the night island

“We do not invoke his dead name, for the pain he had caused us, the distress and lies, but we honour his contribution to the myth.  To the shape of our becoming.”

He’s in the car, haphazardly parked, slumped behind the wheel, sick and disoriented. Green strands of seaweed  plastered around his lips, mouth reeking of alcohol.  This is not where i’m meant to be, this gas station of night, but some force in the land has led me here.  He stumbles out but does not apply handbrakes. The car slips backwards but i manage to stall it despite the broken handbrake. I do not know if he returns, but i abandon him, the vehicle and our old path forever…

The night is alive with vagabonds and young gangsters scattered in moonlight. Chinese boys pulling  barbecue meat off a stick.  Tired women behind metal stalls and stained glass panels push fried meat into french loaves cut sideways.  There are mushrooms sprouting from bread, oil and heat and fatty liquid. 

There are no roads where i stand, looking at the dirty white oblong building across the street food stalls. “After hours adult club.” one of the boys tell me. I see  women with no necks climbing onto cars, legs spreading out of leopard print mini skirts.  Men want to fuck those misshapen chests in the light of bonfires.  inside the building i sense laser light and pulsing drug noise. A silent disco from the graves of my memories.

Huge black dogs, two of them, sprint out of the nowhere dark.   K9 units chasing  villagers who carry orange plastic bags full of clothes and objects from ruined houses . I sit among another group of men, gamblers and miscreants, watching women and children evacuate from shadow worlds. They are pinned down by unseen assailants or authorities. I sit on a red plastic chair, hiding in plain sight.

A heavy and heaving dog , intense with wildness, races in circles around a debris carpark. It pounces on my back, resting its weight upon my head. I feel no burden as the dog soul seeps into me , granting a peace this third world cannot give.  A maroon furred animal appears near my right hand, its lips and face swollen as if impending death. It’s gruff owner, unseen but heard, says it smells me and won’t eat me. The creature licks my fingers. They become one with me on this path.

i have become nomadic, wandering the aftermath, down unlit alleyways where a man in a construction hat emerges from trenches  linked to tunnels, dug by skeletal machines.  He jams triangular wood into blackened soil to stop the wheels from turning.  There is a land fill near me, thick with darkened nature. This strange universe is not my place but i sense I belong here for now, one of many nocturne spirits,  meandering and alive among the dead.

the y-stem of De’fra

[

reawakening old site,

a current current running through

logic boards of past

money disappearing into guitars, smoking fines and computer systems

days and nights into haze and

heat and anxious raining

trumpets move like limp memories

through mazes of pain and breathlessness and blood and piss

dead friends grow long hair and trade me film data, bondage porn, crime and medical scenes

“in honour of fruits we, hang on trees” says Haal’gund

that freezing, ancient figure by the arctic seas

bearded, exhausted, in cryogenic sustai

subterra pressure

oxy tank

wooden boat

“I’m only as far as the icons take me.” the poet said

burning cloves and imaginary clothes so that the police can’t find her

spent, in disarray, spending and loathing under full moon

[[

i missed the plant man

left sunshine hanging

and the monkey king, waits alone with cold pizza

they gather at the periphery, inflicting my bubble

i resort to organic matter

milky and shimmering, younger and younger like the beginning of time

despondency is allocated

“the computer piano fakes the death of human beings” a shemale said

like sour fruit in a basket of poppies

000

(redacted for fears of fle(a)sh death )

9999

we pick up these old images, older than the caves, the morbid men of dust collectors, to assume the mantle of broadened air

we forget to mark sun cycles because we are burdend

the panic that steals breath in one body, creates troubling sighs

we try not to burn hair

we study the debris in the room, where the strange singer disturbs our everyday fealty

we hardly stop, but there are detours, pauses, full moons, periods where the puzzle fails to fit

we stare at the altered flowers we created

we get lost in its gaze

we wait for mortal signal

cellos, the only weight in this space…

i, magi, native

I, magi, native:
for in every individual imagination, there is a native, resident or attending magus.
And that is why, in hindsight, I’ve always had a hierophant for every internal aeon i go through.
I had invoked Samantha and Kae as one, that blood fire serpent, coiling round her tender thigh. My Third Eye spirit and Muse, clad in a soft, dark blue dress.
I needed a name from them,  for the next magi, and before I could finish the question, they said,
“It’s you. It’s your name.”
There should be some order in the aftermath.
A guide to pass through the after violence, of soot, ruination, and swirling ash. A light, glowing in the blinding night of smoke. 
There to prepare residencies in the astral, in the House of Ihiir, amalgam, and epicide
 
At the construct in the west, in the east and in the directions to come, taking
 
The 32nd path of Tau.
 
