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” 

I think, in part, it’s the hunger

portents

/

highway / tour bus
_
rogue cell phone signal
a clear, aural hallucination
hunted by sick voice speaking of mother
past the border
through ghost static land line alarm
broadcast level peaking, piercing holocaust heaven
infection from the mansion, spreading to streets
soot poisoned sidewalks, sewerage heat

school
_
school kids locked in a den of predators
something is loosed and blind in poltergeist halls
sniffing out glands and urine stench skirts
phone batt failing
torch light dying
closed door cubicle
festering abortion nest

halls unlit for decades, abusive cane stroking teeming darkness
chalk and dusters in mouths
nails on the blackboard quoting blood types
malevolent monochrome sight and

noise
_
only noise keeps terror at bay
jaded crystal chalices clinking against chipped champagne glasses
bent nails rusted by haemoglobin, swirling in toxic stainless steel
grating, friction, charring screeching
keep the noise coming
or our breaths will be heard

_
#writing, #poetry, #irvingpaulpereira
receive art monthly for a $1 or more a month: patroen.com/irvingpaulpereira

where there are no more children

i will not speak of hazy storms

hiding the islands on the horizon

too late to say the night wind is coming

too late to warn the residents

I am sad i cannot discern the holographic planet

its veins and bodies of water, its neon jungles of life

there are vague illusions of people,

lined up on streets, awaiting inspection

I cannot inspect their bodies

because I am not one with hands or bodies

i’m forcing colours into shapes (futile)

i cannot ask for names,

I have no tongue for language

the book is lost in a cluster of meaning

its spirit, diffused

coaxed into depths too vast for being

the disciples, as children, are leaving the stations on unmarked trains

gone into vanishing horizons

there are a handful of us left, at least in this sphere of living

they are vague illusions of people, without a certain face or shadow

clothed in the trickery of rays

aged in either years or days

in a neighbourhood with no humans

only sentinels remain, concrete and looming

levels upon levels of vacancy

by the inroads

I spot temples made from heaps of broken furniture

signs of prior life, wood turning fungal in the night winds and rains

if you ask, what is shelter?

i will point you to the shore

from there at least we can wait

for the islands across the sea to reappear

for a depth of being to change or emerge

for the giantess to come through her witchcraftain portal

through that great metal complex with no door

i’ve been here before

on a white bed between the trees

before the yellow tower

i recall the dog barking at the baboon

i recall the man with the metal detector

they are not here now

no one is here but the breathing jungle

and the risen wall where the highway used to be

separating the shoreline from the terminal country

dividing state from dimension

did it occur again?

buildings launched into space?

it was funny then

but to find craters where families used to live

to find upturned streets

roots of an old sea showing like innards

black and twisted and sucking on air

one senses the inevitable loss

i’ve lost the tongue for prayer before ruined cupboards and dining tables

maybe i’ll stand, unmoving, on the sidewalks

maybe someone, dreaming in a far away place

will appear before me, in random

trying to know my name

trying to sift through illusions

trying not to speak of hazy storms that make the horizons disappear

trying not to mind the night winds

howling through the skeletons of creation and playgrounds

slab of pig

patient zero longs for the slab of pig, he talks of nurses, the smell of barbecue rising from their light pink uniforms, they with their face masks and white bra straps, making his star groin shine.

 

the slab of pig is the first place of his dreaming, black grease on the walls, a medieval kind of drunken palace, warriors made from other kinds of hard skinned meat, alcohol befitting Plutonian Death Gods.

 

slab of pig, punctured by the serrated blade, patient zero handles the sharp edge like a childhood game of paper cuts, taking turns with small points of erotic incision, tiny ant bites of pleasure.

 

he lounges on the filth sofa

 

“you remember the crocodile scene…” he reminds me.

 

i’m allowing the midazolam to work wonders, or perhaps, the wonder is already here, considering my actual communion with patent zero at this historical sofa.

 

“I remember the siblings. the leather masks, her hair so dry. it was the brother who embraced the croc.”

 

“it was his hair you remember…”

 

one cannot follow the path of logic, only the path of medicine for treating troubled sleeping and agitation. the patient belongs on a page, not in memory, or perhaps, he is extracted from a bygone memory, to come alive again on the page. that period of the pills, received without prescription, taken as experiments, that period of induction, that’s where the contact was made, that’s where the society of night was made. that’s where i met the first siblings.

