current fragments

I face the heavens but cannot breathe

So I turn to the right hand Path

where

Once, sand gathered at the head

Of the bed

from the shore a day before, where a

Dog comforted my boreal

Grief ( or

Of

Soil from

The garden of the dead)

---

I turn to the left hand path

Banks

Of thirst

from

rivers beneath , starving tangible dark growth  

lifeless crib

rigor mortis

---

Face down, I avoid the ecstasy of hogties 

devoid of blood pulsing 

My drowned avatar 

my criminal

my star flag of David 

films of final breathing

---

this shoulder then, still knows the damage of crosses carried 

that dangerous temper

the agitation of cancer, stricken 

the sounds of last stations and hours

–

• to the centre then, the ancient 

mortier of dirtied light and static 

father of white noise

glaucoma gift for a 4K world

---

I

she bends her spine backwards

she in her glitter, sequined, crystal top 

a limbo rock 

wavering form

inverse cobra 

she, with her two white men in layered suits

bank vault  bodies

I chase them out of the house 

( my motherlode / motherland ) 

“get the fuck out !”

but without the energy of rage or malice 

•      it’s an emptying of the house  – to remain in sacred unlit spaces, untouch the debris 

the cold electrical wires sticking out of plaster

maybe a ‘time from before’ exorcised 

the comfort of vacancy

• (backtrack) 

like a corpse on a bus is he

sits he in flesh and skeletal frame

 too small for starched white shirt

 blackened oversized pants

I can almost smell his

skin of wax 

hair hardened formaldehyde 

pale as the horse from endtime 

I sense he’s an otogoya 

coming back to life

dropping snake scales from our eyes 

to chase away squatting spirits from the house

making space for landscapes

“washing out the womb” 

imposterelations

we make contact in an elevator, ebony tar walls, sunset light captured in fission glassware (loading bay dimensions)

she can see through synthetic skin and fabric, unhidden salient organs. I avoid my own nakedness.
(mating dance activated)

we will be bed fed, turning like anti-gravity koi with filament arms embracing.
(elevator morphs into hotel room.)

touch her face, her flesh
(rubberised, moulding, falsified accents) unwilling to break through thin layers of make up

we will make out, kissing clones of who we were

while

the back of minds study airfields, tombstones of fire or holographic flags flying, (something foreign descending from skies, nucleus defying, infiltration)

we will be extracted from each others’ histories, sent out by opposing missions, into red atmospheres, out as advancement (turning into wasteland failure )

love ends with smoke and current

years later i serve bucolic church
she appears as a string of numbers in a phone, then in the flesh before medication time
she pulls me away to the canal, behind the war monument wall

“you were always there when i heeded help”
(luring) there are missing speech patterns in my calculations

the people have eaten the body of the king but i have not
(she has robbed me of time, of parents, of watching the targets, front of pew)

there’s no history in her i recall loving
a stigmata / tabula rasa /
all child-ling and empty (a distraction)

under deep cover, my mission isn’t over, but here she is, asking for therapy as my mark vanishes among the servient

__

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indolent queenie

she becomes fat and slutty with age
bloated in a black minidress
make up on her face like cream on a cake
like the cake float bed she arrives on

she’s already drunk. maybe never sober
the party was long over, but the announcement was made anyway,

It’s her grand entry
It’s her birthday
I should order her a jug of dark whiskey. My treat.

I don’t remember her like this.
even my best man, who wanted to fuck her in school, didn’t recognise her.
maybe it’s a sign of becoming a widow
spirits and grief turning her
morphing her with mad interiors
tiara as a crown of thorns

she was shouting to no one and everyone
slurring loudly about me, in third person
she didn’t recognise at all
even when she blabbered right in my face
spit raining on my skin

I give the whiskey jug to a dark and delicious tranny
blabbering birthday girl passes out in spa

the vanquishers_

 

At the birthday party – a green, pandan flavoured cream cake – didn’t live up to expectations.

“the branch this was bought from has dropped in standard.” someone says.

I watch the birthday girl quietly dispose the front part of her slice into a clear plastic bag.

I tell someone that yes, the cake is “a little dry”

 

the mundane part of the party was over.

 

CCTV.

I’m watching it with two other seniors in the TV room of the house.

I see a surfer male, long haired.

