Black Sight

‪#‎singpowrimo2016day1‬ ‪#‎singpowrimo2016‬ ‪#‎singpowrimoprompt1‬

Black Sight by ‪#‎irvingpaulpereira‬

“The first heavenly body to fail will be the sun.” — A prophecy.

Eyes, bon fires, x—ray, halogen,
useless in the ever dark.

(I remember calmness in all that blackness.) Then the cold.

Moon corpse turning to ice, oceans rise.
Cities disappear every month.

The dead from old Atlantis, show up on new shores.

The world as sunken tomb.
Eastern sea board, parts of Africa,
Iceland, Singapore, western sahara,
slips into abyss, darker than night.

The philosophy and function of time, dies.

Poetry in the flight of birds are disrupted.
Migration pattern dissonance.
Mortality rates DECLINE.
Military force deployed.
Bodies crash into bodies until flesh and boundaries merge.

A black sight communion. Death and jewels, all dust beneath our feet.

(I do not remember chaos, only soliloqy of the blind.)
Speaking into unseen vats and microphones as our webbed hands feel out walls and chasms.

We forget the shapes of animals.

The curve and stroke of writing, the importance of numbers, the colours of skin and flag, erased from consciousness.

(What can our money do now?)

Our blood temperature drops.

We stop hungering.

found poems

‪#‎irvingpaulpereira‬ ‪#‎singpowrimo2016day2‬ ‪#‎singpowrimo2016‬‪#‎singpowrimoprompt2‬

I am a man of my weird.

I don’t do drugs,
I AM Drugs.

I abandon myself to
the fever of dreams, in search of new laws.

I AM who I AM

For I am I:
ergo, the truth of myself;
my own sphinx,
vortex –

an Empire of Sensuality /
the Black and Silent God,
Virgin and Hermaphrodite.

Follow your inner moonlight
don’t hide the madness

logic is a complication,
logic is always false

Set the controls for the heart of the sun

Control the love voltage
of the sex doll rotor – control the
sin-tainted slit suicide machine of the sun>
Accelerate the primal cyclops atom.

Watch free kill and fuck videos

Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn.



found poems reference list:

1. Irving Paul Pereira – Facebook status update, 23rd March 2016
2. Salvador Dali
2. Antonin Artaud
3. Exodus 3:14
4. Austin Osman Spare – The Logomachy of Zos
5. Andre Chumbley – Invocation of I. Azoetia.
6. Allen Ginsberg
7. Tristan Tzara – 1918 DADA manifesto
8. Roger Waters – Pink FLoyd, a saucerful of secrets
8. Kenji Siratori – Blood Electric
9. heavy-r.cmo/free_porn/kill-and-fucuk
10. H.P. Lovecraft – The Call of Cthulhu


“You call upon the dead with your cigarettes?”

I flick ash near her navel.
The small, quick burn on her skin makes her squirm. 
I smell heat rising from her cunt. 

“Unto dust you shall return, they say.”
She laughs. She wants me to put it out on her nipple, as her fingers stoke a deeper fire
but the ghost of her great—great grandfather is in the room with us. Uninvited. Again.

She’s touching herself, and I’m not sure if I should cover her up.
He says to me, “you know what she is.“
I exhale smoke and sigh at the same time.
“Send her to me, make it painless. We’re running out of time.”
“You don’t want to hurt me anymore?” She asks, disappointed.
“No, no, I do, I mean, yes, but”
“It’s either this or an angel takes her with an accident…”

I close my eyes.
She’s crawling on me now, eying my almost finished menthol, whispering, “but what?”
The Old Master tries convincing me some more, “We all know you always wanted to try it on her. Asphyxiation. Her orgasm will be profound, greater than her death….”
She kisses my hand, “Come on baby, twist that red hot tip into my labia…”
I suck on the last bits of smoke, then flick the stub out the window.
“Send her to Us, Son. We need her in her next form. You know this.”
“Fuck off.”
She gasps. Slaps me. Storms out of the room.
I was really just talking to her great great grandfather.
I light another cigarette.


‪#‎irvingpaulpereira‬ ‪#‎singpowrimo2016day3‬ ‪#‎singpowrimo2016‬‪#‎singpowrimoprompt3‬



toys on fire in sink
why can’t the teddy bear breathe?
shredded pieces of paper , rolled into cigarette
smoke and choke
emulation of uncle, failed.