 

“we fucked and fucked in the dungeon, body fluids sliding on PVC, on urine coated floors, on walls that understand the intimacy of screaming and excruciating ejaculation. but like the animals, we do not believe in pain as suffering. as animals, we only understand pain as a dimension of existence; naturally occurring, pitched at the same frequency as intense laughter and its not so strange bedfellow, the orgasm.”

 

patient zero understands the complexity of the slab of pig. he takes a hot slice into his mouth. I lounge on the sofa, naked, salivating, watching him eat. he offers me some, but i politely refuse. in the dreams of medicine men, there is no hunger.

 

#nightsociety #irvingpaulpereira

an evening from elsewhere

one enters the fairy tale reality stream, to the unfamiliar house.

 

you have brought your family with you. a visit, for dinner, a courtesy call. perhaps in the upper rooms, there are bears sleeping in nightclothes. furniture could be scented wood or biscuits. somehow, there are wolves present but not seen.

 

you try to place the feeling of the house. it’s neither-either from a child’s picture book you loved or was afraid of; or this could be a house you visited when you were a church monk, in a prior life, blessing old couples in cottage homes, in low valleys or countrysides.

 

in the dining hall, when the hosts have gone to the kitchen, to bring out servings, you see the man known as father, helping sister arrange her pillows at the head of the table. rudely she throws the pillows back at him, bitching about how she had not asked for help.

 

you tell the father straight: “next time, don’t bother doing anything for her if she didn’t ask.” the mother woman, of course, is distressed at the anger in the hall. you are seething. the ungrateful one deserves no love from her father. she has been like this for far too long. but before anyone else can speak, the hosts return with dinner meat.

 

yes, you could be sexually interested in the daughter of the house, or at least, momentarily in love. she is also one who owns a strange television. the news is on, in black and white. a classroom full of young students is shown. a girl, in white uniform shirt and dark pleated skirt, has her face buried in bent arms on the study desk – she is drowsy, possibly drugged or sick.

 

the teacher has announced the winner of the class – best exam results.

 

the teacher calls the sleeping girl several times before she struggles to awake. she rises from her table. she moves sluggishly to the front of the class. her shirt has begun unbuttoning itself. her uniform slowly falls off her pale body. from her breasts, downwards, her skin is blackened and blue, not from beatings, you understand, but from a disease – gangrene – decomposition.

 

“i know her,” you tell the young maiden of the house. “ I was eating ice cream with her in the restaurant behind your house.”

 

“at wendy’s” she offers.

 

you recall pine trees of moonless night, small roads winding to the plateau of a small hill where you were, with the dying-dining girl.

 

you then notice a family portrait in the TV hall. it begins to dawn on you as you watch it.

the painting, is of a hellish wasteland – a red and orange apocalyptic background. in the foreground, a husband, either with two daughters or a wife and child. it dawns on you. You had murdered him, for them. that is why there are no men in the house of the hosts.

 

your family is with you at the dining table, now placed in the TV room. you are explaining to the maiden, with a heavy, tired voice, with fatigue in your bones. “I may be the youngest in the family. but I am also the oldest.” you are referring to your spirit. you bring up the memory of a man in black. long haired and timeless. you know you belong to another family, one of immortal beings, where eons are but a tick of a clock (time does not exist when you are forever)

the girl says, “but what mistake did the dream lord make?”

i see the cycle of a white being, turning into a black being and back again. this is not a mistake but a process. you do not or cannot answer her question.

 

the hosts disappear into hidden rooms, possibly preparing something final before you depart with the family. the mother woman takes this chance to start panicking again, about the outburst in the dining room. her body seems malleable, falling apart, like a light image breaking down. you explain calmly, “it’s not that i’m telling father not to do anything for sister…”

 

you are in the driveway outside the house.

 

The minibus has come to drop off people and take you home. you see the girl from television, on board. bright, sultry, gothic, undead. she is in a fine, white silk blouse and black skirt. in her aura you see her technological paintings. advanced black line systems, geometries, circuits, painted on clean whitewash gesso. she is here to set up her exhibition in the house. You follow her as she gets off. “you are my cousin,” you tell her. long ago, you understand you had been her lover. you do not follow her into the house. the path leads you elsewhere.

 

in search of the toilet.

 

you find one of the many great mysteries of oneiric fields. you have been to this kind of underworld before. a vast basement-warehouse of toilets. cavernous, purgatorial, haunted by grey time zones.

 

there are yellow police tape dangling from low ceilings and around pillars, no one else in sight. there is very little light, a density of fog and voice overs from elsewhere, making announcements in a soulless place. this is also like an amusement house of Halloween horrors. without fear you enter deeper into the cave, to the far end walls where black grills cover drains.

