unremarkable note from Tespu to TesTu: reads –


Tespu switches to
red cigarettes
a defiant smoking
mesh with mars

“burning chef”
TesTu says
“is stumbling out of
hamburger sections.”

Tespu knows TesTu is not yet known

there is then a soya bean man who
“deserves to choke on a straw” for not giving old madre a seat on the shuttle

/tespu almost jokes with bald nurse about heroin filled drinking straws for madre/

somewhere, strawberry man and his sirens are reading lost texts of TesTu

TesTu on a boat to Ubud
TesTu to bed an oboe
TesTu on a boar to igloo
TesTu to bed an oblong

Red cigarettes to smoke out Tespu
Hamburgers to lure out TesTu

What did Tespu eat to warrant this pantun?
this is not a pantun Testu says.
Why is Tespu housing baby scones?

one for the fat sister
one for the blind sister

weird boys

weird boys gestating in membrane of head
dangling ziplock of soil from tongue
“stop flashing your drug in public”
“do you have the smaller pack?”

weird boys producing product to take
for a parade, massive and bustling
gas station midnight
haunted and crowding
closed down in darkness, grocery fausting

vagrants vanished in secret chambers
calling for those escaping by bus

weird boys possessed by outside forces
coriander and chunks of human tide
floating as bodies in the faeces of hearts

weird boys
foreign substance

see, the giant from opposite earth
silver sunglass, overcoat, cape
screen shot of phone face, cat face as app pic
haunched tower apeman greeting our madness

fire won’t burn the lips of weird boys
sponge eyes bulging from inside forces
the parade continues down by the hill

#irvingpaulpereira #weirdsinglit #poetry

medicine, as a sign of compound sex tapes 

young yellow pill
on her side
also flat on grey plains
hidden in plain sight
in pockets
on tour bus

a complicated tincture of numbers calculated in cell
one forgets to call the wheel watcher
alternate roads
bus waits opposite stations
opposite junglism
opposite drug dealing hot spots

where young yellow pill
half naked in sour light
pose with dry fingers
packs of mineral water cups
awkward and accommodating

cut sizes of maps
follow international paper guidelines
section off buildings and fuck closets
track the track marks

we dress the pharmacist with red emblems
we dress in pharmacology
we listen to chemtrails
erecting gauntlets, ecstasy
embellishments on virgin war paths

we sit where we may on the bus
never really leaving
aware of the tirade of wheel watchers
who check our call lists
reprimanding absent mindedness

we pray
that the young yellow pill
doesn’t turn into powder

#poetry, #poem, #writing
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I think, in part, it’s the hunger



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 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

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
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the centrifugal hive X


about to cross death-hold
burrowing reaper worm
wound up veins
south bound to scion house

sacra sin

experienced purgation
paladin point
hounds, scouring, victim gland secretion


mothers’ flesh to daughters’ crown
syllabic nymphs
succubi picking fruits in the dark
severe atmospheres of sleep

super-filial deities
synchronous manœuvres

father-spawn in the drowning sea
facial recognition failure
valiant outcasts thriving on debris at dawn
a fictional stroke of creation
a fractional birth on ectomorphic planes

#writing, #poetry, #poem, #irvingpaulpereira
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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

the drowning ones

I cannot identify, the something or someone, watching the son at the bar
i enter its point of view, unfamiliar with the body i inhabit
there are orders not to be seen
so i turn the other way while glancing back at him
he leans against the table top, tension taut
i see blood, pooling on his chest, a legitimate gateway into his fears
one understands now why he feels shaken, afraid, paranoid
he’s been to the meat packing district
in the dead of night, long after the slaughterhouses have shut
he’s with an accomplice, whose face i do not see
they are filling a plastic tub with water
with puppies or kittens or both, buried under empty bottles of car oil
He’s in the tub with the struggling animals, holding them down beneath the bottles
as the water fills
it’s his job. to drown them.
he doesn’t like it, but it must be done.
kill the familiars.
he tries not to think of the animals breathing in water, lungs flooding, suffering in the thrash grip of death
he grits his teeth as he feels their struggling slow down
after believing they are dead, he gets out of the tub, pulls out the bodies one by one
but they are still alive
coughing, eyes half closed, hearts failing, body twisting, convulsing
refusing to die
panic grips him. he watches one of the puppies die
but it returns to life, perpetually trapped in between
‘that which cannot be killed.’
He drinks shot after shot now, blood spreading on his chest, his gut in knots
the family of the familiars are coming for him
ladies of the night society, hungry to inflict pain
they remember his scent, his weight, his fear
they wait near the bar, watching him
as I, watch through them.
they are waiting for the witching hour
they let him stew and sweat
filling his mind with visions of his own, terrifying death
filling his heart with the sensations of men, drowning without end
#nightsociety #irvingpaulpereira