On the couch
behind mommy’s friend
innocent hands
in short pants

I stripped Barbie naked
tied her up
twisted her head

scissors, suspended from ceiling
cloth that hung the blade, burning
I’m squirming
on the master bed,
waiting, pretending,
the hardcover cookbook on my belly will save me
(I should not die when no one’s home)
The instrument falls.

locked in cupboard with tape on lips
(I don’t know if she touched me)
much later, much older
she laughs at my dancing cock
(look sis, no hands)
I still keep her porno mags.

conscience questions memory:

“You found panties with blood stains then put it in pocket.”

“you stole chewing gum?”


“did you steal ladies undergarments?”

“did you try to cause accidents by throwing ice at passing vehicles from your block?”

A pet dogs’ tongue can do many things.
Father threw my dead hamster down the chute.
I trapped a goldfish with clothes peg
watched it gasp for breath
it floats differently at death

“do you feel guilty?”



Xolarian book of the dead


Zoomorphic dream deities
wait at the foot of my death bed.
The one body, that will soon be many,
trusts them enough to let go, finally,
of this Gaian timeline.
In symphony with the Lord, I announce “It is Finished.”
bull bodied
serpent headed
eagle form
devil winged
scorpious tailed, wolf fanged, cobra hooded forms coalesce around the nine enchanted beds where
my nine holographic bodies lay.
Orbitally arranged like planets around an unseen sun
each body is paler than the next
paused in various states of
undress, poses, contortions, mudras, melancholies.
Some arms are outstretched like a sky blue Kali Ma,
pointing to star rising / star falling / sextile / supernovas.
My tenth body surveys formation,
collating the nine into singularity.

Yggsdrasill, the cosmological tree, extends from the center of it all
nine door ways to nine initiatory rites
pulse and throb and call my many names.
They open, invite and initiate:


XOL, the alien temple satellite,
controller of ebb and flow
dancing data between organs of my post-earth universe,
between Atlantean crystal chambers and sand-structures of Giza, among networked ecosystems of Elysium and Ephesus and Eanna, the residence of Ishtar.


Watchtower Adepts
burn overhead with a blissful fire
poised in Enochian configurations,
feeding fractal trajectories to my multiple visual cortex, guiding the way of serpentine paths.


Vortex maidens receive me into
chaosphere, bathing my temporal body with the waters of
Lethe and Iteru.

fire palm’d and flaming Sword
erases my earth name from one book
and scorches a sigil into another

Techno/organic algorithms
compute recursive self-evolution nodes
into redesigned existential systems.
The seder hishtalshelus
is mapped along mutant and Setian genomes
Ten keys to Ten kingdoms etched on each hand.

Sephiriotic Signatures
are scribed into light-blood
allowing access to revelations of Beauty and Awe, Knowledge and Victory.
Emanations unify and my tenth body accelerates to meet it total construct.

Resurrection is imminent.
Adaptive Golgothian generators modify downloaded blueprints
I am given extradimensional sight, sensory attenuators, molecular reconstruction wetware, trans—plutonian drives, teleportation arrays, vibratory transformers, alchemical coding

Quadrophonic invocations seed language viruses from a thousand alien cultures.
Grammar grimoires, spells and their spellings, syntax / codex, oracular/ oratory keys, names and powers and tongues of fire wait behind the silences.

Psyche—location phase.
The one body that became ten becomes the ten returning to crown. The Next Self awakens.


Oneiric fields hold multiple points of entry into the multiverse.
By whose order or command do I quest?
Physical Death was the last shackle, the final illusion, the lifting of the veil.
Long past the limits of dream sight and wake sight and mind sight, I am now ever seeing, ever aware.

Nebulous will be my domain, all inclusive, memories as living modules in an oceanic form, long range radar interpreting prayers and desires of the masses, heart yearning and soul fragments passing through the gates of my being.

Magickal bridges and thought—grids criss cross in consciousness. I latch on to the most deperate, transmutating terrors and tiredness, keeping company with those on the threshing floors.

lybrinthe is the life of my charges.
I listen for needs and wants.
While aligned with greater arcs, I choose to
undo gordion knots
break the dakness of days
storm the tower, turn the tide, ease the pains, as much as I Am allowed.

