Tuesday, April 25, 2017


The impassable thicket of your impassioned avowals stop me. While I long to smash the obdurate wall of unreason you have built I am waylaid by the eloquence of your utterance. They gleam , iridescently but flickeringly. These are distracting flickerings, they beam out pinpricks of light that hinder the searchlight of my intuition. The roving searchlight, circumnavigating the perimeter of its jurisdiction, all seeing yet unseeing, daubing in broad brushst...rokes yet microscopically fixated on its object of sight. This omniscience of zoning in while simultaneously gazing from a distance is like staring through a glass darkly. Sometimes I see with a lucidity that is its own blindness, elsewhere I detach the eye to focus on my I . In these dissociated interludes , the very suspension of fixity becomes its own illumination .

Meanwhile you entangle around the circumference of our context these verbal missives . My pathway to the kernel of veracity can be twofold. Either I simply leap into the fray of your loquacity with the brutal incursion of actuality or use the web you weave to rend these filigree associations. The latter would involve a painstaking retention of each symbol, association , inflection to dismember its constituents and reassemble them with the weight of my knowledge of your half knowledge . But such tactical stratagems are wearying, they circle around the truth and assume their own reality.

The hazardous nature of my exegesis is thus two pronged. The spell of narrative, whether it be the incandescent pixels of persuasion you adroitly fabricate or my self absorbed immersion in unravelling the process of my hypothesis of your perfidy, looms large. All this is rendered expedient because of the intransigence of your unyielding concealments. Timorousness at my end compounds the difficulty. It is pointless to deploy fancy metaphors of light and webs because light is its own web and webbed , wedged, bundled , disbanded in these interstices I come a cropper. Sight and labyrinths cannot be cropped . They are either negotiated with their resultant mazes or retracted from. Suddenly It strikes me that another fancy metaphor has striated these inanities you expound compellingly. Your words are your words, my insight is my insight. If they can't dovetail then let them imply catch the tail end of each other's indecipherability and retain the dove like unsullied purity of mutual uncommunicativeness.

Tuesday, April 11, 2017


The dissolution of words into formlessness. Suddenly as the chains of association cease, and the words cease to seize hold I tunnel into fathomless tracts of wordlessness. In the space where memory, feeling, experience and the void are densely huddled the words fly helter skelter, hither and thither. A signifying causality unravels here, an inflected vowel is disembowelled on my tongue there. And suddenly, in the place of the oblong of a self contained word encased in a coherent sentence is the lumpy, astringent, tasteless unreality of the very words that hitherto cohered. The tongue thickens, freezes, grows gravid with inexpressible larvae that instead, disintegrate into shards of massed emotion experienced more as a crushing weight .

Intermittently a disembodied weightlessness is inveigled . As though the non feeling, which is a prelude to non being, an adjunct to the uneffaced nothingness of consciousness, lifts its ponderous gravity and affords a glimpse of pure sensation, where sound is soundlessness, where colour is not  fixed delineations of singularly distinct specks of varied brightness but too much light, an inrushing that makes of light itself a reality all its own and a reality that induces its own unreality. And all of a sudden the ceaseless barrage of words are immaterial. Or that utterance itself is inconsequential. Nothing, it seems, can enclose this nothingness except a mind emptied, a consciousness evacuated, inhabiting the very nothing of which it is no much in thrall yet alternately experienced as unutterable terror.

There is an inarticulacy where words are insufficient , or where abjection instils an enervation wherein the communicable is an irrelevancy. This interlude of pure being, which is , cannot be other than what it is requires no semantic overlaying. No chain of interlinked or conjoined signifiers or even the putative gibberish of mnemonics pouring in from everywhere and dispersed as gobbledygook can encapsulate this infinitesimal fraction of time, a moment , by any definition, miniscule in any life but momentous. Entropy as a void but also energy, prickling with its own inklings, suffused with a dimensionless stillness yet simultaneously an expansive possibility suspended in an interplay of contraction and billowing while held aloft , cast adrift in its own self sufficiency. Words then, either drift away in imperceptible flurries, indistinct pinpricks receding through space or sink, sinking into the bottomless precipice of pre language.

Friday, March 24, 2017


Underneath the jumble of words you unspool I intuit chasms of silence, a silence that is bursting with sound but sound as light. A momentous glimpse reveals a dazzling, blinding light that overwhelms the retina and becomes its antithesis, sightlessness. A sneak peek into the cavernous sound of your prodigious incandescence is enough to show me the higgledy piggledy conglomeration of the bristly and the saccharine.