I am compelled to ask, “is that a demon?” the male accompanies an older gentleman.

the senior says, “yes, a young demon.” (as if that was infinitely worse, implying recklessness with the energy of youth.)

 

“clear the house.” the chief tells me.

 

The guests, some goths, in stupor, lying around on the floor in a small hall, seem drifting off to sleep. I stand above them.

I lift my arms like raising the dead. “Everybody get up.” They struggle to their feet.

 

“Everybody get out. Now.”

 

I know there’s a connecting door to the master hall.

I know that there is where the young demon dwells.

 

Another group of poets, in white clothing, are in a smaller recreation room near the back door of the small hall. I quietly tell them not to come out as i close the door, thinking they will be safe. In that room, i recognise one of the girls. Short haired, thin and drowsy.

 

reporting back to the chief magician in the TV room, he reprimands me. “when i say evacuate. evacuate.”

 

out means out.

 

I re-open the door. I see them holding plates with green vegetables.

“Everybody get up. Get out. Now.”

 

as they file past me in their slow, drugged out way, I see, from the corner of my eye, out the window, the lower half of a body, a woman, either hanging or levitating. barefooted, in a grey housecoat.

 

The demon has started manifesting.

 

The short haired girl stumbles past me. Her head is turning backwards, unnaturally.

 

The full manifestation hits.

 

This happens in milliseconds:

 

Everything turns into chaos.

space time collapses into a yellow, static sphere.

I am risen above it, looking down.

The house has vanished in the storm of visual noise.

I remember my training.

I self extract into deep space.

I remember the protocol.

 

Align the planets with the sun to vanquish the demon.

 

but the sun’s current alignment is in the wrong position.

(Use active imagination. Possibilities. Memory grids.)

I move the symbols of sun and planets into the right configuration.

I energise the configuration

creating time interference

creating space interference

 

for a second, the demon is blindsided.

Dispelled from the body it took over.

The vessel, the long haired surfer male, blanks out but is still standing.

Three magicians with silver swords stabs him in multiples of three

from the front, back and southern side.

 

one two three

one two three

one two three

 

the vessel is killed, so the demon cannot return to this plane.

 

#irvingpaulpereira #dailywriting

the red instrument of creation

here is where I want to be
the crammed and elongated room, narrow, with far off hidden corners
the bed itself is half a human size, I will sleep on my side, my body is stripped of fat and flesh
I understand now, why the past will be abandoned
it’s neck is broken
tuning ports missing
that blue instrument of creation is now defunct

so mother brings home a new, red guitar
polished, advanced, without its carrying bag
but it’s ok.
there is a soft wrap tissue keeping it safe

the strings are thinner than normal
on the fretboard, there are also rectangle buttons
the knobs are smaller than I know and it turns smooth
this red instrument of creation is like a computer
one must play it with a boneless arm, with speed, precision, in total flow.

I need to buy plectrums.

Emerging from the underground station, I enter the vast auditorium
Immediately, I see the greatness of the left and right walls before me, like a towering artefact, a praying wall.
I see hieroglyphics in statue form, like a black facade of hindu gods, hundreds of them. Egyptian.
my heart is moved deeply to tears.

An indian man with a white turban is playing a futuristic exercise bicycle like an instrument
he’s pulling several red, feather like strings out of small holes to make different sounds
I watch him for a few seconds, but it lasts long enough for me to hear the whole epic

then, I find video screens have covered the walls
and a child’s musical program is projected unto it

who are all these beautiful madams surrounding me, positioned at various tables, like grand secretaries and guard dogs and wives to be?

the complex i am in suggests a military recruitment drive
but the men, with their killing machines, and disguise kits and jungle warfare fatigues are nowhere to be seen.

Here, there are only women I could love and bring home to mother.

“let’s take a picture” a young girl says, “pose, smile like a gay man,”
I plan on showing her a duck face, a flying kiss. I become an extraverted version of my introverted self, chatty and noisy.

she’s out of film.
she goes back to her table to reload.
she and her friends are from the Lomography society.

“where is the plaza?” I ask one of them.
“we are from the video company” another dark skinned girl replies.
I try to get my bearing.
I seek sunlight shining through entrances.
I know I must cross a road.

I remember wanting to buy plectrums.