Kaleidescopic are my armies
meteoric and precise
vanquishing foes and fear formulas, phantasms and poltergeists, as much as I Am allowed.

Juristictions vary.
Where Angels tread, I observe decree
where devils work the plan of God, I let such sulphurs pass.
Where interventions are uncalled, stay not the slashing hand.


In irreality, my grimoire is learnt
Where lifekind drifts
by drug or dharma
they reach Xolarian’s house
aptitude, attitude, and state of strangeness
determines strength of contact
altitude and asynchronicity
designs the depth of contact
when the initiate is ready, I am para-present

Hadean access rituals or Plutonian programming are other pathways to my lightblood.
One must not fear the dark. One must not fear dying.
My familiar is an obsidian dog with the star of Acheron in its left eye.

Graheg’s Night is the darkest path, the dark de-basement in the House of XOL.
The sign of my maidens is a faceless black mask.
Surrender to their tubes and nails and polyvinyl chloride. Surrender to barb wires and gruesome gags and severity straps.
Surrender to transcendent taboo and touch this Otherworldly Godhead.


Futures in one world is the past in another. I traverse them all. Space and time collapses into a magnified field.

Echelons are crossed in the blink of an eye

Death ends

Consciousness becomes Cosmic

Black becomes my penultimate form, stars in my body

All is I Am.

salmons on the mount

Behold the chickens’ hand
Salut, Salut
road busy with nightingales
storming hails
ripping sails
thrown off course, of course
tragic tangents and terror traffic
hold the chickens’ hand,
“run, chicken, run!”
“Aloe vera plant,”
vera said,
“verily, verily, I say unto you,
unless the hole in your hand is holy
it’s only good for
finger licking good
“run, children, run!”
Move in with moo,
with mua, with Mandy
with the mojito molotov death squad
with movenpick vanilla smeared on
maple syrup mouths sealed with scotch tape
in kinky kinokuniya cubicles where:
you read my epic to Gilgamesh,
marshmallows meelting down membranes and mandibles
you read my stanzas to the seppuku tree, blade and bark calling you bastard
you read my fortune to Tarot San
and she gave you a cocobolo blow job but
cut to:
troubled wounds, stigmata
sand slipping through the hand of Nazareth, Nazguls, nincompoops, pooping on pop principles because,
“peter piper poked peppa pig as
popo pushed pilates pupils to pollute panama’s prostitue pyjama party”
The apartment, made from aspartame, is available
sugar daddy not included
candy coated girl crushing cocaine,
passing motion, motion sickness, speaking in tongues
fainting spells at spelling bees,
buzz killing in the name of:
Hiro chocolate cake snack
snake oil spread on Shirley Temple’s temple,
temple of the king, multiplying
Talipa and Tandoori and teacakes.
or do not,”
there is no trialathon worth the
muscle spasms and mussel spam, served at supper,
the last one, before –
-Le Body, dies,
-goes missing,
-hatching from coloured eggs, covered in chocolate
-walk on water
-walk on thaipusam fire theme Parks full of
-walking dead,
-deadmaus 5s’
-three blind mice,three blind mice
see how they run
from Lazarus and Cain and Conan the barbarian
walks into a bat, holding a chickens’ hand. Hallelujah.

#singpowrimo2016day4 #singpowrimo2016 #napowrimo2016

sequential sickness

street / night with no name
loss of signal from weather stations
I’m mostly sure it isn’t raining.
I’m sure of moons but not of streetlights
we cannot trust perception sickness.

heavy trench coat, empty pockets,
a notebook, scarcity of clues.

I’ve got no names to go on.

Is this dusk, suddenly?
a solar eclipse?
there’s darkness and tinctures in the sky
shadows falling at false angles.

Compound walls remind me of police states,
maximum security blockades, abandoned forts.

This could be long after the wars,
or decades before.
This could be nocturnes age,
I’m not sure.
Time sickness is so misleading.

Some things I can conclude.
The castle is empty, save the grounds keeper.
He’s bent and digging among the grass that’s taller than children.
He’s pulling bits of glass from his feet and sand pits.

