Tag Archives: People

The Soul Without God And Theory


How can I explain?

Words can’t make you feel the deep, spiraling well I felt burrowing in my lungs as I stood in my verandah, staring at the clouds and knowing silently, calmly but profoundly that I exist.

No arguments can justify my fervent faith and devotion which I experienced as I sat everyday in front of my own sacred idols and prayed to them when I was six.

Not a single poem has been able to capture that of pain of realizing that my first lover didn’t really love me back. No verse can really explain the suffocating agony which ripped my innards into shreds then.

People will laugh if  I express that devastating feeling of being betrayed when my gods didn’t answer my desperate prayers at a time when I needed them most.

These are the moments which made me intensely aware of my being and that is precisely why words always feel so impotent when I try to express them.

Some philosophers say that language is the house of being. I think that is terribly stupid. Language might be the house of identity which can be communicated, but being precedes words. It is in fact a precondition of language. This is made obvious in those moments when language’s failure is so complete that it simply crumbles — in those events when we become speechless.

These are the times when life acquires a depth previously unknown or forgotten. It may not exactly be a moment of unbound joy (pain and sadness are just as adept). It may not even be a moment of uncontrollable emotion (people who practice mindfulness will know how calm observation has a silent profoundness to it).

I think these are simply the moments of intense awareness — the point when existence refuses to be ignored by consciousness. This is when we realize that the experience of life has a value independent of any more explanations.

You might have heard something similar from the New Age gurus and spiritual enthusiasts.
When they tactfully evade the use of ‘God’ to explain the meaning of these experiences, they often use words like higher consciousness, the divine, the supreme consciousness and so on.

What I found common in most of the explanations I’ve encountered is that theses moments are theorized as events when the individual psyche ‘connects’ with someone or something larger, higher, placed above the individual in the spiritual ladder.

I not only think that these explanations are absurd, improvable or unnecessary; I also think that they are an insult.

It is to say, as if, the experiences aren’t worthwhile in themselves. That you have to construct an elaborate system of theories to give that experience some meaningful value. And these constructs are ultimately equally unable to ‘explain’ the cause or logic of any value whatsoever.

What is this special higher consciousness which makes us feel like this? What is this god-like divine and from where does it derive this powerful energy from? If these ‘higher’ beings and energies don’t need anymore explanations then why does the experiences of depth need to be justified by theories?

These explanations merely transfer the experiential valence of the events of depth into something else. It’s the same old religious trick in the garb of spirituality.

Their hypocrisy is often revealed when they themselves admit that words can’t explain the spiritual experiences and then go on to create fun, often cliched theories of spirituality. (Putting faith or intuition above reason is perhaps their favorite one as it allows them to bypass science and gain a few blind acolytes.)

I think that the moments of intense awareness, the moments when life acquires an unspeakable depth are preserved and relived the best without any words or gurus.

I think its time that the spirit reclaims its independence from the shackles of God and theory.

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Why Why?


Why Why?

 

If you dive deep into the abyss of Reason and have that insanity in you which drives you till the very end of your wits,

You will eventually ask:

Why why?

What what?

How how?

The questions will start questioning themselves. The circle of Reason will be complete.

There will be no answers. And that will be the real dawn of truth.

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The Gypsy In The Sewer


Cub

Metal bars stuck around the hollow of his stomach since the day he was born – it never went away.
The nomad was abandoned, his mother was the drain. Everybody knew the stranger from the underground.
The gypsy roamed the international sewers trading a part of him with the merchants from the surface.

If you were to be one of them, you would definitely ask, “Where is his gut?”
And there would be none.

Let your name be Alice.

A louse crawled in his flowing, gray hair and Alice ignored it, pretending to be disgusted by the sewage instead. Perhaps she wasn’t pretending after all. Alice was genuine.

A leash held him in. The jail was made up of metal pipes filled with the black bile from the surface which their citizens couldn’t stand. It was made to prevent the traders from stealing the nomad.
The Gypsy from the sewer smiled from the enclosure.
He could stand us. He could stand anything.

The people liked him because he was the only one to ask, and they wanted to tell.
His eyes would gleam with the sheen of dreams, as if his tear ducts collected your stories.

He remembered each one of them.
He remembered the time when the two towers fell as the bird went blind in the middle of the city.
He remembered the boy who left tears on his shoulders when he told him about his brother who left.
When that girl gave him daisies, he asked her how she found them and he still remembers the garden in her backyard where she played with pythons.
He hasn’t forgotten the wall which fell when the cold years went away.

When he slept it all came back.
He walked through the garden, breathing the dust from the towers, looking for the brother who was lost past the broken boundary wall.

In his sleep he lived on the surface, amidst the part of the lives the people left behind.
He worked the hardest in his dreams. Breaking and mending the weak, creaking parts – making a whole which functioned.
He found the answers to the questions they didn’t even know they will ask.

When he awoke, the answer was found in the cage of his stomach.
Each time it was different.
Once, it was the bonsai tree with thin, paper leaves.
The merchants took it up to the surface and planted it in their cities. The plant grew into a metropolis.
Then he made a red star and it made the wall which crumbled.

A tiger cub sat curious in his stomach when Alice told the nomad about her cycle which broke. The cub’s piercing eyes searched her face, maybe looking for the tooth which went missing when she fell, or imagining the white fluid dripping down her lips and eyes. Her stomach was yet not fat.

His pupils dilated, its throat vibrated – its purrs called to you, Alice.

When she finished telling her tales, the other merchants handed him the money.
The cub was squeezed out of the cage.
It trembled with hesitance. Its tiny claws dug into the metal of the pipes.