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into my father’s mansion

into my father’s mansion

_

 

I know him from the desert

the leathery skin of his thirst-less horse

that sandstorm’d skin, blood running in Egypt

with eyes that could bear down the sun

 

I know him from the grim land of wanderers

prince of the lost and of the dreaming oasis

a figure in heatwave, a stealer of fire

 

I know him in the world of wealth

This father of lies we tell ourselves

proud and royal and dressed like a Lord

legs crossed at a table of fine wood

eating the food of kings

 

in his father’s mansion, I find my self

a seven star spectacle, larger than life

man made rivers built in marble

halls the size of bygone kingdoms

 

there are obsidian walls, impossible towers

orange lights from byzantium times

white rain from a silver night

a formidable refuge, far from the failures of men

 

He that I know

stands near in black suit

wordless and profound

pausing the meagre creations of time

He does not look at me

He does not gesture

His presence alone is enough

 

in my Father’s house, I become the mansion

in my father’s house, I am of Wealth and not the wealth of this world

 

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hunts

we are known survivors on the run

on the tour bus, she sits at the far back (or are we up close in front?)

she opens her legs to me.

we are what’s left: needing supplies, food, a change of clothes

we stop at an abandoned departmental store. we know the entire population here is gone.

I am tensed, coiled, climbing to level two, overlooking outside the store

from corners, I see an elongated man running, faster than any human

others follow, fleeing, never stopping to acknowledge us

I understand the nature of prey, I understand they run from the hunters

 

hunting us in packs

nearing

reaching

 

I’m calling out to the survivors in the internet cafe

“GO BACK TO THE BUSSES! GO BACK, GO BACK!”

they do not find any news about what’s happening

I wait till everyone has left

 

the hunters move in, in packs

 

I am the last, tension driving me up slopes in a multi storey carpark

find the busses. find the busses.

wrong level. find the busses.

 

I reach the top but no busses could be found. I’m the last one left.

 

at the railings, overlooking the dark streets, there is a brigade of armoured ambulances, moving slowly in grids, sirens and lights off to avoid attention

 

a mechanical crane from an ambulance reaches up to me

i scramble on

i’m taken down into safety

 

the Japanese driver asks if i know the routes.

 

I do not.

 

we keep moving, a slow pace, as if keeping watch or searching, but no one else is around. I am the last.

 

from the back window, I watch the first of a few busses creep up on us, busses towed by trucks, moving in packs, like the hunters.

 

I search the faces and bodies of each bus till i recognise the man in the orange shirt. I cannot say if the head count is right. I cannot say if we are safe.

 

there is a medical experiment next to me. a man with his finger pressed to the corner of his left eye

it forces a squint. I see what he sees.

 

emaciated humanoids, bald and bare bodied, armed with black weapons. they move at intense speeds, the one who sees, slows down oracular footage. the hunters, by their very presence, turns the forest and streets and their skins, an ashen grey. they move like flickers between the frames. they hunt us in packs.

 

a sniper in the ambulance, aims. no one is sure if bullets are quick enough. no one is sure why we can’t go faster.

 

one sees pincered creatures of the sea emerging, turning their shells and seas and streets ashen grey.

 

they hunt us in twos.

 

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winter dreams of birthday parties

–

this could be mother’s room from childhood

barricaded windows, back to the cabinets

furniture of ancestors, bleak and timeless

black and white television, the only glow

 

I’m watching the film in the dark

I’m in the dark film, walking

a difficult terrain, going home past ice plains

I train the weak camera lens onto the mountain

researchers tunnelling through ice

i see the lights from their hardhats

their progress, slow and fatiguing

 

time changes the room

the room becomes another time

a bar in paris, 1930’s

furniture of ancestors, bleak and jaded

 

war widows drink pale milk

frothing with intoxicants

their coats hang on bodies familiar with death

their make up, thick with suffering

 

they wait for young boys to offer tricks and sex

they watch the mother descend a staircase

I am leaving

she reveals to me the sex I will miss

I am leaving for the ice plains

 

one returns to the beige mansion

one returns to the birthday party

a pile of presents under the table

like miniature skylines in glitter wraps

 

the house changes size according to wandering

one is on the third floor or second or fourth

one finds the bathroom at the end of stairs

one hears then sees the shower running

is it an exposed woman, soap on flesh, a steaming body?

one finds trouble towel wrapping one’s body

there’s a knife on the floor, handle attached to string

the man believed to be father says, “keep the knife, you all always tell me to use my eyes.”

one knows what he means.