#irvingpaulpereira

aftermth

“”Behold! I tell you a mystery. We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed,”
corinthians 15:51

 

_

 

the body of my father is delivered
like mama shop stock from a van

 

the body of my father is stored in the parlour after hours
with the trolley of unopened yeo’s cartons

 

blow out the candles, turn off the lights, roll the shutter down
shop / life / closed

 

we sit at home at night in my mother’s room
wondering what is happening.
we sit in the dark before sleep, talking.
talking about it helps us believe.
talking about the absence makes it real.

 

in my downtime
i refer to my memory of his body
his youth, remade with make up
his lips, waxy and slightly curled into a subtle smile
his eyes, restful
hair sleek and tucked in
hands gripping black rosary
resting on the tattered, worn out prayer books he read from every night

 

 

In the morning I pack peanuts and red strings and mentos sweets in neat containers on each table
there are polar water cups, packets of lychee and green tea and chrysanthemum.
cheese crackers for a weeping mother.

 

I remember to go buy his 4D one day after his death
He’s busy in the western lands
He’s busy acclimatising to spirit

 

 

there’s this butch from my neighbourhood
loud mouth and drowsy at the front row of nightly prayers
she wears slippers that look like fish
mouth gaping, struggling for air

 

“he did not struggle for breath.” the doctor had said.
“he just stopped breathing.”

 

“I’m sorry.”
”my condolences.”
”I’m sorry for your loss.”

 

well meaning
repetitive
“thank you.”
”thank you.”
my heart breaks a little during every hug
I cannot remember when I last hugged him
my eyes grow wet
my tears roll down, warm and slow

 

I will not sob until the day I carry his coffin on my shoulders

 

we all don’t really break down
we are not loud or hysterical
we grieve in silence because that is his nature
our pain rests in quietude
the sound of this loss is a pin drop

 

 

there’s vindaloo curry , home made, one day before the funeral
dry mee siam and curry chicken
classic funeral food

 

I’m making sure the wardens have drinks
I’m making sure my mother has sugar
because normal dinner time is over
normal anything is over, at least until the new norm without father

 

i buy the bak paus for breakfast on Friday
“oh shit,” i thought, “we should abstain from meat on Friday.”
but it’s ok
what is abstinence at a time like this?
today is our private little good Friday
there will be a hill of skulls
there will be a finishing
I thought the skies might open up but it did not rain

 

I had to do a eulogy.

 

I finally sob when I carry his coffin on my shoulders

 

“If silence is the language of God, then my father knows this language well.”

 

I talk about the comfortable silence of his presence
I talk about his visions of Saint Joseph and Mother Mary
I talk about him ushering us into paradise
I talk but can’t quite hear myself
I talk but can’t quite get what i’m saying
I sob a little less carrying his coffin out of the church
I’m running around handing out ang pows to choirmasters and altar boys
I scramble into the front seat of the funeral directors car
because we have to make it on time to send my father to the flames

 

it’s a strange machine
the robot that carries the coffin at mandai
It looks like an arcade gaming console
that doesn’t quite console
it looks like that remote claw game that picks up stuffed toys for two dollars.

 

minutes before that
I finally see the full length of his suited body
when the coffin cover comes off
we place roses and symbolic flowers inside his wooden bed
Lillies for Saint Joseph, his warden sash and prayer cards from his wallet
I think i forgot to say, “bye dad.”
no one really utters anything
grief has a garbled tongue
I’m not really focussed on anything at this point

 

One of my sisters goes weak in her legs
as the arcade gaming machine slowly pushes his coffin to the mouth of the oven
we recite the Hail Mary many many times
the machine is slow as fuck
dragging the scene out as long as it can
“..and at the hour of our death. Amen.”
My mother asks, “What is happening?”
I point to his coffin seconds before the machine loads him into the fire
the door slowly closes.
There is nothing left to look at.