what did Mandy want? * or the dream as a result of antihistamines **

“We fought, we broke up, because I was rude to Eric.”
a tricky conscience, semi-clear, what did I say or how did I say it? She made it clear but i wasn’t sure. She, the manipulator.
I’m poised on the railing, overlooking the old school, nine storey drop, sun in my face. To climb down with sure footing is to clean air conditioning fan belts. I didn’t feel like falling today. Sister is talking to me, about bathrooms and perhaps, suicide, but I cannot decipher a thing.
Hung on the van door, or pasted, is a picture or painting of a pre-teen negro boy, shot dead. Above the faded body were matt black keys on rusty hooks, one for every gangster child killed.
In my hand, medals, the colour of those keys. I turned them over, looking for pins, some had them, some not. The crystal girl was selling them to me, ancient artefacts, one for every gangster child killed.
I offended more than Eric. There were other young poets at the table, my ego saw nothing in them. I preferred the depth of the midget, who told me, “Every one of us has a chaos centre.”
My zippo lighter, in two pieces, was engulfed in fire. Careful not to get burnt, but handling the flaming thing without pain, I put it out between the ice cream cake with its plastic wrapper still on. I did this after roaming a park where I saw a Korean or Japanese girl in costume. I called her, “Samurai” & “Ninja Go.” She made it clear to me they were compliments. i wasn’t going to get killed today.
My white, long sleeved business shirt was too big, bed sheet sized. I had not grown to fit those things but I knew to whom they belonged. A bus.
I was already at a party, at the open place designed for funerals. But I was also still getting ready, putting on pants that were too long. I have yet to grow into them.
Going past quickening, silver doors on trailers.
How pretty my sister is; hair, long and curled, jewels and make up on, looking up at the party. “it’s about time,” she said.
#dailywriting2016, #dailywriting2016day14, #irvingpaulpereira, #oneiricfiction #oneiricnovel

the nun

the nun

in the sandpit
I let the nun love me again
tendril faced, lip seeking, heart a nest

she kneels before fallen castles
a history of bedding in puddle moats
mythic sadness sinking
into ruined lands, races and fireplaces gone

every grain, a single event, bated breath
lines whispered between maidens and knights
fierce emotions downplayed into fatigues
reminiscing in quietude
a long dark
black blue dress

It is time to receive communion

the church, next to sandbox, has no walls or roof
built before i was born, open to the elements, storms and suns
only a few parishioners queued

I walk behind the main altar to join the line
but when I get there, mass is over

The priest is packing up the remains of Christ
“I was in the toilet, and missed eating the body,” I lie
“say six glory be’s.” he tells me, then reprimands me with gibberish.

night falls and I’m in the master bedroom of the old house
mother sleeps, watching me circle the bed to window
half smoked Indonesian cigarettes lines up on the sill
i refrain from smoking, out of respect, but
Unexpectedly, she joins me
a fresh cigarette from a fresh pack between her frail fingers
I ask, “are you doing the, ‘we all gotta die some day’ thing?”
she agrees. We fill the room with precious smoke.

on the upper deck of a double decker bus,
the nun sits before me, turned sideways
we are right up front, roads lost beneath our feet.
“I’m going to get off here” I say to the group we were with, hoping she’ll join me.
No one says a thing. “What are you all going to do now?” again, no answers.

I alight, not sure if she’ll join me.
I cut through an aging population at a coffeehouse
I cut through the old dark grey mall that links to the light bridge to the bright orange mall.
concrete and memories and long nights on all sides
traffic, trees, turbulence, catasrophies
I’m surrounded by noise and population,
but my heart is a lonesome animal, eternally wandering

‪#‎dailypoetry2016day4‬ ‪#‎irvingpaulpereira‬ ‪#‎oneiricpoetry‬