostly from home. It is a sedentary job and he rarely ventures out to exercise or attenuate and imbue with motion his lazy limbs. He is also putting on weight. I really shouldn’t be cooking potatoes given the amount of starch they have. But jacket potatoes are his favorite food item and I haven’t the heart to refuse him. Whenever  I  watched  him tucking in, spearing the potato wedge within with fried butter and tuck in I feel a burst of protectiveness and love that is very intense. At the same time watching his bovine chewing makes me want to stab his eye with a pitchfork.

I am used to these tumultuous  tides of feeling. In my relationship with my brother I very much see myself as wavering on the brink and peeking over the precipice. It is not a particularly agreeable sight, the primal malodorous sludge that rots below. I suppose it is very useful metaphor for the primeval swamp of non being that gobbles us up, swallows us unceremoniously. It can take a lot of energy and effort just to resist such a submergence. My whole life has been a painstaking endeavour to keep myself afloat and not capsize or tip over. It can seem immeasurably  daunting, the sheer courage required to withstand this darkness. On most days I manage it. Some days, however are particularly cumbersome.

Days when I am laid low I jut sleep it off. I lie on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Immovability becomes my bulwark. At least I am not rushing to the bathroom with a blade or reaching for the pills. A few years back such would have been my course of action given the tempestuous emotional landscape I inhabited. I am much calmer now of course and more sensible. Suicide is fruitless or at least unprofitable because I lack the courage with which a successful suicide, with finality, irrevocably obliterates. My methodologies, though hazardous and imperiling me physically, are, though not equally inexorable, incontrovertibly traumatizing. I’ve had my stomach pumped a few times. My wrists are full of scars that are though fading, nevertheless conspicuously visible. I wear my scars with pride now. I no longer feel mortification  for the experiences I’ve been through. My experience seems more authentic to me than most others would feel theirs, specially if theirs was untainted by madness.

My brother’ s down for dinner. I glance at his bearded profile and suppress a gasp of desire that courses through, unbidden. I’ve had a few lovers, desiccated, clean shaven, insipid  men whose gentleness, though initially pleasurable, was wont to rouse in me the fiercest and most excoriating scorn. My brother and myself have fought, kicked, scratched, fucked and fucked up our way into this state of being we inhabit. After all the impetuosities of our childhood and adolescence we have settled into steady routines and  placid patterns. I used to hate my brother’s bookishness and now his freelancing seems a logical conclusion to that. Office life would never have suited him. He resents authority figures and being given orders. So do I but our parents left all their fortune to me when they discovered that, at 19, my brother had impregnated me. They cut him off and apportioned all blame on him. I did not disabuse them of their preconceptions but neither did I attempt to defy them or challenge their assumption. I was too shocked, I just played along and landed up rich.

I subsequently had an abortion and now that everything belonged to me I could have kicked my brother out. Alongside the freelancing writing was what my brother deeply desired to do and since our debacle with unintended procreation he has hardly written a word.  I feel pity but also a malicious satisfaction.  I never desired his child either but was, for some time, a bit careless and injudicious. My carelessness is no excuse for his inattentiveness but then, as now, he acts purely from self absorption , concerned with the gratification of his desires.  I enjoyed the sex and the primordial pattern of my commingling with my brother made all future intersections with other men seem purely makeshift.  My fantasy is of a really hairy, masculine man sweeping me off my feet and fucking me long and hard. What I get from my brother, even now, is not just physical sex but the attendant emotions that accompany them, emotions of narcissism, longing, love, lust, possessiveness that stud them.

Well I’ve got my brother where I want him.  The prima facie evidence clearly suggests incest. But it never seemed transgressive to me.  All I did was to give concrete embodiment to the nebulous and nameless desires that fomented within me. When I had my breakdown my brother discerned guilt. But to me it was a disintegration into the primal swamp from where we came. I am stronger now and he is weak. Finally he is the jaded lover whose only function is the providing of pleasure.  His growing stoutness envelops layers of flesh that diffuse when we make love. And I can bake potatoes endlessly if I have to keep him beside me. And indulge simultaneously, in my murderous fantasies. Such is life. 