Meanwhile your words trace out patterns ...that weave a filament of cobwebby tenuousness . I wish not to be snarled in those layers or pinioned to these threads which, if not understood for their dangerousness, can entwine lovingly around my thorax and squeeze the breath out of me. Or I could cram these words , and with them the spongy spores that stuff my throat into breathlessness and nothingness. Already I measure the paraoxysms of unfocused ness that inundate me , the stertorous grasping for air where soundlessness substitutes the jarring clamour whose din, simultaneously sanguine and abrasive , supplants the meaning that recedes and crashes futilely on these churning foaming waves .

Music, perhaps if you would recompose these cloying words into a melody I could tap tap my assent in accordance with the syncopation. Or a tune , a harmonious blend of sound transmogrified into a thing by itself, an object d art , to be embalmed and lovingly pored over for its own meanings and rhythms which spark of , touch on and send undulating a carillon of inner meanderings and alleyways of the preverbal and somato sensory wherein I glut and gorge on fathomless shores of meaning which needn't require elucidation nor unpicking. A pure inhabitation of being as sound, having as its fulcrum the aria you composed ,straying beyond but yet contained within the limits of the notes cohered into melodious symmetry.

However sound, sight, language , melody splinter. An inevitability underlies the pattern. It is curious that we need this intermediary, these interludes that pull and push the perimeters of the undiscerned and measureless. And the silence that is concealed yet visible at the same time through the interstices of these mediations, is shapeless, featureless, formless . Or perhaps pure light and darkness where the precipice of blankness invariably acclimatizes the eye to the surrounding lineaments as the eye delineates the shapes and forms hitherto unperceived. Or blinded by the clarity that is its own darkness. Meanwhile light, wave, sound are gravid with density, immensity. I could curl into this emptiness and lie suspended . It may be where all journeys may lead to. But for now, these intermittent visitations, stray glimpses suffice. As do your words.

Friday, March 17, 2017


Your words , as words are wont to do, build towering linguistic edifices wherein the unexceptional nature of your being is wreathed in the grandiose mode. The rococo , serpentine whorls , the bejewelled fronds light up, lighten the boundless mausoleums of what you eschew uttering . But the unuttered , through the utter otherness of the unutterable it but unsuccessfully conceal stutters through. I inhabit the dual realm of the vocal and the intuitive. A ...part of me seeks to topple the chain of your intertwined signifiers which, while insincerely sallying forth, nonetheless build up sensuous alternations of pictorial mnemonics I impressionably swoon under hoping that these beguiling word games , for all their guile, betray the fundamental guilelessness of your self complacence. while another part, desperate to attach to the copious free floating verbal shards a modicum of authenticity while simultaneously mistrusting them floats free from the net you seek to ensconce me in.

Perhaps the enclosure is of my own making because habitually succumbing to the way elegantly misapplied stipples create illusory monochromes of non- sense has enervated me. Wearied by the artistry with which inaesthetic human dimensions are encased has induced a wariness because these flickering, glimmering barbs you overlay with feeling attest to the inharmonious undemonstrativeness of actual feeling which is a different matter entirely, or matter made flesh , a fleshly corporeality that undoes me while you flesh out these plumped up phrases , freshening their archaic forms with contemporaneous permutations.

Suspended in nothingness where nothing need be spoken, a non being dimension I am prone to inhabit imbues my tremulous insights with razor sharp specificity. Abject, impelled towards abjection by the void underlying your inane utterances I counteract with salty expletives , unspooling cornucopic execrations. The flow of my vituperation stalls your artificiality and suddenly the baroque profusion laced with charm you disgorge is dismantled by incredulity. I hold on to this infinitesimal fraction of time in which monumental depths dwell with dormant languor. I savour the inarticulacy I have brought about as , in this split second, where language and intent, form and content are frozen in stasis real meaning will emerge which is not meaning but the meaninglessness beneath the meaning you impose. Yet amid the meaninglessness that will forthwith supervene , which is its own meaning, a higher meaning presumably , I will discover the key to your being.