 

 

time for cold polar water
lychee and green tea
the bus is on a schedule. We should get moving.
i hand over the framed photo of my father to my mother
a photo taken at their wedding anniversary.

 

I’m thinking of sambal kang kong and prawn paste chicken
fried rice and yam dessert for lunch.
The same meal we had for my father’s birthday lunch.

 

I spend the bus ride back talking about headphones
I don’t even think of his body burning somewhere back there near the zoo, near the bird park
he used to draw birds
i don’t think he ever brought me to the zoo,
I spend the quieter moments looking at the passing scenery
and how i had imagined myself on such and such a bus at such and such a funeral
how quickly these imaginings become reality
how quickly the day of admission had turned into time of death
9.26am. 08 may 2018.
Three minutes after the doctor had called me to say,
“Your fathers breathing is slowing down. You should come down. I’m sorry, but I think your father will pass today.”
We didn’t feel an urgency.
Wasn’t annoyed at all the red lights we were caught at on the way down.
I used to fear not being there at the moment of his death.
then it didn’t matter
Three minutes.
I didn’t even feel him pass.
But I knew that he would
that day, hours before ICU
when he said to his nurse, “This is my Son.”
and when he had said to me, “It’s O.K. It’s O.K.”

 

He took his time
to give us time.
He slipped slowly and easily into the great night,
un-rushed, just like he was in life.
His was an easy death to me.
No fuss. No noise. No real struggle.
“Are you ok?” i would ask.
“Okaaaay.” He would emphasise.
“Are you happy?”
“Yes.”
“Are you comfortable?”
“Yes.”
“We will see you tomorrow OK?”
“Ok.”

 

###

 

#irvingpaulpereira

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

9 tespus contemplates 9 moments, in month nine, year 9999, in 9 dimensions. day unknown.

 

9pm

I’m pulling her head back by her hair to either
a) slit her throat
2) plant gentle kisses
iii.piano wire

9.9am

I am a wolf, ashen grey fur, walking next to a construction site with a 6 year old girl

.9

red spider gland on
wall of hospital.
there are sirens. bomb runs.
i am giving away flu masks.

99tm (journal entry)

xhe’nn hio’o’ih jkk jkk Unn’nnu rhfghh rghfgg nn’

approximately translated as:

“aspect/adjunction two of awareness (taste?) has surpassed the
_______(no english translation) gate/chapter. I am expecting a greater fever now. ”

999@

tespu as a ‘finale priest’ at the end of a hallway talking to a secluded plant
he seems to be saying, “…and finally there are six breaths.

first for the first born in the next 3 minutes.
second for my first wife who will be taking her first breath at first light
third for the risen vault that exhales after the unsealing
fourth with the opening of the flora species x’n’19 after successful solar ingress
fifth when adasmon dies
six inside the sex of sepha, wife/daughter/muse of septu

by the last sentence, night time has come and shrouded the hallway in darkness
one can vaguely hear him walking off in some unknown direction, sighing, turning into a ‘fiancee priestess.’

9/

t.3.5.p.u.
completes
112th
orbital re-entry
systems
optimised
no
known
errors
signified.

/9

two
unregistered species of animals
are fucking
in
one undiscovered species of forest

>>>>>>>>>

coding here has no known relevance to any of these meta programs

9999

tespu as a
post-poet
pondering the gravitas of
‘uncorking the ‘left’ of ‘off’ language’
especially in relation to the estrangement of
‘the utter and reckless consumption of treacherous blank slates’
while a side line of
performance poets
try to express the
post poetic methodi of #irvingpaulpereira

#spwm2018day23 #spwm2018prompt23

abcdefghihiir

Asingbols of Tespu part 1 – alphabets A to M

an-ihiir-ae: house mistaken to be a maze or place that makes the compass spin in an uncontrollable manner with rooms that are red then pink.

Bladsheadsgar as pink kitchen with no lighting, gold bell on the wooden table rung three times or plastic alphabets hung askew on the walls.