 

you begin urinating but your organ is limp and too small to handle.

 

you wet yourself, your pants, urine running down the front of your life. the piss stream turns into a haze, a misty , uncontrolled expulsion. there are ropes hanging from inside your clothes, which are too big for your shrinking body. you understand the ropes are there to hold up your heavy jumpsuit. you legs are loosely tied together. This was how you left the husband when you killed him.

 

a strange presence of a man is now next to you. he says, “she’s been my girlfriend for six months…” you somehow know he’s talking about the girl in TV. they have broken up. he is broken up. you cannot offer any advice, because, “I am single, I am alone.”

 

without buttoning or zipping up, and with an ongoing stream of piss gushing all over your body, you leave the cavern. a large, industrial tank like machine follows you, operated by a masked man. It’s one of the halloween party tricks. the tank’s cannon will spray water on people visiting the toilet. you let it attack you with the jet stream, so no one else outside this place will know you’ve wet yourself. the masked man gets off the machine and lops a bottle of clear gel petrol at you.

 

you do not believe he’ll set you on fire.

 

#dailywriting #irvingpaulpereira

“there is mercy in your hair”

you find yourself

postrated

on a surgical table

in the Night Clinic full of daylight

 

you know but also don’t know

the white skinned, beige clothed doctor

a gynaecologist, without his face mask, sitting at the end.

You can see his face even though you are lying face down

 

you are stark naked

your stomach is being scanned

 

ultrasound isn’t clear enough

voltage of radar is turned up

“there” he says

“we have found the snake”

 

one feels cold, sharp instruments of metal

perhaps a pincer, or steel clip at the end of a black tube

teasing, touching, gently opening one’s anal cavity

you tense your gut

the snake, or string, or mercurial strand is slowly extracted

 

there is no pain, only the sensation of silver liquid leaving your body.

 

you find yourself walking home (either with clothes or without)

the distance is far, but it does not trouble you

 

the main door, in a vast, cavern like warehouse, is obscured by hanging clothes

you go past an industrial workshop, the only light coming from an ice cream chamber

there is an old woman there but also not

there are lights emanating from cream cakes

raspberry red, Sol yellow, a neon Isis blue

 

you have gone out to buy food

but return, instead, with alcohol

there are third world foreigners in the resident room

skin burnt by a shamanic sun

hearts full of wilderness

 

the house you return to is larger than you recall

the dimensions have expanded or you have grown past the stage of children

you ask your neighbour to buy lunch

 

a man believed to be father, comes home to walk the dog

you meet his wife on the 21st floor

then your stomach tenses from vertigo

 

she has climbed over the ledge

she is on the down sloping parapet

tossing house keys, hoping the clinking will be heard by her husband, several floors above, in their hall

it’s the way she plays with him

she is singing: “there is mercy in your hair. there is mercy in your hair.”

she dances, poses, goes down on one knee, turns on the edge

 

you have this terrible fear she will fall

21 stories down

you are afraid for her but she is not afraid

she laughs instead, a body full of familial love and wonder

“there is mercy in your hair” she sings

there is mercy in your hair

 

#oneiricnovel #dailywriting2016 #dailywriting #irvingpaulpereira

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

 

#oneiricnovel #irvingpaulpereira #dailywriting #dailywriting2016

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.

 

#dailywriting2016, #Dailywriting, #dailywritingday26 #oneriricnovel, #dream #irvingpaulpereira

finale – a compilation of singular lines

moon corpse turning to ice, oceans rise
logic is a complication, logic is always false
we’re running out of time

Le body dies-
conscience questions memory
Yggsdrasll, the cosmological tree, extends from it all
dreams perpetually forgotten
bird of evening, moves to another tree

there’s darkness and tinctures in the sky
your mother: a painted doll of nails, black thorns, golden tiger pendants, kneels before kitchen knife mirrors demanding sexual intercourse

I don’t know when my artist child died
I’m too close to the corpse
must bury her body fast

my body is a house of veins
one thousand one hundred worlds
made from good, strong bark
this is my truth, changeling
acid burning flesh in goop

It started raining in the hall
face turned to sky
.night, dripping off lotus palm
I lay my hands on a child’s head
there’s heavy rain and tarmac, seen through white noise and static
exits changed locations
hands, sulphuric, prune like
will baptise your mess
between deep blue evening and first dark night

I spend hours surfing and searching
eyes replaced by black orbs
smoking, writing poems that mean nothing
because the beautiful women, ALL OF THEM,
have gone to heaven ala the ascension of Mary.