Friday, March 10, 2017


Words , like shrapnel, lodge deep into my membrane. Consequently mindful of their pungency I choose abstention. I want to be abstemious with words, absent myself from the surface of absent minded interchange which validates the insuperable absence I ineffectually penetrate. But in the interstices of the sparseness I wish to self preservingly deploy and the copiousness of candour you seem to exact, even without saying it, I grope for words. From t...he deluge of verbal permutations I can unthinkingly grasp and thoughtlessly utter, though knowing you would deem them thoughtful than the wordlessness sincerity engenders I falter, halt my utterance. Yet these gaps, which are really stopgaps which I hope you will fill with your concomitant knowledge of pre language, I see your furrowed brow, the contours of your voice establishing impatience, petulance.

For how can I articulate the fluctuating criss cross of what I neither fully apprehend nor accurately process. Something in me, some dense cranial proclivity towards divination, transmits these spools of interconnected signifiers as powerful emotion, suffusing me to the bursting point of the unspeakable. To speak it would be to unwind an unrelieved jumble of illimitable realms of thought mediated through the limits of language. I could burrow into the baroque prodigality of multifarious verbal missives , or interlace through expostulation and protestation, the boundlessness of feeling. But this boundlessness, untethered, cannot be contracted into what you seek and that which I cannot , in all honesty bestow. For me to surrender to what you seek I would of necessity streamline language, cohere these alternately divergent and converging streams into sparkling limpidity. My stream of consciousness cannot disgorge the plenitude it but incompletely distils. Nor can tortuous self awareness frame in words the intensification of psychic complexity.

Do I then need a narrative framework ? Would unceasing or judiciously administered requisite verbal proclamations suffice, wherein the tenor of repetition, obeying the politically correct law of consistency, overrule feeling. Do I need to subject you to these buffeting mnemonics, imbued with the facsimile of verisimilitude but rendered brittle by the much chewed upon and therefore insincerely uttered falsity of overcompensation. Perhaps my silences or fumblings will accrue their own succession of meanings. You, their legatee, will have a lifetime, or at least your own, to unearth from these half articulated inferrings your own truth of what you make of mine .

Tuesday, February 28, 2017


    Dissenting, insentient, insensate, I descend. I try to imbue with fervour the cavalcade of indignant words that bubble forth. Indigent, indigenously homespun through reiteration I lace my indignation with intent to counter ill intent , assuming that the intentional intensity of these intensified sense of rights will outwit the swirling tides of primordial rage or civilizational unrest.

    Yet my tongue freezes and the words remain unuttered. The capacious, alternately monstrous and disastrous reality I contend with makes a mockery of what I say. Certitude becomes putative, watertight veracity becomes apocryphal. And, accompanying the immensity of the reality whose gravity is immeasurable, whose measure defies comprehension, my meagre measuring of it into impeccable pixels of sense splinter,

    And all of a sudden the waves of myself threaten to besmirch the agency of my self utterance. The safe harbour of the turf, with its gritty textures of brittle safety nets is submerged. Suddenly I am capsized by words into wordlessness. The placid shores of self contained signifiers are redundant and reduced to their insubstantial dimensions. I am drowning now, where the symbolism of the allegorical, the makeshift of the arbitrarily constructed is revealed as make believe . The buffeting tides of incomprehension have dissolved words into the foamy, frothy, ominous depths of extinguishment. It is then that I evaluate the distance I have traversed- of the necessity for dissent , prompted by contending multiplicity, held together by an odd fragment of concession here, an anomalous remnant of relinquishment there.

    But if I allow myself to be swamped in this vast sea where words break down and order disintegrates , this penultimate silence and nothingness which is the unavoidable lot of all human forms then what will I leave behind me but the void of non being. Will I not need to outstrip this disembodiment with a panoply of words ? Will the words be meaningless, will dissent descend into deadness. Will the conventional phrases simply be revealed as the facsimiles they are? I need a new order of dissent and to dissent I need a descent into the underworld of shadows and apparitions and phantoms underscoring what I dissent. This order of descent is not a dantesque allegory of soul purification but a practicable ,survival expedient. Yet, the endangerment it engenders is its own bulwark. Till I unspeak the coordinates of the dissent I hitherto inhabited I need silence while words reconstitute, reassemble and incorporate in their never ending quest to form, re-form, reform, deform and strip away the formulaic to create newer formulas of being and meaning

Thursday, February 16, 2017


I am encased by your words, encircled, pinioned , embalmed. The balm of your understanding I craved enervates me because its reality, which is self contained, constituted by its own lineaments , elides my essence, swoops with ravenous jaws to take a bite of my essence which, aloft, free, impalpable takes flight from me. The essence of my nebulousness recedes , is indistinct, a knowledge that dwells subterraneously, in some penumbra where life and death are akin. Meanwhile  the reality you created, with this cornucopia of linguistic stipples ,is what I inhabit. It doesn't help that the withdrawal of my caverns of density leave me with no recourse but to accede acquiescently to what you fashion of me.