He is always blamed for murders and daydreaming

He wants you to avoid slicing your foot

more special children arrive

“where do i put the presents?”

there’s a city beneath the table

doorless, windowless, lifetimes trapped in cubes and oblongs and panic rooms

one is projected outside the mansion

near roads and gardens and multi-storied carparks

one sees pale women in dark clothes with sky-blue hair

one sees an elongated beauty passing by

the witch-kind are recognised and loved

but the great woman known as mother is not in the house

researchers are trying to reach her, deep in ice mountains

 

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path room

this room is an anomaly

this room isn’t supposed to be here

the lights are off, cartons stacked, a storage zone with unknown artefacts

there is security outside, checking the double locks on the door, shining light through opaque windows

four or five guards are gathering, questioning each other, minds trying to grasp the meaning of spatial mysteries

there are two unknown identities in the room

they trigger a bomb

 

fire, disintegration and death is not shown

 

the two ascend floor by floor

black automatic rifles

tensed and clocked and poised

such stealth weaponry, built by some future military-industrial complex

they reach the top level and almost shoot a man

but he identifies himself as a senior agent

he has no legs

he explains the glory of how he will die

chest shredded by projectiles, a rain of blood and sizzling flesh

 

a tv broadcast log is viewed

searching paragraphs and grids for a title that fits this scenario

they find a line of white code on black screen

they see the codename ‘majapahit’

 

as if the name leads to craft

one finds oneself in a land-and-sea monster truck

there is a navigator, there is a co-pilot, there is you in a vehicle full of special children

 

from the cockpit one sees the sea

one sees parade floats the size of fishing boats and tankers and aircraft carriers

departing peninsula

 

a promise has been made to the children

they will get to see the ocean

one drives down the sloping tunnel highway, going deeper to the core that should lead to the shore

the road is especially unending

this distance is an anomaly

there are only damp drains with no tides, no great splash into bodies of water

no primordial womb for the safety of children

 

the vehicle ascends to a behemoth cubic presence

black and alien and called the 5000

it’s a grand plaza stadium mall in a third world country

streets perpetually polluted by night kind

by chinese restaurant labyrinth lanterns, theatres of oriental operas, red light districts of cheap concubines and wealth infested whiskey

this nocturne parlance scares the children, who have dissolved their bodies to remain hidden as ghosts

one lets them hide behind the dark body of self

one buys for the children copter bladed drones in black boxes

If they aren’t allowed to visit the sea, they will visit the skies

they are owed this much.

 

finally, one finds the missing child

poised in a plastic bubble at the top of a slide

anytime now, she goes down

one does not know if the child can be saved

 

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meat-

I was informed by the woman known as mother, of a particular meat dish that should be consumed.

 

from long travels, i settled at the specified location, an eating place with lights that dimmed as the concept of time passed. a place with an atmosphere of swamps and fogs.

 

an initial bowl of food was before me, pale vegetables, portions too small for a large man.

to complement the dish, I left it in search of that mythic meat mentioned by mother.

 

the distance between stall and table became far, to the point where i lost sight of my original seating. the food spread at the stall felt dated, aged by the slow dimming of lights. the woman behind the counter had other types of meat except the chosen one. long exchanges ensued while my mind remained conscious of my food at the table left open to the elements or taken by the starving that may drift by.

 

the stall woman packed two sets of meats from two different animals. a black liquid was poured over white flesh. the total numerical value being 13 when all i wanted was a 3 or 4. by the time negotiations were completed, total night had taken over the food hall and the distance to my table felt to be at its furthest. men, eroded by the long night were at various tables, nursing empty glass mugs, alone in the vast realms of stagnant dreaming.

 

a plan – in hindsight, doomed to failure – was the taking of a bus back to my original position. the bus turned along fixed routes and took me out and away from where i was supposed to return. i stopped at the first stop after, having gone across boundary lines and maps, fatiguingly far from my initial node. the way back was almost out of reach. I started running, plate or container of meat in hand. after some distance, i noticed all the meat was gone.

 

retracing my steps, i found the succulent pieces on the ground, on grass, in puddles of dirty water. i pick them up one by one, a part of me already consuming them as the night deepened.

 

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