So why was I running, girl in hand, in a Uni?
So I set my sis on fire
I will hang my self

Pet delicacies: come here my nympho Daughter,
was your brother a good boy?
The blind, apocalyptic, ‘man of my weird’, said
You’re a Gesamtkunstwerk.

‪#‎irvingpaulpereira‬ ‪#‎singpowrimo2016day29‬ ‪#‎sloth‬‪#‎singpowrimo2016prompt29‬

(how 27 days of titles and descriptions becomes the 28th poem)

‪#‎indexpost‬ of ‪#‎irvingpaulpereira‬ or

_______________________________________________

The blind, apocalyptic, ‘man of my weird’ said,
“here: found poems reflecting the poet.” Great,
great, grandfather, scoffs at raising the dead with lit cigarettes.
It’s all pure poetic nonsense, a disease, a seedling of salmons on the mount in the poet as a troubled child. His inevitable epic, ‘Xolarian Book Of The Dead, is what the poet dreads.
Third world cryo-chambers create sequential sickness – turns the poet into killer and cop, statues and sex dolls, while the Prayer Poem, praying, searches for meaning as an artist.

Walking the dog at a funeral, the poet hides a body.
The poet with multiple bodies and self as poetic legion
sits on fur-niture facing a questionable crisis named
Tassel Tits: a rather disturbing woman monster.

Dear Baron La Croix – grandpa, grandma, cockroaches, elvis and a death avenger enjoys bird poop orgasms while coins, smoking in my mouth, called the Harbinger of invasion apocalypse that clogged only one toilet as it searched for wife during end times in
NONSENSORIUM: A Smart house on LSD full of family based necromantic fetish photography used for advertisements in a bizarro world where there’s probably some zen meaning to be found in soup.

“those of pron everynight will know”

Hymns For The Final Rite of Being will be sung during
crisis of creation with a dose of bad memories in existential Eunos
about the asshole doctor of Marine Terrace.
From Tijuana to Uni, mexicana food and gangsters who
might also be women in grey are seducing famous haiku mom and dad, pissing on sisters on fire then hung, dead, with a hard on. They leave behind pet delicacies and crab haikus that made someone react angrily as dinner with Hannibal involving a ‪#‎labialeak‬ made Alvin Pang cringe and declare that air dried, deep fried foreskin is delicious.

‪#‎singpowrimo2016day28‬ ‪#‎nobonus‬ ‪#‎noprompt‬

Dear ‪#‎irvingpaulpereira‬

You’re not weird, man. You’re a Gesamtkunstwerk.
Everyone else is reflecting blindly as great great grandfather really celebrates the life of spirit. Ghostgasms, he calls it. And he quit smoking when he found out he had lung cancer. Stop bitch-sulting your poems. The mad find sense and safety in them, it’s medicineprose, a tree of life, a solid mount for children born ahead of their time.

Your epics are blood transfusions for the gutted,
they are welcomed, prayed for,
turning killers into kin, made whole, sexually alive,
full of art and meaning.

The dog brings breath back to earth,
sculpting gorgeous bodies,
turning monsters into maidens into majesties,
revealing thrones to multitudes of tired people who have been standing up for something for so long.

Stop perpetuating the crisis as a ‘poor thing’’ poem.
Crisis is like calcium, building strong, abled bodies of work since the hunter & gatherer age.

Call off the baron for cocks sake, enough chickens have died in music videos and eating coins that smoke aren’t going to save them.

Tell the harbinger to go home,
enough people wake up to the end of their worlds as it is.
Give them The Hamburgers instead.

Flush the fucking toilet after you shit,
stop hanging on to shit
that’s how you clog up your heart.
Let the doctor asshole be.

Fuck your chicken soup for the soul. There’s no other meaning other than a full belly.

and as for all those weird dreams of mexican food, grey women, pissing on burning sisters and erotic-aphyxiation? Plain, old mind junk that suggests you’re hungry, you’re bored, and you’re actually a dog. Also, you’re angry and alone.

your wife is not lost in some dream world, you’re just looking for a girlfriend. So do yourself a favour and post your tinder profile link in this poem. http://www.tinder.com/@irvingpaulpereira

Never give up.

Love,
your older self.

‪#‎civilwarbonus‬ ‪#‎ownselfcheckownself‬ ‪#‎singpowrimo2016day28‬‪#‎productplacement‬ bonus  ‪#‎fightingwordsbonus‬ ‪#‎wrath‬

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