Corrdasia: a tunnel like wormhole, inside an ice cream cone, a place for trains to travel through, sometimes lit by bonfires or torchlights.

Daekenclass: lopsided facial features involving enlarged eyeball on the left, scarred eye sack on the right, needles raining in rainforests.

Epicide: a library, difficult to find on gps or requiring night vision, a handful of angsana seeds, humming noise from wooden walls, a pail.

Fortuna: gold fish, eaten without bone as a meal with starchy rice, big wheel that turns at noon and midnight, a clothes peg, bottom drawer.

Graheg: bondage sex toys sealed inside a room painted black, boxes full of young ponies, beige room with flat screen tv and spoilt USB port.

Hatteract: a spherical headpiece made from wire and worn between the hour of six and eight as a form of dinner magnet, keeps hair from mice.

ihiir-house : hut like structure, glowing green, doors made of concrete slabs, animals with no fur sleep on the porch, rose on a windowsill.

Jacobianism: waking up naked next to your Uncle who is holding a tennis ball punctured by the teeth of a dog who is snuggled under a pillow.

Konstantinos: a girl who was once in room six in ward three but is now a collection of body parts catalogued and kept in discarded jam jars.

Locotraine: saxophones believed to contain mind altering drugs, left on a leather seat in a bullet train bound for Tokyo only at night time.

Madredist: an apron containing an oven containing pineapple tarts containing cyanide containing sugar bought from an eighty year old grocer.

#irvingpaulpereira #spwm2018day21 #partialprompt

mrror

eyes in the mirror
don’t follow eyes
in the head
but the tense cloud of body
posed
un-poised or
repose

it looks past
altered
severed
promised

the mouth yawns slow but

mirror lipsyncs
glossologia and nostalgia
unfinished and operatic

a palpitating thing.

tendrils from the nostrils
false eruption of smoke
or dry ice
downward flowing
making the boy of morning
blood drip breathing

a wiped out thing.

eyes a red magnet
carpet a red map
stretch jaws open
hoard gate into wormhole
a yawning

“maybe,” he says

“ when you gaze into the throat of darkness
the voice of treason gaze into you”

or yawning again
or mimicries of screaming
or orgasmic
or “positioned to take in an uncircumcised member.”

lip licking thing.

you cut an apple at midnight
candle

red lipstick help sign

fogging mirror
fogged recall
name in wet glass

“boy of you who died in the hour of your birth stone.”
smiley face condensation and/or
condescending

a compromised self child looks forward
‘a constant pendulum of critique.’ looks back

“I’m old and dying,” it says, “the future is female*”

look, peepshow, look, pimple
all the people you
wanted to posess
looks at you in the mirror

how pretty or
un

the mirror cracks at the sound of your name
you are famished

mouth yawns slow but
muerte grins back
teeth, white as festivals
bright as lanterns
a slew of sleepless lines
scald zones of hot amniotics deforming your inward gaze

look,
all the skin you left behind on the bed
birth pangs pooling around your feet
seizures of self worth
how heavenly your yawning
or menses
or iron maiden collars of thought

you put your palm on your face
there’s a bridge there
your future, a futile place
“But you are not a poisoned image.”

Yes

“ you are not an atmosphere of sadness.”

I know you close your eyes
but your eyes still see
I know you are burnt out but shining.