Alice picked it up; the tiger’s licks left wet, red trails on her neck.

The merchant group walked away – ready to fuel their machine of civilization with dreams that they would distort and promises they couldn’t keep.
This one would be good for a decade.
After which the merchants will return to buy a part of the nomad again.
It’s best for business.

Alice glanced back towards the gypsy again. His cage lay hollow, his eyes caved-in.
He will never see his cub alive again.
The surface which thrives on his organ implants bars him from living his own dreams.
Or does it?

Alice strutted away.
A leash has its way.
A louse still hangs on his silvery strands which may never shine with Sun rays.

The light awaits the nomad.

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Baboon Banter On Bestiality


Baboon Bestiality

Baboon Bestiality

The Baboon swears on his mountain of slimy bananas that it loves all kinds of filthy copulations. And that is why the Baboon is in awe of the unique ability of you base but creative creatures to fuck, suck, lick or sexualize anybody and anything.

What sours this strawberry pie is how some groups of prude humans reject and are disgusted by their species’ diverse sexualities.

So, when the Baboon encounters people who actually embrace these differences and work towards making them acceptable, he greatly respects them.

In conversation with such a person, the Baboon encountered a difference of opinion.

The human was a queer female — an LGBTQ-feminist activist.

The Baboon had asked a question about bestiality. She said one of the things about sexual liberty was consent. And since animals don’t speak human languages (except for the Baboon) they really can’t communicate consent.

So, that was why she did not support bestiality.

The Baboon of course disagreed, not only because he can ramble whole articles and not just consent, but also, because animals communicate regularly with humans.

The Baboon regards it a little naive to think that humans can train dogs to sit, fetch or sniff out cocaine from the pockets of sneaky smugglers, and still consider dogs can’t communicate something as basic as a desire for sex?

Sex is one of the three basic desires, along with hunger and thirst.

Every species has some way to communicate the desire to have sex, just like the desire to eat or drink.

If human pet owners can be told by their pets that they are hungry or thirsty, the animals are very well capable to convey they are horny (take the Baboon’s word for it).

But the Baboon also thinks that this may not be so simple.

There maybe (are) cases where the animals are really raped. And it is not such a gobble-dung idea to suppose in many instances that these animals are not able to communicate this to a third person.

Thus, the Baboon thinks bestiality is al right when done with consent.

But the Baboon will not encourage (nor discourage) this as it becomes difficult to differentiate between sex-with-consent and barbaric rape, for the human society (which is still really retarded as compared to the Baboons’, I must say).

End of Baboon Banter.

Now go fuck that pie!

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The Room Is Not Empty, It’s You


Empty: It’s You

Is it the room that is empty
Or is it you
Who can be hidden
By a box of five walls
And a granite floor
And negate
Your body
Your Breath
Your existence
Your soul?

Stop blaming the world for its blindness
When you yourself have gouged your eyes out.

See.
Hear.
Touch.
Smell.
Taste.

Exist.

— X —
If you liked it, the baboon shall very well want your comments below.
Want some doughnuts?
Lobsters!
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Filthy Delhi Lover


Do me in the doggy perv,
Take me in your lap and surf,
Shit’s the lube there is to fuck
Your Filthy Delhi Lover.

Hussain will paint us nude, my love.
With every thrust with every shove,
We climb up their towers and call;
Let the cameras cover.

Let the celebrities clear the way,
When legends walk they shall sway.
Bow before us ye bitches
You slaves want us as rulers.

Quote me in the Time, I say.
Hear me talk about that May.
When i groped you in the train, that day,
Your kick made me cower.

But thank god you are still potent, douche.
I like it when you fill my pouch.
Your ass is not forgiven still
You ask before you savour.

Cheap Bra,
Easy Rip.
Wet Cunt,
Take a Sip.
Take me in,
Don’t make me dig.

My Filthy Delhi Lover

You’re hard
Let me help.
On Top
Ill make you yelp.
Lie down
And you shall delve.

My Filthy Delhi Lover

My staff
But your crown.
I am your slave
Wipe off that frown.
You are the Queen
When I am down.

My Filthy Delhi Lover

There are some nights when you don’t sleep,
My poet, I shall let you weep.
Meet in me Hauz Khas you creep.
Ill show you how its done.

Ill ask before I rape you,
Bring some ropes, take the cue.
The stars shall know we were there,
We shall leave our mark.

Delete that clip, you will be slayed
I’ll break your apple if it will be played.
That MMS is useless son,
Stars perform live.

Take me for a Royce Ride
We’ll bitch about Joyce with pride.
Your piss on Ulysses my Aphrodite
Makes me wanna crash.

Lets go to some art gallery,
Lets make out amongst snobbery.
They’ll call our piece performance art
And sell it for a million.

Or we shall buy a red light,
Put it up, make the city bright.
We burn the khadi, win their game,
Parliament is now planetarium.

We shall orgasm seeing the Mars
Claw my butt, leave your scars.
Plan a party with the chamars
And dance with the hijras.

Its sexy when you talk society,
Justice shall be your piety.
Its nice when you worship none,
But love and freedom.

This is how you make porn,
You are wet, your mind is warm.
Dream me up when I am gone
Your Filthy Delhi Lover.

–X–
*CAUTION*
The names of certain communities, which are used as abuses, are not used in the same sense.
The poet doesn’t intend to hurt anybody’s sentiment. If your interpretation of this poem hurts your feelings, then you shall solve it yourself.
This is a dialogue, not a monologue. Meaning there are two speakers.
The poet doesn’t condone rape. The ‘rape’ used in this poem shouldn’t be taken in the literal sense.

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