Or what I fashion from your containment. Little holes let in life giving infinitesimal whiffs of fresh breathing that evacuate the staleness of your circumscription, which I voluntarily in part succumb to. Yet you, with all this  fastness around meaning and being, are no more in charge of my becoming than I am. Words create a magic web, enmeshing, ensconcing, patterning the shape and form that materializes of its own accord and which, in direct proportion to the impetus of constructing a facsimile of me, dematerializes the essence of me. Offshoots , remnants, residues , let in by those invigorating but sparse breaths of air through the interstices of our collusive self fashioning keep the spirit of me flowing. These miniscule but perspective altering imperceptible eddies gather together, accumulate, acquire a weightless gravity that is ponderous. It whooshes, sloshes and gains momentum to capsize the cage of my being . Soon, these swirling cross currents will become a whirlwind into which falsities will be submerged .

Or else ultimate reality, extinguishment will incorporate me into its organic causality while these momentary swirling fragments simply attenuate and recompose in abstract patterns . Slivers of them are lodged and disgorged intermittently, reshaping, rearranging in miniscule permutations the formlessness immanent in me. Yet this knowledge of formlessness recalls the unformed, unfocused chaos of the blank slate where everything and nothing coexist ominously yet exhilaratingly. Over the precipice of non being, higher being or nothingness I etch , through your intercession, these provisional footholds. Soon, the babel tower of clamorous tongues inside me struggles against the counterfeit significations we have complicitly foregrounded. The din magnifies, sound amplifies, waves of foaming inexpressibility topple, churn . If I yield I disintegrate, If I seek to self preserve I inhabit the endlessness of sound in silence , of protracted thrilling keening carillons alternately yodelling and screeching . Against the pressure of these tumultuous multitudes my only anchorage , which is its own ultimatum of irresolution , which you and me brought into being, are the simulacrums we congealed. It will have to do for now.

Wednesday, February 15, 2017


Words , unsaid, fester. Or rather they sprout , their spores multiplying and duplicating in an aria of wordless feeling. These spores are splotches, globules of bright vividness , whipping against the involuted tunnels of unspeakable consciousness. They hint at a new order of language, whose spores sprout sporadically , which leaks meanings beyond language into itself like an absorbent sponge and spurts its intensified sputterings in inchoate agglomeration of in...rushing secondary meanings, mediated by words that leach, bleach, etiolate and launder the profuse wellsprings of emotion .

Yet, extracting from the panoply of linguistic signifiers a remnant of the communicable I artfully reconstruct artless realms of being, circuitously reshape the microcircuitry of word building. To build worlds from words, a world apart , to imbue with an unworldly incandescence what is after all worldly, also wordy . This word ridden sheath, simultaneously armouring and disarming dismantles itself on the shores of the heart, that seat of emotion that unseats the meaning I am impelled to convey, propelled by an onrush of words expelled so that the gravidity of the unspoken is dispelled .

Meanwhile words sprout, like amoeba or language splinters, creating constituent shards, jagged, sharp edged, fine toothed , abrasive and lacquered. With each aeon of temporality I live through, simply by being cleaved to this time, this three dimensional space , through each alteration of words which correspond to an aspect of the world outside of me I appropriate, apropos of the accident of existence , this fount of constructions that aren't apriori but posterior to breathing , crying, feeding but anterior to understanding mediated through the information these informants informatively cohere and disperse , dissipate and reaggregate .

Inarticulacy is its own punishment. I want to burrow into the cocoon of pre language, I want to draw the always present though consciously eschewed mantle of the preverbal. I want to feel my way into existence, mapping the jurisdiction of thought through the fastness of non language. I endeavour to cordon off the words of which I am a funnel, I wish to dam the conduit of unmeanings I ineffectually transmute. Yet inarticulacy balks , becomes an unceasing cacophonous shriek of endless torment which conglomerates everything and nothing and is therefore nullity, ejection of the ungrasped . Thus I reinhabit the scratchy duvet of language. It abrades my skin, reweaves the intermeshed patterns of what I can never utter but utters it nonetheless, in, of, for and by itself and thus becomes inviolably itself.