#irvingpaulpereira #spwm2018day20 #mirrorprompt #allegiancebonus

random poems / failed broadcasts days 15-18

maybe minutes
maybe hours
maybe a scene of a strange man riding a winged horse
septu considers madness as a sequence of revolving doors
letting in a couple or two
spitting them out again
’to pace the streets’
waiting for their cars to come
waiting for the second coming
and poets on corners joke about The Lord, High
 and coming,
nailed, entering the cave a man, coming out a god
‘coming out of the cave’
etcetera jokes and karaoke triggers
then the couple
waiting on the car
never seem to arrive
here, he lights a cigarette
lights her cigarette
she sits on the curb
how many cigarettes are done?
there, he’s going past the revolving door again,
hailing at headlights
she’s nowhere but her smoke lingers
he’s dialing satellites
I haven’t seen cars stop
Septu watching me, telling me to look elsewhere
I haven’t seen cars stop
maybe just lights passing, bodies pacing
couples return again, sitting on the curb
I thought them long gone but here they are
confused smoking, hailing headlights
and some poet is hiding among us on the streets
jerking off to political commentary
thinking of Holy Infant Ones, Holy Sepulchre ones, Holy Septus,
the tr=etra+mmaga+ttonn of Tespu
hours pass
maybe minutes,
 and the man isn’t around and her smoke lingers, and
maybe there was a car but I
did not watch it stop
days have passed
I think maybe its morning light
certainly not in the ungodly hour
man is tired of pacing, run  out of cigarettes
she has left him
she has left the curb
even her scent does not linger
‘coming out of my cage’ i’m not doing fine she says
etcetera jokes
pages torn from a book flying through revolving doors
hailing at headlights
take the taxi
go home
doc oc’t’or says
“try to titrate the anti-tespunians of tespu’
you listen to his podcast trailing the streets
waiting on cars that don’t arrive
pacing like a tyger burning bright
#irvingpaulpereira #noprompt #nocrit #spwmday18
tespupoemScreen Shot 2018-04-18 at 12.43.58 PM

tesputespuuredcircles.jpg

 

today
some weird poet hiding among us
will be jerking off to poems about
-humping trump
-nailing Jesus
-furry fantasies with animal headed gods
as men in white watch on
(Lee)ring
#irvingpaulpereira #spwm2018day15

syair poetic form – day 14

he rode a winged horse with a wig
armed with chopsticks and a twig
painted face, death metal gig
charging forward, wild like pig

there she stood in her ivory tower
wet from watching all his power
scare his enemies, watch them cower
this is it, his finest hour!

but there’s something in the air
a hidden monster with no hair
rising, outburst, blinding glare!
“no!” she screams, “this isn’t fair!”

the king has suddenly lost  his head
his heart now broken, his sword is dead
men all fallen, fate cuts thread
lands now lost in shadow’s dread

grieving, weeping, angry, wife
now is not the time for strife
all she has is butter knife
time to end this monsters’ life!

watch her leaping from on high
steel blade glinting, warring cry
stab the creature, “die , die, die!”
“no one fucks with king and I!”

kaiju whimpers, kaiju fall
kaiju crying, lost its ball
kaiju head now hung in hall
butter knife now framed on wall

 

 

___

 

 

http://formsofsea.blogspot.sg/2018/04/syair.html

#irvingpaulpereira #spwm2018day14 #SyairPrompt

november’s island

of course that night
while vomiting
black rice wine
or pissing on graffiti wall
and ‘the dizziness’
were signs
of my cappuccino girl
dying back home

of course at the start
I carried this rock of sadness
with all the stray-ness of a new life
marked by arcane cards on the beach
pledged me to another shore
to say, ‘here is scorching,
here is a holiday with burdens’

and how crude was the sea
how long winded the vacation
how mediocre the drugs then
how i tried to keep her alive

and how the ghost
-that first night-
wanted to fuck me
she, who was -at first evening-
an underaged yellow striped kitten
biting my finger on the patio
only to become so old, so brown and haggard
blind and sprawling on my bed
with a Garuda watching us from the corner

I sunk into the earth of her
untamed tongue of primal lingua
on the wall
a great lizard
to eat mosquitoes

my psychic sperm finds its home
to have wraith infants
roaming those lands forever…

oh, rubbish burning
draining car rides
prayer cries from the jungles
salt water baths
really…
plenty of worthless memories

I’m no longer even close
to those humans who
shared the same space then
the same blue point of light
films that made me sick all night
not worth it at all
when she looked for me in vain
one last time before dying

but the sea spiders
they don’t leave their habitat inside
an opal web
breathing since then
eggs in this mortal coil
despite the weird dark room of the last day
strange banging on the door, ash trays breaking

I carry a thread

as I had left the texts at a place with
‘all horse and no cars’
gigolos and snorkling
boys who turn into turtles, maybe,
a head made from a young coconut

how i remember pancakes
nescafe
but nothing much else
except coming home to know
i didn’t see her die
and the red star by the pointless sea

#irvingpaulpereira #spwm2018day12