When you failed to register my pleas of longing
And cut me out of your life
I caved in, knowing my life was over for now
Your tumescence, pregnant with desire
Belied the absence of emotional depth
When you failed to register my pleas of longing
The corporeal frame was rent and sundered
While metaphysics of apotheosis went unregarded by
I caved in, knowing my life was over for now
You fashioned me, like cut glass, in a figurine
That irradiated the accoutrements of your integument
When you failed to register my pleas of longing
Though the substratum of immanent madness
Was stroked into bedlamite incendiarism
I caved in, knowing my life was over for now.
Love is fruitless, desire unprofitable
As mirrored other becomes the self, wherein
When you failed to register my pleas of longing
I caved in, knowing my life was over for now.


Medusa is knotting you up today
Into serpentine whorls
And me, whom you peeled off
Like snakeskin, ready, like
A palimpsest, for a fresher script
Millions of seconds passed me by
In the gloaming you left
The luminous moon weeps and weeps
Tears of abandonment in the penumbra
While the desultory world looks on
With a smattering of your indifference's effluvium
I ululate warbles of longing, requiems of grief
It was easy for you to shed your patina of furs
Leaving behind defenceless, yowling, inconsolable
The hungry infant entombed in me forever.

Wednesday, April 15, 2015


I've been thinking of death all day today. I don't quite know why. I just want to do myself in. I don't feel an unbearable weight of misery suffocating me. From what i gather from my experience i don't, technically, have a reason to think of suicide. But i have been thinking about it and quite profoundly.
Thinking, or rather imagining myself spreadeagled on the bathroom floor, my fair fanning out behind my head, creating a reddish gold aureole. A tragic, though formidable expression on my face as though this is a chosen destiny and the fate i have consigned myself to, incontrovertible.
Or conversely, my expression would be totally bland and impassive ,concealing all my complex inner thoughts and ruminations. I often have trouble communicating or transmuting my inner world to the outer. There is a basic disjunction between how i apprehend the world and how it actually is. What the world actually is like is unknown to me and the only hints of its presence become conspicuous by the resoluteness and shock in the countenances of my interlocutors, as though any bit of unsavoury, to them, not me, inner thought i express discomposes them.
I am often told by my analyst to engage more, partake of the real world and not be so embroiled in my unconscious mind. But i see no reprieve for me, nor any restitution in embracing the external world. It scares me, its hard and abrasive edges and inimical people threaten the world i have in my head. If i allowed the outer to be let in i'd collapse because not only would it contravene my prime mode of being but also cut short any becoming i could have chosen for myself.
He scares me too and it is for him and because of him that i deliberate on death. I have a blade in my left hand. I press it gingerly and a tiny cut indents my wrist, a ribbon of blood pours forth, unstoppable. I press in deeper. The sharp cut of the blade against my throbbing vein is sexual, like an orgasm. I have a temptation to macerate my wrists, cut indiscriminately, let all this clotted, withheld blood gush forth in rivulets. I want to bathe in my blood. I want to smell its amniotic tang and feel my nostrils quiver. I want to let out my tongue and lick drops of it, to lick myself into being, into a new shape. A bacchanalian frenzy has seized me.
But i must go about this whole thing calmly. During winter the veins are congealed. So here, i must soak my hands in hot water to liquefy the blood, to render intractable valves and arteries pliable. The one cut gave me ecstasy but there is more to come now. He is not here and that redoubles my industriousness . There, my veins feel warm and throbbing. They quiver with anticipation. They flex their tendons so that one gash would release them, and me ,from the tautened, knotted oblivion of non being.