Wednesday, January 4, 2017


Corresponding to the mores of a new reality , mediated by language, I acclimatize, endeavouring to grasp the hieroglyphs where the nature of affection or love is encapsulated in an x. A capital X would imply a capaciousness, a succession of x's would imply affection and love in excess of the capacity represented by a singular symbolized representation. Or is it my finger, captured in an unbidden reverie, frozen on x, pressing interminably so that while a s...uccession of x's unravel the stasis of wordlessness is compensated by an efflorescence of feeling whose ingratiating excess speaks for itself, or rather unspeaks itself through reiteration .

Do I, in pressing x on the keyboard unquestioningly simulate a gesture formulaically, where the observance of convention overrules feeling? Or is my interlocutor , invisible, filtered through language, summoning forth unbidden, unwitting and unprocessed reams of feeling, huddled in an inextricable blend of hope, longing, fear, absence whose only pithy and pat externalization is an x ? How many ex's or exes lie buried , of that which is expropriated, extraneous, extrojected , extravagant , extruded , excommunicated out of me . And do you ? on reading the culminating x , feel a similar frisson of ex's and exes unspooling somewhere beyond language, beyond cognition, beyond reason, while between you and me, through the agency of a screen with a social media app , lies the incontrovertible, irrefutable x , in itself, self contained, inviolable, meaning or not meaning whatever it is supposed to but existing independently of you and me though brought into being through you and me.

Other hieroglyphs substantiate, corroborate and undermine what this x represents. An adduced heart , its pink bright sheen representing the scarred tissue which beats steadily but precariously, or an emoticon which feels sometimes adhesively sticky, a cloying accompaniment to something unrepresented and ungraspable but felt or assumed is felt or is believed by oneself , given the way our mode of interchange is its own coordinate, to be felt. Do I then see that sparse x , in short letter, as an extent of the depth you proclaim in its minuteness or do I, having imperceptibly intuited the reserves of your undemonstrativeness read a genuine note of regard which thrills? Does an excess of emotion represented by prodigious yet gossamer signs reveal the density of your emollience or the exigency of it engendered by the words I put out? Whatever it is, underwritten, overdetermined, corporeally imprinted on screen in the void of our mutual unknowing , it is enough. And its sufficiency a testament to its own integrity .

Monday, January 2, 2017


    Wordless. The wellspring of words within me, well meant, welling up, are lost in a welter of emotions whose force is light and sound. The light of inner being, lit up by the lightening of my eyes and the lighter vein of my upturned smile. Light as a flash, an energy, an iridescent spark , momentous but searing, imprinted in a space underneath my integument where while the sound that is unarticulated is bubbling, brimming , overflowing with wordiness whose worthiness is imperilled by my adherence to a worldliness which inveigles a wordlessness whose silence, undulating with light and sound as light and sound , blends with the vibrating currents your words have evoked , provoking this fusillade which cannot be contained in the words I can utter , nor wrapped up, enfolded in the blanket of metaphors whose buoyant gaiety will outpace the gait of my inexpressible emotion which, by remaining unexpressed, or misconstrued as inexpressive , will founder, coil back on itself and burst forth, uncontainable as it is, through my contained gay( iety).

    In the interstice between what you uneventfully unpacked in me and what I can't pack into a tidy parcel of packaged narrative, studded with jam packed intimations of the incommunicable, a silence prevails, expectant, anticipatory, itself its own language. The language this silence utters is not only wordless but unworldly . It is life , in all its prodigality, whooshed in, sloshing itself inchoately in this momentous vacuum of the unsaid and the unsayable, that which is not meant to be said or meant in a way that cannot be said .

    Language games, you and me. We pass words back and forth, enacting our scrabble of lexicographic mnemonics , endeavouring to plunder the lexicon of unfathomed meanings . Meanwhile there is this silence, to be papered over, or circumscribed in a pulpy paperback of mushy significations , worn thin, attenuated like the abrasion of sandpaper. No matter whatever palimpsest of associations I keep entombed , no matter what overdeterminations you imbue my inarticulacy with we have light and sound, which are their own language, their own silence. To be made, made up, made into whatever it is remade as . Let this silence protract , let this uninhabited , uninhibited sliver of time become the language you and I speak unspeaking, speechlessly . Let it be.