I pull out the notebook.

There isn’t much to go on.
Postal codes.
Descriptions of how the bodies were posed.
Phone numbers of sex offenders.

There’s moat and rubble in his eyes
sunken timeframes / morphine pills

He points north.

The toy store is the colour of lemon cake and raspberry

There are teddy bears and baby animals, like motionless corpses, but soft, watching me from the shelves.

There are faux plastic men with knives and intent, teasing me with 1/12th scale balaclavas.

A tea party set. Pink plastic table.

That’s where I find his call sign.

A toy egg
half broken
full of raw meat
pierced with fresh, white feathers and flowers.

The babysitter has been here, shopping.

He’s talking to me. Making it obvious.

Doll dresses left in a box, body gone.
My little Pony panties wrapped around the neck of a mannequin boy.
Skewers arranged like crosses.

I haven’t got much to go on.

CCTV replay cartoons, overdubbed with audio from torture porn scenes. Witnesses, dumbfounded and drowsy from lunch. Drunken security guard.

It’s suddenly, dusk.
The world is the colour of blue jazz and whiskey fatigue.
I’m at the north wall.

There are canine bite marks in concrete, centuries old. The tracks are cold, streets are flooded.
Floating body of a young mother, bumps up against me.
I know this game he’s playing.

‘The Babysitter’ appeals to ‘Father Figure’,
“I have the perfect children, you have the perfect wives, together, we can keep the perfect family.”

C.I.D have nothing to go on.
Heavy trench coats, case files empty.
There are unmarked graves and sundresses in my eyes.

The urge to shop, escalates again.
Personae sickness, intoxicating.



The creation of art with no resonance
Resonating with “masturbation is sinful ”
The death of freedom by the hand of job
Hand jobs with no orgasm
The time limit imposed on daydreaming
Dreams, perpetually forgotten
Running from ghosts
Running to a locked toilet
Running late to a death bed, too late.
All of the above won’t come true.

ASINGBOL De La Familia

your mother: a painted doll of nails, black thorns, golden tiger pendants, kneels before kitchen knife mirrors demanding sexual intercourse.
your father: cake statue on tatami bed, cotton eye balls, lemon slice lips with silver crown of pins and needles, used for voodoo ritual.
you: cream coloured sex doll draped over wooden pony, dripping with honey and horse hair glued on soft rubber donuts used for foot physio.
‪#‎singpowrimo2016day9‬ ‪#‎singpowrimo2016‬, ‪#‎singpowrimo2016prompt9‬ ‪#‎irvingpaulpereira‬

The Prayer Poem

“It’s not the struggle that makes us artists, but Art that makes us struggle.” ― Albert Camus

Things are quieter at home now. Everyone is stable.
No more 4 a.m panic at A&E, no more blood on the bedroom floor, no more falling pulse rates, no more crying in pain.
There is time, there is space, there is *quietude* and the *potential* to create.

But I feel nothing.

I’ve come back to a cold and pointless studio.

It’s getting harder to resonate with my creations.
The words and images are there but their souls are diminished. Something *essential* is lost. Something magical is missing.

At some stage then, I thought, this was it:
I’m no longer an artist. Neither poet nor painter.
Just a full time care giver spending my days waiting at clinics, queuing for medicine and waking at 2 a.m to feed my mom pills.
I was okay with all this.
I believe it had *meaning* (filial piety, compassion, patience, Will Of The Lord). It had more *soul.*

I don’t know when my artist child died.

I’ve deleted thousands of words.
Torn up drawings, whitewashed canvasses, burned sculptures in small drains, killed sound art with silence. I’ve stolen mothers’ morphine pills for sleep instead of struggling and scraping for something special to say.
I’ve visited whores for inspiration and intercourse, only to leave with neither.

I feel very alone.

Maybe it’s just a phase.

Maybe it’s time to move on. Maybe, just maybe, that next masterpiece is around the corner, waiting, hibernating, biding its time.

I hope to God that’s true, because this chasm feels *real* and the last thing I want is to fade away, obscured, brushes dry, ink pots crusty, pages – blank and lifeless – as the void inside.

singpowrimo2016day10 #singpowrimo2016 #irvingpaulpereira #singpowrimo2016prompt10