Tuesday, April 14, 2015


Looking over our phone messages i encountered the word 'overbearing' a word repeated in our facebook interchange. I had, when i read the message been in a febrile state of mind. Therefore i disregarded its implications, thereby also avoiding the weight this word would come to have in my memory.
There is so absolute, perspective is everything, a friend opined once. And if perspective is everything it is also provisional. I had been accustomed ,in my life, to project my unconscious and then resent the way actuality ambushed me and foiled my preconceptions. But to go back to the word 'overbearing' which is prompting this train of thought and which, now that its contingent disagreeable implications are setting in, discomposes me unduly. Sometimes a word, in an entire colloquy, however circumspect, juts out. This is such a word.
My initial impulse is to launch into protestations of denial, to convince the one who used this word to rethink the term. Conversely, my unconscious , anesthetized by complacency, has reawakened. These intimations are inveigling a chain of unprepossessing behaviour patterns which i, thinking myself well intentioned in deploying them, seem to have miscommunicated to my interlocutor. I could either, in my flush of indignation unleash a stream of impassioned disavowals to him, repudiating firmly the affixing of this word. Or i could turn that reproach inwards and examine my conduct scrupulously and sincerely.
Inveterately wont to excoriate i examine my own conduct and derive a perverse pleasure in this self denigration. It affirms my sanguine belief in my probity. It entails an interlude of self doubt, which casts a penumbral shadow but eventually would become seamlessly amalgamated to the sunny narrative that scaffolds me. Which is not to say that this momentarily necessitous divergence is pleasurable. It involves all kinds of deep emotional pain that i'd have to process. If i allowed the interlude to become my destination i would slit my wrist. But knowing that this interregnum is but the culmination of something more agreeable is very inspiring.
Of course the judicious methodology would be to adroitly enchain this interlude to reflect favourably on the journey itself. I desire, from this interlocutor, a certain propinquity given my deep fondness for him. And how strange it is for my mind to start thinking of journeys when i am yet to conceive of an appropriate rejoinder to counter the opprobrium of overbearing. Except that it is not an objurgation but a perspective which feels, despite the authenticity underpinning its deployment, like a rather distasteful appurtenance.
I can already envisage 'overbearing ' being tossed back and forth. Alternations of perspective would hopefully engender an alteration of perspective. The outcome of our protracted intersections, centred around 'overbearing' seems indeterminate. But metamorphosis is immanent. But staking out the rite of passage that would forthwith ensue is no certainty to the corresponding emotional tenor that would be instituted. But ratiocination is a stimulating faculty. Might as well make the most of it while one can. And who knows, you never know.

Monday, April 13, 2015


She rends her attire with her lacquered nails
Shredding the fabric of the garment, unknotting seams,
Loosening and ultimately snapping off, the threads, that hold
Stitched cloth together.
She fingers her moist core, sending shafts of desire
Coursing through her, broken images, cohering and diffusing
Into unarticulated though palpable desire, while imbuing
The desire to be consumed with the urge to ingest
The bearded guy up in the clouds is now a myth
While his facsimiles below insufficient recompense
Truly, she doesn't even care a fig for a prick
Preferring,instead, an all encompassing bosom
Where, smothering, she'd return, to the womb she left
Striated with its fertile juices, dripping with the placental
Drops of blood and water, re experiencing, the primal voracity
To incorporate into her that which expelled her.
Fuck adam, she says, screw the rib
I'd rather commingle with the devil
And through the apple, discover
A corporealized eve
I could suckle on her breasts ,she thinks
The fluids that connect tit to the vulva
Or traverse, by circumnavigating her frame
That from which all would henceforth ensue
Go to hell, she says to the courting prince
I want your sister back
She the princess, and me ,the demon queen
On to each other's beings, tacked.


Betwixt loquacity and silence
Your being reposes
In the din of your inner reticence
The inner self recomposes
Suspended between garrulity and sobriety
You utter wordless warbles of decorum
While the mad world goes caterwauling on
There you are, in your sanctum sanctorum
Whatever the chaos of the outer may be
You promulgate your own logic
Evidence may belie the quietude of your reflections
But, unvarying, is your immanent pedagogic
Sane or insane, the world goes on
With or without your presence, foregone.


Your evasions,
Amid your silences
Bleach my resolve
Into desiccated shards
Of non being, where
Doubting me, i render
My polychrome depth
Into an unvarying monolith
Why , in such moments of sidestepping
The emotional realities of being, deceptions
Unfurl, transforming, even, lucent iridescences
Into tenebrous hinterlands.
Ultimately what
You say or don't
Impacts my inner being ,yet
I know that, beyond,
These paltry trivialities
Of mind games and insecurities
Lies, beyond these superfices
A wholesome, incandescent me.


A moment shifts
From restfulness
To chaos
In each forthcoming instant
That , which has,
Irrevocably changed.
After that moment chaos
Transmutes to order
Through ratiocination
And exegesis.
To do so, however
Overwrought senses
Metamorphose to
A quietened equable.
Was it necessary, then
To change, knowing that
Boundaries would be imperilled
Territories requisitioned
Or, the knowledge that
A new becoming, in a
New aegis would,
Alter consciousness forever.